Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

  ‘What you going to do about Imran?’

  I blew my cheeks out and followed it with a shrug.

  ‘From what you’ve told me, he was once part of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris, he knows the terrain and he’s trained in combat. I would feel a lot better if you went together.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘The man’s just lost his family. He’s half the man he used to be.’

  Idris stood up in front of me and placed both hands on my shoulder.

  ‘I know that, Jay,’ Idris smiled. ‘But he’s still twice the man you are.’

  A fist bump, a shoulder bump and a silent look passed between Idris and I, and then he was gone. I watched him jog down my path, into the rain, and step into an Uber. I closed the door behind him and then placed my head against it. I still wasn’t sure what the right decision was. Nevertheless, a decision had been made.

  ‘Jay.’ I turned away from the door and Lawrence was standing in the hallway, a look on his face that screamed desperation. He needed me. Again, MI5 needed me.

  I glanced over his shoulder into the living room. Imy was still in the armchair, cracking his knuckles one finger at a time, one hand and then the other. I could see arthritis in his future. It didn’t look as though time had cooled his temper.

  We remained in the hallway and keeping my voice low, I said, ‘If I agree to this, what happens?’

  ‘Full disclosure,’ Lawrence said, with his palms up.

  I snorted. ‘I think you and I have pretty different definitions of full disclosure, but go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘I want to make it clear from the off,’ Lawrence started, all business now, ‘we will provide you with the resources that you may require but we can offer you very little in regards to protection. The choice to travel to Islamabad is a choice that you have made. Our official position is to deny.’

  I nodded in agreement and without argument. I’d been there before. This was the Secret Service keeping their hands clean, whilst somebody else did the dirty work. They would step in only when the target was met and then take all the plaudits. Fuck ’em, I wasn’t doing this for plaudits.

  Lawrence continued. ‘You’ll travel by road from Islamabad to the Ghurfat-al-Mudarris training camp in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. We have intel that this site is now redundant, but the keeper still resides there. He will be your first point of contact.’

  ‘Mustafa,’ I said, pushing aside the harrowing memories.

  ‘That’s right. Mustafa Mirza, he trained you on your last visit. According to your debriefing notes, you still have a good relationship, a shared history. Use it. We need Mirza to talk.’

  ‘And him,’ I gestured vaguely in Imy’s direction in the living room.

  ‘Imran will use his contact to arrange transport from airport to camp. After that he will be relaying progress reports directly to me. Imran Siddiqui is still regarded as a member of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris so suspicion should not fall on him.’

  I beckoned Lawrence closer to me, and dropped my already low tone to a whisper.

  ‘What’d you mean still regarded as a member? He failed to carry out the fatwa on me. I’m pretty sure Ghurfat-al-Mudarris ain’t that forgiving.’

  ‘The fatwa was not common knowledge within the ranks. They kept that knowledge in very close quarters. Those in the know have been killed.’

  I nodded. It kinda made sense. When Sheikh Ali Ghulam placed a hit on me, he kept that shit under wraps in fear of retaliation from Bin Jabbar and his band of loyal followers. So Imy’s involvement wouldn’t have been known.

  ‘All right,’ I said, summarising, ‘Imy will arrange transport to the training camp in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, where we’ll meet up with Mustafa, and then… Then what?’ I waited a couple of seconds, and then I waited a few seconds more. Lawrence pursed him lips. ‘Are you telling me that’s it? That’s the plan!’ I said, and I think I hammered a nerve.

  ‘We can send out armed forces and turn the country upside down until Bin Jabbar falls out of whatever goddamn tree they’ve hidden him in, but we cannot risk the exposure. So, yes, Jay, that is actually it. It’s you, and it’s Imran! Now, am I wasting my time here or are you in?’

  I let him sweat for a moment before I answered. ‘Yeah, I’m in.’

  ‘Good, that’s good.’ Lawrence nodded, trying his hardest not show his obvious relief, but the relief was incomplete. He walked back into the living room, I hung back and peered in through the door. Imy had stopped cracking his knuckles and was staring into the middle distance.

  ‘Jay is on board,’ Lawrence said. ‘He’ll be accompanying you to Islamabad.’

  Imy got to his feet, he answered Lawrence as he glared at me.

  ‘I don’t need him. I’m doing this on my own.’

  Chapter 40

  Imy

  I slammed the front door shut as I walked out of Jay’s house, I slammed the car door behind me as I got into my Prius, and I slammed my head back against the headrest. I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed heavily through my nose as the rain beat against my windscreen.

  When Jay had made the comment about me ‘moping around’ I wanted to knock his head clean off his shoulders and crush his skull under my boot. He was sorry as soon as the words left his big mouth, but I wanted more. I wanted him to take it back, I wanted Jay to take it all back to how it used to be.

  What the hell was Lawrence thinking putting me in the same room as him? How could he expect for us to work together after everything that had happened between us? I couldn’t care less that he’d previously worked in some capacity with MI5; it was clear that he had been employed for who he was, rather than any discernible skill-set. The rain continued to snap relentlessly, threatening to break through my windscreen and drown my thoughts. I had to consider the angles and adapt. Tomorrow morning Jay would be travelling to Islamabad, regardless of my decision. His presence alone was going to throw everything into chaos. We’d be there at the same time, treading on the same ground, searching for the same man.

  The only difference was that Jay had something that I couldn’t offer.

  He had something that neither MI5 nor any of the other authorities combined could offer.

  He had his name.

  That alone would give him an advantage. As soon as he set foot in Islamabad Airport, there was a strong chance his name would be flagged. Word would reach far and wide. It was an advantage that I didn’t have, an advantage that could see Jay get to his father before I could.

  I couldn’t allow that.

  The alternative, which I refused to consider, but which was now all I could think about: I travel with Jay. Work beside him. Guide and bend him to my advantage, in full knowledge that my absolute thirst for revenge would destroy him.

  I started my car and shifted it into gear. I glanced in the rear-view mirror, the red glow of the brake light illuminated Jay. He tentatively walked towards the car. I gripped the steering wheel and took a breath, followed by another, deeper, as my eyes dully moved in rhythm with the wipers.

  Jay knocked on the glass and from the corner of my eye I could see him half-crouched by the window. I turned to face him, his hair plastered over his forehead from the downpour. I watched him through the glass for a moment, his features distorted through the condensation, but I could see him, I could see his face. A constant reminder of what I’d once had, of what I’d lost.

  He motioned for me to slide the window down.

  I did.

  For a moment he didn’t say anything. Unsure, uncertain, his eyes everywhere but on me. He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it back to something that resembled his hairstyle, just before the rain flattened it again.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ he said, his words barely reaching me as they dissipated into the rain. ‘Will you help me find my dad?’

  Chapter 41

  The Ford Focus sat in near darkness in the disused aircraft hangar and in relative safety. Omar and Tommy had reached the meeting point in Coventry early, and without further inciden
t. Omar’s nerves had been shredded, his carefully orchestrated plan had almost come apart, but he was close now.

  He twirled the nose stud in between his fingers as he waited patiently, casting glances at Tommy who was sleeping in the passenger seat. Omar wondered how, after everything, he could sleep so soundly. He would be glad to see the back of him, and the sooner the better. Tommy was starting to worry Omar.

  How they had managed to make it there, Omar still couldn’t get his head around. It had been going so well, too well. Robinson had sung like a bird and Omar had ensured that word quickly reached his Al-Muhaymin contact. The wheels were turning, spinning, and the rescue of Abdul Bin Jabbar from the hands of his captors was underway. Omar Bhukara had achieved what many thought was unachievable.

  He closed his eyes and sighed, then shivered. It wasn’t exactly the feeling of elation that he expected from his triumph. What he had learnt along the way disturbed him greatly.

  His comrade, gently snoring next to him, was a fucking sociopath, and a liability. And Javid Qasim, the son of their great leader, was a traitor.

  When Omar and Tommy had left the house in Osterley, Omar had expected them to be collared by dirty white hands. Instead they were able to walk freely to his Mercedes AMG, which was parked on a street parallel to Jersey Way. A second car, an unremarkable Ford Focus bought and paid for in hard cash, waited for them a short drive away in an underground car park in West Drayton to transport them to Coventry.

  What Omar didn’t anticipate was that they would be tailed to the underground car park. And what Omar didn’t fucking anticipate was that there would be a shoot-out, or that he’d now be an accomplice to the cold-blooded murder of an MI5 agent. How could he have foreseen it? It was beyond anticipation.

  Any other day, and from a safe distance, Omar would not have been more pleased at the news that the Kafirs had been on the receiving end of another lashing by a Brother. He would have rejoiced in it, taken to social media, under one of his many accounts, and waxed lyrical about it. Revelling in the hatred coming from those who felt the injustice, and the love from the like-minded.

  Problem was, he wasn’t at a safe distance. Omar had been right in the mix. Finding himself shrinking in his seat, his eyes locked on two MI5 agents carefully approaching his car. One white male. One Asian female. Dressed like civilians in dark jeans and black trainers, but holding official badges high in one hand, the other hand wrapped around the guns on their side holsters.

  Omar had worked too hard and for too long, creating a role suited to his skill-set. His position was designed so he would never have to be in this position! He didn’t want to die for The Cause, or be locked up for it either. He was too smart for that. But with the agents closing in on them, Omar had found himself lost in indecision. Next to him, Tommy hadn’t suffered from any such doubt. Without word and without hesitation, Tommy had stepped out of the Merc. Partially shielded behind the car door, he raised one hand in surrender with the other hand coming up behind holding the Glock that he’d taken from Jay.

  A finger on the trigger, scratching an age-old itch.

  Tommy put one in the shoulder of the white agent, and Omar watched him spin like a top before dropping. The other agent, in a series of small predictable actions, released her weapon from the holster, raised the gun and steadied her arm as she flicked the safety off.

  In that time Tommy simply swung around a fraction, the Glock a natural extension of his arm, and unloaded into her chest with a little more intent, a little more menace, pulling the trigger until the gun clicked empty. She was dead before she fell.

  Tommy ducked his head back in the car and calmly instructed Omar to ‘Move!’ as he walked across the car park to the waiting Ford Focus. Omar stepped out of his Merc and tentatively walked around the squirming body of the white MI5 agent and the still body of the female agent with the brown skin.

  They travelled the two-hour journey, covering 109 miles from West London to Coventry, with Tommy slouched in the passenger’s seat like a man without a care. It had made Omar uncomfortable; the dynamic between them had altered.

  But Omar was a man of his word. Tommy had carried out the job professionally. As agreed, and as deserved, Omar would pay him in the form of automatic weapons and ammunition, and the documentation for Tommy to start a new life under a new name. After which, Omar would shake Tommy’s hand, wish him good luck in his Jihad and walk away, content, in the other direction.

  Like his father before him, Omar was a facilitator, somebody who had the power and the contacts to put weapons of destruction into the hands of young Muslims, to carry out their God-given duty. But unlike his father, Omar did not have to impress upon them the importance of Jihad. Muslims were aware enough, angry enough, their people had suffered enough, to walk into war without guidance or recruitment.

  From that suffering a new breed of Jihadi was emerging. One who had taken the teachings of Al-Mudarris and retaliated in kind. The Lone Jihadi was rising from cult to phenomenon. The longer that Omar had spent in his company, the more certain he was that Tommy was the very definition of a Lone Jihadi.

  ‘Wake up,’ Omar said, more confidently than he was feeling. But he had to exert some power. ‘It’s almost time.’

  Tommy blinked open his eyes and checked his surroundings through the windscreen. It was hard to make anything out as they were in darkness. In the absence of vision, his ears tuned in to the rain hammering and rattling the arched metal roof of the old abandoned aircraft hangar.

  ‘Sort yourself out. He’ll be here soon.’

  Tommy sat up in his seat. He leaned across to check the time on the dashboard and couldn’t help but notice Omar flinch.

  ‘What is it?’ Tommy asked, knowing exactly what had Omar on edge.

  ‘What is what?’ Omar shrugged in his seat, trying not to show his discomfort.

  ‘It had to be done.’

  ‘I know,’ Omar said, looking towards the large metal doors, waiting for them to slide open so he could make the deal and part company with Tommy.

  Tommy turned in his seat to face Omar, waited until their eyes met. ‘I did what I had to do. To survive. To keep my Jihad alive.’

  Omar forced himself to hold Tommy’s gaze. He took a moment before he replied. ‘I know.’ He snatched his eyes away, back to the metal gates.

  ‘Don’t get it the wrong way round, Omar,’ Tommy said. ‘I don’t care that she was a woman and I don’t care that she was brown. Like you and me, she chose a side.’

  Omar nodded slowly, as the thoughts in his head organised themselves in justification. The Asian agent had pulled a gun on them. As Tommy had said, she chose a side.

  The metal gate in front of them rattled before being pulled across. They both squinted their eyes as headlights lit up a single figure holding an umbrella over his head. Even from a distance it was clear from his form that it was Omar’s contact.

  ‘That him?’ Tommy asked. Omar nodded. ‘What’d you say his name was?’

  Omar flashed his headlights once and the man turned away, collapsed his umbrella and got into the VW camper van.

  ‘Wasim,’ Omar replied. ‘Come on.’

  They stepped out of the car as the van pulled up beside them. Wasim switched the engine off but left the headlamps on. He stepped out of the van, tall and broad with fat that had once been muscle from his days as a promising Pakistani wrestler. Omar’s father had told him many stories about Wasim. How his parents had sent him to England in the early seventies to study when his career was cut short by a knee injury. But studying had been duly avoided as he spent his early years warring against the growing presence of the National Front on the streets of Coventry and Nuneaton. It was these actions that had led him to cross paths with Adeel-Al-Bhukara.

  His father had trusted him, and therefore so did Omar.

  ‘Uncle Wasim, Aslamalykum.’ Omar beamed, relief flooding him that he was no longer alone with Tommy.

  Wasim wrapped his arms around Omar in a tight bear hug.
He returned the greeting. ‘Waalaikum-salam.’ He pointed at Omar’s nose stud and frowned. ‘What is this? You look like a girl.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s nothing, Uncle.’ Omar’s cheeks flushed as he dismissed it with a wave of the hand, then felt as though he had to explain himself. ‘Sometimes you have to look a certain way so the Kafirs’ eyes aren’t on you.’ It sounded a lot better than, I’m a huge Tupac Shakur fan.

  Wasim, satisfied with the explanation, nodded. ‘Your father was like my older brother. I miss him, greatly. I’m happy that you have followed in his footsteps. It would have made him proud.’

  Omar smiled away the compliment. Tommy, who was standing behind Omar’s shoulder, took a step forward. ‘Can we get a move on?’ he said.

  It sounded impatient and disrespectful, and Omar felt his cheeks redden. ‘This is, uh, Tommy,’ Omar said, by way of introduction.

  Wasim took and shook his hand. ‘Tommy?’ Wasim said, tightening his grip. ‘You see that open door?’ Wasim gestured his head to the metal gate. ‘Go close it, boy!’

  Wasim released his hand. Tommy stood his ground for a moment, much to Wasim’s amusement and Omar’s horror, before crossing the hangar to slide the gates shut.

  ‘You trust him?’ Wasim asked as they watched Tommy.

  ‘With the right tools in his hands, he is capable. He can do a lot of damage,’ Omar replied, sidestepping the question.

  ‘Yes. I know this. I heard what happened in London. I am surprised that you made it.’

  ‘Allah’s will, Uncle,’ Omar said, as Tommy returned.

  ‘As discussed, I have all the relevant documentation for you. Passports, drivers’ licences and national insurance numbers.’

  ‘And the oth’er thing?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Yes, my impatient Brother,’ Wasim said, meeting Tommy’s eyes. ‘I have the other thing.’

  Wasim walked away to the back of the camper van. Tommy started to follow, but Omar reached for his arm. ‘Have some fucking respect,’ Omar hissed, but Tommy had already shrugged his arm away and joined Wasim at the back of the van. Omar gritted his teeth and followed.