Maybe he had found something?
Possibly about Project Hailstorm.
With jittery fingers, she typed her brief reply.
On my way.
With the units of alcohol heavily outweighing her better judgement, she slid her arms back into her leather jacket, collected her phone and money, and headed for the door, trying her best to clear her head and work out her route to his location.
Farukh placed the phone down on the side table and finally afforded himself a smile.
When Wallace had passed on the details, he wasn’t sure the plan would work. There were too many unknown variables for it to run completely smoothly. While he was a man of terrifying action, Farukh was also a man of finer details.
You didn’t evade numerous governments and bounty contracts by being reckless.
But the stakes had been raised since Sam escaped him and as a man unaccustomed to failure, he was keen to step outside of his comfort zone.
Helal had offered up no fight. It was easy as swatting a fly. Slowly, he turned back to his captive.
All the furniture in Helal’s front room had been pushed back to the walls, providing Farukh with enough space. After he’d floored the man upon opening the door, Farukh had made a show of shoving them all out of the way, circling the fallen man as he crawled pathetically towards the hallway. At one point, Helal had reached out to him in a lame attempt of mercy.
Farukh had crushed the man’s hand under his boot.
The bones snapped, and as Helal roared in pain, Farukh had hoisted him to his feet and slapped him, telling him his silence would save him pain.
There was no retaliation. Just the fearful resignation that he was in the presence of a dangerous man.
Moments later, Helal was strapped to a chair in the centre of the room and Farukh had demanded Helal contact Amara Singh. At first, the chivalry was commendable.
Stupid, but commendable.
Farukh responded to it with some sickening punches, each one expertly landing in all of Helal’s major organs, all carrying the velocity of a sledgehammer swing. The plucky journalist coughed up blood, begged for forgiveness, but Farukh demanded the same again.
When Helal refused, Farukh brandished two handheld curved blades from his belt. Like two crescent moons, they shimmered under the light of Helal’s apartment.
Farukh warned him he was about to seriously hurt him, but Helal foolishly stayed silent. Farukh ensured it, by stuffing a sock in the man’s mouth before sliding the blade down the side of his head, severing the top of his ear in three easy slices.
Helal screamed in agony, the sock muffling his cries for help and as the blood poured from the wound, Farukh mockingly held the severed ear in front of his eyes.
Helal relented, telling Farukh where his phone was and the code to unlock it.
Amara was listed under ‘Source’ and Farukh sent the message, luring her to her fate and Helal felt sick.
Pain and guilt.
A horrid combination. As they waited, Farukh wandered over to the corner of the room and began to inspect Helal’s impressive home entertainment system. The large TV stood proudly on the oak stand, along with two games consoles and another small, electronic box that Farukh didn’t understand.
What he did see, however, were a lot of cables.
Helal, blinking through the pain, watched in puzzlement as Farukh detached as many cables as he could, before tying them together. He was systematic in his process, pulling each knot taut, before moving onto the next. There was a time where those electronic devices were his most cherished possessions, and he was sure his protective attitude over them was one of the reasons his last girlfriend left him.
Now, his only concern was surviving, but the realist within told him it was unlikely.
He had intruded in a world where he didn’t belong.
He had stumbled into a fight that wasn’t his.
It was always the innocent who got caught in the crosshairs. As Farukh finished tying the final knot, he turned to Helal, his face a blank slate, framed by a thick, greying beard.
‘You know I do not like guns,’ he began calmly, feeding the cable back around itself. ‘I find them too easy. They make a loud noise but kill easy. Anyone can kill with gun. You just point at the head and pull. One pull. That is it. No fight. No struggle. Simple.’
Helal’s eyes widened with fear and he struggled against the straps of his chair. It was no use and Farukh turned to him, showing him the makeshift noose he’d made out of Helal’s own equipment.
‘But you hang a man, you truly see the fight. You see the need for man to survive.’ Slowly, Farukh lowered the noose over Helal’s head, allowing it to hang loosely around his chest. Helal, through tears, tried to beg for mercy. ‘You can tell a lot about a man from how he struggles. I know you only fifteen minutes, but I know you will try. You won’t try for long, there is no fight in you. But to watch a man fight for his dying breath is one of life’s beautiful moments. Like a waterfall. Or a childbirth.’
Farukh ran the cable around the door frame, before securing it tightly to the large wardrobe that stood in Helal’s bedroom. It pulled the cable a little tighter, the plastic coating pressing against Hela’s neck. Farukh returned, stood in front of Helal and once again, afforded himself a smile.
Helal begged for mercy.
There was none.
‘Appreciate each breath.’ Farukh reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. ‘You do not have many left.’
Farukh lit the cigarette and stared at Helal. As tears flooded down his cheeks, Helal let his mind flow back through any cherished memories he had. A few relationships during the good times. The rare occasion he got along with his dad. The moment he won an award for a hard-hitting expose on poverty within the country. All the cherished moments he would take with him.
He sat in the chair and gently wept, knowing he was about to leave it all behind.
The Hangman of Baghdad watched him intently, slowly puffing his cigarette and preparing himself for another look at man’s fight for survival.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It had been a hell of a weekend and Etheridge stood at the window of the converted loft, the cool spring air filtering through and cooling him down. Being trapped in the room with eight monitors and several servers soon got warm and while Etheridge enjoyed a sauna as much as the next man, he needed some fresh air.
Sam was asleep.
After the startling revelations of Project Hailstorm, Etheridge had decided to change the topic of conversation. They would get to it, he’d promised Sam, but when his mind was clear.
They had a couple more beers, enough to take the edge off the sickening truth and soon, tiredness laid claim to Sam’s body. He had been through the wars that day, with his fight through the station not only resulting in his face being busted open but also taking a swan dive off a balcony.
Sam was lucky he hadn’t been paralysed.
Or worse.
But as Sam slept through the pain, both physical and emotional, Etheridge looked out into the dark fields that backed onto his mansion.
Life was certainly different now.
Gone were the days of board meetings and small talk. The endless grind of traffic jams and demanding customers. A trophy wife, who wanted to know how much money he had every week.
Now, he was hiding in plain sight, helping the UK’s most wanted man go after its most protected.
He had never felt more alive.
The stiffness in his right knee reminded him the peril he’d faced to arrive at the moment. He was only a matter of metres away from where he was beaten, tortured, and then shot, the bullet shattering his kneecap beyond a full recovery.
But soldiers wore their scars proudly, and while he wasn’t on the frontline of the war like Sam, he knew he had a role to play.
He wasn’t pulling the trigger on the gun, but he was damn sure going to make sure Sam had everything he needed to be able to.
As he sip
ped at his coffee, Etheridge thought about the last time he got a full night’s sleep. Since Sam had returned two days ago, he’d been working round the clock. It would eventually catch-up on him, it always did, but for now, the regular caffeine and adrenaline was enough to get by.
They were so close.
They had the access to the files, proving beyond all doubt that Ervin Wallace was not only the world’s biggest terrorist, but had also used the UK government has a smoke screen to portray himself as a hero.
It was damning evidence, enough to put the man behind bars for the rest of his life.
But the cyber security attached to the files was unlike anything Etheridge had seen, which frustrated and impressed him in equal measure.
While they’d worked around the fingerprint access parameters, the files had what he’d described as an inbuilt ‘anchor directive’. The term was lost on Sam, but essentially, it pinned the file to its hard drive.
Meaning they couldn’t transfer the files from the USB stick.
Sam had suggested sending the USB stick to the BBC, allow them to break the news and sit back and watch Wallace get brought to his knees. It would be unsatisfying on a personal level, but justice would be done. Etheridge quickly dismissed the idea on the grounds of the security of the files.
As they couldn’t be manipulated, there was no way of proving the legitimacy of them. Wallace’s reckless pursuit of Sam was evident enough, but he could easily dismiss them as fakes.
They needed a confession.
Etheridge had clocked the sparkle in Sam’s eye as he suggested it, knowing that after discovering Wallace was the man who left him for dead all those years ago, Sam was aching for his chance to face the man.
But it wouldn’t be easy.
Etheridge had pulled up all the information he could on Wallace’s location, with little of it providing useful. He had moved from his usual abode to a remote location, a government safehouse which was not recorded on any database that Etheridge could gain access to. While he was running a few automatic programs to check other databases for anything resembling a bread crumb, the chances were slimmer than none.
What he did have, was access to government instructions to provide a motorcade for an emergency COBRA meeting first thing Monday morning. With Sam’s emergence, the presence of Blackridge, and the mass panic caused at Liverpool Street Station earlier that day, Wallace had been summoned for a discussion with the prime minister and his cabinet to discuss the potential threat.
Sam was being painted as a potential threat, but surely, Wallace’s conduct would be brought to light.
That wasn’t enough for Sam, and as he yawned, he told Etheridge to plot the exact route and fill him in when he woke up.
Now, as the spring evening developed a slight chill, Etheridge stepped away from the window, lifted his arms above his head and stretched his back out. He had spent a small fortune on making his desk and seat as comfortable as possible, but there was only so much money could buy.
After a few more moments of stretching, he sat back down at the desk, took a swig from his coffee and went back to it.
As the train filtered into another Tube station, Singh took a few more deep breaths, leant forward and closed her eyes. Her drunken stupor had slowly alleviated, leaving nothing but a thumping headache and the very real possibility of projectile vomit as one of the final trains on what had been a strange Sunday made its way to the station nearest to Helal’s location. As the crow flies, the distance from Euston to Perivale wasn’t huge, but navigating the underground tube system, while drunk had proven a harder task than Singh had anticipated.
She’d taken a train two stops in the wrong direction, before cursing herself loudly, drawing the attention of a number of commuters making their way home.
She looked like a drunk which had angered her but as she stumbled through the station to correct her mistake, she realised she was near to rock bottom.
Luckily for her, a small off-licence, no more than a shutter in the wall, was still open and she bought two bottles of water. She downed one in front of the man, before hurrying to the platform for her train.
Now, as she stepped off at Perivale, she felt her body shake as the alcoholic aftermath took hold.
She was glad she wasn’t on a timer.
Helal could wait.
Stepping out of the station, she took a nice, long breath of fresh air, the sharp chill snapping into her lungs and waking her up. She’d planned on getting an Uber, but with a kebab shop open next door to the station, and the prospect of a walk through the brisk evening, she decided against it.
The chips she bought soaked up a large amount of alcohol, the greasy carbs acting like a sponge. She still felt like crap, but Singh was at least functioning as she made her way to Helal’s apartment block. As she pushed open the gate, she was pleasantly surprised by the immaculate garden, wondering how much a digital journalist made to afford such a plush residence.
At the door, she scanned the list of names by the buttons, located the one for H. Miah and pressed it, the buzzer echoing sharply through the speaker.
Without a word, Helal unlocked the main door, an ear-piercing sound echoing from the timer before it relocked. Singh stepped in, cursing the lack of elevator to the second floor as she clambered up the steps. While she felt better, her body was drained and she paused a few times, needing to steady her legs.
Hopefully, Helal would have some more food on the go.
Eventually, after what felt like a trek up Everest, Singh arrived on the second floor, marching down the corridor until she came to Helal’s door.
With a shaking hand, she knocked.
Knowing you’re about to die is a horrible feeling. Helal had come to terms with his imminent death, knowing that his torturer was correct.
There was no fight in him.
In the world which he’d discovered to be a violent and terrifying place, there were only a select few who could fight back. Who could fight for survival. He was sure there were plenty of parents who would run into oncoming traffic to save their children, but to fight for their own survival?
What could Helal have done?
The man who had brutally and systematically tortured him was clearly well versed in it, with a terrifying bulk and strength that Helal would never be able to match. If he had fought back, the man would have beaten him easily and, due to the disrespect or the perceived lack of fear, would most likely put him through much worse.
As it was, this was the path of least resistance.
He had had tried, valiantly, to hold back on the information, to keep Singh’s name safe.
But the pain was too much.
The horror too real.
As Helal felt a tear run down his face, the Hangman’s voice echoed from behind him, the vile stench of cigarette smoke clinging to each word.
‘It is no shame,’ he said softly. ‘Many men believe they are strong willed. They will not break. But they always do.’
A sharp buzzer broke his speech, indicating Singh had arrived and was hoping to be buzzed up. With the sock still lodged in his mouth, Helal tried in vain to scream out to her, hoping she would hear.
His muffled cries fell to the ground, unheard.
Farukh marched across the apartment and without uttering a single word, unlocked the main door and lured Singh into the building. With one final glance back to Helal, he offered a respectful nod.
Not an apology. Just an acceptance that it was he who had killed him.
Helal tried to struggle but stopped quickly. Once Farukh had sent the text to Singh and placed the noose around his neck, he’d leathered Helal with a few more sickening right hooks, dislodging teeth and cracking ribs.
Freshly beaten, Helal was in no state to resist and the Hangman freed him from his chair, letting the poor journalist flop to the ground. With no furniture for him to reach for, Helal lay in agony, a sad acceptance of his fate.
The horror became real enough as Farukh hoisted him up to h
is feet by the noose, pulling it tightly across his windpipe and Helal squirmed for air.
‘Up,’ Farukh demanded, and Helal wept as he took a step up onto the chair, before his other foot followed. He heard the roar of the masking tape as his attacker wrapped it around his wrists, pinning his arms behind him.
He was about to be executed.
His attacker was the Hangman.
Literally.
As his hopes of survival withered away, he watched the burly assailant attach string to the leg of the chair and then rolled it out, until it just about reached the front door. A quick knot later, and Helal’s fate rested on the movement of a front door.
As soon as it opened, the chair would move, and his balance would go.
Helal felt the cable tighten around his neck, as Farukh pulled it tighter, ensuring the ties were in place.
They were.
Helal literally had a few moments left.
He quickly thought of his family, uttering silent goodbyes to them all. He hoped that he’d helped or heard people throughout his life.
That people would remember that he cared.
He regretted no settling down. Not having a child.
He wondered which places he should have gone to, and who of his previous girlfriends could have been a wife.
As he heard the gentle knock on the door, Helal shed one final tear. He took a deep breath, stood straight, and exhaled.
He was ready.
Farukh stood to the side of the door and with a flick of his mighty wrist, he turned the handle, taking the door off its latch. The suggestion of an invite. Singh obliged, pushing the door open with reckless abandon.
‘Hello?’ she began, before her eyes widened. The chair was pulled out from under his feet and Helal dropped a few inches, the cable snapping tight around his neck and shutting off his air supply.
His eyes bulged, his throat wretched a silent scream of pain, and he shook as his body hung from the ceiling.
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 17
