by Ed Grace
“No, I have a Dictaphone and I’ve been playing it back.”
Patricks felt his face redden.
“You have a Dictaphone?” he growled. “A banned item?”
Sullivan huffed. “That doesn’t matter!”
“It bloody well does. My officers will do a search of your cell this evening, and we will see what other contraband you have, shall we?”
Sullivan sighed. Resigned. Any fight he had left drained out of him.
“You have to do something,” Sullivan said. “You have to.”
“I do not have to do anything. Goodbye.”
Patricks walked away, leaving Sullivan shouting after him.
As he left the wing, Sullivan slumped down the wall and to the floor, his final opportunity gone.
There was nothing he could do but sit in his cell and wait to hear the news.
It seemed he would not be able to stop this attack either.
Once again, people were going to die because of his inability to use his skills for something useful.
Sorry, Kelly, he thought.
She would be so disappointed in him.
As would anyone else who had the misfortune of knowing him.
Chapter Fifty
The door to Kelly’s cell opened, and she kept her head down. They dragged her through a corridor, and she kept her head down, pretending to be out of it.
As she was dragged, she caught a glimpse of where she was. It looked like some kind of basement, with two rooms — her cell and her torture chamber. She assumed she was still in the UK. She couldn’t have been out of it for long enough for them to take her anywhere else — she’d have surely noticed if she was on a boat or a plane.
The open cuts on her knees stung as they dragged her through the room. The soldier placed her on the chair and went to put her handcuffs on, but Imran, sitting opposite her, waved his hands.
This was certainly a bit of good fortune for her. Retaliating would be far easier without handcuffs.
Then she realised, this meant that whatever he intended to do to her required more access to her body.
The soldier stood a few steps away. She scanned his body. He had a large hunter’s knife by his ankle.
Imran sat back in his chair. He huffed. Folded his arms.
“How did you know about Brighton Pier?” he asked.
She did not react.
She just sat there, looking at the soldier.
Imran and the soldier exchanged a look of smug satisfaction.
They are hoping I don’t answer…
Imran asked again, “How did you know about Brighton Pier?”
She glared at him.
He strode toward her so quickly that her eyes hadn’t adjusted by the time his hands were on her throat. He swept her through the air and landed her on her back.
He removed his belt and wrapped it around her throat.
He squeezed. She couldn’t breathe. He mounted her, lowering his face to hers. She could smell last night’s meal on his breath.
She choked, hard. He kept her asphyxiated for longer than she expected, and it hurt.
Eventually, he loosened it slightly, just enough for her to gasp in breath.
“How did you know about Brighton Pier?”
She didn’t answer.
He undid his trousers.
She mumbled something.
“What?” he said.
She mumbled something again.
“I can’t hear you.”
He moved his head closer. She mumbled once more.
“I can’t hear you!”
He moved his ear beside her mouth.
“What?” he barked.
She didn’t waste a moment.
She clamped her teeth around his ear and bit with all her might. He tried to throw her off, but she held on. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his torso, clutching onto him, feeling the thickness of his blood trickle down her chin.
The soldier approached. Before he could do anything, she’d reached her arm out, taken the hunter’s knife from his ankle, and dug it into his leg.
She retracted the knife, lunged it into Imran’s throat, and pulled it out as she let Imran go, leaving him to squirm
She looked at the soldier. He went to grab her, but she sidestepped and dug the knife into his throat.
Then she stood there. Watching the two men bleed, suffocate, and choke at her feet until they were still. It was a horrific sight, but the five years in the marines had hardened her.
Once they had stopped wriggling, she inspected their clothes. She had a bit of time — no one had come to interrupt them during the previous day’s torture, and she expected no one to come and interrupt them today; they were alone, wherever they were.
She removed the soldier’s clothes from his body and put them on herself. Collapsed. Leant against the wall. Felt the fatigue of her body pass through her. She released the tension in her muscles, and began to realise just how much pain she was in.
She stayed there for a while, panting. She didn’t have the energy to escape yet, and she was enjoying the comfort of wearing clothes, as silly as that may seem.
Eventually, she stood, taking the knife with her, and limped to the door. She opened it slightly, peering out.
The cell she had been kept in was to her left, and there were stairs leading to a door to her right. She ran up them, as much as she was able, and paused.
She pressed slowly down on the door handle, and opened the door marginally, peering out.
It was a large hallway. Expensive ornaments on the wall next to paintings. A marble floor.
She crouched, moved into the hallway, and shut the basement door behind her. She stayed low, crept through the room. The front door was to her left, and another door was straight ahead, slightly ajar. Knowing she should just leave but unable to abandon her sense of duty, she peered through the crack in the door to the adjacent room.
Just as she did, she saw a man who struck terror through her entire body.
Azeer Nadeem.
How the hell did he get out of prison?
He wasn’t alone. He stood with a few others. They were all praying.
In the corner, on a chair, it sat.
The bomb vest.
This was it. This was their preparation. They were about to commit the attack.
She looked around. Tried to think of what to do. She could hardly fight them. Not all of them.
The best thing she could do was follow them.
A Mercedes-Benz waited outside the window behind her, unoccupied.
She snuck out of the front door unnoticed and rushed to the car.
She opened the boot. Climbed in. Covered herself with a blanket and prayed they did not plan to use this part of the car.
She had no idea how she could stop the attack. The past few days were weighing heavily on her mind, and her body, and she found herself shaking. She could still feel the bolts of electricity gripping her muscles, could still feel Imran Hashir bleeding between her teeth, and did not know how long she could last in these cramped conditions — but it was the last piece of torture she would have to endure.
I killed a man, her mind kept telling her: I killed a man, I killed a man, I killed a man.
But she blocked it out. The trauma could wait. There would be plenty of counsellors waiting for her at MI5.
All she had to do now was be patient, and hope that she could figure out what to do.
Chapter Fifty-One
Zain stood in a row with his brothers, Azeer to his left.
They faced toward Makkah, and spoke together, “Allaha Akbar. Allaha Akbar.”
Zain placed his right hand over his left, then placed them both on his navel, in unison with the others.
“Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem,” they spoke.
Zain tried to keep his mind focused on what they were doing. To keep his mind focused on his god. On his task.
On the honour bestowed upon him.
“
Al hamdu lillahi rabbil ’alameen.”
He did not think about his family. Refused to think about his father. Refused to picture the look on his face, or remember the eyes of disappointment from the last time he saw them.
He told himself not to recall how his father had said he was a disgrace, and that this was not true Islam.
He reminded himself that his father was wrong.
He had to be wrong.
“Ar-Rahman ar-Raheem Maaliki yaumid Deen.”
He remembered that he trusted in Azeer.
Azeer had guided him on the right path. He had guided him on Allah’s path. He had guided him to this point in his life now, and he was ready.
He was ready.
He was.
Really.
They finished the Surah Al Fatiha and began the Ruku.
Zain kept his appearance in a state of concentration, just as he was taught. No fidgeting. No looking around. Keeping his focus on his god.
He bowed with the rest.
“Subhanna rabbiy-al-’adheem.”
He will be in Heaven soon.
“Subhanna rabbiy-al-’adheem.”
Father doesn’t matter.
“Subhanna rabbiy-al-’adheem.”
He trusted in Allah. He trusted in Azeer.
They stood.
“Sami’allaahu li man hamidah.”
He refused to recall the look on his mother’s face. The way she had cursed the day she’d given him life. The words she’d said as she cried.
“Rabbanaa wa lakal-hamd.”
He’d never seen her cry like that.
But she hadn’t witnessed Fahad die.
He had.
And he knew he was doing the right thing.
He did.
He knew.
He really knew.
Zain followed the others in lowering himself to his knees and placing his toes, knees, hand and forehead upon the ground.
“Subhaana rabbiyal-a’laa.”
He knelt up, and returned to the floor. Knelt up, and returned to the floor.
“Rabbighdfir lee, warhamnee, wahdinee, warzuqnee, wajburnee wa rasooluh.”
He had a younger sister. She would be a woman now, but he remembered her as a child. She dated an infidel behind her parent’s back.
She would not find Allah’s mercy.
He knelt and turned his head to the right.
“Assalaamu ‘alaykum wa rahmatullaah.”
Azeer knew best.
Zain had trained for this.
He’d trained.
He’d been selected.
Specifically.
Him.
Chosen.
It was an important mission.
He had to do it.
He had to.
For Allah.
For Azeer.
For the Islamic state; in the name of the oppression put upon them for so many years.
He turned to his left.
“Assalaamu ’alaykum wa rahmatullaah.”
They finished.
They stood.
They remained silent as they each said their own silent prayers.
Zain bowed his head, trying to make it look like he was doing the same.
Trying not to think about what he was about to do.
He had to be strong.
He was strong.
Stronger than anyone.
He would show them.
They finished and Azeer walked up to Zain. With an encouraging smile, he placed a hand on Zain’s shoulder.
“It’s time,” Azeer said.
Zain nodded.
“Get the car,” Azeer told one of his generals.
Azeer was right. It was time.
They climbed into the car and placed their guns by their feet — out of sight of prying eyes, but easy to access when they needed them.
It would take them ten minutes to drive to the airport, then it was up to him.
He would be in paradise soon.
Chaman, Pakistan
TWO YEARS AGO
Chapter Fifty-Two
Zain hadn’t left the compound in years.
At first, it had been strange. Now it felt liberating. In the UK he would always be checking over his shoulder, ensuring he had his knife on him, looking back at the face of everyone who stared at him, worried that either he would be killed, or he would have to kill them.
Despite being isolated in this camp, he felt safer than he ever had.
And he did not feel like an outsider. He did not feel like someone people avoided eye contact with because they feared what he was going to do — here, he was with his people. He had learnt enough Arabic so he could talk to them, and although they did not talk about anything personal, such as where they came from or who their families were, they still achieved an element of comradery. They would discuss that day’s speech, or encourage one another in particularly gruelling days of training.
Even when he was younger, and he hung around with Fahad and his friends, he never really felt part of the group. They mainly hung around together for strength in numbers — it was safer to be with others like him. But he had separated himself from them when they all had come to terms with Fahad’s death so easily. Like it was normal. Like it was okay. Like it was just part of life in Britain.
They accepted it and moved on, had families of their own, and only thought of Fahad when it came to the anniversary of his murder, or in the moment of silence that followed when Zain brought his name up. To them, it was an uncomfortable memory they did not want to think about.
What infuriated Zain most about these so-called friends, what really incensed him — was that they had stopped being angry.
Zain had never stopped being angry.
The moment that his fury ended was the moment that Fahad died in vain.
The moment he simply accepted that it had happened and allowed himself to let it go, or move on, was the moment that Fahad’s memory died, and his death became nothing.
Zain would never stop fighting those who had hurt his brother.
Never.
And, although he was with Allah now, Zain often wondered who Fahad would be should he still be alive. His father wanted him to be a doctor. He was considering law. He was smart, and he could have done either.
Now he was just a tombstone that people forgot to visit.
“Zain,” Azeer said, prompting Zain to end his endless thoughts. His dinner was in front of him, and he hadn’t touched any of it.
“Yeah?”
“Come. Let’s talk.”
Zain left the rest of his food and followed Azeer out of the tent. They walked around the edge of the compound, and Azeer did not talk straight away. This was fine. Zain was used to Azeer considering his words.
Eventually, after a few minutes of strolling, Azeer spoke.
“I’ve been watching,” he said. “You have done very well.”
“Thank you, brother.”
“I mean it. You have taken to the martyrdom program better than anyone else.”
“I appreciate it. I’ve been trying.”
“You have. You definitely have. Now it is time for you to go home.”
Zain stopped walking.
“I am home,” he said.
Azeer smiled. He was always so calm, always so wise. There was never a moment he saw Azeer lose control. He always knew what was best.
“That you are,” Azeer said. “But I mean your other home. Where you came from. The United Kingdom. England.”
“Am I not doing well enough here? Am I not trying hard enough? Please, just tell me what I’ve done, and I’ll—”
“Oh, Zain, you have it all wrong. You are not going back there to live. You are going back there to die.”
“I don’t understand.”
Azeer put his hand on Zain’s shoulder and led him to a large rock, where they both sat.
“We are planning three strikes against our enemies — three demonstrations that they will not suppress the growth of
the Islamic state any longer.”
“When?”
“Two years from now. We are planning them all to occur within a matter of weeks, for maximum effect.”
“And you want me to help?”
Once again, Azeer smiled at Zain’s naivete.
“I want you to be the main event,” Azeer said.
“I don’t understand.”
“You are receiving a great honour, Zain. You will be our final martyr, and you will find your place with Allah.”
Zain was astounded. He couldn’t believe it.
“Thank you,” he said.
He was finally going to play his part in this war.
Yet, his main thought was not on his action to come — but on the prospect of seeing his family.
He missed them terribly, and he was excited to see them again.
He just hoped they would be as eager to see him.
HMP Brenthall, United Kingdom
NOW
Chapter Fifty-Three
A younger Sullivan stepped out of the car and walked with his arms folded to the cemetery’s edge.
Alexander went to enter, noticed his prodigy standing still, and turned to him with hands on hips.
“What are you doing?” Alexander demanded.
“This is bullshit.”
“Stop being an idiot and move.”
Alexander went to walk into the cemetery, but Sullivan remained at the entrance.
“I won’t ask again,” he said.
Reluctantly, Sullivan walked forward, his arms folded, his head shaking.
“I still don’t get why I have to do this,” he said.
“That is why I am the one who is training you, and you are the one who is being trained.”
“But I don’t—”
“Tell me, oh wise one,” Alexander said sarcastically, jabbing his finger at Sullivan. “Who recruited who?”
“I get it, you’re in charge, it just doesn’t—”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“But I don’t see why—”
“Because of this. Everything you are doing right now. This petulant teenager act. This fuck-you attitude you have when it comes to something difficult.”
