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

by Ed Grace

  Once they had finished taunting him, they threw the food onto the grubby floor. They loosened the rope, allowing him to eat the food off the floor with his mouth. He had to fight with a rat for the last few bits, but he managed.

  The next day he was waterboarded. Strapped down with his legs elevated in the air, his head covered with a towel, and water repeatedly poured on his face.

  The next day he was left in a cell, naked, in the coldest of temperatures. Every now and then someone would come in and throw a bucket of cold water over him.

  They electrocuted him, beat him, kept him in coffins, rubbed dirt into infected wounds, and forced him to endure rectal feeding and rehydration as an alternative to giving him food and drink.

  This was repeated over and over.

  When the month was up, Alexander entered the cell to collect Sullivan, expecting to find a shell of a man. Sullivan had heard the screams and begging of the other trainees from other cells. They had kept him awake throughout those nights where he had actually been allowed to sleep.

  Alexander released Sullivan’s restraints and shoved some clothes on the floor.

  Sullivan dressed himself and stood up.

  “Are you okay?” Alexander asked.

  Sullivan grinned. “You need to tell your men they are a bunch of pansies.”

  Alexander smiled.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to work.”

  As Sullivan lay in solitary confinement of HMP Brenthall, he thought back to the cocky attitude he’d shown to Alexander, and how silly it had been to put on such a fake bravado. He’d just wanted Alexander to be proud of him. Truth was, he didn’t sleep properly for a long time after that. More than three quarters of the other trainees did not show up to the next day’s training. And those that did were changed. There was no more showing off — there was an understanding that this was serious.

  Just like him, they did not want Alexander to see the nights where they woke up screaming, or lashed out in their sleep. Sullivan craved his approval and did not want to appear broken. He was a cocky nineteen-year-old who had already experienced a childhood of abuse.

  This was just more abuse on top of it.

  What the experience did do, however, was act as motivation. With the memory of what he’d been put through, Sullivan ensured that he was never, ever caught.

  So this solitary confinement was nothing. If these screws thought they could break him, they evidently did not know who they were dealing with. He ignored the discomfort and focused on the mission.

  He had to get out.

  He had to get back to his cell.

  He could not let Azeer give the go ahead for the next attack without Sullivan knowing when and where it would be.

  So he stood at the small window in the door and stared into the empty corridor outside.

  Shouts and screams of other prisoners provided the soundtrack for his impatience.

  Eventually, footsteps approached. A screw emerged, talking with somebody that Sullivan recognised.

  Jason Patricks. The prison governor. He’d only met him two weeks ago, but it felt like much longer.

  “Governor!” Sullivan called out. This was his opportunity; Patricks had the power. If he spoke to him, then maybe he’d be able to get out.

  But Patricks ignored him, just as he ignored the screams that came from the other cells too.

  “Governor! Gov! Listen to me!”

  Sullivan hated being ignored. It had always triggered him. But losing his shit with Patricks was not going to get his attention.

  “Gov! Come on, please!”

  Patricks almost reached the exit, engrossed in conversation with the screw.

  Sullivan couldn’t let him get away. He couldn’t. But he had no way of getting his attention.

  Then he recalled the picture in Patricks’ office.

  “I know Henry Jameson!”

  Patricks stopped walking.

  “I know him! I work with him! Please!”

  Patricks left the screw at the exit and walked over to Sullivan’s cell.

  “How did you know Henry Jameson?” Patricks asked, and Sullivan could detect the sadness in his voice. If they were good friends, then Patricks would still be reeling from his death — enough that it sparked curiosity.

  Sullivan hushed his voice so the screw couldn’t hear.

  “I work with him at MI5.”

  Patricks scoffed.

  “I am,” Sullivan insisted. “I swear.”

  “How do you know he worked for MI5?”

  “Listen to me very carefully — there is going to be another attack. Azeer Nadeem is running the attacks from his prison cell. Jameson put me in prison, in that particular cell, so I can spy on him and find out when the next attack is.”

  “Well then you evidently failed. The attack happened, and Jameson is dead.”

  Hearing it aloud caused Sullivan to stutter, but he ignored it. He had to persist — he had Patricks listening; this was his chance.

  “Jameson was at Brighton Pier because I spied on Azeer and found out this attack was going to be in Brighton. But there’s another one, I swear, and if I am not there to find out when it is then no one will stop it.”

  Patricks leant toward Sullivan.

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?” he said.

  “No, come on, you have to listen to me—”

  “I don’t have to do anything. You are a serial murderer who just tried to escape prison. You are where you belong.”

  “Hundreds of people will die if you don’t listen to me.”

  “Honestly, Mr Sullivan, this is the most ridiculous attempt at escaping punishment I have ever heard.”

  He turned and walked toward the screw waiting at the exit.

  “No, come on!” Sullivan kept shouting. “You have to listen to me! You have to!”

  Patricks and the screw walked through the exit and left without looking back.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  A bucket of freezing cold water was enough to wake Kelly.

  Her memory replayed the last image it had. She was in a cell. Her hands chained to the walls. Stripped. Barely awake.

  She was damn well awake now.

  Except, she wasn’t in a cell anymore. This room was made of stones. It had no natural light. She was shivering from the cold of the room, and the freezing temperature of the water. Her hands weren’t fixed to the wall by chains, but handcuffed behind the chair she sat on.

  To her right was a man wearing a poor attempt at military uniform. It was a camouflage vest over a black top. He wore a taqiyah — a skullcap worn by Muslims.

  The man sitting opposite her wore a better-quality military uniform. He had a large beard and wore glasses. She recognised him. He was a general in the Alhami. His name was Imran Hashir.

  She said nothing. She would not dignify them with conversation. They would get nothing but her silence.

  “Agent Kelly Strong,” Imran said. “Part of MI5. You are trying to figure out what our next target is, yes?”

  Kelly wondered how he knew who she was, then remembered they’d had a leak at MI5. He probably knew everything about her.

  “You did well, but our man was not going to stray from his duty. I hope you realise that Brighton Pier is now just rubble on a beach.”

  She instantly recalled what had happened. There was an explosion and a lot of people would be dead, including Jameson.

  She had fallen into the sea, she remembered that… but what then? She fell unconscious… Why hadn’t she drowned?

  These people must have saved her. They wanted her alive, and there could only be one reason why:

  They needed information.

  Kelly had to resist giving it to them.

  “I have one question for you,” Imran said. “Should you answer it promptly, and to our satisfaction, this will all be over. Do you understand?”

  Kelly did not respond.

  Imran didn’t need her to.

  “How did you know ab
out our demonstration on Brighton Pier?”

  Ah, of course, his informant at MI5 would not know how Kelly had discovered there was going to be an attack on Brighton Pier. Imran would be thinking about Alhami’s final attack; he would want to ensure that they wouldn’t be compromised again.

  She was their only way of finding answers, and that made her life far more valuable to them than it was to her.

  “How did you know about Brighton Pier?” he repeated.

  Kelly gave no reaction whatsoever.

  Imran nodded to the soldier at Kelly’s right. This soldier picked up another bucket of freezing cold water and threw it over Kelly.

  It was so cold that it was practically ice. In fact, she was sure she could feel a few bits of ice prick her skin. It hurt. She shivered profusely, her entire body tensing. Her feet and hands went numb.

  Despite the pain, the true terror came in the humiliation of being sat there, naked, wet, and at the mercy of the man who represented Alhami.

  “How did you know about Brighton Pier?”

  She couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t let herself.

  Whatever they did, she could not let herself.

  Assuming Jameson was dead, there was no one else but Sullivan who knew how to stop the next attack. He may be stuck in prison with no one able to release him, but he was still their only hope, and she could not give him away.

  She could not let the man she loved get hurt because of a mission she had brought him into.

  For Sullivan’s life, she had to persevere.

  She took a big, deep breath.

  She knew what happened to the prisoners Alhami took. She’d seen the remains. Barely any of them came out alive, and those that did were no longer able to function as a healthy person would.

  A little bit of water would be nothing compared to what was to come.

  It took everything she had to conjure the mental resilience she needed. It was time to take a deep breath, prepare for the worst, and endure.

  “How did you know about Brighton Pier?” Imran repeated.

  She looked into his eyes and gave him nothing.

  Imran nodded at the soldier.

  The soldier left for a moment, then came back in with some kind of device. Kelly saw it and knew instantly that she was to be electrocuted.

  The soldier put his boot on her back and pushed her to the floor.

  Her face hit the hard stone and sent a vibration through her skull.

  She felt the end of a wire attach to her genitalia.

  “How did you know about Brighton Pier?”

  Kelly closed her eyes and thought of home. Thought of her country. Thought of Sullivan.

  Imran nodded at the soldier.

  Chapter Forty

  Patricks continued his walk around the prison, as he did every week. He didn’t want to be an invisible prison governor, like he knew many of his peers at other prisons were. He wanted to make his face known. He wanted to ensure that the prisoners knew who he was. Therefore, when it came time to discipline or to lend an understanding ear, he wasn’t an unknown in their lives.

  The one thing most of these men never had was consistency. Whether in their upbringing, their lifestyle, or what have you — and he believed that a prison was there to both punish and reform; even if the government had not given prisons the funding or resources to be able to achieve such goals.

  Ralph, the prison officer accompanying him, took him through D Wing. It was the hour of the day that prisoners were let out, and he nodded at a few as he walked past their games of pools and conversations. Some hated him, of course, seeing him as the authority figure who, just like every other authority figure in their lives, was there to boss them around and take away privileges, and those prisoners scowled in an attempt to intimidate him. But there were also those who appreciated his presence; he had witnessed many inmates self-harming or attempting suicide or secretly crying over the inability to overcome their drug addiction, and those prisoners were the ones who would come to his aid should any of the more sinister inmates attempt to hurt him.

  They left D Wing, and the prison officer accompanied him to the final wing. E Wing.

  The atmosphere on E Wing was different. People played pool, but they did so silently. People watched television but sat stoically. In fact, there were very few inmates using the time outside in the courtyard that they were allowed.

  He walked into the courtyard and saw why. Azeer Nadeem sat with his group, making a lot of noise. Rowdy banter, shouting out vile rap lyrics, and scowling at anyone who looked their way.

  One prisoner stood up with a huff and went to leave. Azeer charged over to him, saying, “What are you huffing about?”

  Patricks walked further into the courtyard and let his presence be known.

  “Good afternoon, Azeer,” he said.

  Azeer let the prisoner walk on and turned to Patricks. Azeer said nothing, but he grinned; a knowing grin, like there was so much that Patricks didn’t know.

  “Is everything okay?” Patricks asked.

  Azeer didn’t answer. He looked over his shoulder at his crew, who all sniggered.

  “I asked you a question, Azeer.”

  Azeer stepped forward. “I heard you.”

  Patricks glanced at the prison officer beside him, then back to Azeer.

  “Is there a problem, my friend?”

  “I don’t know. Is there, gweilo?”

  Patricks frowned. He resented the word gweilo. He did not use derogatory remarks about Azeer’s race, and he did not expect Azeer to make them about his.

  Before this confrontation could continue, the prison officer intervened.

  “Alright, get back before I move you back to your cell,” the prison officer said, and Azeer backed away, returning to his group whilst leering at Patricks.

  There was something that bothered Patricks about this exchange — it was more than just an attempt at intimidation. He did not feel like the word gweilo had been used as a whim, but as a deeper hatred.

  Patricks realised something and, as he did, he could not believe what he was about to do.

  “Take me back to solitary confinement,” he said.

  “You want to go back to segregation?” the prison officer replied, as if this was the most preposterous thing anyone had ever said.

  “Just do it.”

  The prison officer did not protest any further. He led Patricks through the prison, unlocking each door to let them through, then ensuring each of these doors were locked behind them.

  They reached the door to the solitary confinement cells and, as the prison officer unlocked and opened the door, Patricks turned to him and said, “Wait here.”

  The prison officer waited as Patricks walked in and stopped at Sullivan’s cell.

  “Mr Sullivan,” he said, pausing at the window.

  Sullivan leapt up from the bed.

  “Yeah?” he said eagerly.

  Patricks hesitated.

  This was a foolish move, yet his gut overruled any sense he had.

  “If you are lying to me…” Patricks warned.

  “I am not,” Sullivan said, confidently. Patricks had imagined that most inmates in Sullivan’s position would try to plead with him, but Sullivan didn’t seem the man to beg — he was assertive with his desperation.

  “If I find out you are, you will be spending the rest of your time here in solitary confinement.”

  “I’m not. Now get me out.”

  “Fine. I will get the officer to return you to your cell.”

  He looked Sullivan up and down, then turned to speak to the officer.

  “There is one more thing,” said Sullivan.

  Patricks turned his head slowly, in disbelief at the impudence.

  “Whatever could that be?”

  “I am going to need an Arabic to English dictionary,” Sullivan said. “And I am going to need it now.”

  Chaman, Pakistan

  THREE YEARS AGO

  Chapter Forty-One
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  The training was relentless, and Zain was quickly learning to survive on little sleep. He spent most of his days wiping sweat out of his eyes and willing himself to persevere despite the stitches and fatigue.

  Whilst he finally had a place where he felt like he belonged, he had still never felt so alone. He missed his parents. He hated to admit it, and he would never say it aloud, but he really did. He missed just being able to talk to them.

  Unfortunately, rules in the compound were strict. He was not allowed a phone, meaning he couldn’t talk to his family. He thought about sending them a letter, but he was rarely allowed away from the camp. He considered whether his parents ever wondered where he was, and if they would be proud of him if they knew what he was doing.

  He tried to speak to the others, but conversations were always in Arabic, and those that did speak English often had a limited grasp on the language. He wasn’t even allowed to know the general’s names.

  Azeer seemed to appreciate how isolated Zain felt and, although he never acknowledged Zain’s loneliness, he compensated for what Zain was missing in a friend and a father. He would often visit Zain to check how he was, and would tell Zain that he was eventually going to do something great with his life — and that his moment of glory wasn’t far away.

  Just a few years, in fact.

  Meanwhile, he engaged in the training and committed himself as best as he could. After becoming annoyed with being unable to understand what was said during the talks, he took it upon himself to learn Arabic. Within weeks, he had a mild understanding of the language, being able to say basic words such as “hi,” “how are you” and “what is for tea?”

  He was taught how to make bombs out of ordinary household supplies. It didn’t take long until Zain could take a fertiliser or paint stripper and create an explosive. Some others managed it quicker than he did, but it didn’t matter, he still managed to build sufficient bombs within months.

  He was taught how to assemble and shoot guns. AK-47s seemed to be the weapon of choice. It was a 7.62x39mm assault rifle originally developed by the Soviet Union. Zain didn’t really understand what that meant, but that was okay. He just had to put the gun together and shoot.