by Ed Grace
The afternoon hour came, where the screw would unlock their cells, and let them roam for sixty minutes — or less if the screw was bored or if there was some trouble to contend with.
He fell into the crowd shuffling into the courtyard, and kept himself to himself. He did a bit of exercise, trying to kill the monotony, trying to keep his mind occupied.
Then he returned to his cell and watched the news for the next six hours. It was the same headlines over and over again, only a larger number of deaths were reported each time.
Six o’clock in the evening came. As did seven, as did eight…
In the hour approaching nine, he grew nervous. A strange kind of nervousness, where he kept needing to throw up, only to find he couldn’t.
Fifty minutes to go. Forty, thirty…
He turned off the news. He’d had enough.
He paced back and forth. His muscles ached, but he could no longer stay still.
Twenty, ten…
He closed his eyes. Placed his forehead against the wall. Told himself to stop being a wreck, to get a grip. It was just a woman.
He snorted.
Evidently, this was not just a woman, and he regretted not telling her that. In fact, he decided that, when she called, he would get over himself and tell her how he really felt.
Which she was going to do.
She was going to call. There was no doubt about it. She would.
Because she was a smart woman; far more intelligent than he was. She would survive.
Eight, seven, six…
He wiped sweat from his forehead. Bit his lip. Went to punch the wall, then didn’t, not understanding where the urge had come from.
Five, four, three…
He huffed. Sighed. Held his breath, looking to the ceiling, as if there would be an answer from some divine being he did not believe in.
Two, one…
He stood by the small window in his cell door.
Zero.
He readied himself to leave, expecting a screw to come along and tell him he had a phone call.
But no one came.
Another minute passed, then another, then another.
And still, no one came.
He told himself not to think anything bad just yet. These screws were crap. Often, mail wouldn’t arrive until a week after the prison had received it. People were taken late to their visitations. Information was not passed on. They were hardly efficient, and he convinced himself that it was the screw’s inability to perform even the most menial task that was the issue.
However, as the minutes passed and passed, it became more and more difficult to convince himself of this.
As another hour came and went, then another, and the darkness of night grew thicker, he found it more and more difficult to rationalise any way that Kelly could still be alive, and denial grew more and more difficult.
Maybe she’d forgotten?
Which was ridiculous, of course. Kelly never forgot anything. She was always true to her word.
He tried to keep his shit together. He tried to hold in his anger. He hated feeling so helpless.
He cursed every woman who had ever given him affection. Why did he do it? Why did he get involved with Kelly when he knew that any woman who fell for him died?
He wanted a drink.
No, he needed a drink.
He stood up. Had to get off his knees.
How would he complete the mission without Kelly?
He didn’t know Arabic.
He only had one recorder with limited capacity.
Kelly was the smart one. Sullivan knew how to beat a man to death, how to murder a target with a tie, how to kill a person without anyone knowing how they had been killed — but he did not know how to gather intelligence.
As the early hours of the morning arrived, Sullivan finally came to accept it — no one was coming to collect him for his phone call.
Kelly was dead.
As was Jameson.
And that also meant that the only people who knew of his operation were gone.
There would be no one coming to release him in two weeks, when those thirty days were up.
And there would be no way he could stop an attack from inside a cell.
Once again, he found himself alone.
Completely, utterly, and unquestionably alone.
Brighton Beach
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kelly wasn’t quite sure what was happening.
She wasn’t even sure if she was alive.
She was wet, she could tell that. Everything was blurry, but blue, like a bright sky was above her.
Orange blurs flickered too. Was that fire?
There was screaming. Lots of it. Sirens. It was too much.
And she was being dragged.
Who was dragging her?
The ground was rough, bumpy like rocks.
Her clothes were heavy. Drenched.
Her head rolled to the side. Her eyes closed and opened a while later.
“Jay?”
She was dragged onto harder ground. Was this gravel?
“Jay, is that you?”
It wasn’t. She knew that.
Didn’t she?
Her thoughts weren’t quite making sense.
Why was there so much noise, and why was it so far away?
She choked. Water dribbled down her chin.
“Jay…”
She was lifted into something. Hands grabbed her. She was dumped on a solid floor. Some doors closed and the bright blue was replaced by darkness.
Was this a van?
She groaned. Coughed up water.
Two hits on the side of the van and it took off.
She was rocking, like she was on a child’s ride, or sitting on a washing machine.
She turned her head.
Someone was looking at her.
She couldn’t see the face.
“Where’s Jay…”
They shushed her.
Who the hell was he to shush her?
She did not accept this typical chauvinism you get in the workplace where men shush her and demean her and…
She wasn’t in the workplace, though.
Was she?
No, it was a van.
She was pretty sure it was a van.
Jay was there.
No he wasn’t.
It was another man.
“Don’t you fucking…”
She tried to say shush me but it didn’t come out. Her throat hurt when she spoke, and she coughed up more water.
Why were her clothes so heavy?
Because she was wet.
How did she get wet in a van?
Was she in a van?
Because she had been in the sea.
Why was she in the sea?
She turned over again. So many thoughts, so little sense.
She tried to push herself up but her arms gave way.
“Relax,” a man said.
Relax?
He can’t tell her to relax…
Who was he?
“Trust me,” he said, his voice echoing like they were in a bathroom. “You are going to need your energy.”
She didn’t like that.
It sounded like a threat. Like the man was trying to intimidate her.
She pushed herself up again, but fell.
She closed her eyes.
Next thing she knew, she was being carried. She tried kicking and punching, but barely managed to flounce.
“Let me go…”
She was dumped on something. Her back hurt. Something cold clamped around her wrists.
“Jay, where are you…”
“Man hazih?”
“’Enaha ta’emal lada almukhabarat alaskariya.”
She knew Arabic. She knew they were asking who she was. They knew she was MI5.
A few dirty looks and they left.
She tried to stand, but fell, partly due to her groggy state, partly due to her hands being held to the wall b
y chains.
She tried to pull, tried to free herself, tried to voice her objections.
It was useless. She was too weak. They had her.
Chaman, Pakistan, Next to Afghanistan Border
FOUR YEARS AGO
Chapter Thirty-Four
Zain waited to be collected from outside the Government Degree College — a light yellow building surrounded by sand and dying grass. He found a tree and used it to shelter from the sun. It was hotter here than he could have imagined.
After a few hours, a car arrived. Azeer was in the passenger seat, and a man Zain didn’t recognise was driving. He had a dark hat on, a large beard, and militant uniform.
“Get in,” said Azeer.
Zain picked up his bag and climbed into the back.
“Hi,” he said to the driver, offering his hand. “I’m Zain.”
The driver did not turn to look at him.
“Sit down,” said Azeer.
Zain sat down and put his seat belt on.
“Do not tell a stranger your name,” Azeer said. “What are you thinking?”
“I just thought—”
“You are not allowed to know the general’s names.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Put this on.”
Azeer passed Zain a black hood.
Zain picked it up and looked back at Azeer, a little perplexed.
“Now,” said Azeer.
Zain put the hood on.
For the next twenty minutes he could do nothing but listen to the rumble of the engine. It was not a smooth ride, and the car lifted off the ground on numerous occasions. Either they were on an extremely bumpy road, or they were not on a road at all.
The car eventually came to a stop.
“Can I take this off?” asked Zain.
The sound of car doors opening and closing was his response. A few seconds went by, and his door was opened.
“Keep it on,” said Azeer’s voice, and he felt Azeer’s hand grip his arm and pull him out. The hand stayed on his arm as he was guided forward. His feet sunk a little bit and he could tell he was walking on sand.
He was brought into somewhere a little cooler — though, only a little, as it was still scorching.
Azeer took the hood off.
Zain looked around. He was in a large tent. In front of him, a man sat in a seat. Azeer took the seat next to him.
This new man scared him a little. He knew Azeer, and knew that the deadened expression he was wearing wasn’t the real him, but he had no idea who this new guy was. He was staring at Zain with such a dismissive, unwelcoming look.
Zain stood awkwardly, waiting for them to talk.
“Min ayn ’ant?” the man said.
“What?”
“Min ayn ’ant?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak—”
“Where are you from?” the man said instead, with a thick Pakistani accent.
“I, er — Southend.”
“Where is that?”
“Essex. England.”
“You were born there?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And you lived there your whole life?”
“Yes, I did. Until a few years ago, when I moved to Stoke, mainly because—”
“And you have never left England?”
“No, I have not.”
The man exchanged a look with Azeer.
“Then why do you want to betray your country?”
“What?”
The man raised his eyebrows. He was not about to repeat himself.
“I — well, I guess I don’t really think of myself as having a country. My religion, and my brothers, they are more important than a country.”
“Tell me about your religion and your brothers.”
“Well, they, er — they are part of Islam. Part of a religion the country you say I’m part of wants to oppress.”
“And why do you care?”
Zain went from being intimidated to mildly irritated. Who the hell did this guy think he was? He knew nothing of what Zain had been through.
“Because the country is made up of people who hate us.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“And you are sure?”
“With all due respect, whoever you are, you did not see my friend Fahad die because of—”
The man raised his hand to indicate Zain to stop talking.
The man turned to Azeer. They had a quick conversation in Arabic, then the man turned back to Zain.
“Are you willing to fight?” the man asked.
“I have been fighting my whole—”
“Just a yes or no.”
He paused, not sure whether to be annoyed or not. “Yes.”
“And you are willing to kill people from your country?”
“Yes.”
“And you are willing to die doing so?”
“Am I willing?”
The man raised his eyebrows.
“I am not only willing,” Zain said. “But I am eager.”
The man leant forward. “Why?”
“They have tried to stop the glory of Allah. They have killed anyone who wishes to spread the word of Islam, and it is time to send them a message.”
“And what message is that?”
“That we will not be silenced.”
“And you think you are the right person to do that?”Zain wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. He glanced at Azeer, who was looking back at him with an intrigued smile, and he decided the best way to answer would be to repeat the words of the Quran that Azeer had taught him.
“Permission to take up arms is hereby given to those who are attacked because they have been oppressed. Allah indeed has the power to grant them victory.”
The man finally smiled. He stood.
“Follow me,” he said.
The man walked out of the tent. With a worried glance at Azeer, Zain followed. He emerged into the desert, passed a group of men combat training in perfect formation, and entered another tent.
The man opened the tent, let Zain walk in, then followed. He closed the tent and lit a few candles.
A man appeared in the flickers of amber. Caucasian male. Tied to a chair. Head dropped. So many bruises and wounds on his face that Zain was unable to tell what this guy had looked like before he was taken prisoner. Every breath came out in a croak, each exhalation another struggle.
“This is a United States Marine,” Zain was told. “We captured him in Afghanistan three years ago.”
Three years? thought Zain.
“We have learned all we can from him. He has since become redundant.”
The man handed Zain a gun.
Zain stared at it.
“Take it,” the man instructed.
Zain took the gun.
“Have you ever fired a gun before?”
“No.”
He’d armed himself with knives, but never with guns. It was heavier than he thought it would be. He held it in his open palm and stared at it.
“Hold it properly.”
Zain moved the gun so he held it like he’d seen in movies.
“This is a 9mm Glock. The ammunition is loaded. Point it at his head.”
Zain lifted the gun, slowly, and pointed it at the prisoner’s head.
“It’s going to kickback, so put your hand beneath the grip to support it.”
Zain placed his hand beneath the gun as instructed.
“Now kill the prisoner.”
The words didn’t quite sink in at first.
This wasn’t what Zain was expecting.
He was imagining glory — fighting the opponent as they attacked him, or planting a bomb somewhere that would send a message.
He did not imagine he’d be killing an unarmed prisoner.
“This — this isn’t what I thought it would—”
“What did you think it would be?” the man snapped.
“I thought I’d be returning fire. I didn’t think I’d be killin
g an unarmed—”
“Do you want to stop their oppression? Do you want to be part of Alhami, part of the cause?”
“Yes I do.”
“Then show me.”
Zain knew he was going to have to do it. He knew he had no choice.
He thought of Fahad.
He thought of those murderers who stabbed him.
This man had probably killed many of his brothers for the same reasons.
He hated this man.
He built up the hatred, and he harnessed it into anger.
And he felt ready.
He aimed the gun and closed his eyes.
HMP Brenthall, United Kingdom
NOW
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Do it,” said Alexander.
Sullivan pointed his gun at the man.
Alexander had told him the man deserved it.
Unarmed prisoner or not, it was Sullivan’s instructions and he needed to do as he was told.
“I’m waiting.”
Sullivan closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
He opened his eyes and quickly sat up. He was sweating. In his prison cell. The reverberation of the gunshot still ringing in his ears, despite it being a dream.
But it was not just a dream; it was a memory of the first man he’d ever killed. Alexander had trained him how to kill, then made him prove that he had the guts. He’d made Sullivan shoot a prisoner.
He’d explained that Sullivan couldn’t always know the reasons why he was after a target; he would not be privy to their intelligence. All Sullivan needed to know was that, if he didn’t kill the bad people, then those bad people would kill the good people.
Such an explanation made the task very simple.
After much coercion, Sullivan had done it.
He was just a kid. Years of abuse from his father and witnessing his mother’s murder had taught him that causing pain was not only okay, but was as normal as pissing and shitting.
And Alexander had used that.
They used to have a tally on the wall. During their training, when rookies began to go into the field and commit their first hits, Alexander would record how many kills they’d executed and he would celebrate their milestones.
After ten, he’d shake your hand and pat you on the back.
