Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

  I turned the volume back up on the two-way. ‘What does Latif look like?’

  ‘A few years older than me. Short, slim, think he wears round glasses. Looks like a librarian.’

  Without indicating, the car turned left but didn’t continue in that direction, instead it looped around until it was facing back the way it came. This time it moved slowly and the driver was bending his neck towards the forest. The car stopped directly below me. The driver turned off the headlights.

  ‘Is it Latif?’ Jay asked. ‘Over.’

  The interior light came on as the car door opened. The man stepped out and stretched his neck as he looked up towards the forest. Long frizzy hair escaped from underneath a brown Pashtun hat and framed his hard face. Around his mouth was a neatly trimmed goatee beard. Jay had said Latif was short; this man wasn’t tall, but tall enough not to be labelled short. He wore traditional shalwar kameez and draped over his shoulder was a gun strap. This wasn’t Latif. Whoever it was removed the gun from the strap and held it low by his leg and started to climb the hill leading to the forest.

  ‘It’s not him,’ I said. ‘But I think he’s sent somebody.’ A barrage of foul language came through the two-way radio. I tried not to allow the tension in Jay’s voice to feed mine. ‘Listen to me very carefully. To get to you, he has to get past me, and I’ve got him in my sights. But I want you get yourself in the driver’s seat, start the car and keep it running. I’m shutting down communication now. There’s no need for panic. I’ll be there soon.’

  Chapter 61

  Jay

  Jesus fucking Christ! I jabbed at the central locking button on the dash, the thud of the locks echoing down as I scrambled over to the driver’s seat, my knee knocking painfully into the handbrake in the process. Motherfuck! I landed awkwardly on the driver’s seat with my butt to the steering wheel. I manoeuvred around and dropped my legs into the footwell and my feet came reassuringly into contact with the pedals.

  I stared at the Honda logo on the steering wheel. I swear it was mocking me. I jammed a hand into the side pocket of my shorts searching for the car fob. My hand came back empty. Okay, breathe! Stay the fuck calm! I checked the other side pocket, same result. Not now, please! I still had two pockets at the back and two thigh pockets to check. Damn combat shorts with your multiple pockets. My hand snaked in and out of each pocket, visions of Imy being overpowered running through my head. I couldn’t remember which pocket I had checked so I started to pat and slap my shorts. Shit, breathe, just breathe, just breathe. I looked out of the windscreen and saw nothing but a wall of black. Fuck breathing, I had to find that fob key.

  I couldn’t believe how wrong I’d been. Latif had set me the fuck up! Why did Imy let me make decisions? The hell was he thinking? Whoever Latif had sent could be on his way right now, he could be standing beside the car pointing a gun at me, right fucking now! I resisted the urge to switch on the interior light, and ran my hand over the passenger seat in case the fob had slipped out. If I didn’t find it, I was going to have to knuckle up and fight, and fuck knows what he was armed with. Imy had taken the handgun and I had nothing in the car but a box of nuts and dried fruit.

  The sniper rifle in the boot.

  I paused and thought it through.

  I’d have to leave the relative safety of the car and go into the darkness, and if I did manage to get to the boot without getting felt up by a bear, then what? The fuck do I know about a sniper rifle? I barely know how to use a handgun. I could just point it menacingly at him. But he’d know, wouldn’t he, just by the way I was holding it, and chances were he’d snatch it off me and proceed to beat me to death with it.

  Yeah, I had to find the fob.

  I dropped my hand in the small gap in between the driver’s and passenger seat, something sharp scratching at my hand as I delved tighter and deeper. The tip of my fingers just about managing to touch the floor. I felt around, felt something, felt something small and plastic, just like a car fob! Relief was short-lived as I heard rustling from outside.

  I remained stock still, only my ears standing to attention. I tried to rationalise it, after all I was in a forest and a little rustling was to be expected. I could feel the fob with the tip of my fingers, it had landed flat, ’course it fucking landed flat, and my hand didn’t have room to manoeuvre.

  I gritted my teeth and, using my index and middle fingers, managed to flip the fob onto its side. The rustling remained around me, and I was unaware of which direction it was coming from, just that it was getting clearer and closer. I gripped the fob precariously in my fingers and carefully extracted my hand painfully from in between the seats. My hand emerged scratched to shit but victorious.

  I wasn’t like those chumps in horror movies whose hands tremble so much that they can’t start the car – fuck that! My survival instincts were switched on. I pressed a small silver button on the fob and the key popped out. I inserted it smoothly into the ignition and flicked it clockwise. The little Honda growled like a lion cub and the automatic headlamps came on illuminating the scene in front of me just as a body slammed heavily against the hood of the car.

  My heart beat out of my chest as I pushed myself back into my seat trying to gain distance between me and the man laid out on the bonnet. He was wearing a Pashtun hat, the kind that makes you crave a cheese and onion pie, and wore a cream cotton kameez top. I could just about make out his face even though it was squashed against the hood and he had a gun pressed against the side of his head.

  I opened the door. Imy screamed, ‘Back in the car!’ just as my foot found the floor.

  ‘It’s cool,’ I said, stepping out. I inclined my head, giving myself a better look at the man.

  ‘Get him up,’ I said.

  Imy pulled the man up by the scruff of his neck so that he was facing me. His pie hat fell to the ground, and his hair fell over his face, concealing his features.

  He drew his hair open like curtains and through it he said, ‘Javid Qasim, Mashallah.’

  ‘Haqani!’ I said. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. The fuck you doing?’

  ‘I here to talk with you,’ Haqani said.

  Imy moved the gun so that it was tickling the back of his neck. Not quite reading the severity of the situation, Haqani smiled at me. He’d lost a front tooth since we’d met a year ago. Haqani was Ghurfat-al-Mudarris through and through; he and Latif were ever-present by my dad’s side. Where Latif was the confidant, Haqani was the muscle and occasional chauffeur.

  ‘I not here to hurt you.’

  Imy reached around and pulled out a piece from his waist and handed it to me. ‘Your friend had that on him,’ Imy said.

  ‘He ain’t my friend,’ I replied, and the expression on the big bad terrorist’s face changed. He dropped the smile, his eyes widened and his mouth opened up in a little pout. I’d offended him! I took my eyes off him and checked out the gun that Imy had handed me. It was less gun, more revolver, well worn, faded black. With a little pressure I thumbed the revolving chamber, which popped out, six bullets dropping to the floor. ‘You won’t be needing those,’ I said, styling it out, as though emptying the gun was my intention.

  ‘You are like my brother, Javid,’ Haqani said. ‘I would never hurt you.’

  ‘The last time we met, you knocked me out with the butt of your rifle.’ I touched the back of my head. ‘You remember that?’

  Again, misreading the scenario, Haqani laughed out loud, his head tilted back, the sound travelling through the forest. ‘Be quiet!’ Imy dug the gun into his neck.

  ‘Yes. I remember,’ Haqani said. ‘Your father very angry with me.’

  ‘What’re you doing here? Is Latif in the car?’

  ‘He came alone,’ Imy said.

  ‘Latif no come. Too dangerous.’

  ‘That why’re you packing?’ I asked.

  ‘Packing?’ He frowned.

  ‘Gun! Why have you brought a gun with you?’

  ‘Not for you. I soldier. Soldier always carry pi
stol. I also have hunting knife.’

  Fuck’s sake!

  ‘Pat him down,’ Imy said.

  ‘Didn’t you do that already?’ I said, not really wanting to put my hands on him.

  ‘Pat him down, Jay.’

  I tentatively patted his shoulders and down his arms; they weren’t huge, but they were taut and springy, as if he could reach out and break my neck quicker than Imy could pull the trigger.

  ‘Check his waist,’ Imy said.

  I patted his waist half-heartedly, and immediately I felt something. To get to it, I would have to lift the front of his kurta. This was way too personal for my liking, but Imy was staring at me to get a move on. I lifted his kurta, catching a glimpse of his hairy but flat stomach. Clipped to the top of Haqani’s shalwar was a black leather sheath. I gripped the handle and slowly removed the knife, it kept coming and coming, until all twelve jagged inches were out.

  ‘Fuck, Haqani! I’m having a little trouble believing you here.’

  ‘Why, Javid?’ he said, genuinely confused. ‘Why I want to hurt you? I have no reason.’

  ‘Then what? Why are you here? Why isn’t Latif here?’

  Haqani didn’t answer straight away and Imy was clearly getting frustrated. He dug his gun harder into the back of his neck, and leaned into his ear and hissed, ‘Answer him!’

  ‘Tell your friend to be calm, Javid. I not happy.’

  I saw that. He wasn’t happy at all. It was the first time I’d seen anger flash across Haqani’s face. ‘Easy, yeah, Imy.’

  Imy held my stare but didn’t relent. I couldn’t understand why he had to stand so close to him, why the gun had to be pressed up against Haqani. Never understood why people do that, all it takes is a slick Steven Seagal move and that gun can be easily disarmed. Why not just go and stand over there and point it at him? It’s a fucking gun, it’ll do the same job from a couple of feet away. I didn’t say any of that to Imy though, he looked like he was in the zone. But it made me tense. These two were not going to get on.

  ‘Latif send me,’ Haqani said. ‘I came to give you message. You must go home.’

  ‘Yeah I know that! I got the message!’

  Haqani shook his head sadly. Even though he was wedged in between Imy and the front bumper of the car, with a gun on him, he calmly took a step back, forcing Imy to do the same. He then walked towards me and took me tightly in his arms. I accepted the embrace, but couldn’t bring myself to return it, my arms hanging limply by my side, the knife that I had liberated from him gripped in my hand.

  ‘Young Brother, you should not be here,’ Haqani whispered in my ear.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I have to see Latif. He knows. He must know. I’m not going anywhere until I find my dad.’

  I could feel his breath as he sighed wearily and whispered in my ear.

  ‘Inshallah.’

  Chapter 62

  Imy

  I didn’t trust Haqani, but Jay seemed to, or at least he was coming round to the idea. If Latif was playing a hand, he was playing a good one. He and Haqani had given us every chance to walk away. Giving the impression that they cared for Jay’s wellbeing. It’s possible that I was being distrustful, but it wasn’t without reason.

  From experience I knew that psychological warfare was an important part of Al-Mudarris’ teachings. It’d been hammered into me; the emotional state, the disguise that I once portrayed when I was sent to England at the age of sixteen as a sleeper agent who never quite woke up.

  It could be that I was over-thinking it. It’s only natural that Latif would want to protect the son of the man that he worshipped. The fact that Jay had a hand in bringing down Ghurfat-al-Mudarris seemed less of a problem than I’d anticipated. According to Mustafa, they were rumours and nothing more, but two attempts on Jay’s life told me that somebody believed it. Somebody was giving these orders.

  I was behind the wheel. Jay was in the passenger seat giving a running commentary. Haqani in the Mercedes in front leading us. He drove recklessly. When we first set off, it seemed as if he was trying to lose us, but Jay explained that Haqani simply liked to put his foot down and that I should ‘Fucking keep up.’

  He kept to back roads where the terrain was rough and unoccupied, but that wasn’t always possible. At one point we drove an hour along a main road through the Terwa District towards Gardez. Haqani adjusted, kept his speed in check, aware that close behind him was a wanted man.

  Jay stayed slouched in his seat, a state of disquiet paranoia, his eyes furtive, moving from mirror to mirror, his paranoia hitting heights when we approached dense traffic due to road works – I felt him physically tense.

  I pulled up behind Haqani. His eyes meeting mine through the rear-view mirror. He lifted a calming hand. I slipped the car into neutral.

  In Jay’s footwell was the revolver and hunting knife that we had taken from Haqani. The Browning handgun was wedged under my thigh for easy access. In the trunk was the sniper rifle.

  We waited in silence.

  ‘Check out the guy with the lollipop board.’ Jay leaned forward and pointed at a man in an orange hi-viz jacket, who every couple of minutes flipped the board from red to green. ‘Why’s he looking at us like that?’

  I lowered Jay’s arm. ‘He’s not looking at us, just towards us. He’s directing traffic flow.’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s had that lollipop on red for well over two minutes. I timed it!’ Jay held up his phone, the stopwatch showed that it was approaching the two-and-half-minute mark. ‘He should’ve flipped it by now. I think he’s buying time, trying to keep us stationary.’

  I nodded, casually, trying not feed his paranoia, but I was starting to learn not to underestimate Jay. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Behind us there was a grey van, tight against our bumper. Due to the height of the van and its proximity to us, I was unable to see the occupants. In front, our Honda was tight to Haqani’s Mercedes. In effect we were boxed in.

  I wrapped my fingers around the grip of the Browning. My thumb finding and resting on the safety.

  ‘It’s moving.’ Jay leaned back in his chair and exhaled. The board had flipped to green and the two cars in front of Haqani moved forward, as did he. I moved my hand away from the gun and flexed my fingers. I put the car into gear and followed Haqani with one eye on the man directing traffic. He didn’t so much as glance at us.

  ‘Man, the paranoia is killing me,’ Jay said, as the road opened up and we started to move freely.

  ‘It’s good to be observant. It’ll serve you.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I think I know where we’re going. I’ve been here before, on these roads, in that car.’ Jay nodded his head at the Mercedes. ‘Haqani was behind the wheel, driving all mental, Latif was in the passenger seat, his head buried in an iPad, reading aloud the itinerary. And I… I was in the back with my dad.’ Jay cleared his throat. ‘So, yeah, it all feels pretty familiar.’

  I didn’t feel the need to say anything; realisation was dawning on him. The conflicted feelings he had for his father, clearly eating away at him.

  ‘The moment we set eyes on him,’ Jay started, his tone harder now, desperate to make a point. ‘You make that call to Lawrence. Get the military or whoever the fuck to take him away. Throw away the fucking key!’

  ‘We’re not there yet, Jay,’ I said. ‘We don’t know what Latif will tell us.’

  ‘We’re close,’ Jay said. ‘I can feel it.’

  I should have shut down the conversation there. But I was curious to know the extent of his feelings for his father. I needed to know how much damage I was going to inflict on him.

  ‘What does he mean to you?’

  Jay shot his head around. ‘The fuck, man, what kind of question is that? He don’t mean shit to me!’

  I didn’t push him because I knew he wasn’t finished.

  ‘This bullshit MI5 cover, convincing the world that he’s dead. He ain’t. He ain’t fucking dead. And believe me, I’m going to make sure the whole fucki
ng world knows that he’s alive, that the whole fucking world sees him pay for every one of his crimes. That man deserves to spend every second behind bars getting his head kicked in for the rest of his pathetic days. I don’t care. I really don’t fucking care!’

  ‘You don’t care?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say that?’

  ‘So why you? Why are you here?’

  Jay clenched his jaw, his knee jackhammering, eyes ablaze and fixed on the road ahead. His lips pursed tight.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Because he’s my fucking dad!’

  We didn’t speak for a while. Jay busied himself connecting his phone to the stereo and choosing music to suit his mood. Harsh, angry lyrics spilled out of the tinny car speakers. He slouched in his seat and nodded his head in and out of the rhythm. It was clear the thoughts in his head were drowning out the music.

  Haqani slowed a touch and without indicating took a turn off the road. I followed at a distance as we entered a built-up residential area.

  The Mercedes pulled up at tall metal gates where a smartly uniformed night-watchman stood guard. He nodded at Haqani and pushed opened the gates. Before driving through, Haqani motioned him over, and pointed back at us. The night-watchman considered us, nodded and smiled gratefully as Haqani placed money in his hands. The night-watchman happily waved us through.

  The gates clanged closed behind us. Jay straightened up in his seat and whistled appreciatively at the gated community. The houses were high and wide, and well maintained. The parked cars were expensive and recent, a combination of high-spec saloons and high-powered SUVs, mostly all German. Despite the evening, a small team of uniformed gardeners gently watered the manicured front lawns. The grass greener, the strands thicker than I’d ever seen. There were no lampposts, but on either side of the road, palm trees were lined up, with lights fixed at the foot of each tree, giving the street a warm, dreamlike glow. It felt like a small piece of utopia in a country which had suffered much dystopia.