The Bars That Hold Me (Jay Sullivan Thrillers Book 3)

by Ed Grace

  “Something difficult? I let you torture me and I did not complain once!”

  “You let us?”

  “Fine, I couldn’t do much about it — but I did it.”

  “And this is worse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because it makes you angry.”

  “It makes me furious.”

  Alexander stepped toward him. “Then that is why you have to do it.”

  Alexander marched on.

  Sullivan huffed, and followed.

  After a few minutes, Alexander had led him down a path, past several rows of small graves. Some of them cared for, some of them not.

  Then he paused by one particular row, forcing Sullivan to stop with him.

  “It’s the sixth and seventh one in,” Alexander said.

  Sullivan went to look, but he couldn’t.

  He could see them. He could even see a bit of the name.

  But he couldn’t walk toward it.

  Even in death, he couldn’t dignify this man with his attention.

  He turned away, covering his face.

  He refused to let himself cry in front of Alexander. Alexander was training him to be a killer, not a weakling. He could not let him see this.

  Alexander said, slowly and calmly, “Let it out.”

  “What?” Sullivan said, wiping his eyes, still fighting them back.

  “I said let it out.”

  “But an assassin doesn’t—”

  “I will tell you what an assassin does and doesn’t do.”

  “But I can’t let him win like this.”

  “Jay, you are young, and you are foolish, so I will spell it out for you the best way I can — you are no good to us angry. You are no good to us emotional. You are no good to us a wreck.”

  Sullivan covered his face.

  “But you don’t overcome all of these feelings by burying them deep down. I need you to face them, so you can be rid of them.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can, and you will. I can’t let you out in the field if I don’t trust you to be calm — and you can’t fight someone else while you are still fighting yourself. So drop your hands, let yourself cry, and go look at the damn grave.”

  Sullivan dropped his hands, as he was told. His eyes were red and damp, but he did not let them leak any tears. Instead, he did as he was instructed, walking slowly along the graves, until he reached the sixth and seventh ones in.

  They were buried together. Even after what his father had done to his mother, they were buried together.

  “I hate you,” Sullivan muttered, staring at the name of the sixth grave in:

  Kevin William Sullivan.

  “I hate you so much,” Sullivan continued.

  His fists clenched.

  He looked at the seventh grave:

  Michaela Sullivan.

  “I hate you too,” he said. “I hate you for staying with him. For allowing it. For never—”

  He stopped talking.

  He was too angry.

  He thought he was upset, but he was angry.

  “I can’t,” he told Alexander. “I can’t. I can’t stop being mad at him. I can’t forgive him.”

  Alexander sighed. “Well then there is an alternative.”

  “What?”

  Alexander walked along the graves until he reached Sullivan’s side, and looked over his shoulder.

  “Use it,” he said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Use the anger. If you can’t fight it, harness it. Let it power you. Let it fuel you. Let it be your strength. See your father’s eyes in the eyes of every man you kill. Believe it to be him.”

  Sullivan nodded.

  He could do that.

  In that way, he could have his revenge. He could kill his father a hundred times over. He could show him what was right and what was wrong.

  Yes, that’s right.

  He’d show his dad.

  He’d show him what he deserved.

  With a large, sudden roar, Sullivan swung his fist at the small grave. His knuckles were left to bleed, but he shattered the stone across his father’s name.

  He swung his fist again.

  That was when Sullivan woke up, plunging his fist into the wall of his prison cell.

  He had no idea how he’d manage to sleep. Then again, he had barely slept at all in the last few days, so it was inevitable he’d fall asleep at some point.

  The news was still on. It was still early evening. He’d only drifted off for ten minutes or so.

  There was still no report on an attack.

  He thought about what Alexander had said. To see his father’s face in his enemies made him a ruthless opponent, but it had also turned him into an angry man. A bitter man. Whilst he had turned his back on his training, his anger was the one thing that remained.

  Right now, he was furious. He had lost. Kelly was dead, yet he was alive — which was too much of an injustice — and he could find no way out of his cell.

  He heard a few steps outside his cell.

  A key in the lock of the door.

  What was this?

  “Step back!” demanded the screw.

  Sullivan leapt up.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Step back, contraband check!”

  Sullivan was momentarily confused, then recalled what Patricks had told Sullivan after he found out Sullivan had a Dictaphone.

  They were going to do a contraband check on his cell…

  This was it. This was his opportunity.

  He had to be cool. Wait for the right moment. Despite the little time he had, he had to be patient.

  He walked to the far side of the cell and pressed himself up against the wall, as was routine for this type of inspection.

  The door to his cell opened and three screws walked in wearing rubber gloves.

  “Stay against the wall,” one instructed him.

  They were honest people doing an honest job, and he didn’t want to cause lasting damage to them.

  The only question, then, was how he would incapacitate all of them without killing them.

  He did not want them to call the police like the last time he tried to escape.

  As the one nearest to him lifted his mattress, he watched the back of their head, and readied himself for a fight.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The nearest screw was a man. About six foot two. Heavy set.

  The others sifting through his mattress were a middle-aged woman and a younger, more timid looking man.

  They would be easier to pick off, so he decided to start with the bigger guy.

  “Against the wall,” the big guy said, noticing Sullivan eyeing him up.

  Sullivan did as he was told.

  “Turn around.”

  Sullivan did not.

  “I said turn around.”

  Sullivan kept his face blank. His body still.

  He needed Big Guy to approach. He needed to wind him up enough that he had no choice but to use force.

  “You deaf?” Big Guy said. “I said turn around.”

  Sullivan remained as he was.

  “Oi, stop ignoring me, I said—”

  Big Guy approached, lifting his hand. Sullivan took that hand, bent it backwards so as to snap it, then took hold of Big Guy’s head and rammed his skull into the sink.

  Big Guy slumped onto the floor in an unconscious mess.

  The other two looked at Sullivan, terrified.

  The woman reached for her radio.

  He leapt forward, took her arm, threw her over his shoulder and onto the floor. He took the PAVA synthetic pepper spray from her belt and emptied enough into her face to keep her from getting in his way.

  Timid Guy attempted to make his escape. Sullivan threw out a foot and swiped Timid Guy’s legs out. The sound of his head hitting the floor echoed around the cell.

  Timid Guy had handcuffs on his belt.

  He took them, cuffed one of Timid Guy’s wrists, pulled
the handcuffs around the leg of the bed, and cuffed the other wrist.

  He took the woman’s handcuffs and did the same to her, then did the same to Big Guy. He removed their radios from their belts and stepped back.

  Big Guy would have a headache when he woke up, and would need to go to the hospital for his wrist. The other two would feel pretty humiliated, but he had done no lasting damage.

  He took a set of keys from one of the belts, then discarded the radios into the wing.

  He retraced his steps from a few weeks ago, except this time, he would not make the same mistakes. He would not head straight to the gates. He could not risk the police being called again.

  Instead, he diverted his route past the segregation unit and towards the governor’s office. He’d been there when he’d first arrived, and although his memory was patchy, he could just about recall the route.

  He tried to remain quick and agile, but there is a fine line between stealth and speed. He had to remain unnoticed by other screws and the cameras, but he also had to be quick. Still, this was what he had been trained to do, and he did it well. Once upon a time, he could make his way through a heavily guarded, well-monitored building completely unnoticed. His feet were heavier than they used to be, and he had a constant feeling of sickness that reminded him how little whiskey he’d had in the past few weeks, but he made it, staying close to the wall and checking the direction of the CCTV cameras.

  Just before the governor’s office was a small staff kitchen. He would need a weapon to coerce the governor into cooperating, so he went into the kitchen, only to find a screw toasting some crumpets.

  The screw reached for his belt, and Sullivan didn’t waste any time — he struck him over the head with the toaster and the screw collapsed, knocked out. Sullivan removed the screw’s belt and threw it out of reach to ensure he was not able to radio in about the escaped convict when he eventually woke up.

  Sullivan went through the draws, found a large kitchen knife, and turned to Jason Patricks’ office.

  “Here goes…”

  He kicked the door open and charged in.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  “What on earth!” Patricks declared. “How dare you! Who do you think you are, coming in here and—”

  Sullivan, feeling he needed to intimidate this guy before he threatened him, took hold of the side of his large, wooden, polished desk, and turned it upside down, throwing it across the room.

  Without the desk in front of him, Patricks looked quite exposed, and couldn’t help but quiver.

  Sullivan took hold of Patricks’ collar, lifted him from his seat, held him against the wall, and placed the tip of the knife against his throat.

  “You know what I am, yeah?” he said, his voice low and husky.

  “Yes, yes I do!”

  “So you know how many people I’ve killed?”

  “Yes!”

  “You know what I am capable of?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good — then you know to do everything I say. You are going to lead me out of this prison, into the car park, and into your car. I am going to keep my knife hidden, but the second you signal to someone else that you are under duress, I will use it to cut your throat. Understand?”

  “Yes, yes I do!”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Cu— cu— cu—”

  “Say it.”

  “You’re going to cut my throat!”

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes!”

  “You bloody well should. Now move.”

  Despite the man being relatively innocent, Sullivan still gained a little satisfaction from taking such a narcissist down a peg or two.

  He followed behind Patricks as they left his office, and Patricks led him to the main gate.

  “Sir?” one of two prison officers said, looking at Sullivan, confused.

  “Open the gate.”

  “But, sir, we don’t have any information of a prisoner being transferred, should we—”

  “I have had the call myself. I am the governor, you will do what I say, now open the damn gate.”

  Good boy, thought Sullivan.

  Patricks had evidently read his file. Sullivan’s record was enough to incite the kind of fear that would make a man piss his pants and hand over his wife.

  As it was, he just wanted Patricks’ car.

  They left the prison, and Patricks led Sullivan across the car park.

  “Give me your car keys,” Sullivan instructed.

  Patricks reached into his pocket, pulled them out, and handed them over.

  “Which one is it?”

  “The Ferrari.”

  Of course it was the Ferrari. His prison was understaffed, underfunded, and under-resourced, but he still ensured he had a big enough pay-check to buy a nice, shiny car.

  Still, at least it was a fast car.

  “Get in the passenger seat.”

  “What? I thought you just wanted the car!”

  “Do as I say.”

  Like it or not, he would need someone to phone the police as he drove.

  They got in. Sullivan turned the ignition and sped away with a loud rev of the engine.

  He put the radio on to check the news — still nothing.

  Even so, Alhami would undoubtedly be there by now.

  They were just waiting for the right moment, and Sullivan had no idea whether he would get there in time.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Zain sat in the back of the car, Azeer beside him.

  But he didn’t look at his trusted mentor.

  Instead, he looked out of the window, with his hand rested on his fist, and butterflies charging around his belly.

  They drove past Holiday Inn. Zain recalled a time when he was four, possibly five, arriving at this hotel, with his baby sister in the back of the car next to him. It was one of his earliest memories. His parents had bickered a bit and he was annoyed. It was a strange situation, as his parents never bickered — yet he had a very real memory that his mum was somehow mad at his dad.

  Yet, as soon as they had arrived, his parents were full of smiles, and they walked into the hotel hand in hand.

  Past a row of houses to his right was Heathrow Primary School. School had finished, but there were still students there, waiting to be picked up following after-school clubs. Quite a few of them carried instruments; violins and cellos in their cases, plus boxes that probably carried something like a flute or clarinet.

  His friends had taken the mickey out of the school orchestra and sniggered at what dorks they were. He hadn’t. He’d always watched them with envy. He’d always wanted to learn to play an instrument.

  They went through the tunnel to the Inner Ring, and passed a bus that had just begun to unload. A group of people, possibly eighteen to twenty, just beginning adulthood, walked off, wearing the same t-shirts; blue with Build a Schoolin bright orange writing.

  They pulled up outside the terminal.

  The SatNav said, in its toneless, woman’s voice, “You have arrived at your destination.”

  They were here.

  It was time.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Sullivan raced down the fast lane of the M25.

  Signs for London Heathrow Airport became more constant, and planes flew overhead.

  They couldn’t be far.

  “Do you have a phone?” Sullivan demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Get it.”

  Patricks reached into the glove compartment and took out his phone. It was an iPhone — one of the newer ones.

  “Phone 999,” Sullivan said.

  “And tell them what?”

  “There is going to be a terrorist attack at Heathrow Airport.”

  “You actually believe—”

  “Just do it!”

  Sullivan did not have time to stay calm. Patricks was beginning to regain a little bit of confidence, and was becoming a little defiant, so Sullivan lifted the knife. He didn’t direc
tly threaten Patricks with it — he just kept it between his fingers, making sure it could be seen.

  “Now,” Sullivan demanded.

  The phone shook in Patricks’ hand. He dialled 999 and put the phone to his ear.

  Sullivan drove down the slip road of junction 14 and onto Bath Road.

  “Hello?” Patricks said. “Police please. Yes, I, er—”

  Patricks looked at Sullivan. Sullivan looked back.

  “Please help,” Patricks said, suddenly speaking quickly, “I’m being held against my will, there is a man escaped from—”

  “Goddammit!”

  Sullivan snatched the phone away and put it to his ear.

  “Hello? Yeah, there is going to be a terrorist attack at London Heathrow.”

  “Excuse me?” the operator said.

  “You heard me — another attack by Alhami, Azeer Nadeem is running it, you need to get police there quickly.”

  “Okay, sir, what do you—”

  “No questions, just do it.”

  Sullivan hung up and chucked the phone out of the window.

  He glanced at Patricks.

  “Arsehole.”

  Sullivan drove around a roundabout and onto Wright Way. He entered the tunnel and began his drive toward the terminal.

  But it was at the end of the tunnel that he was forced to stop.

  A queue blocked his entry.

  He wasted no time. He opened the door and ran out, leaving Patricks in the car. He didn’t have time to queue; he had to run.

  He sprinted as fast as he could, ignoring his stitch. He leapt over a bench. Dodged a bin. Ran as hard as his aching legs would let him.

  He saw him. Azeer, in a car, in the drop off bay, with others, just outside the terminal.

  Someone stepped out of the car. A young man. Looking nervous. Looking everywhere.

  His chest looked slightly bigger than it should — like his muscles did not match his legs.

  It was a bomb vest.

  That was him.

  He was the suicide bomber. And he was entering the airport.

  London Heathrow Airport, United Kingdom

  Chapter Fifty-Eight