by Ed Grace
Sullivan was too far away. No matter how fast he ran, he could do nothing to stop the bomber from entering the airport. The young man disappeared amongst the crowds, which would make him harder to find. Sullivan studied him quickly, ensuring he would recognise him — red top, with short, black hair, and converse trainers.
He kept running toward the entrance and, as he did, Azeer Nadeem stepped out of the car and locked eyes with him.
Azeer grinned.
“You,” he said.
Sullivan ran across the road. A car screeched to a halt and Sullivan slid across the bonnet, ignoring the horn and the obscenities aimed in his direction.
“I knew you were not just an inmate,” Azeer said.
Sullivan was closer. Fifteen yards now, if that.
“You can’t stop it now,” Azeer said.
Watch me.
But, true to Azeer’s word, he was not planning to let Sullivan get any closer.
He took out his AK-47.
“Shit!”
Azeer did not care who was nearby. He did not care which civilians he would hit. He did not even care about being caught. Why would he? There were police at the airport, but they could do nothing against an AK-47; they would have to wait for the firearms unit to arrive, and by then the airport would be in flames.
Once again, it was up to Sullivan.
Azeer opened fire, forcing Sullivan to dive behind a parked BMW. He stayed behind the wheel, using it as his barricade.
I’m fucked, he thought. The bomber was in the airport, and he was stuck behind a car, listening to the thuds of bullets meant just for him. Soon, there would be little of the car left.
He reminded himself that he was trained for this; this was the kind of situation he was an expert in dealing with.
At the same time as thinking this, he couldn’t help but admit that he was completely, totally, and utterly fucked.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Not long after the engine had died, the shooting had started.
Kelly stayed where she was, listening to the onslaught of bullets. It was loud and, with her head already pounding, she could do nothing but listen. The shooting was right next to the car, and if she were to get out, she would be shot. She had to be smart. Choose the right moment.
But how the hell would she know the right moment?
She could see nothing, and the pains of her body were making it difficult to think. Her body was no longer in agony, but it was still stinging. Her fingers and toes, which had been so numb, were starting to throb. Even worse, the mental battle was getting tougher.
She was struggling to think clearly.
But she knew she should wait. She’d stand no chance of stopping anything with a bullet lodged in her head.
Then again, what chance did she have anyway?
She had a knife. She could not get past the shooter with a knife. And even if she did, what could she do against the bomber?
This is so stupid.
What was she even thinking, getting into the boot? She should have gone straight to the police.
But what then? Tell them there was an attack coming, but she had no idea where it would be?
No, she had to wait.
Rue her bad decisions and wait.
The bullets continued, and she wondered if they were ever actually going to end.
Chapter Sixty
“Assalamu alykum.”
Peace be upon you.
Azeer’s final words repeated over and over again in Zain’s mind.
The sign above indicated that terminal two was to the left and terminal three, four and five were to the right.
The vest felt heavy. His legs felt heavy. His mind felt heavy.
Two young women passed him, pushing a trolley of luggage, and he watched them as they entered the lift.
“Did you want to come in?” they asked him, holding the doors for him.
He shook his head.
The doors closed and they left.
He heard bullets from behind him. Outside, Azeer was firing his AK-47.
The police must have arrived before they expected.
He considered the hundreds who were about to perish.
He reminded himself why they must perish.
He took a deep breath.
He had to move. Azeer trusted him.
He found his legs slowly carrying him deeper into the airport, walking stiffly and robotically.
His eyes widened, and he saw the life of every face he passed in slow motion.
They didn’t look at him — they were too busy with their mobile phones, or children, or luggage, or checking tickets, or looking at the screen for their terminal, or pretending he didn’t exist, and he wondered why no one looked at him if they were all so afraid, if everyone believed him to be a terrorist, if everyone here thought he was suspicious, then why was not a single person looking at him and asking should I be scared?
These people were evil. This country was evil. It had committed evil acts.
Its people had killed Fahad. Its people had repressed the Islamic state. Allah would not suffer an infidel to live, and neither should he.
But he didn’t feel isolated or shunned or discriminated against. In this airport, when people were at their most tense, no one seemed to be wondering why this nervous looking Muslim was walking through the airport.
He closed his eyes.
For Fahad.
For Azeer.
For my fallen brothers and sisters.
He was panting and wheezing. He became aware of every part of his body. His fingertips tingled and his feet tensed, and his legs ached, and his brain was heavy, and his skull was tight, how could a skull be so tight, it felt like his brain was bursting against it — why was it expanding and expanding so much and why was no one suspicious?
It felt like everyone was looking at him, yet no one was looking at all.
He did not need to pass through security. He could just enter the space where all the shops and people were and rely on the strength of the blast.
It would make the biggest statement ever made on British land.
He would be a hero. A martyr. Allah would welcome him to paradise with open arms.
But all he could see was an old couple sat on a bench, holding hands, next to a younger couple with a laughing child and why, why, why did everything seem so big and so small at the same time?
“Stop this, Zain,” he told himself.
This was no time for doubt. No time for second thoughts. No time for hesitation.
Azeer relied on him.
Allah relied on him.
He was one serving God and that was how it would be.
Fuck his family if they didn’t understand.
Fuck these people who hated his religion.
Fuck everyone.
He hated them all.
No one ever cared. No one ever spoke to him like a man, like a person, not until he met Azeer, not until Azeer showed him the love that even his own family were unwilling to give.
Enough deliberating.
Enough thinking.
He reached into his pocket.
His fingers flexed around the detonator, and his thumb traced the outline of the trigger.
Chapter Sixty-One
Azeer held his finger against the trigger and sprayed his bullets over anyone who dared look.
Jay Sullivan was behind the car. Concealed, but his cover was temporary. Soon there would be little left of the car.
Azeer couldn’t stop grinning; he’d never believed that things would go so well. He’d been worried that he’d be caught, that Alhami would not manage to succeed. The paranoia this country had about terrorists means that they barely trusted a Muslim to walk down a street. Yet here he was, standing for his brothers and sisters.
His ammunition ran out.
He didn’t need to rush to replace it. His brothers had left the car and begun firing also. He allowed himself a moment to watch and take satisfaction at what they were achieving.
&nbs
p; He noticed an empty police car, and a few officers using it as cover. Even the law was cowering. Azeer assumed these were police that regularly patrolled the airport — they would not deploy ordinary officers to fight an armed assailant, they would only use their firearms unit. They were so backwards in this country — the everyday police officers don’t carry guns, so by the time armed officers arrived, most of the destruction would already be done.
And what did the unarmed officers do who were already here? Hide behind their car! Do nothing to protect the civilians! These people knew nothing of sacrifice. Azeer would not hide from his enemy, whether they had a gun in their hand or not. He would stand and fight and die willingly should that be what Allah decided; not cower and allow more civilians to die.
All three of them had now directed their guns at the police car. Most civilians had either fled, or were lying in pools of blood across the road.
Azeer laughed.
“Allahu Akbar!” he shouted, ensuring that the glory of the moment went to Allah — it was Allah that had guided them here, and it was Allah that had given him the fortune of being able to create this moment.
As he revelled in the glory and gunfire, he did not notice the man running to his left, and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Glancing back, Sullivan could see the terror on the police officer’s faces. This was not something an officer normally experiences in their career. Not in the UK, anyway. He’d seen gunfights in the US. He’d seen gunfights in South Africa. He’d seen gunfights in Iraq, and he’d even been involved in one in Pakistan. But these officers were unprepared. He could see the fear on their faces, and he could see how torn they were — wanting to protect those caught in the crossfire, but also wanting to keep their lives.
This wasn’t a chance for them to be a hero. They were attracting the attention of the gunfire, and that’s what Sullivan needed them to do.
It allowed him to run across the car park, staying low, and to the concealment of another car.
From here, it was maybe a ten-yard dash to Azeer. He was sure he could make it. Only problem was that Azeer wasn’t alone — there were two more of them.
He wondered how trained they were. Alhami would have had rigorous training in their camps, Sullivan was sure of it — but would they be too much for him?
Years ago he wouldn’t even have hesitated — nothing was too much for him.
He needed to think like that again; with that indestructible confidence he used to have.
Of course he could do it.
He had to do it.
What else could he do?
He’d seen the boy enter the terminal. He would be in the heart of the airport by now. He would be getting ready.
Sullivan didn’t have time for self-doubt.
He ran. Charged from behind the car. Sprinted toward Azeer.
He growled as he came close, roared, and Azeer turned to look at Sullivan just as he dove Azeer to the ground with a rugby tackle.
The other two turned their guns on him and hesitated, not wanting to accidentally shoot Azeer. Sullivan was quick — not as quick as he used to be, but not as sluggish as he felt — and was able to duck beneath one of the guns, then take hold of the second guy’s gun and push it upwards, into the guy’s nose.
He twisted the gun toward the first guy and shot him in the head, then twisted the gun back and shot the second guy through the underside of his chin.
He turned the gun to Azeer, who had taken to his feet with his own gun and pointed it at Sullivan.
They remained in this stand-off without talking.
Sullivan would have been content to stay like this, but he didn’t have time; he had to get to the boy.
He stepped forward until their guns crossed paths, and each barrel was inches from the other’s face.
Sullivan swiped his gun against Azeer’s, and both AK-47s went sliding across the ground and out of reach. This was to Sullivan’s advantage; he hated guns. Guns ran out of bullets — but he never ran out of the resources he could use from his environment.
Before he could search for an item he could make into a weapon, he felt Azeer’s fist land on his jaw.
Azeer packed a far heavier punch than Sullivan had expected, and it knocked him a little.
Sullivan went to retaliate, only to find another strike land in his face.
He felt dazed.
Azeer sent another fist in, but Sullivan finally rediscovered his instincts and blocked it. This still didn’t mean he noticed the other fist coming in, pounding the side of his skull and knocking him to the floor.
Azeer mounted him and threw a few more punches.
How had Sullivan been so stupid?
This wasn’t a situation he was used to. He could fight off ten armed men — yet this one man had forced upon him the indignity of being taken to the floor, and was now beating the shit out of him.
Sullivan blocked a strike, but Azeer simply took hold of that arm and moved it out of the way so he could strike his other into his jaw.
Sullivan tasted blood.
He was groggy.
He was losing.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Wasn’t this guy supposed to be some big assassin or something?
Azeer had seen him on the news before his big arrival. People were talking about him. A former assassin for the British government. Someone Azeer had truly really wanted to kill; who knew how many of his brothers and sisters Sullivan might have killed over the years in the name of this country.
And now he had his chance. The fool was below him, barely able to fight back, and barely moving.
All Azeer had to do now was finish him off.
Sullivan tried to roll onto his side, and he couldn’t even do that. His eyes were barely open, his breath was struggling, and his face was a bloody mess.
“Your country turned on you,” Azeer said, “yet you still fight for them.”
Sullivan looked for his gun.
“How pathetic,” Azeer persisted.
The gun was across the floor, past a few more deserted cars.
But one of the guns of the men Sullivan had killed was within arm’s reach, so Azeer picked that one up.
“If you were one of us, we’d be celebrating you as a hero. Instead, they see you as a nothing.”
Sullivan tried to roll over again, but he was unable to.
He groaned, and Azeer felt a sting of pride. Not only had he set up this magnificent thirty days of justice — he had beaten the country’s most lethal product.
The gun’s magazine was empty. He released it.
Where were the other magazines?
They were in the car. The one Sullivan lay next to, moaning.
Azeer grinned and went to open the car door.
Sullivan said something.
“What?” he said, pausing.
Sullivan said something again, but it was mumbled.
“Spit the blood out,” Azeer said. “It’s making you talk shit.”
Sullivan spat the blood out, and did so over the bottom of Azeer’s thaub.
Azeer was incensed. He crouched next to the soon-to-be-dead infidel. A gun would be quicker than Sullivan deserved. Azeer discarded it and placed his hands around Sullivan’s throat.
How dare he?
How fucking dare he?
Azeer pressed his thumbs against Sullivan’s larynx and squeezed.
Sullivan choked.
Chapter Sixty-Four
What Sullivan had in fact tried to say was, “You’re an idiot — because it was true.
Sullivan had endured far more rigorous training than even Alhami could provide.
He had endured torture. He’d spent a month being a prisoner of war, learning to endure the worst torment his enemy could provide. He had been waterboarded, deprived of sleep, starved, beaten, electrocuted; every piece of torture Alexander could imagine Sullivan having to face, he had faced.
And he had learned how to ove
rcome it.
This meant that a little beating was not going to deter him.
Bruises? Blood? A dip in and out of consciousness?
That was nothing.
So when Azeer leant down and placed his thumbs on Sullivan’s neck, Sullivan did not react straight away.
He waited for a moment. He needn’t be hasty. He could survive a little oxygen deprivation.
He released his mind of all urgency.
Flexed his arms.
And, in an abrupt movement bound to perplex his opponent, he thumped his fists against the inside of Azeer’s elbows, forcing him to release Sullivan’s throat.
In a swift move, he hoisted Azeer upwards, giving him a chance to roll Azeer onto his back.
Azeer tried to swing his fists again, but it did little to deter Sullivan. He took hold of Azeer’s head, lifted it up, and smacked his forehead hard into the pavement.
This wasn’t how he wanted to do it. This was the man who had killed Kelly, and hundreds of others. Sullivan wanted to see Azeer’s face as he suffered.
He lifted Azeer up by the collar, held him high, then slammed him downwards so that his head pounded against the edge of the car bonnet.
He did this again, and again, and it was on the third time that Azeer lost consciousness.
Sullivan did not stop there.
He continued until he heard the crack of Azeer’s neck, and again until he heard the crack of Azeer’s skull.
He stood, wiping sweat from his forehead and splatters of blood from his hands.
Azeer’s eyes were open, but they did not move. He bled, but he did not breathe.
He was finished.
Sullivan was exhausted. His body ached, his face throbbed from his beating, and the adrenaline that had allowed him to fight Azeer was quickly fading.
But he was not done. There was still an attack he had to stop.
He ran into the airport, looking back and forth.
He fell. His legs gave way, but he pushed himself back up, and limped on.
He had to find the boy.
