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

  The Bars That Hold Me

  Ed Grace

  London Heathrow Airport

  Chapter One

  It was a late spring evening as the car drove through Tunnel Road East, onto Inner Ring E, and stopped in a drop off bay outside the entrance to Terminals 2 and 3.

  Many people rushed past, pulling their luggage, dragging their kids; their haste more important than politeness.

  None of them had any idea they were about to die.

  Zain gazed out of the window; his chin rested on his fist. He watched a mother in a summery dress, her sunglasses perched on top of her forehead, holding hands with an excitable girl. It was not the time of year for sunglasses and summery dresses — but this was what holiday makers did. They wore clothes that matched where they were going, not where they were.

  It occurred to Zain that this woman would never reach her destination. Neither would her daughter. She would perish in that dress.

  “You’re nervous,” said Azeer, in the seat next to him.

  Zain did not respond. He looked down, feeling a little ashamed.

  “It’s okay to be nervous,” Azeer said. “You’re about to do something incredible. You’re bound to be excited.”

  Zain wasn’t sure whether excited was the right word.

  He turned to Azeer, who always seemed so confident. Azeer had personally overseen Zain’s training before choosing him for the martyrdom program. It was an honour, and Zain should be proud.

  He was proud.

  He was, really.

  He just wished he hadn’t left things with his family the way he had. That he would go to Heaven with his family still grieving his decisions.

  He told himself to stop fretting. To trust in Allah. To thank Allah for the honour. To thank Allah for guiding him to this moment, ensuring he had the strength, and would continue to have the strength for as long as he needed it.

  Only, he didn’t feel particularly strong.

  He knew Heaven was waiting for him. He knew Allah was waiting for him. He knew that the rest of Alhami would celebrate his name, as would any true Islamist who believed the same as him — he would be a hero.

  He just didn’t feel much like one.

  Azeer put his hand on Zain’s shoulder, smiled, and spoke softly, “Allaha Akbar.”

  Zain nodded.

  Azeer was right.

  “Allaha Akbar,” he repeated.

  The man in the passenger seat — Zain didn’t know his name; they weren’t allowed to know the generals’ names — passed the vest over.

  It was black with rectangular objects attached to it. They looked like bricks with wires.

  Azeer took off his top. Looked out of the window, checked for CCTV.

  “We have parked away from the cameras,” Azeer assured him. “We have planned this to every detail, so please, trust us.”

  Zain did trust them.

  Really, he did.

  He put the vest on. It was heavy. He wasn’t sure how he was going to walk into the airport without being noticed. He put his t-shirt back on, and it looked thick and noticeable.

  “Put a jacket on,” Azeer said, handing him a hoodie.

  Zain put it on. It covered it up a lot better. He just hoped no one looked at him for too long. He may be able to get away with a quick glance, but not a prolonged stare.

  But then again, did it matter? He had bombs strapped to him. How would anyone stop him?

  Azeer opened Zain’s hand and placed the detonator in his palm. It was like a little radio, except it had a red button rather than a speaker.

  It felt surreal. He’d been through so much training for this moment, so much preparation, so much planning, and now here he was, bomb vest on and the detonator in his hand.

  Zain placed the detonator in his pocket.

  Azeer grabbed Zain’s hand and twisted it into a handshake. Azeer gripped firmly, and smiled determinedly.

  “As-salamu ’alaykum,” Azeer told him.

  Peace be upon you.

  “As-salamu ’alaykum,” Zain said back.

  He opened the car door.

  Stepped out.

  Looked at the busy entrance of the country’s busiest airport. Considered the hundreds who were going to perish.

  Then remembered why they must perish.

  He opened the doors and walked inside.

  London, United Kingdom

  THIRTY DAYS EARLIER

  Chapter Two

  Once upon a time, Jay Sullivan had been a ruthless, expert assassin, as brilliant at his job as he was at being a father. People feared him, and he truly believed he was defending his country by killing those he was told to kill. He kept his daughter shielded and made sure she always felt loved. Now he was—

  What? What was he now?

  He had no idea what the end of that sentence was.

  He was far from a good father, considering he had no idea where his daughter was. He didn’t make people cower when he walked into a room. He definitely wasn’t ruthless, or expert, or brilliant.

  So what was he now?

  He was damaged.

  He bore a mark over his heart, indents in the back of his skull, and burns on his back — yet it was in his mind where the most damage had been done. This was where his thoughts bullied him, constantly, reminding him of the faces of those he’d murdered, the tears of those who’d witnessed, and the eyes of a daughter turned against him.

  The memories that haunted him most were the hits he had performed for the Falcons. A secret government organisation who had trained and employed him, only to betray him.

  At this particular moment, as he lay in bed, organising the ceiling tiles into sections without any conscious intention to do so, it was a moment of his training that his mind chose to torment him with.

  Though training wasn’t the right word. Training was something one went through to gain a qualification, or acquire a new skill, or learn how to cook. What Sullivan had gone through was so much more. It was indoctrination and reconditioning; a complete overhaul of every perception he had. On the good days, it was manipulation, and on the worst, it was torture.

  “Your father was right to kill himself,” he remembered his mentor, Alexander, saying. Sullivan had just turned eighteen, and it had only been weeks since he was recruited.

  “What?” Inevitably, Sullivan had reacted aggressively. “Who the fuck are you—”

  “This is what we do, Jay. We kill the weak. We kill the evil people. We keep the balance.”

  “He was—”

  “Weak, Sullivan. He was weak.”

  “Fuck off, I—”

  “You are not like your father.”

  This had stumped him. It was something he had longed to hear, but something no one had ever said. He hated the thought that he might end up like a father who had abused him, before killing his mother and turning the gun on himself. Sullivan had spent the next two years being kicked out of children’s homes because of his anger, and he was worried he was turning out the same way — yet here, for the first time, was someone saying that he was not like his father at all.

  And, because Alexander knew how much Sullivan wished to hear those words, it had been easy to manipulate Sullivan by saying it.

  “Yes, Jay. You are not like him at all. He was an amateurish killer. You will be a magnificent master of death — it is what you were destined to be.”

  Sullivan sat up. Rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t think about this any longer. It was making him crazy and he was desperate for a drink.

  He looked to his right, where Kelly lay.

  Beautiful. Intelligent. Perfect. Her gentle breathing pushed a s
trand of hair from over her face. How is it possible, he wondered, that someone can wake up from sleep looking so damn faultless?

  He felt like shit. His stomach was acidic, his chin was stubbly, his throat was dry — and he was certain he looked awful. Yet, here she was, the epitome of perfection.

  She’d told him she loved him.

  He’d told her she didn’t.

  Again, he thought, how strange it is the situations we end up in. Memories of his torture disguised as training taunted him, and he resented his government for it — yet, beside him lay an agent from MI5; a woman who worked for the same government who had betrayed him and hunted him.

  But it was not an issue. He did not ask her about what she did, and she never brought it up. She was too good for that. She would never be tempted to give up information.

  He told her who he was a few days ago. She said she didn’t care, so he’d told her more about what he’d been through, about how the government is probably hunting him, how he was betrayed by his country. At first, she was fine with it.

  Then he mentioned that it was the Falcons he had worked for, and she’d replied stiffly, “You need to stop talking now.”

  He wondered if he’d fallen in love with her.

  Hell, he wondered if a man like him was capable of love. How could someone who’d killed as many people as he had feel emotions in the same way ordinary people do?

  Maybe he did love her, in his own fucked up kind of way.

  But he’d stayed in her life for too long already. Bad things happened to people he cared about. Especially women.

  Then again, she was both an MI5 agent and an ex-marine. She could handle herself.

  But he had been the world’s greatest assassin, and look what had happened to him.

  He fumbled for pills in the pockets of his trousers left discarded on the floor. He took a few, and it quelled the pain in his chest. He had a heart condition, and it never gave up causing him pain at inopportune moments.

  For a brief few seconds, he wondered where his daughter was at that moment; something that often crossed his mind. He’d lost Talia when she was in her early teens and, when he discovered her years later, his biggest fears had been realised — she had turned into a killer. Like him.

  They had since gone their own ways; something he regretted every day.

  Kelly’s 6:00 a.m. alarm went off. She groaned, turned her body over and hit the off button. She rubbed her eyes, rolled onto her back, and looked up at Sullivan.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. He realised she’d woken up to find him watching her.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said, pushing himself out of bed. He searched for his clothes and quickly dressed himself.

  “Do you want to get breakfast?” she asked, sitting up and checking her emails on her phone.

  “No, I should be going.”

  “You should be going?”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Where exactly is it you should be going?”

  “Oh, you know, places.”

  “For a man who has no job and is on the run, you seem to have a very busy morning.”

  He stopped rushing. Leant against the windowsill. Watched her, wishing he wasn’t so stupid; wishing he could stop being a fool and just spend some time with her before she went to work.

  “This is London,” she said. “There’s a diner around the corner where you won’t be recognised.”

  “Recognised? In London? There are so many people in this city I doubt they’d recognise Bin Laden if he went walking around the market.”

  “Bin Laden? You do know the Americans caught him, right?”

  “I’m a little behind in the whole terrorist thing. Who are we even fighting at the moment?”

  She laughed. “A lot of people.”

  She stepped out of bed. She slipped off her night dress and went to find some underwear, but stopped as she noticed Sullivan staring at her naked body.

  “You know, we don’t have to go out for breakfast....”

  Sullivan really needed to be going. The longer he spent with someone, the more danger they were in.

  Fuck it, he thought. She’s a big girl.

  He stepped forward, slid his arms around her waist, and pressed his lips against hers. They never did end up having breakfast.

  Chapter Three

  Umar stood in the centre of the empty room with Naji to his right, and his father to his left. The room itself was once a tattoo parlour, and had been bought by their leader, Azeer Nadeem, for what HM Revenue and Customs were informed would soon be a taxi rank.

  Azeer had no intention of it being a taxi rank.

  It had been bought for this moment. So that, when the time came, Umar was only a few steps away from Camden Market. This gave them a chance to pray before his sacrifice.

  Umar’s father placed the bomb jacket on Umar. Umar stood still, his arms out, staring absently ahead as his father tightened the straps and placed Umar’s coat over it. The vest looked thick, almost too big, but it didn’t matter — it would be less than a minute after leaving this room before he hit the detonator. If anyone had any suspicions, there would be no time to do anything about it.

  “Are you okay?” his father asked.

  Naji sneered at them for speaking English. He only spoke Arabic. But Umar was brought up in England, he was educated here — it was the language he understood the best.

  Besides, this was not a moment for Alhami. This was a moment for Umar and his father. A touching moment — the moment Umar had waited his whole life for.

  “I am proud of you,” his father said. “So very, very proud.”

  Umar had craved those words for so long. He’d waited for this moment for longer than he’d ever admitted, and he was grateful.

  “You are ready,” his father said, and they prepared themselves for prayer.

  Umar washed his right hand three times, and his left hand three times. As he waited for the other two, he turned toward the South East, the direction of Makkah, and tried to avoid letting his mind wander. He’d just end up thinking about what he was about to do. He didn’t want to admit to the others that he was scared. He already knew what they would tell him — that a glorious afterlife awaited him; a wondrous reward for his sacrifice. He was to be a hero, and would be celebrated as such.

  The others joined his side, and they began their prayer.

  “Allahu Akbar,” they said.

  He placed his right hand on top of his left and looked to the ground, almost in perfect unison to the other two.

  “Subhanaka allahumma wa bi hamdika wa tabara kasmuka wa ta’ala jadduka wa la ilaha ghariuku.”

  He took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out — but he did so silently. He did not want anyone to see his nerves, nor his trepidation. He wanted them to see his strength — unfortunately, he had little of that to show.

  “A’udhu billahi minash shaitanir rajim.”

  Azeer had told him this was a great honour.

  “Bismillahir rahmanir rahim.”

  They bent over, saying, “Allahu Akbar,” then placed their hands on their knees.

  “Subhana Rabbiyal Adhiim.”

  He rarely said this in Arabic, but Naji had insisted. The prayers were supposed to give him the strength he needed, but he gained little of it by speaking in a language he had only recently learnt.

  He decided to say the words in Arabic, but think them in English.

  Allah hears those who praise him. Glory be to Allah.

  It was true; Allah would hear the ones who praise him.

  It was in Allah’s glory Umar was about to act.

  And, with the moment of self-belief he had been desiring, he was ready.

  He hoped his father would be just as proud after he was gone.

  He hoped they all would be.

  Chapter Four

  Sullivan walked leisurely through Camden Market. He so rarely had a chance to walk slowly and without purpose. He usually ensured he didn’t spend too much time in one place
, but he was beginning to feel settled. Kelly’s company, as much as he denied it, was growing on him.

  Which was only going to make it harder when he did leave. He could not afford to be complacent, just as he could not afford to fall in love.

  But, as he enjoyed the warmth of a hot summer’s day, he allowed himself to feel what he so rarely felt — contentedness.

  A moment when he was okay with being okay.

  He passed Market Hall, the indoor part of the market. He wanted to enjoy the sunny weather, so wandered aimlessly around a few of the stalls outside. He stopped at a clothes stall and perused a few items with no intention of buying anything. He had enough money left over from his days as an assassin to afford the best suits anyone could wear, but it was still nice to stop, look, and pretend to be like everyone else.

  A man to his left lifted a few polo shirts to find one in blue. A woman across from Sullivan helped her husband pick a jacket, holding them against his frame. A child tried on a coat.

  Such small, uncelebrated moments that these people took for granted. They were the kind of moments Sullivan could never have.

  He resented Alexander and the Falcons, not just for the lives they forced him to take, but for the life they had taken from him. Sure, the angry eighteen-year-old version of himself may well have ended up in prison, but it would have been his choice. And he would not have been coerced into killing people.

  He shook his head. Why was he thinking about this again?

  He wished he could think about something else, but this was what his mind did; replayed the worst parts of his history over and over. He tried to occupy his thoughts as much as he could, as any moment of inactivity was a moment where his mind would present the bloodied face of a man he’d killed, or the bashed-in skull of a target, or the horrified faces of a family witnessing the death of a loved one.

  The reminder was always there.

  Always.

  “Hey, Mister,” said a curious voice from behind Sullivan.