Thunder

  The epicentre of this dreadful tsunami lies in peaceful ignorance a few scant metres from me.

  Time to close this final gap.

  Time to finish this.

  “Thirty minutes. Let’s go,” Jack whispers, and rises, swiftly folding the camouflaged sheet and tucking it under a nearby stone. He raises his face to me – his green eyes shining bright, from amongst charcoal-blackened skin, topped with a black beanie hat pulled tight onto his head – and smiles, and nods his head confidently.

  This is it.

  I lift my almost empty pack onto my shoulders, and follow his shadowy form along the empty rooftops.

  ~~~~~

  Beneath Sergei’s skin, the tracer counted down to itself.

  Three hundred and eighty-four.

  Three hundred and eighty-three.

  Three hundred and eighty-two.

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal stirred. He was not sleeping well tonight.

  He had a bad feeling...

  That bastard Ebrahimi was a liability. He knew it. He just couldn’t prove it.

  The boy was lying there, somewhere across from him in the darkness, snoring like a baby whilst he tossed and turned...

  ~~~~~

  Jack crept quietly into one of the surrounding houses. He could see right through the building to the courtyard he needed to get to. His luck was in again: both the front and back doors of this house had been standing wide open. He was pleased. He hadn’t fancied trying to shimmy silently down crumbling masonry.

  Moving in absolute silence, like a mottled grey wraith, he moved one foot at a time into the shadowy interior. In front of him, a wide treaded ladder led to the upper floor. The occupants must be up there, asleep.

  Half way...

  ~~~~~

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  The tracer activated.

  “&&[[[\+==]]]**962727-GJhyG-888-805674895-GW,” it whispered into the night.

  ~~~~~

  The scanner downstairs squawked once, angrily.

  It was still lying, open on the table where Nagpal had left it.

  He sat up in his bedroll and peered over the line of packing crates. There was a dull red glow from the gap above the stairs.

  Ebrahimi lay as a dark bundle in the corner, and continued to snore ignorantly.

  ~~~~~

  The sudden bleep from my PDA makes me jump. The tracer isn’t supposed to start sending for another few minutes. I scrabble to mute it.

  ~~~~~

  Jack froze.

  He was about five metres from the back door.

  ‘Fucking, shit, idiot, wanker!’ he thought angrily to himself, whilst straining hard to listen in the surrounding silence. ‘I should have fucking muted the PDAs!’

  Rustling sounds started upstairs.

  ‘Don’t bleep again,’ he prayed silently. ‘Please don’t bleep again...’

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal rose quickly and, dressed only in his night shirt, crept down through the darkness to the machine.

  A new red dot showed on the screen.

  Nagpal picked up the box and moved around the room until the red dot was centred. He was in a corner.

  The corner was empty.

  ~~~~~

  London

  “Fuck,” said Ellard.

  Greere’s head snapped away from his screens, “What is it?”

  “The fucking tracer has just sent its random ping.”

  “Still in the house?”

  “Seems to be.”

  ~~~~~

  Herat

  Nagpal scuffed his feet in the dust. Nothing.

  Then he turned his head upwards.

  Above him.

  In his bed.

  Ebrahimi...

  ~~~~~

  The rustling upstairs stopped.

  Jack breathed a muted sigh of relief, rooted out his PDA, and clicked it to silent. Then he edged himself slowly toward the back door.

  ~~~~~

  London

  “Any minute now,” said Ellard.

  ~~~~~

  Herat

  Carrying the scanner like some divining rod in front of him, Nagpal climbed the stairs.

  The red dot remained fixed where Ebrahimi lay sleeping.

  Slowly he approached the young man’s prone and still snoring form.

  ~~~~~

  My PDA starts buzzing in my pocket. On and off. One-second intervals.

  I pull it out.

  The signal is still in the house.

  Where the hell is Jack?

  I move out from my position, and cross to the planking front door.

  ~~~~~

  Suddenly the box began to squawk again.

  Again and again it squawked.

  Nagpal stood there, staring at the screen flashing red in front of him, and suddenly his vision blurred red too. Pent up fury and frustration boiled through him. Pure, unbridled, anger. He slammed the lid shut on the machine.

  Ebrahimi jerked up into a sitting position on his bedroll. “What is it?” he cried out in surprise.

  Nagpal swung the flight case round in a circle, and smashed it violently into the young man’s face.

  Sergei crashed backwards under the force of the sudden blow, but Nagpal fell to his knees next to him, and kept battering. Lifting the case up again, and again, and again. Smashing the brushed aluminium into the traitor’s head, until the young man’s body went limp.

  Then, his rage vented, Nagpal calmly placed the bloodied case on one side, wiped his hands down his shirt and rose to his feet.

  ~~~~~

  Feeling his PDA buzzing, Jack sprinted across the small courtyard to the back door of the terrorist’s safe house. Inside he could hear the sound of an angry bleeping alarm.

  “In position,” he muttered into his microphone.

  “Ditto,” came Nick’s response.

  The bleeping sounds from inside the house suddenly stopped, only to be replaced by something which sounded like hammering. Wild, mad, angry, wet, hammering. Then it too stopped.

  Little need for stealth now. Someone was alerted.

  “On two,” he said calmly. “One. Two.”

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal heard the sound of doors opening downstairs.

  At least two then.

  He moved silently to the gap in the floor.

  ~~~~~

  The long silenced muzzle of my Browning precedes me into the dark gloom of the downstairs area. I can see Jack in profile, as he enters through the opposite door.

  I sweep the space immediately around me.

  Nothing.

  I head right.

  Looks like some sort of kitchen area.

  I creep forward scanning the floor for anyone asleep.

  Nothing.

  ~~~~~

  Definitely two.

  Nagpal withdrew into the shadows.

  ~~~~~

  Jack quickly swept his area. Something was dripping from the ceiling near one corner. He moved over to it.

  Blood...

  He pulled out his PDA.

  The tracer was still there.

  Not moving.

  Ebrahimi must be upstairs.

  He signalled for Nick to stay quiet, and stood, and listened...

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal readied his Makarov. There was no time to screw on the silencer. He very gently eased the well-oiled slider back, and gripped it tightly as the spring pushed forward, easing the first round almost silently into place under his fingers.

  Safety off...

  He had eight rounds.

  He only needed two.

  ~~~~~

  Silence.

  Jack moved to the foot of the primitive staircase, signalled for Nick to wait, and crept upwards, one plank at a time, until he was just beneath the hole. Gun readied, he gently pushed himself up onto his tiptoes.

  The dark line of the first floor’s planking slid slowly past his eye-line.<
br />
  A hint of silvery moonlight beat almost uselessly against the building’s grimy windows, it was having little effect on the dark shadows. To one side, he could make out the outline of a supine human body. On the other side, a line of boxes were stacked against the far wall.

  Empty...?

  He eased himself up another step, shoulders and weapon thrusting into the upper chamber, and signalled for Nick to climb up behind him.

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal waited.

  ~~~~~

  I creep up, until I’m behind Jack and can also just see into the upper floor.

  He nudges me with one hand, whilst keeping his gun trained toward what look like some old packing crates stacked on the side of the room. He gestures to the opposite side.

  I look where he’s pointing and can see there’s a body lying there.

  I nod.

  He waves three fingers: on three.

  One finger.

  Two fingers...

  ~~~~~

  A burst of rapid footsteps told Nagpal all he needed to know.

  Standing up, he fired straight at the looming shadow scrambling out of the stairwell.

  ~~~~~

  Go!

  I drive forwards, heading for the body with my gun held straight out in both hands. If the body even twitches I’m going to fire, but the room suddenly flares with light, and there’s an ear splitting bang.

  I turn my head to see Jack being picked up, as if by his shoulders, and flung backward into the wall above the hole.

  “NO!” I roar, unable to stop myself.

  My friend hits the masonry and collapses, seemingly lifeless, vanishing into the gaping black stairwell. The muzzle flash has affected my night vision, but in the corner of my eye I can see movement, and spin round to see that Jack’s assailant has risen unexpectedly from a narrow gap behind the boxes.

  Nagpal...

  He is turning toward me.

  In the background I can hear sickening clattering noises, as my partner continues to tumble raggedly down the stairs to the ground floor...

  ~~~~~

  One down.

  The second man is heading toward Ebrahimi, but reacting to the gunshot.

  Nagpal smoothly shifted position, and lined up on him.

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal is turning toward me.

  I heave my shoulders around and pull the trigger, but this is not my preferred weapon. This standard-issue Browning hasn’t been adapted. It’s got a much heavier trigger. Thirty minutes on the side of the road, in the wastelands of Helmand, haven’t been enough preparation for this. I feel the barrel rising in my hands, as I pull with all my strength on the stiff lever.

  Come on!

  Come on!

  It must fire!

  I throw myself into a dive, even as the round finally ignites in my barrel.

  Flames erupt from both weapons, and there’s a roaring explosion from in front of my mortal adversary. A tiny black object hurtles through this moment of brightness, toward me, and slices across the fabric of my battledress. Dull pain flares from the top of my left bicep, but the bullet must only have nicked me. I hear it slam into a wall somewhere behind me as I watch my own projectile blast a hole of exploding concrete dust from the ceiling behind the dark shape of Nagpal’s rapidly approaching silhouette.

  Missed.

  I crash heavily onto the planking.

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal was just pulling his trigger when the second man dived forwards, and he roared in frustration as his shot went wide. His enemy also loosed a round, but the shot flew wildly over his head, and into the ceiling behind him. He stormed forwards as the man hit the floorboards, and stamped down hard on the prostrated wrist so that the man let go of his gun.

  He kicked it away to one side.

  Six shots left.

  Now he only needed one.

  ~~~~~

  Nagpal stamps down hard on my wrist. My dulled senses don’t really register, but reflex makes my fingers let go of the Browning, and he kicks it to one side. I hear it clattering as it tumbles away into the far corner of the room.

  I look up at him. The person responsible for my living nightmare. Wild, crazy eyes, bore down from his pathetically ordinary and unattractive face. Mismatched dirty teeth ring a leering wide smile which splits his unkempt beard.

  I know he is unafraid, unperplexed, unconcerned. I am just another piece of meat lying helplessly in front of his gun. The weapon’s grim black maw is directed toward my eye. I can almost see the bullet that will, most likely, snatch me out of this hell.

  Suddenly he reaches down, grabs my backpack and drags me violently up onto my knees. The move catches me by surprise and, as I start to react, he swings the pistol round catching me somewhere around my jaw line, and the room tilts, and spins, and a myriad of bright flashing sparks swirl across my vision...

  He’s pulling the rucksack off my arms...

  I can feel it...

  We’ve come so far, me and Jack. I’ve come so far. But, in the end, I am only an amateur. How could I have expected to be able to do battle against such brutal evil, against so many years of hard training...

  I’ve been a fool.

  A fool who now kneels, swaying gently, stunned and impotent, in front of the man who has stolen everything from me. My murderer.

  ~~~~~

  “Know this, infidel,” Nagpal growled in English, studying his adversary’s bloodied face for signs of understanding. “You are going to die, here.” The stunned eyes of his enemy turned upwards, struggling to focus on him. They were dark eyes, like two black coals – eyes with no soul – but at least the strange looking man, with a charcoal blackened face, appeared to understand what he was saying.

  “Today I am going to teach you some hard truths about your lies and your meaningless life. I am going to show you the bitter truth behind your false beliefs. I am going to take your miserable life and you will disappear from existence forever. You will pay the ultimate penalty for your actions, and for martyring my true warriors.”

  He leaned closer.

  “Azat Sikand was a mighty man. He would never kneel like you do. He died gloriously and waits in paradise, watching over this brutal undertaking from the heavens. When I succeed, his name will be honoured across my nation for eternity whilst you... you will be forgotten. Lost to memory and rotted to dust, like the dirt you are...”

  ~~~~~

  He is ranting in English in front of me. I’m struggling to focus. Several semi-opaque versions of him swim randomly in front of me.

  I’m not really listening.

  Inside I feel calm.

  I am going to die, and I’ve been waiting for this for a long time...

  For a split second I think about Jack. I feel sad for Jack. I wonder if he’s also on the other side. With you, maybe? I hope not. I hope he is still here. He deserves to live more life. To find himself happiness. To be what we could not.

  I glance round. Where are you then? Where are my ghosts? Are you not coming to welcome me? And where is the deep cold breath of the reaper? Where is the icy touch of his eldritch sickle...?

  Nagpal is laughing. Cackling like some deranged witch. Slowly the many trembling apparitions reconsolidate into one stable image. He looms there, eyes blazing with madness. There is spittle drizzled over his beard hairs.

  “You stinking infidel,” he rages at me. “It is time for you to go and discover that your God is a lie. That your God is a fiction...”

  He is raising the gun. Perhaps he’s finally going to get it over with. I am not going to be humiliated by him. It is over, this great adventure has run its course, and I will wait patiently for the end...

  Come on then.

  Come on then, you evil piece of shit.

  Finish what you started.

  I close my eyes and think of you, and think of Lizzie, and there is a flare of light beyond my eyelids, and I sigh as the roar of a gun swamps his endless bellowing, and his words stop but, for some strang
e reason, I am not dead...

  ~~~~~

  Bin Imraan blinked awake. Someone was hammering at his door.

  “Sayedy, Bin Imraan! Gunfire! There is gunfire at the squatters’ house!”

  He leapt up and grabbed for his coat and Dupatta scarf.

  “Check the goods!” he yelled at the still closed portal. “Warn the men! Protect the drugs!”

  ~~~~~

  I open my eyes.

  Nagpal is still standing in front of me. There is a blackened hole in the middle of his forehead and, through this hole, I can make out a faint silvery glow of moonlight from behind him. His eyes are wide open. Surprised wouldn’t even begin to describe the unimaginable horror that seems to be crossing them.

  He blinks once, and then crumples to the floor.

  Now I can see the triangle of bloody mush which extends behind him. It widens as it spreads across the floor and ends in a broad swathe of red, splashed against the breeze block wall. His brains I presume. There appear to be more of them than I thought there’d be.

  I spin on my knees.

  Ebrahimi is pulling himself upwards against the nearby window frame. In one limp arm he is holding a smoking handgun. Blood is still pouring from his head. His face is a mass of deep cuts and gashes. He slumps, legs barely supporting his weight, half standing, against the wall.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Is Jeyhun dead?” he asks in a quiet voice, ignoring my question.

  “I don’t know,” I answer carefully. I don’t know anyone called Jeyhun. “Possibly?”

  Even given his current frail condition and his position, propped against the brickwork, I see the man’s shoulders sag slightly. He’s staring sightlessly out of the window across the dark suburbs. “I know he is dead,” he mutters. “He died in Berlin. Was it you? Do you know where he rests?”

  I lean to one side, and warily reach out toward my pack which is lying just out of reach. One strap finds my fingers, and I ease it gradually across the floor. “I know nothing about Berlin,” I say carefully. “Who is Jeyhun?”

  “My brother,” he answers.

  I need to keep him talking. “So what now?” I ask.

  He stands quiet for a moment, still staring out into the night, then shrugs to himself. “Our homeland waits. I must return there, must tell my family what has befallen us, and beg for their forgiveness... Then I will leave there, before they are harmed, never to return. There is another life. A quiet life. A peaceful life. I will go to it.”