by P. S. Bridge
HIT
P.S. Bridge
COMING SOON
Hitback
Each one of us has a Mark King inside of us. Someone who goes through something horrific, who suffers immeasurable loss, and endures momentous pain, yet manages to grow from it and come out the other side, a stronger, wiser and better person. There is a difference between accepting the path that lies before you, and choosing to walk it.
So to those who have helped me, you know who you are and I thank you. To the others, those who said it couldn’t be done, or wouldn’t be done, I say look, read, understand and above all, judge not the faithful and the true, for there will be a day when those you have judged, judge you.
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Copyright
Prologue
Syria, Three months ago
Two black Agusta A109 Grand helicopters surveyed the landscape as they hurtled towards the rendezvous point just south of their current location. They cut through the air, flying low, and kicked up clouds of smoke as they landed just opposite a stone building, one of the few still standing after the destruction of the previous few days. Seven heavily armed men got out, wearing scarfs to cover their faces against the flying dust and dirt as they hurried towards the building away from the rush and noise of the rotor blades downdraft. A young man, dressed as if ready for battle, got out wearing a scarf over his lower face, and Aviator sunglasses. He was carrying a small black Heckler & Koch MP5-K sub-machine gun, and he had a large Kabar army knife, sheathed in his belt. He checked his silver Rolex watch and looked around him to make sure they had not been intercepted or followed. The other armed men stood on guard either side of the doorway of the stone building as he marched through the doorway and into the darkness. Two guards then stood guard in the doorway, gripping their AK-47s tightly.
The convoy of yellowish brown four-by-fours kicked up clouds of dust as they rumbled through the war-torn brown landscape, destroyed by drone attacks and Syrian airstrikes. Twenty-two months of war had transformed the once thriving town into a barren, derelict wasteland. From his window, MI6 agent Nathanial Williams scoured the ruined buildings behind a pair of Aviators in shock at the utter devastation which had been wreaked on this town, only days before.
The convoy rumbled on its dusty journey as the attaché from the National Defence Force’s Government counter-insurgency force spoke in Syrian to the interpreter sat next to Agent Williams, pointing out key stronghold positions which were active only days before their arrival.
At night, it was a no-go area for anyone, with militia still trying actively to recoup lost ground. The surrounding hills, once inviting, were now foreboding and scarred where mortar shells and artillery shelling had burst upon its surface, causing it to resemble the surface of the moon.
‘We capture this town two days ago. Much killing here. Syrian air force they try to drive back insurgent militia until drone strike.’
Williams turned suddenly.
‘Wait, what, a drone strike did all this damage?’ he asked, shocked at what the interpreter said.
The attaché, a man in his mid-forties who didn’t speak English, looked confused at Williams. Williams, forgetting the need for the interpreter, apologised and turned to the interpreter, asking the same question for him to ask the attaché. He waited patiently for the response.
‘Young boys used play football here. “Middle class” people meet and cook dinner, listen to music all night long. Gone now,’ he relayed to Williams.
The interpreter pointed down the road and waved his arm around.
‘He say cedar trees used grow along all three side,’ he translated as he waited for the attaché to continue.
‘No more. Taken for firewood.’
Williams shook his head in disbelief. He had worked mainly in Europe and this was his first time in a war zone. The interpreter patted him on the arm to get his attention. Williams’ attention was taken away to huts, lining the roadside, with their tin roofs stripped off, probably to be used by the swathes of refugees who either passed through here or moved from here to escape the approaching onslaught.
‘He says drone strikes like this happen all of time. He said western governments, mostly Americans, they know when Al-Azidi meets his commanders and they target him two days ago.’
Agent Williams nodded and turned back to look out of the window before their driver, also with the National Defence Force, and dressed in National Defence Force uniform, motioned that they had arrived. Williams jumped out first, his weapon at the ready. The group, made up of six men, mostly from the National Defence Force and one agent, Todd Greamer, from the CIA, huddled together next to the lead vehicle, out of sight of the stone building ten feet away.
‘Right, I want two at the back, two to provide cover fire and Greamer and I will go in the front,’ he commanded in an authoritative, Scottish tone. Greamer nodded, and the interpreter relayed the message to their attaché. Williams rolled his eyes, frustrated with the language barrier and Greamer laughed silently, shaking his head. Williams waited until they were all clear on what to do and they crept out from behind the vehicle towards the building.
Within seconds, they were met by a volley of automatic gunfire and dived for cover, shouting instructions at each other as the bullets bounced off the dry, crumbled stone around them. There were few areas of cover out here and Williams’ heart beat faster. He had been separated from his interpreter and attaché and he looked desperately around for Greamer, who had found cover alongside a pile of rock further up the road. Greamer nodded to him and Williams nodded back, motioning that he thought there were eight or more men inside.
With a keen and well trained eye, he noticed several men exit the rear of the building on foot, towards a Jeep, whose driver was already looking panicked.
‘Looks like we interrupted your meeting, Azidi,’ Williams said aloud as he motioned for Greamer to follow him. The two men managed only a few steps before one of those fleeing turned and opened fire on them. Williams and Greamer scattered, avoiding the bullets ripping up the ground between them. They were back on track in seconds but the Jeep was mobile and heading off among a cloud of dust and smoke. Williams could hear gunfire back at the building behind them and ran towards the lead vehicle in their convoy. He jumped in and started the engine, wheel spinning into the dust as he thundered after Azidi’s vehicle.
Azidi opened fire on them vigorously from the back of the Jeep and Williams threw the steering wheel left and right, swerving to avoid the hail of automatic fire. His windscreen was hit and Williams, in the panic, flung the wheel round sharply to the left, hitting a rock, causing the four-by-four to crash over onto its side as the engine emitted plumes of smoke. There w
as a satisfied cheer from the Jeep as it quickly vanished out of sight toward the Lebanese mountains. The pursuing vehicles, realising Williams’ plan and having given chase, screeched to a halt at the side of the overturned vehicle. The wheels were still spinning, and the engine was over-revving, smoke billowing out from the undercarriage. Williams was hurt, not badly but enough to draw blood, and he scrambled out of the passenger window which was facing the sky, covered in blood and dirt, looking beaten but OK.
Greamer grabbed his arm and helped to haul him from the wreckage and clear of the vehicle in case the fuel tank had ruptured. It was a good call from Greamer, for as they staggered away from it, the entire vehicle erupted into flames. The men threw themselves at the ground as the shock wave and heat from the fuel tank hit them like a tsunami, throwing them forward. Williams was the first to put his head up, spitting blood and dust as he checked around for everyone else. Greamer was cut but otherwise unharmed. Everyone seemed OK, breathless, but alive. Williams got up and kicked the stones in frustration.
‘I HAD HIM!’ he shouted to Greamer, who was walking towards him reloading his weapon and looking around for snipers.
‘I bloody had him!’ he cried again at Greamer. Greamer nodded as he handed Williams his water tank, which Williams drank from excessively and wiped his sweat-laden, dirty forehead.
‘Don’t worry man, there’ll be another opportunity to get the bastard!’ Greamer reassured Williams before checking the horizon to see the rush of vehicles coming towards them.
‘C’mon man, we gotta get outta here,’ he warned.
Williams agreed and Greamer patted Williams’ back in support as the group ran back to their vehicles. Williams jumped in the front passenger seat, his weapon ready. Greamer jumped in the drivers’ seat and handed his AR-15 tactical defence rifle to Williams. Williams took it and held it at the ready as Greamer wheel-spun the vehicle around and headed off back in the direction they had come. None of them were happy at getting so close to Mohammed Al-Azidi and letting him get away.
An hour later, Williams and Greamer were at a camp where they had spent most of the night before planning their assault on Azidi and gathering intelligence on where his cell would meet next. It had taken months of planning to get to this stage and Williams was angry and disappointed. He spoke quietly but firmly to his associate.
‘We have to report to London immediately. I need you to go to pick up the Azidi trail and report directly when you have a confirmed sighting,’ he ordered.
His associate, a younger agent, nodded and left the tent, leaving Williams to pack the rest of his gear, before heading out to the airport.
Chapter One
England, Present day
The public gallery paused with bated breath, as the prosecution stepped forward, smiling and with a plan; the young dark-haired learned man in the black robe and white wig turned around towards the jury to survey them, gathered in anticipation.
There wasn’t a single person in the room who didn’t know the names Mark King and Mohammed Al Azidi thanks to the coverage from the newspapers over the last few months. Public reaction over the allegations was largely one of anger and calls for tighter border controls, anti-immigration, political intervention. Surrounded by wooden pews, lined with officials, and overlooked by a packed public gallery, the prosecution’s star player stepped forward and addressed the court, in his two minute opening statement.
‘Age old law,’ he began, raising his arms up as he looked high around the ancient courtroom, ‘that pillar stone of the justice process, has bought us here together today.’
The judge removed his tiny spectacles and leaned forward across his bench, intrigued by the opening statement. High in the press gallery, a small man, a journalist with a notebook and a fringe which dangled tattily over one side of his face, narrowed his eyes towards the prosecution as the two men’s eyes met. The prosecution paused for a second as both men held their stare before the journalist broke eye contact and scribbled notes in the battered-looking notebook. The prosecution smiled as he turned back to address the courtroom.
‘As you well know, the prosecution has the burden of proof to prove its case,’ he smiled, acknowledging the judge who was by now smiling, ‘beyond ALL reasonable doubt.’
There was chatter from the public gallery as tenseness came over the court where you could almost hear a pin drop and cut the atmosphere with a knife.
‘Therefore, the prosecution must present evidence which proves, beyond reasonable doubt, that the defendant…’
There was another pause as he spun around like lightning, pointing a finger directly at the defendant, causing the defendant and the courtroom to jump back and gasp.
‘This man, this clearly GUILTY man, did, on February twenty-eighth of this year, commit an act of atrocity against this country, against the free world and against humanity itself!’
There was a stir again from the court as the defence sat scribbling notes; some watched this master class of a closing statement.
‘Ruthlessly, he did on that fateful night whilst we were all in our beds, seemingly safe and soundly sleeping, decide on an inauspicious and tragic course of action.’
The defendant bowed his head, not wanting to face the inevitable truth that the country’s best lawyer was against him and there was no way he would escape a momentously long prison sentence.
‘Evidence has been presented to this court, this wondrous house of truth and justice, which is unequivocal and inescapable in its legitimacy. We must send a clear message to those who would seek to travel to our shores, bask in our hospitality, benefit from our graciousness and take from our resources, that you cannot commit these kinds of crimes and escape justice.’
The judge, on hearing this, which may be construed as interfering with sentencing legislation, sat forward and frowned.
‘Mr. King,’ he began but was prevented from continuing by the prosecution’s Mr. King putting his hand up immediately in acknowledgement of what he had said and continued in his speech.
‘Mr. Rahman, a young man who until now had led a life of peace, tranquility and hard work. Indeed we have heard testimony from many witnesses as to his character, his reputation and his deeply devout faith and, yes, indeed some may be swayed.’
Mark King had gotten quieter and quieter at this point and those who knew him best, those who had seen him in action before, knew he was building towards a dramatic crescendo.
‘That this somehow exonerates him from fault?’ he shouted, his voice raised louder, his climactic theatricality entertaining the entire courtroom.
Mark stopped, and turned to the jury who watched, drawn in by the theatricality and razzle dazzle of the show before them.
‘Radicalisation?’ he asked, slowly walking past the jury, occasionally stopping at a member of the jury sat nearest the front. ‘Perhaps, but what the fundamental truth is is that no matter what the reason for the crime, the crime WAS committed.’
Mark swept across the courtroom towards the defendant, arms outstretched like a warlock about to cast a spell on an unsuspecting victim.
‘BUT IT WAS MURDER!’ he shouted, his hand held high as a finger pointed towards the ceiling, ‘was it not, which occurred that night, MURDER, deliberate, calculated and pre-meditated murder, of an innocent civilian, all because Mr. Rahman wanted to obtain materials to build an explosive device and the victim, the innocent and ill-fated victim, a family man with children, whose wife sits in the public gallery surrounded by her friends and family, cries herself to sleep at night as she tries to explain to her children that daddy isn’t coming home.’
Mark pointed to the defendant whilst facing the jury.
‘This man, the defendant you see before you, is the ONLY person responsible for this heinous crime. Richard Wilkinson, the deceased, sacrificed his life to prevent mass murder, to protect the innocent from what COULD have been an atrocity, the scale of which has not been seen since the July 2007 London bombings.’
There was
a deliberate pause by the prosecution as he let the jury and the courtroom soak up everything he had said as Mark returned to his desk, his glasses in his hand and one arm of the glasses in his mouth as he turned a page over in his notebook.
‘Members of the jury, sadly, it is not MY decision to seek to enact justice against this man, merely to present to you the truth. Not a version of the truth decided by one party over another, but the unavoidable truth because of the facts presented herein. I ask you, this man IS guilty, search your hearts and your feelings, and you WILL come to the right decision.’
He walked towards the defendant one last time.
‘The ONLY decision which should be returned,’ he paused again and stared into the eyes of the defendant.
In all Mark King’s years of behavioural profiling, he knew when someone was about to crack and he sensed it here, now, as he took his final breath, he felt the tension in his entire body as he slowed his breathing down, centered his balance, took one final look deep into the defendant’s eyes and turned.
‘GUILTY!’
The loudness of the shout made everyone in the courtroom jump and a shocked gasp from the crowd, together with the drama and theatre of Mark’s statement, caused the defendant to sob and nod his head. Mark merely waved his arm towards the defendant as if he were allowing the jury to walk through a door he had held open for them. Their faces, one by one, became stern and unforgiving. Mark turned, smiled at the judge who gave a nod of acknowledgement, and returned to his seat.
‘Your Honour, the prosecution rests,’ he said pleasantly and glanced up towards the public gallery.
The journalist was shaking his head in anger but it wasn’t Ian Hawking that Mark King was looking at, it was Mrs. Wilkinson, the wife of the victim who smiled and mouthed the words ‘thank you’ to Mark. Mark smiled and nodded. Now it was down to the jury to decide.
Chapter Two