“Why did you lie about your brother’s name?”
Fear trembled in the air and I held my breath, waiting for the words that would end my life.
I waited, spending my last moments on earth praying for a speedy death.
I waited for Umar to condemn me, to tell me to my face that I was a liar, an Infidel, and death would be slow or swift, but soon.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” I stuttered. “I … I…”
“You should speak your brother’s name with pride!” Umar chastised.
Stung, my head snapped up.
“I am proud of him!”
Umar smiled and turned away.
“Walk with me, both of you,” he said.
We followed him without asking why, my steps stumbling and awkward as Clay reached out his hand for me.
No, we didn’t ask where or why, because questioning was not allowed. And I was too shaken by what Umar had said.
Clay squeezed my fingers and he stared at me with a worried frown, but he didn’t say anything.
Umar stopped to shout at two of his underlings, striding ahead and leaving us behind.
“Clay!” I hissed. “He knows!”
“Hold it together, Amira,” he said, his voice firm but gentle.
“But he knows! If he knows Karam’s real name, then he knows mine, too. How could he know that? Who could have told him? He can find my family—my parents, my sister! Oh dear Allah, what have I done? What have I done!”
Clay grabbed my shoulders and shook me.
“Stop it! This doesn’t mean he’s onto you, or onto us. It just means that he knows you gave him a false name. But he also knows that Karam is real, so he knows your story is real. This could be a good thing for us, Amira.”
“But he can find my family,” I wailed. “They’ll never be safe!”
He didn’t have a chance to reply because Umar waved us forward.
Clay’s face closed down.
“Just hold on, Amira. Hold it together for a little longer. I’ll get us out of here, I promise.”
I didn’t believe him.
All I could do was go on, tortured with images of what a man like Umar could do to my family.
“Clay, my brother, I have a selected you for a special job,” Umar said with a smile.
“I’m honoured,” said Clay, bowing his head slightly.
“Excellent!”
We followed him silently as he strode into the forest.
I was desperate to ask Clay where he thought we were being taken, but he squeezed my fingers hard and frowned at me.
The narrow track was well trodden, but fringed by large trees, the leaves tinged with copper as the year faded toward Fall.
Finally, the track opened out in another compound, a collection of ramshackle sheds and old cabins.
We’d already learned that the camp was in two sections, but up until now, we’d only been allowed to see one part. Perhaps, today, we’d finally learn more—and actually have something worth reporting back to Larson other than the names of the other people that Umar had recruited—assuming that any of them were using their real names.
In the dead of the night, Clay had whispered encouragement to me. He said we were making progress; he said we had to carry on, that we had no choice.
I wanted to run away, to forget this mad dream to give meaning to Karam’s death. But now it seemed like I’d be the one to die—and at a time of Umar’s choosing.
I was sinking into Hell, and I didn’t know how to climb out.
My mind spun in different directions, so I did what Clay told me, because I was stupid and weak and out of options.
Because I’d come here willingly, and now I’d pay the price.
As we walked into the second camp that afternoon, I noticed several differences between our camp and this one—and between Umar’s followers and this group.
There were nine men in their late teens and early twenties who spent most of their time on this site. I’d seen a couple of them before, very briefly, but I’d never spoken to any of them, and they kept to themselves.
Umar regularly took this group into the woods for ‘study time’ as he put it. He told Clay that they had neglected their studies growing up, and he was helping them. Our guess: he was teaching them to become martyrs. I suspected that we’d found the suicide bombers who would undertake the attacks.
They seemed so young, so driven by disillusionment and hatred. In Umar, they had found the perfect reason for their existence on Earth.
It was terrifying. And so very, very sad.
We’d learned that Umar had trained in Pakistan and Iraq, and had fought in Afghanistan, as well as Syria. And now he was determined to bring the Jihad to America.
“Clay, you will be going with two brothers to bring supplies,” and then he turned to the youngest member, a boy who was small and slightly built, no more than seventeen. “Eiliad, find jeans and a shirt for Brother Clay.”
The boy waved at Clay to follow him, then turned silently.
I wasn’t happy that Umar was splitting us up, but there was nothing I could do about it.
“Sister Amira, you have your own work,” he said.
Ushering me ahead of him, we walked toward a series of large sheds arranged around the main courtyard, but when Umar took me inside, my mouth dropped open.
Even though the windows and doors were wide open, the first shed was filled with the smell of chemicals. Umar smiled proudly as showed me where acids, acetone and peroxide were mixed together. I watched silently as two of the men wearing masks and gloves packaged the dried powder into bags the size of a packet of sugar.
“These are boosters for bigger devices,” he said conversationally. “As you can see, we’re packing these thin tubes and wiring them for use as detonators.”
The two workers glanced up briefly then ignored us, concentrating in silence.
Then Umar led me to the second shed.
By contrast, it was noisy with a party atmosphere, and three men were wearing splash suits and masks as they shovelled fertiliser granules from giant one-ton bags into modified coffee grinders. The whirring and grinding drowned out most of the shouted conversations as the granules were turned into a fine powder, dropping into sacks underneath.
Everyone was covered in the dust from the grinders, but as I watched, one of them struggled with the weight of the sack and dropped it, launching a huge cloud of powder into the air. He emerged coughing, so covered in powder that he was as white as a ghost, and everyone laughed.
I was standing in a bomb factory.
James
I HADN’T SEEN Smith since the day he’d brought me here, but I had spent a lot of time planning to punch him in the face if I ever saw him again.
He smiled warily as he kept his distance.
“I know you feel like kicking the shit out of me right now, but can I come in without risking a beatdown? I need to talk to you.”
I watched him cautiously, wondering what new mindfuck was coming my way, then jerked a thumb at him.
“Maybe. I’ll decide later.”
He nodded.
“Good enough.”
He walked into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.
I studied the lines of exhaustion around his mouth, the smudges of black under his eyes that told of long nights and untold stress. Nope, zero sympathy.
He looked up, meeting my angry gaze.
“We need your help.”
It was so unexpected that I laughed out loud.
“Very funny. You can forget that, you bastard! I’ve been locked in here for three weeks and…”
“Clay’s gone missing.”
My furious words shut off immediately.
“What happened? Define missing.”
Smith rubbed his forehead.
“The last communication we had with any of them was 72 hours ago. Larson said that Clay had left with two other men from the cell for the regular resupply trip. Usually, that takes between seven and nine hours,
depending on which town they use, but this time…
“Clay didn’t come back.”
“No, and we haven’t heard from him since. The last report from Larson was that Amira had been taken to the second camp that he believes is where the bomb factory is situated. He hadn’t been able to get close enough to see inside, but he said the smell of chemicals was strong—and when the trucks were followed by other agents, we knew he was right. It also fit in with intel received from Clay previously. But Larson also thought that his own camp had been found. He’d been sleeping rough within a few miles of the terror cell and hiking in every day. He said he might have to go dark … and that was the last we heard from him.” He scratched the stubble on his face. “Amira hasn’t reported in since she was sent to work in the bomb factory…”
“Which means the last time you heard from either of your assets was … what… four days ago?”
He nodded slowly.
“Yep.”
“And you’re here telling me, so you must want something. You’ve got a fucking nerve.”
He looked up and met my angry gaze.
“I know you and Clay are friends.”
I stared at him in disgust.
“Yeah, we are. But you’ve lost him—he could be anywhere by now or…”
I didn’t want to say it, but we both knew that the chances of him being alive were slim.
“Amira?”
Smith shook his head.
I frowned, and Smith’s eyes narrowed.
“James, she’s on our side.”
I stared at him coldly.
“‘I hate them,’ that’s what she said. ‘I hate them so much,’ and she wasn’t talking about Marmite sandwiches.”
“James, buddy, just…”
“Prove it. Prove to me that she’s not your mole. Prove that Larson isn’t your mole.”
He grimaced.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is with you spook types.”
He gave the twisted shadow of a smile.
“Yeah, that’s fair. Look, James, we can’t force you to help, but I’ll tell you what I know and answer any questions I can, then let you make up your own mind.”
I stared at him warily. I didn’t trust him any further than I could throw him, and I definitely didn’t think he’d tell me everything, but I was prepared to listen to his story.
“We’ve been monitoring Amira for a long time, over a year, ever since her younger brother, Karam, showed signs of heading out to Syria. Truthfully, we thought that it would be her sister that we’d be recruiting, but that’s not the way things worked out.”
“Recruiting her for what?”
“Exactly what I told you on the airplane the first day we met: to go undercover with a terror cell that has the potential to set up a bomb factory on U.S. soil—which we now know that they’ve done. Clay knew her story and was there to try and keep her safe—she’s our most valuable asset.”
“But … that makes no sense,” I said, confused as hell. “Her brother was killed by U.S. drone bombers—she hates you, she said so. How can you trust her?”
He shook his head.
“No, you’re wrong. She hates Daesh and all they stand for. Do you really think we’d recruit someone who could be turned? No. She hates war, period. The thought of an atrocity here in the U.S. was something she was prepared to put her life on the line to prevent. She’s the real deal, James—a patriot.”
His certainty made me pause, and I went over her words again: I hate them, I really hate them. I assumed that she’d been talking about the American military, but now I thought about it, her words could be interpreted differently.
And that changed everything. If Smith was telling the truth.
“You think I’m going to fall for that?” I said dismissively. “You think I don’t know your bullshit when I smell it? I don’t believe a word you’ve told me. You’re probably not even CIA? I have no idea who you are.”
Smith watched me intently.
“I know that you and Amira became … close.”
His words sparked the memory of her body beneath mine, memories that I’d been trying to suppress ever since.
“She wouldn’t have told you about her brother otherwise. Frankly,” and he frowned, “she should have known better than to share that with you anyway. If she’d kept her mouth shut, we wouldn’t have had to detain you.” He gave a grim smile. “But as it happens, that’s worked in our favour.”
He sounded pretty smug, but I ignored that, as well.
“So let me go,” I said, folding my arms. “You’ve got no reason to hold me.”
He grimaced.
“I told you, it’s not that simple. We really need you, James. If you won’t do it for Amira—which frankly surprises me—do it for Clay.”
He was chipping away at my resolve. I didn’t know what to believe. If anyone had told me thirty minutes ago that I’d even consider helping Smith again, I’d have laughed in their face.
“Give me a timetable of events,” I said grudgingly.
He rubbed his hands over his face then flopped down onto the bed again.
“Clay and Amira were successfully inserted into the cell as husband and wife just over three weeks ago and…”
Thick, syrupy jealous clogged my veins.
“What? What do you mean ‘as husband and wife’? That wasn’t the plan. They weren’t even supposed to know each other. Why the change?”
Smith frowned.
“For the same reason that you were recruited in the first place.”
“Your mole?”
“Yes, we needed to switch up their stories to throw the mole off the scent for as long as possible.”
He sighed.
“At first, reporting was regular, and Larson was getting some good basic intel. The terrorists were definitely collecting the raw materials for mass producing HMEs, but then Clay hinted that something big was going down and he was trying to get more details—a date, a target, something. He went off the grid the next day and we haven’t heard from Amira either. Like I said.”
“And Larson?”
“Nothing.”
I leaned against the wall, my arms folded in front of me.
“How well do you know Larson?”
Smith curled his lip in irritation.
“As well as I know myself. He’s not the leak.”
I rubbed my chin.
“Then where is he? He could be captured and spilling his guts right now.”
Smith shook his head.
“He’s alive, but he’s gone dark.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s a hard man to catch or kill—and because he said he might have been compromised on his last transmission. Trust me, Larson is still out there.”
Un-fucking-believable.
“You want me to trust you? I’m more likely to chew off my foot up to my elbow.”
He laughed. He bloody laughed at me.
“I didn’t know you held a grudge, James. But we still need you.”
I ignored his dig.
“I’m an AT not Special Forces! Call in a SEAL team to extract them—someone trained for this shit!”
“No, for two reasons: we don’t want to extract them if they’re still viable assets and can get intel out; and second, since it’s a bomb-making factory, I want you on site.” He frowned. “I can’t force you and I know I’m not your favourite person right now, but this is the line in the sand, James, and we need you. Your friend needs you.” He pressed his lips together. “Amira needs you.”
Amira
“WHAT DO YOU think?” asked Umar, his dark eyes gleaming.
“Incredible,” I croaked.
“Yes, isn’t it? We’re able to produce high quality explosives here. I think this work will suit you very well.”
And he raised his eyebrows as if waiting for a response.
“Thank you,” I said weakly, desperately searching around for Clay.
/> “Ah, you’re looking for your husband. I’m afraid that he’s already left,” Umar said blandly. “He’ll be gone a few days, but you’ll see him again soon.”
I thought I was going to be sick. For the past weeks, Clay had been my rock—now I was alone with a cold blooded killer, a man whose twisted dreams made him want to kill large numbers of people in the most efficient way possible. I’d never been so scared.
The burqa hid my expression, but I stood there, my knees trembling, before Umar decreed what would happen next.
He smiled, and it felt like I was paper thin and he could see right through me.
“Well, now that’s agreed,” he said, clapping his hands, let’s see how well you’ve been trained.”
FROM THAT MOMENT on, I was set to work making improvised explosive devices. I kept waiting for Umar to say something about Clay, but it was as if he’d never existed. When I worked up the courage to ask, I was tersely told that he was collecting supplies. I knew that couldn’t be right—he’d been gone too long. I was completely alone.
I was trapped.
After that, no one spoke to me, except to yell orders.
That first night, I ate alone and lay awake most of the night, waiting for them to drag me from my bed, then question, torture and kill me.
I didn’t fear dying—I didn’t. But I was terrified of the moments leading up to death. I was scared of the pain that seemed certain to be coming my way.
When I thought they were all sleeping, I tried to leave the camp to get a message to Larson, but a cold-eyed guard sent me scurrying back to my lonely corner of the bomb-making factory floor, where I slept each night curled into a tight ball on a mattress in the corner, shaking with cold and fear.
The following morning, I went to relieve myself in the forest, I knew I was being watched, and after that I was never completely alone. Larson had told us not to leave any written messages, nothing that could be incriminating, and I couldn’t see any sign of him—but then again, I wouldn’t expect to.
On the third day, I scratched a message in the dirt: Clay’s name with a broken heart around it. I hoped that Larson would at least realize how worried I was.
But nothing changed, nothing happened, and instead I spent my days working in the bomb factory. I had too much time to think.
TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1) Page 14