Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  'She needs an adrenaline shot,' he said in an American drawl. 'Otherwise it's not going to have the same effect.'

  His colleague, whose grey hair was thinning, nodded. Behind him was a white cabinet from which he removed a glass vial filled with a clear liquid and a hypodermic needle. He filled the needle in a matter of seconds, while the red-haired man started to roll up the sleeve of Latifa's robe to find a suitable place for the injection.

  'Jesus,' he muttered as he saw the mottled bruising that went all the way up her thin arm. He went around to the opposite side of the stretcher bed and tried the other arm. This was also bruised, but not so badly, and he located a suitable patch of skin. The other man passed him the injection and he clinically punctured the skin with it.

  The effect was immediate. Latifa's breathing rate increased and her eyes shot wide open. The two men took a step backwards and observed her in a slightly detached manner, as Latifa tried to raise herself on her elbows. Then they looked at each other. 'She's ready,' the red-haired man stated. 'They can come in.'

  His colleague left the room and returned less than a minute later with two other men. One of them had a thick mop of blonde hair and was carrying a large leather bag; the other had a shiny, shaved head and a thin, aquiline nose.

  'Strap her down,' he said to the blonde-haired man in an American accent. His colleague delved into the bag and pulled out several sturdy leather straps.

  'Don't you dare touch me!' Latifa hissed as he approached, but the man didn't pay attention. He pushed her back down on to the bed and, ignoring her pathetic struggles, shifted her a bit further up so that her head was dangling over the edge of the bed. Then he wound the straps around her body and under the stretcher several times before buckling each one tightly. There was no way she could move.

  The shiny-headed man turned to the two medics in white coats. 'You can leave now,' he told them; they quickly left the room.

  Will glanced to his side at Pankhurst. The Director General of MI5 was standing bolt upright, his jaw clenched. 'What are they going to do to her?' Will asked.

  'It's very quick,' Pankhurst replied, quietly. 'Most people break in about ten seconds. Fifteen at the most. She won't suffer for long.'

  Will narrowed his eyes. There was nothing in the room that looked to him anything like an implement of torture. As Pankhurst was speaking, the two men had wheeled Latifa's bed to the far end of the room, where a short length of rubber hose was attached to a tap in the wall.

  'You know what we want?' the American asked Latifa.

  It clearly took a great effort for Latifa to stop her head from lolling back over the edge of the bed, but she managed it. 'I will not tell you anything,' she whispered.

  The American nodded. From the leather bag he pulled a rectangular cardboard tube and with surprise Will realised it was an ordinary carton of kitchen cling film. The man tore off a short length, held it tightly at each end, then approached Latifa's head. As he did so, the blonde-haired man took the rubber hose in one hand and turned the tap on. Water escaped over the white tiled floor and down a small outlet clearly put there for this very purpose.

  'Waterboarding,' Will whispered to himself.

  'As I say,' Pankhurst replied, 'an extremely effective technique.'

  It was with a brutal swiftness that the cling film was pulled tightly over Latifa's face. Her mouth was wide open and as she tried to breathe it caused the cling film to make a tight, concave indentation in her mouth. The American man pulled the back of her hair so that her head was pointing down to the floor, then his colleague directed the flow of the water over her face.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  Three seconds.

  Latifa's body started to jerk as she struggled against the straps that were tying her firmly down. She couldn't scream because of the cling film, but the quiet sound of the water splashing over her face and on to the door was enough to send a shudder of revulsion down Will's spine.

  Four seconds.

  Five seconds.

  'They'll kill her!' Will said urgently.

  'No they won't,' Pankhurst replied. 'They know what they're doing.'

  Six seconds.

  Seven seconds.

  The American had to struggle to keep her head down.

  Eight seconds.

  Nine seconds.

  Ten seconds.

  'Stop!' the American said. His blonde-haired colleague pulled the water away and the cling film was ripped from Latifa's face. A deathly gasp escaped her throat as she took a desperate intake of breath, then another. The American allowed her to get her breath back before he spoke.

  'Where is Faisal Ahmed?' he asked, directly.

  'She won't tell him,' Will murmured.

  Sure enough, Latifa refused to speak; but her rattling breath filled Will's ears.

  The American's face twitched slightly. This was not, Will deduced, what he had expected; and Pankhurst also suddenly looked uncomfortable. The American ripped off a fresh, dry piece of cling film, nodded at his accomplice, and the process started once more.

  'Christ,' Will whispered. Torturing defenceless women.

  This wasn't what he'd signed up for.

  It lasted a little longer this time - perhaps fifteen seconds, though it seemed to Will like a hell of a lot more. When the cling film was finally ripped from her face again, her breathing was even more panicked, but at the same time weaker. Will's face was screwed up with distaste. 'She can't take much more of this,' he told Pankhurst.

  'That's kind of the idea,' he snapped back.

  The American spoke again. 'Where is Faisal Ahmed?'

  Latifa's choking breaths came in short, sharp bursts. For about thirty seconds they were the only sound in the room; but finally she spoke. Her voice was quiet, trembling and hoarse; but her words left no room for doubt.

  'You may do what you like to me,' she whispered. 'I will never tell you.'

  The American inclined his head. Will had the impression that he was vaguely impressed with Latifa's resistance. With a sense of relentlessness, he ripped himself a third piece of cling film.

  As he did so, Latifa's head swung to the left and she looked at the glass; even though he knew she couldn't see through it, Will felt she was staring directly at him.

  'Please,' she breathed. 'Please—'

  'He can't keep doing this!' Will burst out. It was a struggle for him not to rush into the room and stop it from happening. 'It'll kill her!'

  Pankhurst didn't reply.

  A third bout of waterboarding began. Latifa continued to struggle against the ropes that were binding her, but her movements were much weaker now. Barely noticeable.

  'It'll kill her!'Will shouted in sudden frustration.

  'If she doesn't tell us what we want to know,' Pankhurst hissed, his usually calm demeanour suddenly absent, 'then it doesn't matter.' His words were severe, but even Pankhurst had a look of doubt in his face now.

  Will blinked. A surge of anger flickered through him.

  This wasn't right. It didn't matter who Latifa's brother was. This wasn't right.

  'Fuck it,' he murmured to himself. In a flash, he burst out of the door and into the room where the waterboarding was happening. He crossed it in three swift strides, grabbed the shiny-headed American by the throat and hurled him out of the way, before punching the blonde-haired man holding the hose so hard that he crumpled immediately to the floor. Instantly he ripped the cling film from Latifa's face.

  The American came at him. Will allowed him to approach before almost casually kneeing him in the groin. He collapsed with a groan of agony as Will started unbuckling Latifa's straps. She was still gasping, painfully - Will gently put his hand behind her head to support it, then lifted her up into a sitting position. The noises she was making sounded like they should have come from an animal. But at least she was alive.

  And then Pankhurst was there, framed by the doorway, his face a thundercloud. 'What the hell do you think you're playing at, Jack
son?' he demanded.

  Will stood in the middle of the room, breathing deeply, shakily. What was he playing at? He knew the stakes. He knew why they were doing this. But that didn't make it right. There had to be another way.

  'Get out of the room,' Pankhurst continued. 'Let these men carry on with their work.'

  The two torturers had started to get to their feet, but they were eyeing Will nervously, not knowing what he was likely to do next. Will sensed Latifa rolling on to her front, then huddling up on top of the stretcher bed into a little ball, her arms clutching her head as a choking, weeping sound escaped her throat.

  Tentatively, the bald-headed American stepped towards the bed.

  'Leave her alone,' Will growled. 'Touch her and I'll kill you.'

  'I'm giving you an order, Jackson!' Pankhurst barked. 'Get out of that room, now. Get out of that room or you can kiss goodbye to your chance of going after the man who butchered your wife and child!'

  Even as the Director General spoke, Will felt something snap inside. In two giant strides he stepped to the doorway where Pankhurst was standing and grabbed the man by the neck, lifting him from the ground and pushing him up against the far wall of the corridor. When he spoke, it was little more than a whisper; but his voice carried with it all the hate he could muster.

  'If you ever - ever - mention my family again, I swear I'll break your neck.'

  Pankhurst's face started to redden as Will tightened his grip. 'Put me down,' he croaked, but somehow that just made Will want to squeeze tighter.

  And then they were there, men with guns. 'Get to the floor!' a voice shouted. 'Get to the floor or we'll shoot!'

  As if he were flicking a fly, Will hurled Pankhurst to the ground, where he fell in a heap. And just as the Director General was getting to his feet, Will lay on the floor. He was aware of Pankhurst standing over him.

  'You've blown it, Jackson,' he spat.

  From inside the room, Will could hear the sound of Latifa's desperate racking sobs.

  'You're the one who's blown it, Pankhurst,' he hissed.

  'What do you mean?'

  He was going to have to talk fast. Talk fast to save Latifa Ahmed's life and talk fast to stop the whole operation from going tits up.

  'Can't you tell she's never going to reveal his location? And even if she does, what do you do when you get there, find he's gone and realise that you've waterboarded your only lead to death - or to the point of insanity?'

  There was a pause.

  'Get to your feet,' Pankhurst instructed, curtly.

  Will did so, holding his hands in the air so that the three soldiers whose weapons were trained on him didn't think he was about to make any sudden moves. His eyes flickered into the room - Latifa was still curled up into a ball, but at least the two torturers had kept their distance. For now.

  'Think about it,' Will continued. 'From everything you've told me about Faisal Ahmed, he'll do anything for his sister. If she won't lead us to him, it's obvious what we have to do: let him know we've got her and get her to bring him to us.'

  Pankhurst was looking at Will with an expression of great dislike; still, he didn't speak for a moment and Will sensed that he had got the Director General's attention. They stared at each other, the only sound being that of Latifa's desperate sobs.

  Finally, Pankhurst spoke, but not to Will. He addressed one of the soldiers who was still holding the SAS man at gunpoint.

  'His team are in the holding room down the corridor,' the Director General said. 'Take him there and stand guard outside. If any of them try to leave, shoot them.'

  The soldiers glanced at each other a little nervously. But they had their orders. 'Let's go,' said one of them to Will. 'Hands on your head.'

  For a moment Will didn't move; he just fixed Pankhurst with a harsh glare. Then he felt the barrel of a gun poking him and he started to walk down the corridor. 'You're making a mistake,' he called back to Pankhurst; but the older man didn't answer.

  The room in which Drew and Kennedy were waiting was surprisingly comfortable, with a couple of low-level sofas, a coffee table and even a kettle for making hot drinks. The two of them were sprawled on the sofas, which seemed dwarfed by their massive frames; but they sat up sharply when they saw that Will was being held at gunpoint.

  'You heard the man,' the soldier told Will. 'No heroics.' And with that he shut the door on the three of them.

  'What the f -?' Kennedy started to say.

  'They're waterboarding her,' Will interrupted, angrily. 'I stepped in.' He strode around the room, systematically looking for another way out; but there was none.

  'Christ,' Kennedy replied. 'She's probably beginning to wish she was back with her caring, sharing Taliban.'

  Drew, however, kept quiet; but he stared at Will with a look that was heavy with meaning. Will stopped pacing and from nowhere the words Drew had said to him back in the Stan resounded in his head: 'You can trust us . . . You have to trust us. Just like Anderson trusted you. Just like we all trusted you.'

  More than ever, those words rang true. These men had followed him into battle. They'd risked their lives under his command. Pankhurst might think that nobody could be trusted, but one thing was immediately clear to Will: Drew and Kennedy had proved themselves. He owed it to them to tell them what was going on; then he was going to ask them to do one last thing. Help him escape and take Latifa with them. Together they would lure Faisal Ahmed far more effectively than these moronic spooks and their cack-handed techniques.

  But just as he was about to speak, the door opened and Pankhurst strode into the room. His brow was furrowed and the fury of a couple of minutes ago had not left his face.

  'How would you do it?' the MI5 man asked, shortly.

  Will's eyes narrowed as his mind started rushing through the logistics of his hastily put-together plan.

  'We take her back to the UK,' he said, finally. 'Leak it that she's been detained on terror charges and put under house arrest. Blanket coverage - TV, radio, internet chat rooms, the works. If Faisal Ahmed's as good as you say, he'll try and extricate her.'

  'If Faisal Ahmed's as good as I say,' Pankhurst retorted with a hint of sarcasm, 'he'll succeed.'

  As Pankhurst spoke, however, Will became aware that Drew and Kennedy had stood up and were now flanking him on either side. It helped: any lack of confidence he might have felt was suddenly bolstered.

  'No he won't,' Will replied, calmly.

  'How can you be so sure?'

  'Because there will be three of us and only one of him.'

  A silence followed, as Pankhurst seemed to be weighing up his options. 'Ahmed will know it's a trap.'

  'Of course he will,' Will countered. 'But think about it. He was willing to risk being discovered by al-Qaeda just to make sure his sister was well treated. Everything we know about him suggests that he'll do whatever it takes to rescue her.'

  Again Pankhurst fell silent.

  'You won't break her,' Will insisted, quietly. 'You know that. She'd rather die.'

  A tense hush filled the room. Everyone knew that a woman's life depended on what was said next.

  'London's beginning to resemble Ulster twenty years ago,' Pankhurst announced without taking his eyes offWill. 'We've shut down the major terminals, main artery roads are closed, we've got unmarked cars in every other street. All leave's been suspended from the Met and there's armed police at every underground station. The population of the capital is in a frenzy - they know something's around the corner and they're right.' He stopped a moment to let that sink in. 'If this goes wrong,' he continued,'you know what will happen. You know the stakes.'