I didn’t even have to think about it.
I packed a small bag, stuffed my passport in my back pocket and snatched up the keys to my Ducati.
The sentry at the guardhouse gave me an odd look as I headed out at 2am, but he had no reason to stop me, no orders that prevented me leaving; he just lifted the barrier and watched me ride away.
I’d never forget that night, racing the sunrise as I headed to London and Heathrow Airport. The urge to twist the throttle as far as it would go was fierce, but the last thing I needed was to get caught by the police for speeding.
A million thoughts buzzed through my brain, each worse than the next as desperation drove me mad.
My mind tortured me with a thousand scenarios of what could have happened. It could just be comms problems, but then why would Smith have told me to get over there? Did he know something I didn’t? Had Umar’s network reached her there somehow? How well could I trust Smith’s contact, especially if he was working for the money? Then I thought guiltily of Larson: I hadn’t trusted him at one time. Or Amira.
I prayed that she was okay, hopeful even that there’d be a message on my phone by the time I got to the airport, and I’d just have to turn around and face a bollocking from my C.O.
But then I imagined her hurt and alone, lost and in pain, unable to call for help. My stomach clenched as I pushed the panic away.
Amira didn’t need a friend now—she needed the soldier in me.
I reached inside myself for that coolness, that emotional blackout that would see me through this. One by one, I locked my emotions down, focusing only on the task ahead, the op.
The temperature rose slowly as the sky turned from grey to gold, the cold air snapping at my jeans and leather jacket.
In theory, I could make the drive to Raqqa in one night, but I knew there would be numerous checkpoints along the way. I planned to get as much money as I could out of ATMs at the airport and change it into U.S. dollars, the currency of choice in a lot of bad places. I’d need the bribe money if I was going to get through.
And I’d need a lot of luck.
Amira, hang on. I’m coming.
When I arrived at the airport, I called Clay, and he answered on the first ring.
“James, thank God. Where are you, brother?”
“Heathrow. I’m planning to be in Raqqa this time tomorrow.”
There was a long silence at the end of the line and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this, James. I know that it’s been tough for you. What you’re doing for Amira, for her family … words will never be enough.”
“It’s fine,” I said gruffly.
He sighed.
“She cares about you,” he said softly. “She’s just afraid to show it. She’s been through a lot. And now … just bring her home, James. Bring her home.”
I ended the call even more agitated. For weeks I’d been living with the belief that Amira didn’t want anything to do with me, now I wasn’t sure.
I wasn’t sure about anything—except the need to find her.
The flight to Paphos was full of holidaymakers. I stood out like a giraffe in Oxford Street, my black mood sending out very distinct fuck off vibes.
It was annoying the piss out of me to be around all that bloody joy. I buggered off to a quiet corner and stared morosely at the spectacular gold clouds bleeding into the dawn.
Anxiety ran through me like a low-level electrical current. I wouldn’t let it take over, but it was there, humming beneath my skin.
Needing something to do, I pulled out my phone and dialled Amira’s number. Maybe she’d answer, maybe she was okay…
Her voicemail clicked on, but at least I could hear her speaking. I left another message.
“It’s James. Your dad called me—your parents are really worried. The news coming out of Raqqa isn’t great and we need to know that you’re safe.” I took a deep breath. “I just need to hear your voice, okay?”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and swore, corralling my swirling thoughts before I made an even bigger tit of myself.
“Look, I’ve called in some favours from our favourite spook, and I’m coming to get you. I can’t say more over this line, but you know what it means. I’m on my way. Whatever it takes, Amira. Whatever it costs. I’m coming. So just hold on for me. Just hold on and I’ll be with you really soon.” I love you.
I ended the call and shoved the phone in my back pocket. I rubbed my eyes and scraped my hands over my face, feeling the stubble under my fingers.
I thought about calling her parents, but with no news, it wouldn’t help them.
The four hour flight to Cyprus was going to feel very slow.
It was another two hours until I was supposed to report for duty, and I wondered how long after that they’d start to look for me. Probably they’d ask around first, try my mates, see if anyone knew something. The first 24 hours is ‘absent from place of work’. Still no word after that, and I’m officially AWOL. My C.O. would get the Regimental Second in Command or the Adjutant to leave a message on my phone first. When I didn’t respond, they might even start calling around the hospitals to see if I’d had an accident.
When that didn’t give them a lead, the RMP would hand it over to the civilian police, and I’d be on put on the police PNC national database. Eventually, they’d trace my bike to Heathrow…
With luck on my side, I’d be in Raqqa before anyone back at the barracks started to worry.
James
I TURNED OFF my phone’s airplane mode immediately after landing, before the plane had finished taxiing to a stop on the runway at Paphos. I had some pathetic hope that Amira would have returned my message, and we’d laugh about what a mess I’d been waiting to hear from her.
But when my phone was active again, there were no messages. None. Not even from my C.O. or any of my mates at work.
And there was me worrying about being stopped at Heathrow.
The truth was, no one gave a shit.
As soon as the aeroplane’s doors were opened, I was up and out of my seat, rudely pushing past everyone, ignoring their annoyed stares and muttered comments.
Going through immigration took a few seconds as I waved my British passport at them, and then I was out in the main concourse, looking for the taxi rank.
The heat was already in the high eighties and was forecast to go much higher. I ignored the brilliant sun and the perfect cloudless sky. All around me happy holidaymakers were clutching their luggage, ready to enjoy a week of doing nothing except eating and sitting in the sun.
Something about the normality of it, their sheer innocence gave me hope. But at the same time, I wanted to shove the war in their faces. They were so close to the Middle East’s madness, but they could have been on Brighton Pier, if it wasn’t for the fact that the sun was shining.
The taxi driver was chatty. I wanted to shoot him before we’d gone a hundred yards. Didn’t he know that there was a war going on?
Bloody civilians. They preferred to live in denial. It was the same when I’d come back from Afghanistan the first time—reverse culture shock. It took days to get over how casual people in the UK were about wasting water: twenty minute showers, washing their cars, watering their stupid lawns. Where I’d been posted in Helmand province, water was flown in along with food supplies. Nothing was wasted and I didn’t shower for months.
And then I got back to England, with Afghan dust on my boots and in my clothes, and no one wanted to talk about a war 3,000 miles away. No one wanted to know that IEDs were killing 19 year-old squaddies. No one cared.
Just like here. A war on their doorstep. Don’t talk about it. Don’t acknowledge it. And maybe it won’t be true.
Don’t want to scare the tourists.
But it felt like the world should be as worried as me. Carrying your cares by yourself was lonely.
I thought about calling Smith again, but he’d made it very clear that wasn
’t an option. I didn’t want to call Clay either—not until I had news. The man was still in hospital, facing further surgeries and months of rehab before he could walk again.
The taxi driver was relentless, telling me in tedious detail about his brother’s restaurant where I should definitely go for dinner. Fat chance.
Bored of his upbeat sales pitch, I interrupted.
“Got many Syrian refugees on the island?”
He snorted and changed the subject.
I already knew that Cyprus took a tough stance on Syrian refugees. Bastards.
He dropped me at a resort on the eastern-most tip of the island, muttering under his breath as he snatched the money from my hand.
I wandered into the resort, trying to look like a tourist enjoying a stroll, ordering a bottle of beer from the bar, before heading out to the pool area, my aviators shading my eyes.
Heat bounced up from the white concrete, but it still enticed some sunbathers intent on turning their skin into bacon. Instead, I found a place where I could watch the entrances and exits without being obvious.
My contact arrived an hour later, just as I was on my last nerve, and wondering how far I’d get without help.
He sauntered through the pool area, ogling women in bikinis, before casually nodding at me.
I waited 20 seconds then followed him to the secluded balcony as he pretended to look at the view over the calm, blue Mediterranean Sea.
“You have money, friend?”
“I was told it was all arranged, that you’d have my documents, transport and … protection.”
He snorted impatiently.
“Whoever told you that was wrong. I have overheads.”
Great. A shakedown.
“How much?”
“Two thousand American dollars.”
I glanced across, seeing his smug expression.
“Sure.”
He grinned, surprised it had been so easy.
“I’ll pay you when I get back.”
His smile slipped, replaced by annoyance.
“No, no! You must pay now! This is very dangerous and I am a businessman.”
I leaned against the railings, staring out to sea.
“How about you give me what was agreed, and I don’t throw you over the balcony? Those rocks don’t look like they’d be a comfortable landing.”
His mouth dropped open and he tried to move away from me, but I clamped my hand on his wrist, drawing him close as he stared down at the razor sharp reef skimming the water beneath.
“Listen, friend,” I said pleasantly. “I’ve had a really bad day. But yours will be a lot worse unless you do what you were contracted to do. But if I come back alive, you’ll get your two thousand dollar bonus—and you’ll get to live a long and happy life.” I pulled him closer. “Piss me off, and you’ll be dead within the next thirty seconds. Your choice.”
I didn’t get any arguments after that, but I probably hadn’t made a friend for life either.
He led me out to his car and gave me the travel documents that Smith had arranged for, then we drove south to a small, isolated beach, where a greasy-looking dude was waiting with a beaten up fishing boat.
Then he showed me the arsenal he’d acquired for me: a Russian AK-74 assault rifle that was older than I was, and a Makarov pistol, probably from the 1950s but still used by the Russian military—it looked prehistoric.
“Do these even work?”
I didn’t need a misfire when my life was depending on it.
“Yes!” he said, indignantly. “Best quality!”
I pointed the pistol at him and started to pull the trigger. From the way sweat broke out on his forehead, I concluded the arms were probably adequate.
I nodded and accepted four clips of ammo—hardly enough if I got caught in a fire fight. Christ, I hoped that didn’t happen.
And then I was on my way with the fisherman who clearly wasn’t happy to have me as a passenger.
The boat chugged away across the Mediterranean, skimming the Syrian coastline until the sun began to set and stars appeared in the sky. Then he cut the engine, and we ghosted onto a silent beach where an ancient American Jeep was sitting on the sand. My skin prickled with the sensation that I was being watched, but the lack of moonlight meant that I couldn’t see far. Good for me to stay hidden—bad if I wanted to know what was coming for me.
I waded the last twenty feet to the beach, but the boat had already turned and headed back to Cyprus by the time I made it to shore.
Being abandoned in Syria without transport was not what I needed right now. I prayed that the Jeep was fuelled, and almost cheered when it started on the second try.
It coughed and wheezed, then throatily roared to life. I cringed, ducking down to avoid imaginary bullets, but none came. Cautiously, I pulled out my phone and brought up the route to Raqqa. I’d already memorized it, but checking helped me to calm down. It wasn’t the most direct road, but Smith had said it had the fewest checkpoints.
Driving at night was hazardous to say the least. The road was pockmarked with craters, and burnt-out cars and tanks littered the ditches. I saw the neon glow of towns in the distance, but stuck to my route, zigzagging through the ridge of mountains that followed the coastline. There were more cultivated fields than I was expecting, but as I drove east, the desert crept forward to meet me, flat and arid, stretching in all directions.
According to the map I’d studied, a narrow green belt ran through the centre of Syria, following the path of the Euphrates River. Raqqa was built on the north side of the river, two hundred miles inland.
The first hour and the last hour of driving would be the most hazardous because I would be closest to populated areas. I was concerned about meeting patrols, especially since a curfew was still in place. It was risky.
But then again, everything about this mission was risky. And I didn’t care. The mission had one aim, one outcome that mattered.
I drove through the night, twice having to turn off my headlights and drive cross-country when I saw headlights from a patrol, then looping back to the main road. I doubted that they’d give me a chance to explain—they’d be more likely to shoot first.
But if I blew out a tyre by driving over a rock, I was fucked.
The first patrol, I avoided easily, but the second one was persistent, and I had to lay up for over an hour while they searched the desert for me. It was sheer luck that I wasn’t caught. But every soldier needs luck.
As I left the well-irrigated cotton and wheat fields behind, driving towards Raqqa, I hit my first checkpoint at dawn when the city was in sight. This time there was no way around.
Armed soldiers manned the barrier and ordered me out of the Jeep. I gave them my story about being an oil worker, but they studied my papers minutely, arguing amongst themselves, probably wondering how far I’d driven when the curfew had only been lifted an hour ago.
The fact that I was armed didn’t bother them, but seeing that my Jeep had spare fuel, that was enough to make me very interesting.
Despite some of the oil wells near Raqqa coming back on line, there was still a lot of work to do, a lot of engineering to be repaired. Smith had chosen a good cover story for me. But petrol that had been refined was still at a premium and worth a lot of money on the thriving black market.
The soldiers eyed the fuel cans enviously, clearly wondering whether I was worth the risk of fleecing, or whether I’d make trouble for them. In the end, I made it easy, and handed over $200 and a ten gallon can of petrol.
I hoped I wouldn’t have to make that sacrifice at every checkpoint, because I was going to need the fuel to get back, or even make a run for the Turkish border, although that was only 60 miles away.
Silently, they watched me drive off, and I let out a long breath when they were finally out of sight.
Two more checkpoints later, and down $500 and four more petrol cans, I drove slowly through the bomb-blasted city, skirting craters and bullet-marked buildings that looke
d as though they were about to collapse. Raqqa had been reduced to rubble, and yet there were signs of life returning: a few people going about their business as dawn rose quickly in the east; cafes opening, offering strong, sweet coffee; several motorbikes on the road, but very few cars. A pack of stray dogs roamed the streets, skinny and feral, they bared their teeth as my Jeep rattled past.
I wore sunglasses in the half-light to hide my blue eyes, and I’d wound a scarf around my head so I didn’t stand out as much. I thought of what Amira would say if she saw me now—and the irony wasn’t lost on me.
I knew that the Jeep was drawing attention, as well. Unfortunately, I needed to have wheels. I was prepared to shoot any bastard who decided they wanted to try and take the Jeep from me.
I followed the GPS to the location of Amira’s temporary hospital, but when I got there, my heart sank—it had been completely obliterated with only a stark ruin, black against the sky and a few tattered tents. I’d hoped that there might be administrative offices, something still there so I could ask around. But the place was deserted and only the ghosts remained.
I cut the engine and climbed out, careful to tuck my sidearm into the waistband of my jeans, and slung the rifle over my shoulder.
“Amira, where are you?” I whispered.
A young boy was watching me, his expression scared and defiant.
“Mustashfaa?” I asked, jerking my head at the rubble, using the Arabic word for ‘hospital’.
He stared at me blankly, then pointed into the distance and shouted something I didn’t understand.
“Hey, wait!” I called, but he was already gone, diving behind an abandoned building.
I had no choice but to drive in the direction he’d indicated and hope I’d get lucky. Besides, he might decide to tell someone about the stranger who couldn’t speak his language, so waiting here on the off-chance that I’d find someone from the hospital wasn’t an option. People had been killed for a lot less than the cans of petrol I was carrying.
TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1) Page 25