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

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  I had to give credit to Smith and his crew because we were on our way with full kit within thirty minutes. They were good—or Smith knew that I’d agree to help and had come equipped, which was more likely.

  As we drove through the neon-lit streets of this New York suburb, Smith received a series of calls updating him with intel.

  He frowned and glanced at me.

  “What’s changed?”

  “We’ve heard from Clay. He’s got some injuries but he’s able to communicate,” he paused. “He’s been tortured.”

  “Fucking hell!”

  “Yeah, that about sums it up. From what he says, they were supposed to kill him but got sloppy and let their guard down. Larson was able to take them out, but he had to leave Clay behind to go after Amira. We’re taking a helo. There’s no need for stealth because they were de-camping when Larson went for your girl.”

  “The terrorists will be long gone by now!”

  He shot me a look.

  “We’ll bring our team home.”

  “You’re putting a lot of faith in Larson,” I said, voicing the words that had been running through my head.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Ten minutes later, we arrived at a private airfield where a tactical transport helo was waiting for us, along with a 12-strong Special Forces team.

  I was given a set of body armour, helmet, 9mm handgun and an M4 assault rifle.

  Smith shook hands with the team leader and then we were wheels up, rising rapidly as New York City faded into the night.

  I could tell that Smith was worried. Clay was alive but sounded in bad shape, and there was no news of Larson or Amira.

  But we had to treat this like any other live op: shut down feelings and do the job. So that’s what I did. I spent the flight thinking through what I might find at the bomb factory based on the intel we’d had so far, and what steps I’d need to take to make it safe. Five more Ammo Techs like me would have been a good start.

  As we flew across the countryside, the towns grew smaller and the cars on the road fewer. It wasn’t long before we were rushing through the air towards dawn, just above the tree-line, when the helo suddenly dipped to the left and the order came to rappel out.

  I followed the team as they surrounded a small hut but there was no resistance, and when the hut door was thrown open, I saw Clay.

  “What took you guys so long?” he said weakly, but his grin was the same.

  “Watching re-runs of Airwolf, mate,” I said, crouching down next to him.

  He laughed hoarsely and I passed him a bottle of water.

  His hands shook, and I had to help him hold it to his cracked and bloody lips.

  There were cigarette burns all over his body, and from the other burn marks on his skin, I guessed they’d been using electric shocks on him, too.

  His face was bloody and beaten, his eyes nearly swollen shut, with blood from a cut in his eyebrow coating one side of his face.

  “I know,” he croaked, side-eyeing me through swollen slits. “You’ve always been jealous of my good looks.”

  “Yeah, jealous as hell,” I laughed grimly.

  He tried to smile but his face creased with pain.

  “Area is secured—no tangoes,” said the leader of the Special Ops team to Smith.

  “Have you heard from Larson?” Clay asked hopefully, his voice gaining strength. “He was a sight for sore eyes when he stormed in here. He took out three of them with three shots. The bodies should be somewhere outside.”

  The team leader nodded and raised four fingers.

  “Shit, four of them? Your buddy is good, Smith.”

  Smith gave a dry smile as he crouched next to Clay.

  “Larson told me that he’d had to move camp four or five days ago—I’m not too sure how long I’ve been here—but it was the day that I was separated from Amira and brought here. He kept on the move, but he told me that they were using electronic counter measures to stop him from reporting in. He didn’t want to head out and leave me and Amira in a bad situation.” He sighed. “The terrorists only got sloppy last night when they started shipping out.”

  Smith nodded, then stood to listen to the team leader’s report.

  “Teams B and C report no activity at the first and second terrorist camp. One body—unidentified IC1 male, two gunshot wounds to the chest. They’re bringing the body back now. Otherwise, both camps are completely empty, sir.”

  Smith swore and I saw the flicker of pain in his eyes.

  “You think that’s Larson?”

  He didn’t answer my question, but stared out of the tiny window.

  “We’re too late,” he said bitterly.

  “They’ve got Amira?”

  “Yeah, looks like. Tell us everything, Clay.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “This is what I know: multiple targets—they’re going for all the Ivy League colleges today, so there isn’t much time. They raged about White privilege and institutionalized racism—definitely a big hate on those schools,” and he frowned. “Teams need to look for devices that would fit in a suitcase or backpack, but bigger than a briefcase. From the way they were talking, it didn’t sound like car bombs would be used—something smaller, easier to get onto campus. I don’t know if it was all of the Ivy League schools, but it could be.”

  “On it,” said Smith, speaking into his headset.

  “Wait! There’s more,” and Clay looked at me. “They were talking about ‘the woman’ and I assumed they meant Amira, although they never said her name. They’re going to send her into New York City with a suicide vest.”

  Clay met my horrified gaze.

  “I know, James. I know.” Then he turned to Smith. “They kept saying ‘to the Square’ and I took that to mean Times Square, but I could be wrong.”

  “When?”

  He shook his head, his eyes clouding with the effort.

  “Today.”

  I glanced at Smith.

  “She won’t be doing it willingly,” he said, his voice sharp with certainty. “And right now, New York is about to have a big problem.”

  Clay nodded his agreement.

  “I’ll send out her description so police are on the alert,” said Smith. “But I’ll also tell them to be on the lookout for a woman wearing a burqa. It would be the perfect way to hide a suicide vest. And I’ll tell them to prioritize Times Square, but also to check any other squares in the city—hell, that could be dozens.” He turned to Clay. “Is there anything else, anything at all no matter how small or seemingly insignificant? If they were bragging to you, they might have been careless, mentioned something else, something you know subconsciously, a clue.”

  Clay closed his eyes, and we waited with barely contained impatience.

  “I can’t think of anything,” he said at last. “I definitely heard them say Ivy League but…” he shook his head slowly. “They wanted to make a statement with their targets—it was very specific—to attack American institutions. I don’t know … maybe a museum? An art gallery? They laughed and said they’d show our Mickey Mouse government what they thought of them and…”

  “Wait, say that again!”

  Clay peered at me uncertainly.

  “Which part?”

  “About the Mickey Mouse government—did they say anything else about that?”

  “Um, no?”

  Smith’s intense gaze turned to me.

  “James, what are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know—nothing. It’s just the way he said it.”

  “You have a hunch?”

  “It’s probably nuts…”

  “Say it anyway—we’re working in the dark as it is.”

  “I’m not sure—this might be completely wrong…”

  “But?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Is there a Disney store in Times Square?”

  Smith’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, there is! Good call, James!”

  Amira

&n
bsp; I DRIFTED, FAR, far away, to a place where there was no fear and no pain, no war and no want. Drifting, dreaming, unsure if I was conscious or not, suspended in a place between life and death.

  It was peaceful, disconnected from my body, restful, safe. There was something I was supposed to do, something I had to remember, but it was so comfortable here, so quiet. I didn’t want to remember any of it.

  Blue eyes.

  Why did I remember blue eyes?

  I swam back to consciousness, radiating pain that threatened to drown me, and my body jerked painfully, memory rushing back like a river that had burst its banks, bringing all the pain and fear crashing over me, crushing me.

  Those men.

  They’d used me, then left me tied up on the back seat of the truck in the dark. Every inch of me was wracked with pain, but my mind had separated from my body long ago.

  I blocked out every part of that journey and what those men did to me. I didn’t want to remember. But they’d made sure to leave their many marks on my body which had become a scrapbook of pain.

  They’d left me naked and shivering in the darkest hours before dawn.

  I lay there for a long time, waiting to die, but light was creeping back into the world, and I hated it. I wanted the darkness to consume me, because living like this, so broken, so destroyed—that would be unbearable.

  Shame blossomed as I struggled to move, then saw the bites on my thighs and breasts, one nipple leaking blood. Bruises bloomed across my skin and my whole lower body howled with pain. They’d taken turns, violating me repeatedly, taking particular pleasure in making me bleed. I’d grown immune to the slaps and punches, the times they spat on me and called me a whore, but I wanted to blot out their grinning, heaving faces as they’d used my body. Abused my body.

  Death would have been kinder.

  It was Munassar who came for me. I stared back with dull, dead but defiant eyes. He curled his lip as if my naked body, bruised and bloodied, offended him. He grabbed my ankles to drag me out of the truck, laughing as my bare shoulders thudded onto concrete and my head bounced twice.

  Blackness tinged the edges of my vision, and I was free again, floating, drifting.

  I COULDN’T TELL how long I’d been unconscious the second time, but as my body fought to stay asleep, a sharp slap across my face startled me awake.

  As my eyes tried to focus, I realized that I was in a large warehouse, filled with packing cases.

  I squinted, shivering with fear as I felt Umar’s cold eyes watching me. He could have been staring at a rock for all the emotion or humanity I saw in those eyes.

  I tried to move, but my arms and legs were still bound, and when I tried to speak, Munassar plastered heavy tape across my mouth.

  I realized that I was clothed, and that surprised me. I blinked, looking down at the unfamiliar sweatpants and t-shirt that I was wearing, confused to see my own grubby, red and white Chucks on my feet.

  And then with a gloating expression, Munassar carefully lowered a suicide vest over my shoulders.

  My eyes widened and a long, low moan ripped from my throat as my body started to shake and tears leaked from my eyes.

  “It’s time to stop struggling now,” said Umar, his cultured voice so calm, so controlled. “It’s time to become a soldier of ISIS.”

  James

  WE RACED THROUGH Manhattan and into Times Square, scattering pigeons and pedestrians as we exited the van, looking around us wildly, searching for a clue.

  Up and down the entire eastern border, Special Forces teams had been deployed to each of the Ivy League universities, and every EOD operative within a 300 mile radius was being flown in.

  But Times Square was ours.

  “Split up,” snapped Smith. “You all know what you’re looking for.”

  People turned to stare, some taking photographs as we moved through the crowds. Smith had called for police backup—some officers from the substation were already on site and many more from all over the city were being brought in.

  Frustration and fear caught in my throat as I searched every face.

  It was her stillness that caught my attention. Most people aren’t still—they check their phones, watch other people walking past, look at their wristwatches, scratch, twitch, itch—they move.

  And when they’re standing outside the Disney Store in Times Square, most people would at least glance through the windows.

  This woman wasn’t moving; she was utterly still.

  Heavily pregnant.

  And wearing a burqa.

  But then I saw those red and white Converse shoes, and I knew it was Amira. Although she definitely wasn’t nine months pregnant, which left only one reason that I could think of why she’d have a baby bump at her belly…

  I started to sweat.

  She hadn’t seen me yet, so I radioed Smith and the team.

  “I’ve found her. Outside the Disney store. I’m pretty sure she’s wearing a suicide vest.”

  “Goddammit!”

  “Yeah, I know. Clearing the area is going to be nearly impossible, but get the cops started. If the device is on a timer, we’re fucked, but if the bomber is using his mobile phone, his cell phone, and wants to be nearby to see the results of his handiwork, there’s a chance I can neutralize it first. We need to set up ECM and order e-vac.”

  “On it.”

  I wasn’t a praying man, but maybe I should be. Smith’s team had access to electronic countermeasures, a device that could jam remote detonation from twenty metres. A military spec device could keep Amira in the bubble for up to 100 metres.

  I hoped that the police cordon wasn’t going to make Umar run—we needed him to be close and stay close.

  Clay stared around at the unfolding chaos.

  “Umar must be here somewhere.”

  When Smith had tried to send Clay to hospital, he’d pointblank refused. Instead, the SEAL team medic had patched him up as best he could while we were still in the air.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “he’ll want to be far enough away not to risk himself, but close enough to be able to see the bomb and fire it.”

  Clay grimaced and stared around at the crowded intersection flanked by tall buildings.

  “If he’s using a cell phone to trigger the device, could the buildings block the signal?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, he could send a text message and the system would continue to attempt to deliver the message until it got the thinnest of signals so the device would still function.”

  “Shit! So as soon as he sees you approach, he’ll try and fire the device.”

  “Yeah. I hope Smith’s ECM is working.”

  I stared down at my hands, almost surprised to see that they weren’t shaking. I started to walk towards Amira, but Clay caught my shoulder.

  “It’s too dangerous, brother. Wait for the cops to yellow tape the area.”

  “Umar will see them! I can’t wait, there’s no time!”

  He grabbed my bicep and pulled me around.

  “You don’t think Umar will have a Plan B? We don’t even know if the device is on a timer. Suit up—give yourself a chance.” He gritted his teeth. “You’re our best chance of saving Amira. She … I…”

  Startled, I met his gaze.

  “You and Amira?”

  My chest constricted.

  “I care for her, brother. You know that.”

  I did know that, but was he in love with her? Was I?

  I realized that Clay was still talking.

  “You are the only one here who can neutralize this device: not me, not Smith, just you. You have to give us the best chance to stop Umar. Put on the damn bomb suit and go save our girl.”

  I forced myself to focus.

  “Have you seen what she’s wearing? If a device that size detonates, a bomb suit will be no use,” I said grimly, shrugging out of his grasp.

  “If the main charge explodes. If. But you have a good chance of detaching the detonator before that happe
ns—and the bomb suit will protect you if that part functions.”

  “It won’t save Amira,” I said tightly. “And I can’t wait for Smith to get the bomb suit here.”

  His face twisted.

  “I know, brother. I know. But you’re our best hope. A lot of people are counting on you.” He glanced over his shoulder as an unmarked van drove toward us, startling tourists out of the way as it mounted the pavement. “Smith’s guy is here now. You cool?”

  I nodded and ran towards the van. I could already see police moving in to set up a barrier at the roads leading to the Times Square intersection, but there were still hundreds of people within range, maybe thousands.

  Smith was already climbing into the van, dragging out the bomb suit and EOD kit with him.

  It was 75 pounds worth of armour-plating inside a Kevlar suit. There were blast plates at the crotch and chest, and the helmet alone weighed ten pounds.

  “Forget the suit,” I shouted. “There’s no time!”

  Smith grabbed my arm as I opened the EOD kit bag.

  “Listen to me, James! The cell is still active—you do not want them to see your face right now. We could need you again. You’re also a Brit operating illegally in the U.S. Wear the damn suit.”

  Clay was already laying it out so there was no point arguing and it was easy for me to step into.

  “ECM is in here,” said Smith, grim faced. “It’s not military grade—it’s one that I use to blanket a room for meetings. It’s got limited range and battery life. I’m trying to get another one here…”

  He didn’t need to finish the sentence, but handed me the small device. It was the size and shape of a cigarette packet.

  It was a good thing I’d given up smoking—those things can kill you.

  Smith looked up.

  “Umar will try to trigger the explosion, so he’ll stay in the area for a while, but once he has repeated failures, he’ll try to get away. I’ll have people looking for him.”

  By now, civilians were aware that something was going down. Of course, that didn’t mean that they were getting out of the way—morons were stopping to take pictures. More police were pouring into the area and trying to clear as many of the pedestrians as possible, and placing road blocks across the intersections.