The article slid off his screen, as the file was transported to his boss’s inbox, awaiting further approval before it could reach the rest of the world.
It was a shocking article.
At times, maybe farfetched.
It would definitely ignite a heated discussion with Nigel the next day.
As Helal slinked off towards the bedroom of his two-bedroom flat in West London, he hadn’t realised that by pressing send, the words ‘Project Hailstorm’ rushed through a tracing program and placed another target on his back.
‘Please remain seated until the plane has come to a complete stop.’
A hopeful request from the young air hostess fell on deaf ears as the unruly British public instantly unclipped their belts and began jostling for control of the overhead bins. As the cabin crew tried their best to stem the flow of passengers reaching for their possessions, Ahmad Farukh watched with a pitiful sneer.
The British had always baffled him with their delusions of grandeur. The innate arrogance that they were a great nation, built on strong moral foundations and with a dry sense of humour. In Farukh’s eyes, it was a nation built off the backs of others, oppressive as it was cowardly and every British person whom he’d introduced to his noose crumbled sooner than any other.
Once confronted with a force that didn’t fear them, nor care about them, the British wilted like a dead flower.
Sat in aisle seat, he turned to the young man who anxiously looked around the plane, eager to retrieve a bag that wasn’t going anywhere.
Zero patience. The western world was always in such a rush, which is why he’d despised his only visit to London nearly a decade ago.
Since then, he’d stayed in the Middle East and Africa, moving from job to job, collecting paycheque after paycheque. While he questioned his loyalty to his own country for abandoning the army, he did use the money he collected as an assassin to fund several community projects in his home town.
He had pumped more back into Afghanistan than most and as far as he was concerned, everyone had done something worth being executed for.
He looked around the plane.
Several of the passengers were grossly overweight, sure signs of gluttony and excess. There were several couples, many of whom had cheated on their partners or engaged in some unlawful sexual act.
Everyone had something justifiable.
Everyone deserved to die.
As he watched the procession of impatience filter off the plane and into Gatwick Airport, he unclipped his belt and hauled his large frame into the walkway. Behind him, the young man scampered up, as if his seat was on fire. Farukh shook his head and then marched down the plane, his broad shoulders almost clipping the overhead storage bins. His thick arms, covered in his black coat, brushed the chairs as he strode through the aircraft.
‘See you soon,’ the young cabin officer said, his eyes sparkling.
Farukh ignored the man’s polite goodbye and stepped out onto the steps, the bitter cold of the English weather slapping him in the face with a frozen palm. It was a world away from Turkey, where the unrelenting heat had caused his brown skin to tan a shade darker.
The wind lapped at his thick beard and he pulled the woollen hat from his jacket and slid it over his thinning hair.
He followed the crowd through the usual rigmarole of entering the UK, watching with pleasure as the computerised passport checker kept failing, inciting an instant rage from a generation of people who are used to instant gratification.
He travelled with just the bare minimum. A wedge of cash which he’d changed into sterling, his passport, and his papers.
The passport was a fake. Top quality.
His identity needed to stay hidden, as he was certain it would flag every international military force in the world.
Travelling by plane was a risk he didn’t like to take, but he’d received a call he’d hoped would never come. As a man of few words, Farukh had made sure that he’d always been as good as them.
His word was binding.
So when an old acquaintance had failed as spectacularly as he had, Farukh had assured him he would fix it.
It was more than just their names they needed to keep hidden.
It was a skeleton too big for the world to ever know about.
As Farukh passed through the luggage collection and the duty free, he emerged out of the airport and immediately lit a cigarette.
The nicotine flowed through his lungs and he watched from the corner of his eye as the two men approached. They carried themselves with an undeserved sense of importance and Farukh shook his head in disappointment.
‘Mr Ahmad,’ the man began. ‘Your car is over here.’
‘I do not need car,’ Farukh said coldly, take a long, hard drag of his cigarette.
‘But General Wallace is expect—’
‘Tell Wallace I find him in my own time.’ Farukh flicked the cigarette into the man’s chest, catching him off guard. ‘If you follow me, I will kill you.’
With his words hanging in the air like a thick smog, Farukh marched away from the two Blackridge operatives and headed towards the motorway. The Hangman of Baghdad disappeared round the corner and lost himself in the country.
‘Just stop, Sam.’
Theo’s voice echoed through Sam’s head and he turned to face his friend. The entire sky was blue, not a cloud in sight. The field they were stood on was mowed short, a few daffodils poking through the greenery.
‘I can’t,’ Sam eventually said, taking a step towards him. ‘Why?’
‘Because someone has to fight back.’
‘Why must it be you?’ Theo took a step forward. It had been just over a year since his friend had been brutally murdered, giving his life to save Amy Devereux. Sam had missed him terribly, and he wished himself to walk quicker.
But as he did, he knew he would regret it.
He always regretted it.
The dream was a recurring one. Sam would walk aimlessly through empty fields, the world still and quiet
