The Bars That Hold Me (Jay Sullivan Thrillers Book 3)

by Ed Grace

  At first, he just held the vest. Closed his eyes. Ran his fingers over it. Felt the bumps of the various bombs. Felt the beauty of its imminent destruction.

  He put the vest on.

  Put his t-shirt back on.

  And put his coat on.

  He stepped out of the car and locked it — again, wondering why he was bothering to lock it. It wasn’t as if he’d be bothered should someone steal it.

  He crossed the road and walked along Marine Parade. The beach was to his left, and it was full of happy families. For early spring, it was pleasantly hot, and families were spending this weekend relishing the little time they had to enjoy the beach in such nice weather. The winter had been long and cold but it finally felt like it was over, and the children were collecting pebbles and paddling in the sea and throwing frisbees and they all looked so happy.

  He walked past the Sea Life Centre he’d taken his little brother to when they were younger and crossed a roundabout.

  As he approached the pier, a few stalls and food vans with pleasant aromas greeted him. There was coffee, cake, hot dogs, candy floss, crepes, and he felt hungry.

  A small makeshift train went past him, full of tourists about to be driven down the pier and back. Seagulls called out above; the soundtrack to any seaside. He could barely move for people. They knocked into him, and even apologised on occasion.

  He walked further into the pier. The lit-up sign of Brighton Pier welcomed him forward, along with hordes of families, people in swimsuits, and couples with ice creams.

  He was suddenly nervous. His forehead perspired. He tried to be confident, but he felt sick.

  Something made him turn around. He wasn’t sure why; it was instinctive. Like someone was watching him.

  Something felt wrong.

  On the road beside the pier, he saw them.

  A black van parked discreetly, but not discreet enough; it was parked too perfectly, like its driver was trying to appear inconspicuous. Abdul watched the van for a few seconds, long enough to see a glimpse of a firearms police officer open and close the backdoor.

  They knew.

  They were here.

  He peered up and down the pier. They must have noticed him by now.

  He took a deep breath.

  Put his finger on the detonator.

  “Abdul, wait!” shouted a woman’s voice.

  He looked over his shoulder at a woman rushing toward him.

  There was no reason to wait any longer.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Kelly had seen him walking warily onto the pier, looking around. He seemed too cautious, too contemplative. He was looking everywhere, sweating, his facial expression both strong and weak, his body language hunched with a nervous determination.

  Her instincts screamed at her that something was wrong about this man. She did not trust him.

  She stepped away from her bench, put down the newspaper she had been pretending to read, and followed him. It was busy and she struggled to keep sight of him, even at only twenty or so yards away. She had to barge past a few people and ignore a few complaints — but, should she save their lives, she was sure they would let her off a gentle nudge.

  “Clay Ten,” she said, using Jameson’s code name, knowing her hidden mic would pick her up. “Look at the man entering the pier now. Short, wearing a coat.”

  “Roger, Zero Two, I see him,” Jameson’s voice said in her ear. He was further along the pier, watching.

  “Do we know him?”

  “Hang on, we’re checking.”

  As Kelly waited for intel, she continued to trail him.

  He was looking around at everything. The food stands, the families, the signs. His eyes were wide. His hand was clutching something in his pocket.

  Was he the one who’d be committing the act tomorrow?

  She managed to find a small gap in the crowds and stared harder at his pocket. What was he holding? It was like a phone, but slightly bigger.

  His thumb traced something over it…

  “Zero Two this is Clay Ten,” said Jameson. “Target’s name is Abdul Hasar. He has connections to members of Alhami.”

  “He has something in his hand.”

  “What?”

  “It looks like a detonator.”

  “It could be a phone.”

  “It’s not a phone.”

  A moment’s silence responded

  “I’ll make the arrest,” Kelly decided. “Zero Two moving in. Where are the firearms?”

  “Standby, Zero Two.”

  “What?”

  “Stand down, wait for confirmation.”

  “What confirmation?”

  No answer.

  “What is it?” she tried again.

  Another pause.

  “His jacket is too thick,” Jameson said. “He looks like he’s wearing a vest.”

  Kelly followed the target further onto the pier. Jameson was right. His jacket was too thick.

  “The attack is tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  Jameson didn’t answer.

  “Clay Ten, please confirm.”

  “Get off the pier, Zero Two. Get everyone off the pier.”

  “It’s too late for that, they won’t have time; I have to stop him.”

  “Don’t be a fucking hero, Kelly. Evacuate.”

  “The first sign of evacuation and he’ll detonate.”

  “Kelly—”

  “I have no choice. I’m going to try and stall him — tell the firearms to wait. Once I have my hand on the detonator, take him out.”

  The firearms unit readied themselves and approached the pier’s entrance. They could be there in thirty seconds.

  But, just as she saw the target’s hand leave his jacket, she knew thirty seconds would be too long.

  He was about to hit the trigger.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Abdul, wait!” she shouted.

  He stopped walking. Turned. Stared at her.

  “Abdul, my name is Kelly, I—”

  “I don’t care who you are.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  Abdul saw the firearms in the distance, approaching the pier.

  “Clay Ten, he can see the firearms, tell them to hold,” she told Jameson over the radio. The last thing she wanted was to spook a terrorist with an itchy trigger finger, or inspire panic from civilians. Plus, she didn’t know what kind of detonator the target was holding — he could be holding a button down that, when released, set off the bomb; which meant shooting him would be the worst thing they could do.

  “Abdul,” she said, edging closer to him. “Please. We are not who you think we are.”

  She knew that saying such a thing to a man who had been deeply radicalised wouldn’t change his mind — but she didn’t know what else to say. Was she supposed to beg? Plead? Convince him that it was wrong?

  “Abdul, many people will die. They don’t need to.”

  He said nothing.

  He turned back to the pier.

  “Abdul, please.”

  Abdul flexed his fingers around the detonator.

  He shouted, “Allahu Akbar!” then ran further onto the pier.

  “Shit,” said Kelly.

  She looked around frantically at the children with their buckets and the mums with their coffees and the dads with their ice creams and the old couples holding hands and the people having fun with no idea what was about to happen — and she did the only thing she could.

  “Everyone get off the pier!”

  No one paid attention.

  She shouted louder.

  “I am MI5, everyone get off the pier now!”

  A few faces glanced in her direction.

  “There is a bomb! Evacuate! There is a terrorist threat, get off the pier now!”

  Just as she shouted it, the firearms officers came rushing past.

  Now they paid attention. The pier shook under the stampede of feet running for their dear lives.

  Kelly knew it would do
no good, but if she could get them off the pier, then that meant the firearms units could take their shot without anyone in the way. They could do so with minimal casualties.

  She knew this was just wishful thinking.

  The target ran into the nearest building where holidaymakers played on the slots, putting two penny pieces into machines to push out prizes, going through the house of horrors, playing table hockey — all completely unaware.

  She thought, how did we get this wrong?

  “Kelly!” she heard a voice shout from behind her.

  It was Jameson.

  He was evacuating the pier.

  “Kelly, come on!” he insisted, shouting to be heard above the mass of souls fleeing for their lives.

  She knew there was no point. There was no way she could get far enough away from the blast in time. Instead, she ran to the pier’s edge and looked at the sea below.

  She climbed onto the ledge and hesitated.

  It was a big drop. The water was deep. But it was her only option.

  She closed her eyes, took a breath, and jumped.

  As she fell, she thought of her mum and wondered how MI5 would break the news of her death.

  She thought of her job, and wondered how they managed to screw up two attacks so close to each other.

  She thought of Sullivan. A troubled man, but one she loved.

  The blast was loud and left a ringing in her ears.

  She hit the water’s surface and her thoughts ended as she lost consciousness.

  The explosion destroyed the pier, which collapsed on the beach. Jameson, still shouting for his partner, was killed instantly.

  Kelly’s lifeless body sunk lower and lower as the rumble of the pier preceded its collapse.

  HMP Brenthall, United Kingdom

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sullivan did not care who he barged out of the way to get inside — whether it was a screw, an inmate, a psycho, whatever. He’d managed to fade into the background and remain unnoticed by most inmates, but in that moment he did not care who he pissed off. He didn’t even bother going back to his cell — he stopped in the communal area where the television was already on, and both screws and inmates were watching the news.

  “We are getting more reports about the explosion on Brighton Pier,” said the news reporter. “Early reports have confirmed that it was a terrorist attack, although no official statement has been made, and we will update you on this as we find out more. What we do know, however, is that most of the pier has collapsed. Many tourists both on the pier, and on the beach below, have been caught in its destruction.”

  The report cut to an aerial image taken by a helicopter as it hovered over the scene. The end of the pier was a pile of rubble and flames on the beach below. Firefighters were still tackling the blaze, and paramedics were doing what they could to revive the bodies scattered around the pier’s entrance.

  “Whether this is linked to the terrorist attack of Camden Market two weeks ago, has yet to be confirmed, and we are still waiting for comment from Downing Street.”

  At first, Sullivan couldn’t believe it. It was surreal. Like he was underwater, and all the voices were unclear.

  He had recorded the conversation.

  Kelly had translated it.

  It was going to be tomorrow; they were sure of it.

  Except they were wrong.

  Kelly…

  Was she alive?

  She said she was going to be there, staking out the pier… had she survived?

  He rushed to the phone. He hadn’t called her so far, not wanting anyone to make a link between him and an MI5 agent, but in this moment he didn’t care. Clear thinking wasn’t an option. Even if he just heard her voice, just heard her say hello, then he could hang up, knowing she was alive.

  He fumbled over the numbers and, in his commotion, got her number wrong and had to redial.

  He put the phone to his ear.

  Listened.

  Ringing, and ringing, and more ringing, and even more ringing, until, “Hi, I can’t reach the phone right now, but if you would like to leave a message—”

  “Shit,” Sullivan barked, slamming the phone back on the receiver.

  This could mean nothing.

  If she was alive, she was probably in the midst of helping people. The last thing she would think to do was let him know she was okay, especially after how their last exchange went.

  She could still be alive.

  She could be.

  He bowed his head. He was kidding himself. He’d been around death for long enough to know that misguided hope never came to anything.

  So what could he do?

  He could fight his way out of the prison and try to find her. He may or may not manage to get out, but what then?

  The whole operation would be blown.

  There was still going to be another attack. An even bigger one. If he left, he wouldn’t be able to record Azeer’s conversations. If he tried to leave and failed, he’d be moved to solitary confinement. Many, many more lives would die just so he could find out if Kelly was alive.

  But he had to know.

  Then he thought — Kelly had said that she would call him at 9:00 p.m. on Sunday evening. If she was alive, then she would call.

  If she wasn’t alive…

  So he’d have to get through the night, not knowing.

  He could do that.

  Right?

  It dawned on him that he didn’t know if Jameson was alive, either — as, if they were both dead, there would be no one to get him out of prison. He would be stuck inside, probably for the rest of his life, and unable to do anything about the imminent attack.

  So much rested on one phone call.

  He would not be able to get much sleep, he knew that. But he didn’t need it. He was used to surviving on little sleep. As an assassin, he was trained to deal with all kinds of conditions.

  But he had never been trained in what to do when faced with losing someone he cared about.

  He’d lost his wife to murder.

  He’d lost his daughter — albeit, not to murder, but to a different path. He wondered if Talia had seen him on the news, had seen he was captured, and he wondered if she would be pleased or sad.

  Or if she would care at all.

  He wanted to punch something. The wall, a face, whatever — he needed to release his fury.

  His arms were shaking, and he did not know whether that was from alcohol withdrawal or anger.

  “We are now receiving confirmation from the government that Alhami, the terrorist cell who committed the attacks of Camden Market, are also claiming responsibility for this attack. The Prime Minister is due to give a press conference in the next hour where he warns the public of even more attacks to come.”

  Sullivan turned to enter his cell.

  As he did, he saw him. Azeer. Standing outside his cell, watching the television over everyone’s shoulders.

  Sullivan had never seen a man look so smug, and was desperate to beat the look off his face.

  But he had to stop the next attack. He had to keep his rage inside. Had to bury his feelings deep, deep down.

  For now.

  As soon as he was able, he would see to that smug face.

  He swore on the life of his estranged daughter that, when the day came, he would make sure Azeer suffered.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  That night was the slowest night yet.

  He’d forced himself to remain apathetic to everyone he met for so long, and now he didn’t know how to handle caring about someone. He’d told Kelly numerous times that she was nothing to him, that it would never be a relationship, that it was only fucking — yet she was all he could think about. Occasionally he would drift into a light sleep, just so he could wake up again and turn to see if she was there.

  But she was never there.

  And he had no idea if she would ever be in a bed next to him again.

  “Stop it,” he growled to himself and rubbed
his eyes.

  Eventually, the early morning haze appeared outside the small window in his cell, and he gave up trying to sleep. Sunrise was close, and there was little point continuing his attempt at sleeping.

  He stood up. Stretched his back. Filled the kettle. Put it on and found his only sachet of coffee. They weren’t particularly liberal with how much coffee prisoners were allowed. This was because of a druggy who ran out of coke and started snorting coffee instead, only to choke on the granules.

  Even coffee granules were deemed too dangerous for these bloody cretins.

  He contemplated whether to turn on the television. Did he really want to hear more about how much devastation there was?

  Then again, he needed to know what was happening.

  He turned on the television. Sipped on his coffee as he watched a smartly dressed man speak.

  “The current death toll is standing at 107 — but, again, this does not count for the hundreds missing or in intensive—”

  He turned the television off again.

  He was wrong. He didn’t need to know what was happening.

  He spent the hour before breakfast exercising to pass the time, trying to ignore how much his arms shook. He thought he’d be over the alcohol withdrawal by now, but it still persisted, every morning without fail, the sweats and the pains and the aches. He tried a few push ups and a few press ups, but it was a stupid idea.

  All he could think about was Kelly.

  Breakfast came and he queued up for the standard spoonful of crap. Azeer stood further along the queue, a few people between them, and Sullivan tried not to stare but it was all he could do. Even the back of his head looked arrogant, with the folds of his neck beneath the close shave of his hair.

  Sullivan noticed a fork in his hand, and he couldn’t help imagining all the ways he could use that fork to end Azeer’s life.

  Putting it down his throat and choking him on it.

  Press the prongs against his throat until blood seeped past it.

  Force it up Azeer’s nostrils and cover his mouth.

  All these ways, yet he didn’t do one of them. He just collected his shitty breakfast and ate what he could of it before he needed to be sick, then passed the next few hours in his cell.