Farukh placed the phone down on the side table and finally afforded himself a smile.
When Wallace had passed on the details, he wasn’t sure the plan would work. There were too many unknown variables for it to run completely smoothly. While he was a man of terrifying action, Farukh was also a man of finer details.
You didn’t evade numerous governments and bounty contracts by being reckless.
But the stakes had been raised since Sam escaped him and as a man unaccustomed to failure, he was keen to step outside of his comfort zone.
Helal had offered up no fight. It was easy as swatting a fly. Slowly, he turned back to his captive.
All the furniture in Helal’s front room had been pushed back to the walls, providing Farukh with enough space. After he’d floored the man upon opening the door, Farukh had made a show of shoving them all out of the way, circling the fallen man as he crawled pathetically towards the hallway. At one point, Helal had reached out to him in a lame attempt of mercy.
Farukh had crushed the man’s hand under his boot.
The bones snapped, and as Helal roared in pain, Farukh had hoisted him to his feet and slapped him, telling him his silence would save him pain.
There was no retaliation. Just the fearful resignation that he was in the presence of a dangerous man.
Moments later, Helal was strapped to a chair in the centre of the room and Farukh had demanded Helal contact Amara Singh. At first, the chivalry was commendable.
Stupid, but commendable.
Farukh responded to it with some sickening punches, each one expertly landing in all of Helal’s major organs, all carrying the velocity of a sledgehammer swing. The plucky journalist coughed up blood, begged for forgiveness, but Farukh demanded the same again.
When Helal refused, Farukh brandished two handheld curved blades from his belt. Like two crescent moons, they shimmered under the light of Helal’s apartment.
Farukh warned him he was about to seriously hurt him, but Helal foolishly stayed silent. Farukh ensured it, by stuffing a sock in the man’s mouth before sliding the blade down the side of his head, severing the top of his ear in three easy slices.
Helal screamed in agony, the sock muffling his cries for help and as the blood poured from the wound, Farukh mockingly held the severed ear in front of his eyes.
Helal relented, telling Farukh where his phone was and the code to unlock it.
Amara was listed under ‘Source’ and Farukh sent the message, luring her to her fate and Helal felt sick.
Pain and guilt.
A horrid combination. As they waited, Farukh wandered over to the corner of the room and began to inspect Helal’s impressive home entertainment system. The large TV stood proudly on the oak stand, along with two games consoles and another small, electronic box that Farukh didn’t understand.
What he did see, however, were a lot of cables.
Helal, blinking through the pain, watched in puzzlement as Farukh detached as many cables as he could, before tying them together. He was systematic in his process, pulling each knot taut, before moving onto the next. There was a time where those electronic devices were his most cherished possessions, and he was sure his protective attitude over them was one of the reasons his last girlfriend left him.
Now, his only concern was surviving, but the realist within told him it was unlikely.
He had intruded in a world where he didn’t belong.
He had stumbled into a fight that wasn’t his.
It was always the innocent who got caught in the crosshairs. As Farukh finished tying the final knot, he turned to Helal, his face a blank slate, framed by a thick, greying beard.
‘You know I do not like guns,’ he began calmly, feeding the cable back around itself. ‘I find them too easy. They make a loud noise but kill easy. Anyone can kill with gun. You just point at the head and pull. One pull. That is it. No fight. No struggle. Simple.’
Helal’s eyes widened with fear and he struggled against the straps of his chair. It was no use and Farukh turned to him, showing him the makeshift noose he’d made out of Helal’s own equipment.
‘But you hang a man, you truly see the fight. You see the need for man to survive.’ Slowly, Farukh lowered the noose over Helal’s head, allowing it to hang loosely around his chest. Helal, through tears, tried to beg for mercy. ‘You can tell a lot about a man from how he struggles. I know you only fifteen minutes, but I know you will try. You won’t try for long, there is no fight in you. But to watch a man fight for his dying breath is one of life’s beautiful moments. Like a waterfall. Or a childbirth.’
Farukh ran the cable around the door frame, before securing it tightly to the large wardrobe that stood in Helal’s bedroom. It pulled the cable a little tighter, the plastic coating pressing against Hela’s neck. Farukh returned, stood in front of Helal and once again, afforded himself a smile.
Helal begged for mercy.
There was none.
‘Appreciate each breath.’ Farukh reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. ‘You do not have many left.’
Farukh lit the cigarette and stared at Helal. As tears flooded down his cheeks, Helal let his mind flow back through any cherished memories he had. A few relationships during the good times. The rare occasion he got along with his dad. The moment he won an award for a hard-hitting expose on poverty within the country. All the cherished moments he would take with him.
He sat in the chair and gently wept, knowing he was about to leave it all behind.
The Hangman of Baghdad watched him intently, slowly puffing his cigarette and preparing himself for another look at man’s fight for survival.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It had been a hell of a weekend and Etheridge stood at the window of the converted loft, the cool spring air filtering through and cooling him down.
