The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  Hardie though was clearly still amazed by his gaffer’s sentiments. “Never thought I’d hear those words. I mean, come on Gus, you sure about forgettin’ about Meechan? You’ve always been one for the adrenalin ride and this is the biggest story to hit . . .” Hardie’s voice faltered almost immediately as a footfall sounded outside the study window.

  “Company,” was all Thoroughgood had time to utter before the staccato of automatic gun fire smashed through the room window sending a spray of splintered glass through the air into the space previously occupied by Hardie.

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  THOROUGHGOOD WAS already on his knees with the dagger in his hand. He crawled round the desk, making for the hall with Hardie in hot pursuit as the bullets continued to pour into the study.

  They made it into the hall and Thoroughgood immediately noticed a hatstand located inside the front door. He made a grab for it just as the door opened and a shadowy figure swathed in black linen lunged in.

  Thoroughgood toppled the stand and the male crashed over it onto the carpeted floor.

  Seizing his moment Hardie smashed home a right foot volley into the head of the prone gunman. “Aye, Ally McCoist would have been proud of that one.” But it was the most fleeting of triumphs because in the darkness the two detectives heard voices speaking in a foreign tongue and they had no doubt that death was the currency they had come to deal in.

  Grabbing the AK-47 Thoroughgood gestured to Hardie to head for the house stairs. “Up, faither, for feck’s sake!”

  They climbed as if their very lives depended on it, which neither was in any doubt was the case.

  The detectives got to the first landing before the window crowning it was shattered by a hail of lead. Thoroughgood turned and fired the AK-47.

  “Feeding time you bastards.” The weapon spat out its deadly volley as the first of three males reaching the bottom of the steps went down with a grunt.

  The detectives continued their furious ascent of the stairs and saw that there were three bedrooms leading off the top-floor landing.

  Hardie, puffing badly, shouted, “Left!” and they burst in.

  The clatter of footsteps suggested that their pursuers were now on the first landing although the murmur of their voices indicated that the shooting of their colleague had imbued them with a caution they had not expected to need.

  Hardie pulled two heavy blue curtains apart and looked out the window while Thoroughgood kept the AK-47 trained on the door which he had shut behind them.

  Seeing a single bed in the corner of the room the DS shouted at his mate, “Help me get this up against the door, that’ll buy us some time while we come up with Plan B. It ain’t gonnae be long before our friends try and shoot us out of here.”

  After slamming the bed against the door Hardie quickly provided a Plan B. “Look, the mosque roof ain’t that far away, if you can keep these bastards busy I’ll rip the curtains off and tie them into a lower we can get ourselves out of this place. There’s a side building only 30 feet below the window.”

  “Fuck me, makes you feel like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid about to meet their makers,” said

  Thoroughgood.

  “Always thought Lee Van Cleef would have made a better Butch than old blue eyes Newman any day,” quipped Hardie as another round of sharp cracks splintered the door.

  “Fuck’s sake faither, just do it. Now get the bloody hell down will you . . .” was as far as Thoroughgood got by way of reply because right then there was a thud through the bedroom door that jolted the bed back quickly followed by a renewed hail of lead.

  Hardie had ripped the curtains off their hooks on the way to the deck and now he attempted to tie them together. But what with? Quickly his brain clicked into gear and he removed his tie and set to work making knots.

  The door splintered again as twin AKs emptied their rounds of death into its frame. Although Thoroughgood responded with his own fire he was aware that time and ammunition were running out.

  Then the DS heard another thud, this time from behind and saw that Hardie had opened the window fully and was throwing the curtains out.

  He crawled over to the window and said, “Right old man, you get out first, here – take the dagger. I’ll cover you and jump when I’m ready.”

  Hardie knew there was no point in arguing the toss and belied his portly appearance by quickly jumping onto the window frame, grabbing the thick fold of curtain hanging over it and with a wink he was down the other side. Thoroughgood took the strain but knew he needed to anchor the curtain on something and fast.

  The dresser at the side of the room, two feet away, was perfect. He did his best to tie the end of the curtain around it while trying to keep the AK47 trained on the door.

  ‘Anytime soon the end is nigh,” said the voice in his head. Out loud he said “Come and get me you bastards!” and they did not disappoint.

  A volley of lethal projectiles splintered the door into a set of unseemly shards and the impact of whatever the terrorists were using knocked the bed clean away from its position behind it.

  Thoroughgood jumped onto the window frame facing the fast disintegrating room door, AK47 slung over his shoulder and began to lower himself as the Keffiyeh-sheathed figures entered at pace. He counted three of them before dropping down the wall as quickly as he could cradling the AK in the nook of his elbow and pointing it upward at the receding sight of the open window.

  Twenty feet away was the flat roof that was the adjoining side building of the mosque. He knew that if he let go of the curtain he’d land in an uncontrolled fashion, a sitting duck for his pursuers who would empty out the contents of their magazines into his prone body.

  ‘No, if you go down, you go down fighting son.’ Aware that his body was shaking with the sheer effort of his descent and the growing certainty that he was about to keep the grim reaper company, he slowed his drop and waited for heads to appear out of the window.

  Almost immediately the first linen-wrapped head jutted out. Thoroughgood pulled the trigger. The agonised scream was proof of a hit and he concentrated everything on reducing the gap between him and the flat roof as quickly as he could.

  Ten feet now, and he gambled and made the leap. The impact jarred up through his ankles but his balance, honed by endless hours on the squash court, was good. He steadied and rolled as a series of high velocity impacts smashed onto his landing point. Their impact was like torrential rain drops throwing up dirt, moss and other debris.

  Thoroughgood knew one hit would bring about his end. Quickly he was on his feet and sprinting in a zigzag, making his way for what he realised was the glazed dome of the minaret.

  A thud behind him was followed by a second and he knew he had company. Then a voice shouted, “Gus over here!” It was Hardie and thankfully his mate had chosen the same point of cover that was now just 20 yards away from him.

  “C’mon son, you’re clean through with the yellow and amber hoops on, put the fuckin’ foot down!” screamed Hardie in encouragement.

  But he was aware that footsteps were closing in on him, his lack of conditioning again letting him down. He turned to see that one of the Jihadists was less than 15 feet away.

  He dropped to his knees and slung the AK into the ready position and pulled the trigger. Click. The magazine had run empty. “For fuck’s sake,” raged Thoroughgood. He threw the empty AK-47 at his attacker as he closed the short distance between them.

  Observing from his crouched position next to the mosque dome 15 feet away Hardie watched in horror as the disaster unfolded before his eyes, helpless to aid his mate. ‘Not quite mate,’ and he reached into his pocket and pulled the ceremonial dagger out shouting, “Gus! Incoming!” and launching it along the ground to Thoroughgood where it skated across the flat roof.

  Thoroughgood grabbed the ivory handle and shouted. “Get tae, Faither . . .” then the Jihadist was on him.

  He took the impact as he rose from his crouch and had not managed to bring the gleaming blade t
o the level as the terrorist’s full sprinting body weight hit.

  Thoroughgood felt himself flying through the air, his assailant’s hands grabbing his wrists and he landed with a thud. The male’s eyes exuded fiendish hate as he encircled Thoroughgood’s wrist with both hands and tried to force the dagger free from the DS’s grip.

  Automatically Thoroughgoood smashed his hand off the side of the turbaned head and a piece of the male’s Keffiyeh came loose. ‘Perfect,’ said the voice in his head. He yanked it with all his power, the pull unbalanced his attacker and his grip loosened enough for Thoroughgood to force the blade home with all his strength.

  A groan escaped from the terrorist but it was not the only noise in the background. Over his shoulder Thoroughgood could see a second male closing fast on him. He knew that the last thing he could do was roll away from his previous attacker as that would make him an easy target for his second pursuer. Instead, retaining his grip on the dagger but with both hands also on the limp male he pushed him up, ramming his own body in an upward motion behind and into the terrorist and using the increasingly lifeless body as a shield.

  The manoeuvre clearly confused his second pursuer who stopped for a minute, unsure whether to unload lead into the body of his comrade, who was still alive although far from kicking.

  Slowly, Thoroughgood shuffled back holding onto the inert body of his attacker, the dagger, still in his hand, protruding from the side of the body, warning the second terrorist that Thoroughgood was still armed and dangerous. The male charged across the roof and closed in on Thoroughgood and his dance partner. The cop launched the lifeless figure at his second pursuer but he seemed to anticipate the move and applied a side-step that allowed his previous brother-in-arms to collapse onto the roof, bleeding out in his death throes.

  The male stopped five feet from Thoroughgood and unwrapped his head to reveal a familiar face. Dark beard and curly hair but most familiar was the white eye.

  “This time I make no mistake. This time you die, kafir,” he spat. He dropped his AK on the ground and slipped his hand into his kameez to withdraw his own blade. “I gut you like a pig and leave you to drown in your own blood.”

  “Gratitude,” said Thoroughood sarcastically and readied Saladin’s dagger to once more bring death.

  Naif charged. But Thoroughgood was ready for this dance of death. As Naif slashed down with his own steel the DS brought his up and the sparks from the clash shot into the air. The two blades remained locked together as Naif used all his strength to force Thoroughgood’s blade – and the DS with it – down.

  Aware that he was slowly being overpowered Thoroughgood backed off. He realised he was almost up against the geometric glass dome but also that Naif was trying to move to the left, away from his right hand and the blade.

  Naif flashed a mocking smile and began to toss his own blade from one hand to another. “There is no one to save you. Renounce your God, the false crusader god, and I will give you merciful Dawa – in your words that is the true faith, kafir. Don’t be shy, don’t run. Do you know that the last time I had work for my blade it gutted one of your SAS devils? Do you think you, a mere cop, are going to beat Naif in a knife fight? Are you scared of death, kafir, now that it is here?” Naif continued his mockery, attempting to goad Thoroughgood into a rash move but he made none.

  His failure to draw any kind of reaction angering him, Naif burst forward, this time lunging directly for Thoroughgood’s midriff. The DS rammed Saladin’s dagger upwards as powerfully as he could and the force of his motion smashed Naif’s own blade out of his hand and it clattered across the roof. Such was his momentum the terrorist smashed into Thoroughgood and the two of them cannoned off the glass dome.

  A sickening sense of déjà vu washed over Thoroughgood as he thought back to the last time he had tangled with his assailant – over the bonnet of a parked car. But this time he was the one holding the ivory-handled knife, Saladin’s death blade. The irony seeped through his mind that he was using it to try and kill one of the great Sultan’s own, centuries after it had been used to gut the most infamous crusader of them all Raynald de Chatillon.

  But Thoroughgood could feel energy draining as Naif did everything he could to prize the dagger from his grip.

  With both hands wrapped round Thoroughgood’s wrist Naif smashed the blade off the geometric dome time after time as he attempted to break it free. Weakened from his previous efforts against the other jihadist Thoroughgood could feel hope as well as strength slipping away from him fast.

  At the third attempt the blade broke free from his grip and as he pushed off Thoroughgood, Naif smashed his right fist into the cop’s guts. Bent double by the power of the blow Thoroughgood was in no position to try and stop his attacker taking possession of the ceremonial dagger and as he straightened up he could see the gleaming blade dancing in the sunlight, his tormentor smiling in cruel delight.

  “At last I have Saladin’s blade back and now, kafir, your life is also in my hands. Prepare to make your way through the gates of hell unbeliever,” he spat and began his killing move.

  Realising he had to play for time Thoroughgood tried to engage his would be killer in dialogue. “Why are you doing all of this? What on earth are you trying to achieve in the name of your God? You can not tell me that anywhere in the Koran it encourages the followers of Allah to butcher innocents? Tell me where suicide bombing fits in with the teachings of Mohammed and the words of your Holy book?”

  Naif leered but seemed incensed by Thoroughgood’s attempts to undermine the purpose of his mission.

  “You waste your time, infidel pig. If any member of the true faith dies when they are killed in the cause of Allah they are doing the right thing. It is not called suicide, it is called shahada: martyring, because if the only way to hurt the enemies of Islam is by taking your life for theirs then it is allowed. The person who hinders Allah's rule, this man must be eliminated.”

  He smiled and kissed the gleaming steel of the blade. “Enough talk. I am not scared to die, kafir, but you, it is clear, are almost drowning in your own shit. I will not allow your presence to defile this Holy place any longer and deflect me from my mission. Salam, infidel.”

  With that Naif advanced, dagger in hand, intent on death.

  Thoroughgood caught a flicker of movement behind him. Ten feet away, and removing the AK-47 from the prone figure of the dead terrorist, was faither.

  “Stop, you bastard. It’s time you met your maker,” and as Naif turned to meet his tormentor Hardie pulled the trigger and emptied the entire contents of the AK’s magazine into him.

  The terrorist whiplashed back with frightening violence. His body jerked in a single macabre movement and smashed into the dome. The toughened glass, glowing with soft green light didn’t take his body weight and with one vicious crack Naif plummeted through the dome and down into the main prayer hall.

  “How appropriate,” was all Thoroughgood could say.

  Slowly the DS sank to his knees and shook his head. “Do you fancy dear faither, telling me what the fuck we are doing slap bang in the middle of this mess?”

  Hardie smiled. “Maybes aye, maybes naw. But that is the second time I have saved your life in a week and it’s gettin’ feckin’ boring.”

  A wail of sirens filled the morning air but there was complete silence between Hardie and Thoroughgood. The enormity of the threat now facing Glasgow and Scotland rammed home to them as never before.

  “So what now, Gus? We may have wiped out their death squad but how do you fight an invisible enemy? The sleeper cells are a job for the intelligence services and there’s no way Tariq is placing all his money on red so to speak.”

  “I don’t know and I’m not sure I want to know. Let’s just hope there have been some positive developments with Etherington and his cronies. It is going to be like Apocalypse Now with the media.

  “Four terrorists dead after a gun fight on the Glasgow Central Mosque roof and all in broad daylight. Jesus H Christ, th
ink of the impact that is going to have in terms of unrest between the natives and the Muslim community in Glasgow.”

  “Fuck me, it is like we have half-done the fanatics job for them. Midday prayers are only half an hour away. Bloody hell, I hope uniform get here pronto otherwise the shit is gonnae hit the fan in a matter of minutes. Can you imagine what it is going to be like when the faithful and devout come to prayer and find their mosque has been turned into a morgue, and now a crime scene?” asked Hardie.

  Thoroughgood winced. “That isn’t going to be our problem. Look there’s the first Panda pulling in. Once we update the uniform and allow them to get down to business we need to be heading for the UAE bank ASAP. It might be a long shot that Rahman is still there but it is one we have got to make. By then hopefully we will have some intel’ on where Farouk is.

  “But our first priority after putting the wooden tops in the picture has got be a call to Tomachek. The news about our little gun fight will be winging its way to the Chief Constable like a rogue Exocet. After all this, faither, there is going to be no let up until the final throw of the dice and by the looks of it that ain’t far away.”

  “What about the dagger Gus?” asked Hardie bringing the conversation back to earth with a bump.

  “Right now, whatever the significance it has to the Muslim community, there is no way anyone else can have it because it’s clear that these maniacs will stop at nothing to get it back. It is also a piece of evidence after I used it to take care of one of our friends back there. Nope it’s Stewart Street nick for Saladin’s razor blade!”

  A mutual smile of relief swept over the detectives’ faces but it was fleeting.

  34