TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Hour after hour, I sank deeper into fear and paranoia. There was no one I could trust, no way out.

  Where was Clay? What was happening to him? Had he abandoned me? Was I here on my own? Where was Larson? Was he nearby? Would he come when I needed him?

  On good days, I let myself believe that I could trust them, and this would all work out; on bad days, I was sure that they were both dead already and I wouldn’t be far behind.

  It played on my mind constantly that Karam could have gotten mixed up in more than volunteering at the hospital, as Umar had suggested. In my head, I went over the emails that Karam had sent, searching for any clue, any hint that Umar was telling the truth about him. I couldn’t believe it—and yet, Umar knew Karam’s name, his real name. It just didn’t seem possible that my beautiful, kind brother could be allied with ISIS. Or, more truthfully, I didn’t want to believe it. Maybe this was just more of Umar twisting the truth to suit his plans. I wished I could untangle truth from lies. I wished many, many things, without reaching any conclusion.

  So I worked.

  Because I had small hands, I was the one who packed the thin tubes to make detonators. I quickly became adept at it, using every part of training that I could remember. Umar was very pleased with me.

  He gave me my own bench to work at, and agreed that I could wear my niqab rather than the burqa, so I could see more clearly.

  I found that ironic.

  We worked 15 hour days, stopping only for food and prayers. My back and hands ached, my eyes burned with the smell of chemicals and I had a constant headache.

  The other men ignored me completely. They talked openly in front of me, about the mighty plans that Umar had, about ‘the great reckoning’ or the ‘Day of Judgement’ that was coming, and it worried me that they didn’t care what they said in front of me. Clearly, I wasn’t considered any sort of threat to them—I was insignificant.

  I still didn’t know what Umar was planning, when, or what his targets would be. It seemed likely that there would be multiple strikes, probably simultaneous.

  I prayed that I was wrong.

  I knew that I was right.

  And then one night, with the smell of chemicals clinging to my hair and clothes, when exhaustion had left me weak, and despair had left me hopeless, Umar came for me.

  James

  I KNEW I was being manipulated—and it was working.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re an utter bastard?”

  Smith shrugged.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think of me. Do you want to help your friends or not?”

  As he sensed me giving in, his eyes gleamed, but he just had to twist the knife a little deeper first.

  “The rescue mission is going ahead with or without you, whether you believe in me or not. Our chances are … fair, but we’ll all have a better chance of getting out alive if you come with us.”

  He’d hit me with a low blow and he knew it. I caved.

  “What’s the plan?”

  He nodded and a small smile played on his face, but I read relief in his expression, too.

  One of the men standing by the door as backup in case things had gone tits up, handed him a laptop. Smith propped it on the small table and brought up a map.

  “This is their last known location—a remote site in rural Pennsylvania, but still only a 90 minute drive from Pittsburgh or Philadelphia; two hours from here.”

  “Where is here, since we’re being all buddy now?”

  Smith gave a grim smile.

  “You’re in one of our safe houses on the outskirts of New York. Welcome to the Big Apple.”

  “Fuck off.”

  He grinned at me then turned back to the laptop.

  “It seems likely that the attack will be here, Pittsburgh or Philly—maybe all three cities simultaneously. But that’s on the assumption they won’t want to transport large quantities of explosive material too far across the country. Also, they’ve been stockpiling at these locations,” and he pointed to several suburbs ringing the cities he’d mentioned. “We have all of these under surveillance, but there very well could be others that we don’t know about.”

  His frustration was obvious and I understood it. I’d been on the receiving end of briefings in London when a new terror cell was found. Some intel was good, some bad, and some so wrong, lives were lost.

  “Do we know anything about this group, the sort of hit that they’re likely to choose?”

  “A little but not enough,” he admitted. “We’ve been able to identify their leader as a Brit named Umar Khalidi—educated at Oxford and post-grad at Harvard. His father was a Guantanamo Bay detainee, and he was already on the MI5/MI6 watch-list. He’s got a particular hate on educational institutions, so the target could be a school or college, but just as likely a crowded shopping mall, or something symbolic like the Liberty Bell, the One World Trade Center, even the 9/11 Museum, for all we know.”

  “That narrows it down. Shit!”

  He scowled.

  “We’ve alerted the agencies in these cities. Our job is to find out what’s happening at the two camps. I’ve been giving some thought to how we’ll go operational here. It would normally encompass a three-man team—driver, cover, commander—and we go in with a Quick Reaction Force comprising Special Forces to swing into action if it all goes belly up … we need to stop the cell from splitting and running.”

  “You forget that the three guys on task would have a very short life expectancy if they get pinned down without a QRF,” I pointed out.

  “I’m volunteering as team commander,” he said quietly. “Clay is your friend and Amira is … but Larson saved my life.” He paused. “You in?”

  Everything in me screamed that this was the worst idea in a career of mouthing off to commanding officers and a lot of years of picking the wrong side in an argument.

  The last time I’d had a bad feeling like this, I’d ended up in Selly Oak hospital for a month with bone shrapnel that had once belonged to my best friend peppering my arm.

  I brushed my fingers over the lumpy white scars on my forearm.

  “I’m in. Tell me everything I don’t know.”

  Smith nodded, and asked the other men to bring food and coffee. It was going to be a long night.

  “First of all,” he said, “I’m not FBI. This operation is outside their jurisdiction.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “You mean it’s unauthorized?” Smith just stared back. “Bloody hell! Do you have any clearance for this op at all?”

  He thought about his answer before he replied.

  “The Feds are running scared. They’re worried about the legal side.”

  That was such shit. I was a soldier, and giving rights to would-be terrorists was hard to stomach.

  “So, that makes you CIA?”

  Smith smiled.

  “Something like that. The people I work for prefer to go under the radar…”

  “Which means black ops?”

  He shrugged.

  “If you want to give it a name.”

  I knew he wouldn’t give me anything more about who was running this team.

  “Where does Amira fit in?”

  “Ah, the beautiful Amira,” he grinned, which pissed me off no end.

  “The legend we created for her is very close to real life. She really is an ER nurse and her younger brother really did die in Syria. He was a med student at UCSD, and that’s where he came to our attention. There was a group within the university who were working to radicalise students. Several of the students who moved in his circle went to Syria to fight with Daesh that summer. Karam was with them, but we think his intention was to work in medicine. That’s what he told his family, and it seemed genuine.”

  Smith sighed.

  “When he arrived in Syria, things get a little muddier. He certainly did volunteer at the main hospital in Raqqa, but it’s not clear whether he was also recruited by Daesh at that point. We suspect that pressure
was put on him and he was coerced to join—it’s always a great coup for them when they get foreign fighters, especially from Europe and the U.S. We lost track of him after that, right up until he died. We’d certainly have put a watch on him, had he come back.”

  “So when he was killed, your attention turned to his family?”

  “Got it in one. We thought it would be the younger sister who’d be most susceptible to an approach, but in fact it was Amira who came to us.”

  I closed my eyes, part of me not wanting to hear this.

  “You’d have been surprised what she was like then, James: no burqa, no niqab, not even a headscarf. She was like many other modern, Muslim woman in the U.S.—respectful of her faith and family, but wanting to have a life and career beyond that. She’s a strong woman—and very brave. She upturned everything in her life to help us. She wanted to give meaning to her brother’s death. We gave her a forum to do that.”

  I snorted, unimpressed.

  “Yeah, you took someone who was mourning the death of her brother, someone vulnerable, and you manipulated her into helping you.”

  Smith didn’t even bother to deny it.

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “You bastard.”

  He gave me a hard look.

  “This terror cell wants to plant multiple bombs on U.S. soil. I say, whatever gets the job done.”

  Arguing with him about it was getting me nowhere.

  “Tell me more about the cell—what else do you know?”

  He brought up a map on his laptop.

  “Two camps, about three miles apart. The first one is where they sleep, eat and pray; the second is the bomb factory. Clay reported that a truck comes every three days and removes up to a quarter of a ton of HMEs as well as detonators.”

  Jesus.

  “But thanks to that intel, we’re able to track each delivery and have eyes on. We know where these explosives are being stored and the people who are involved, but there could well be other places that we’ve missed—deliveries made before the assets were in place. We’d been waiting for the right moment, when we’re certain that we haven’t missed anything. What we don’t know yet, is the intended targets or when a strike might occur—but we were already thinking it would soon, the way they’re stockpiling—and then the flow of intel was interrupted which meant we knew we’d run out of time. The explosives are being stored in a ring of shops and houses grouped around DC, and a second grouping around New York, and a third around Pittsburgh. It seems fairly clear that those are the cities that will be targets.”

  He showed me three more maps on his laptop, indicating where the HMEs were being kept. It was a relief that the spook squad knew and had the means to get it off the streets soon.

  I turned to look at Smith.

  “So this is intel that you got from Clay and Amira?”

  “Yep. Once we learned of the second camp, we would have followed trucks going in and out anyway, but we only know about the HMEs and detonators because of what they’ve told us. We haven’t been able to get this close before.”

  That was Smith’s way of telling me that the op had been worth it, as far as he was concerned.

  “Do you think Amira and Clay are still alive?”

  He looked me in the eyes, meeting my hard stare.

  “Honestly? I don’t know, but if they are, then every second is crucial in getting to them.”

  I let out a long breath.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  Smith nodded at me.

  “Just making sure you’re on board, buddy. Let’s suit up. What do you need?”

  Then a beeping sound caught his attention and he pulled a pager from his coat pocket.

  “Shit! It’s Larson! He’s found Clay—it’s not good, and he’s sending the coordinates. He says he’s going after Amira.”

  His words sent an electric shock through my entire body.

  If Clay was compromised and now Larson was going after Amira, then his chances were shit. I glanced at Smith—we both knew Larson was on a Hail Mary op. We were out of time.

  I stood up quickly, but then wondered what the message meant. Was Larson going after Amira to save her?

  Or to kill her?

  Amira

  ROUGH HANDS GRABBED me, hauling me upwards. I screamed and fought, but a man’s palm cracked across my cheek so hard, I saw stars, pain shooting through my face.

  “Stop fighting, Amir,” came Umar’s voice, soft and sibilant, whispering against my skin. “You’ve been chosen for a great honour. You’re about to become a soldier of ISIS.”

  He laughed, and the sound sent fear streaking up and down my spine.

  That’s when I knew that I was going to die.

  I kicked and screamed, fighting with everything in me, biting and lashing out, but then a fist or a boot thudded into my chest, leaving me gasping for breath. I curled into a ball, and more blows rained down on my back, hips and my arms as I tried to cover my head.

  It didn’t take long before I was barely conscious. Then they tied my hands tightly, the twine cutting into my flesh, and a rag was stuffed into my mouth, making me gag.

  Dizzy and sick, I closed my eyes, and I prayed.

  Karam, my beautiful brother, I’m sorry. I’ve really made a mess of things. I was so mad at you when you died, and I’ve been angry for a long time now. I so badly wanted to do something to help, to give meaning to your death—but there’s no meaning in any of this. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what this will to do our parents, to Zada. This isn’t how I thought it would be. I forgive you, Karam, and I hope you can forgive me.

  And then for the first time since my brother’s death, I prayed to God, trying to find peace within the sound of war.

  I don’t know if my words carried that far, but I hoped that they did.

  I wished I could have seen James one last time. I’d forgiven him long ago for leaving without a word. He’d been kind when I needed kindness, and I’d forgiven him for being the wrong man at the wrong time. Maybe I could forgive myself, too.

  I was dragged upwards, my arms held on both sides as they half carried, half dragged me toward a truck with blacked out windows.

  Suddenly, four shots rang out and the men holding me crumpled to the ground.

  Clay? Larson?

  In my fear and confusion, I vaguely remembered the arms training that I’d received: the four shots had sounded like the double tap of .45 hollow point pistol, the gun that Larson used. I dropped to my knees as their blood pooled around me. Shouting and yells erupted, and then the rapid rattle of automatic gunfire and the ping of bullets thudding into the sheds behind me.

  I managed to scramble away, heading for the forest, but I was moving slowly, so slowly.

  Then Larson’s huge form rose out of the copse close beside me, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood.

  I tried to move faster, stones and fir cones digging into my hands and bare knees when I stumbled, but I was painfully slow, every inch of progress costing too much time. I’d almost reached him when his face hardened and the huge black pistol seemed to point right at me, but his bullets flew over my head, hitting whoever was behind me with a wet thunk.

  “Come on!” he growled at me, frustrated with my slow speed.

  And then he was flying from the thicket, his huge thighs pumping hard as he dived forward, forcing my body into the ground in a hard tackle. I felt his body jerk twice, but I could hardly breathe, suffocating as his dead weight winded me.

  When he rolled off me, I tried to scream, but the rag in my throat choked the sound back.

  I gagged, vomit flowing into the rag and down through my nose.

  Larson was badly hurt. He lay on the dirt with blood from two bullet holes colouring his t-shirt. His eyes were open and he blinked slowly.

  I watched as his eyes fluttered, the pool of blood darkening the dirt around him.

  I crawled towards him and tried to grab his hand. I wanted to tell him that I was sor
ry I’d doubted him, sorry it had led to this moment, sorry for everything.

  But then … he just died, and I saw the moment his spirit left his body.

  Umar was furious.

  “Who is this? Where did he come from? Someone tell me who he is! Where are our sentries? I’ll flay the skin from their backs for this!”

  He lashed out, kicking Larson’s corpse. I had to close my eyes when a boot smashed down on Larson’s face, his nose and cheekbone splitting with a loud crack.

  I don’t think it was the loss of his ‘soldiers’ that Umar cared about, but the fact that he couldn’t question Larson.

  “Who is he?” he yelled into my face, spittle flying as his anger mounted.

  He grabbed my shoulders brutally, shaking me until my teeth rattled.

  “Who is he?”

  His open palm cracked across my cheek, sending me flying backwards.

  He pulled the rag from my mouth roughly and pointed his gun at me.

  “Who. Is. He?”

  And then I vomited again, all over his suede desert boots.

  He swore and punched me in the face, and when I spat blood, one of my teeth landed on the dirt in front of me.

  I was hurting and disorientated, probably had a concussion, and I wasn’t telling them anything.

  Umar told one of his men to put a sack over my head and then they tossed me into the back seat of a truck, my head thudding painfully against the door.

  My knees were forced backwards and a man sat next to me, his rough hands stroking my leg, pinching the soft skin of my inner thigh until I cried out. That made him laugh and I recognized Munassar’s harsh voice.

  He pulled my panties down and thrust his fingers inside me, forcefully, painfully, enjoying the unwilling scream that broke from me, over and over again.

  I cried out blindly when I felt his body over me, his thick erection pressing into my stomach.

  I wanted to die.

  James

  I STEPPED OUT of my one-room prison for the first time in nearly a month, feeling almost drunk on freedom, but fear bubbled underneath.