by Ed Grace
Zain looked over his shoulder and nodded.
“If they even suspect who you are and what you are planning to do, they will shoot you in the head. Do you understand?”
“But how do they know—”
“Because Azeer Nadeem shot civilians outside.”
“Is Azeer okay?”
“No, Zain. He isn’t. I killed him.”
Zain scowled. He went to step away from Sullivan, but Sullivan took hold of his arm and kept him close.
“Now’s not the time. You can take vengeance on me all you want later. But for now, you have to make a decision.”
“What?”
“Either blow up this airport, or leave with me.”
Zain stared at the firearms police, who were shouting for everyone to get down.
“And I’d hurry, Zain. Because it won’t take them long to find you.”
Sullivan smiled a sad smile.
This poor human being looked so, so scared.
“So what do you want, Zain?”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
“So what do you want Zain?”
Those words rang around Zain’s mind like they were echoing around a cave.
He stared at the firearms units.
Not long.
He had a detonator in his hand.
He had a man saying he could help him escape.
And yet the question, what do you want, was the one he could not escape.
What did he want?
He wanted Fahad to never have died. He wanted the bastards who killed Fahad to pay for killing him. He wanted the racists who stabbed him and left him for dead to pay for what they did, and not get away with it like they had.
He wanted to have a purpose beyond the ordinary. He wanted to stand for something. To be part of something grander.
He wanted his family to be proud of him. He wanted his father to love him, not for who they wanted him to be, but for who he was.
But, as he looked back at Sullivan, ignoring the shouts and the commotion and the terror, he wished he was as confident as this man was.
To have witnessed the horrors he’d witnessed and still be as calm and rational as he was.
“I—” Zain began to say.
“What?” Sullivan prompted. “What is it? What do you want?”
“I — I want to not be scared anymore. More than anything, I just don’t want to be scared.”
He was crying. He felt pathetic.
But Sullivan didn’t treat him like he was pathetic.
He put his arm around Zain’s back, pressed his head onto his shoulder, and hugged him.
Such a small gesture, one that we’re taught isn’t manly — but one that made all the difference.
“Right,” Sullivan said. “Get the vest off, quickly.”
Watching to see if the firearms had seen, Sullivan helped Zain lift his top off and undo the Velcro of his vest. Sullivan discarded it and its detonator on the ground, then Zain put his t-shirt back on.
“This way,” Sullivan instructed, and they ran toward the firearms units.
“What are we doing?” Zain objected.
“We need to get past them to leave.”
“But look at me — they’ll shoot me just for being Muslim.”
Sullivan looked Zain in the eyes, and said, “Trust me.”
So Zain did.
They ran through the airport and, as they reached the firearms unit, one of the officers stopped them.
Another pointed their gun at Zain’s head.
Zain closed his eyes. Flinched. Got ready for the bullet to fire through his brain.
But nothing happened.
The officer frisked him. They patted his legs, his chest, his arms, and then, when they were done, the officer turned back to his colleagues.
“He’s clean,” the officer said.
“Thank you,” Zain said, though he wasn’t sure why.
“Told you,” Sullivan said, with a little grin, and they ran out, following the crowds.
Zain looked to either side of him as he did. There were families running, kids running, old people running — and Muslims running.
He looked at them, astounded that people were not fleeing from him or these other followers of Islam. They were all running to safety together.
“Target found!” he heard an officer shout.
They’d found the vest. Still running, Zain tensed, and looked at Sullivan, who just carried on walking.
Sullivan glanced over his shoulder and, just as he did, he was sure he saw someone.
Someone who made him pause.
The woman next to the bomb vest… The face was familiar…
Her eyes met his.
Could it be?
His heart raced even harder, just for a moment.
Then he realised he was seeing things.
He wished it could be true, but it was delusions of an ageing, tired mind.
He shook his head to himself.
Kelly is dead.
He wished she wasn’t. He wished he could undo all the nasty things he’d said, but she was dead.
It was like when he saw Talia in his dreams. It was just wishful thinking, nothing more.
He turned, and he did not hesitate.
They carried on going, and left the airport.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Kelly had left the boot of the car to find Azeer Nadeem’s corpse on the floor. There were two others who were dead, too, but this didn’t look like the work of the firearms unit, there were no bullets in Azeer’s body.
Which made her wonder…
Had Sullivan found a way?
She looked up. She was at Heathrow Airport.
Oh, God…
She panicked.
She entered the airport, greeted by a woman’s voice telling people to evacuate. A mass of people ran toward her, racing toward the exits.
She ignored them, put her arms in front of her face, forced her way through the mass of bodies, and emerged into the terminal — people still pushed past her, but she was no longer surrounded. She looked around, at the empty coffee shop, at the empty money exchange counter, at the empty waiting area.
And then she saw him. Up a level, far into the distance.
Sullivan.
The firearms units were a few metres in front of her, searching for the attacker. She recognised the scared-looking boy standing opposite Sullivan as the man she’d seen praying with Azeer.
But Sullivan was not beating up this boy. In fact, it looked like they were talking.
This man, a former assassin who Kelly had been told was a cruel, cold-blooded monster, stood opposite a boy he could quite easily take down. He could get that detonator off the boy and stop this instantly.
But he didn’t.
Why didn’t he?
Then again — why hadn’t the boy hit the detonator yet?
Then something remarkable happened.
Sullivan, whom Jameson had claimed was a ruthless murderer, put his hand on Zain’s back, and pulled him in close.
They hugged.
Kelly wasn’t sure Sullivan had ever hugged her, but he hugged this boy.
She felt herself crying.
Sullivan had done so much to resist her affection, to insist that he was not in love, to prove he was this blunt, uncaring man — yet here he was, proving her wrong.
He helped the boy remove his bullet proof vest, placing it on the floor along with the detonator.
And they ran.
They paused for the firearm’s unit to frisk them, then they kept running.
She reached her arm out, unable to believe he was actually here.
“Jay…”
But he didn’t see or hear her. He rushed straight past, preoccupied with getting the boy to safety.
She watched him disappear into the crowd. How could he not see her?
She wanted to go after him, but her job was her priority. She ran up the stairs and to the vest.
She waved her arms at t
he firearms.
“I’m from MI5, it’s here!”
“Target found!” one of them shouted.
They ran to her, and radioed in the bomb squad. Their voices melded into the background as Kelly stared at the back of Sullivan’s head.
Then, just as he was about to disappear out of sight, he looked back.
He saw her.
Their eyes met.
Finally, he saw her.
She held his gaze, willing him to come back to her, to be as happy to know she was still alive as she was to know he was okay.
She was about to run to him, about to leap into his arms, to kiss him, to listen to him apologise and tell her it would all be okay.
She’d tell him what she’d suffered for him, and he would thank her. He’d say he loved her. He’d say he was a fool.
But he didn’t.
He looked away, then kept on running.
Despite looking at her, despite knowing she was okay, that she was still alive, he kept on running.
That was how much she meant to him.
The man she’d been tortured for did not even care that she was still alive.
Maybe he didn’t love her after all. Maybe he’d actually meant everything he said.
“Goodbye,” she said, so quietly only she could hear it.
She tried to stay and help, but the adrenaline soon ran out, and she collapsed from the pain and fatigue of the past few weeks.
She’d wake up in a hospital a few days later.
And she’d never see Sullivan again.
Southend, United Kingdom
THREE MONTHS LATER
Chapter Seventy
They had stayed hidden, at first.
After all, they were wanted men.
Sullivan watched the news reports on the television. They reported how he had escaped from prison, and was once again on the government’s most-wanted list.
It was no different to how it had always been.
He was wanted by many governments and gangsters. There was always a price tag on his head. Soon, his face would stop being printed in newspapers, the media would move onto another story and he’d just keep moving from place to place as he always did.
As for Zain, they had to make sure no one was after him. Zain had walked through the airport, and he had dumped the vest, and CCTV would have caught his journey. The question was whether they had identified him.
They hid in Lisbon for a few months before returning to the United Kingdom; somewhere close enough to home that they could return quickly, but busy enough that they could disappear.
As it was, it didn’t appear that they had identified Zain. CCTV images were broadcast of him walking through Heathrow as the news reported on a foiled terrorist attack, but Zain rarely looked up. One of the benefits of the boy’s lack of confidence was that he always looked to his feet. All they had was a video of a man they couldn’t recognise.
The police appealed for help and seemed to become more and more desperate for a lead.
Still, Sullivan wasn’t stupid — he knew they could be pretending not to know who Zain was to lull them into a false sense of security. They didn’t take the risk.
Of course, one may wonder why Sullivan was protecting a potential terrorist and a former Alhami member. He could hand Zain over to the police, of course. They could charge him. Maybe even torture him, if they believed that he had more information. But he was just a kid, and he did not deserve to be persecuted for his anger. His path had been wayward, and he had stumbled into an awful situation, but it was not his fault.
It was a path this world had created for him.
More specifically, that this country had created for him.
If it hadn’t been for a brutal act of racism when Zain was just sixteen years old, committed by products of prejudice buried deep within society, then he wouldn’t have been so angry. It was a vicious cycle — they would kill Zain’s friends, Zain would kill their friends, so they would kill Zain’s friends and Zain would kill theirs and it would not stop.
Besides, if Sullivan had not witnessed an act of murder at sixteen years old, maybe he would not have started his own vicious cycle.
Different walks of life still followed the same path.
He smirked as he pulled off the motorway. He just invented his very own cliché. He wondered if it would catch on.
Eventually, Sullivan brought the car to a stop outside the house Zain had put into the Sat Nav. Zain didn’t get out, and they sat in the same silence they’d been in for the entire journey.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sullivan said.
“Nah, I got to do it sometime.”
“We can wait.”
“I have to face them. I have to, I just…”
Zain looked at his fidgeting hands.
“What if they don’t accept me back?” he asked.
“They might not.”
“You think?”
“If you hurt them so much, then they may be angry. Who knows?”
“So what do I do then? Just leave?”
“God, no. You stay.”
Zain looked confused.
“Even if they are pissed off?”
“Especially if they are pissed off. Show them you mean business. If they give you a shitty time, then you admit you deserve it and have a shitty time.”
“I just don’t—”
“Hey — at least you still have a family.”
Zain nodded.
He took a deep breath, readied himself, and opened the door.
Then he paused. Looked back at Sullivan.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What do you mean, what about me?”
“You got any family to go back to?”
“No. Besides, the whole country’s hunting me. I’ll find somewhere abroad to stay for a few months where no one cares. Somewhere I can disappear.”
“Then what?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Who knows?”
Zain went to speak, then struggled over his words.
“How do I say thank you?” he asked.
“What?” Sullivan was a little startled.
“For what you’ve done.”
“You can thank me by going in there and facing your family, you bloody idiot.”
Zain smiled. He held out his hand for a handshake — not a formal one, but one where his arm lifted upwards.
Sullivan took it.
Zain winked.
Damn, this kid was slick.
He left the car. Closed the door. Nodded.
Sullivan watched as he walked down the path.
Zain paused. Looked at his feet, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.
The door opened.
A woman stood there. Staring at him.
They did nothing at first.
Then Zain spoke. Sullivan couldn’t tell what he said, but the minute he finished, his mother burst into tears, crying with such anguish that it took her to her knees.
Zain went to his knees with her, placing his arms around her as she wept.
His father appeared.
Zain said something to him, something that looked like, “I’m so sorry.”
His father didn’t join the hug, but he put a hand on Zain’s back.
They went inside the house and closed the door.
Sullivan was a little jealous. He’d lost everyone he’d ever loved. Whether it be his abusive parents, his loving wife, his daughter, or even Kelly.
Talia was still alive, but he had no idea where she was. Maybe they’d find each other again someday, who knows?
But at least Zain had avoided Sullivan’s fate. At least he’d done that.
In twenty years’ time, Zain would be living in his own home with kids and a wife. Not spending his time drinking in a bar like Sullivan.
But Sullivan couldn’t wait around. He couldn’t risk being seen. He had to leave.
So he drove on. Onto the motorway, to the airport, and to another country.
&nbs
p; Maybe someday he’d have a daughter again. Maybe someday he’d have some resemblance of life. Or, maybe he’d learn to just be content with being alive.
Whatever happens, Zain had given him hope. This boy had overcome his anger, and was now free to have whatever life he wished to have.
Zain had been freed from his prison and, someday, maybe Sullivan hoped that he could be freed from his.
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Also by Ed Grace
Titles in the Jay Sullivan Series
Assassin Down
Kill Them Quickly
The Bars That Hold Me
A Deadly Weapon
The End of a Life (Novella)
Copyright © 2020 by Rick Wood / Ed Grace
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
London Heathrow Airport
Chapter 1
London, United Kingdom
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Southend, United Kingdom
Chapter 8
London, United Kingdom
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13