Nick Oldham - Instinct

Donaldson worked quickly and expertly. Sadiq was nothing more than a thin, skin and bone youth, with hardly anything to him, whereas Donaldson was big, fit, strong, agile, a man with years of physical training and operational experience behind him.

Within moments Sadiq was face down, hands trapped behind his back, his wrists cuffed by Bill who had moved in to assist.

There had been no fight in the lad. He’d just succumbed to the assault.

Bill leaned into his ear and called him the worst name in the English language, but just through relief rather than anything else. The last couple of minutes had seemed like hours of stress.

Bill held him down as Donaldson stood up and looked around. Cops on foot and in cars were converging. The public were shocked, confused and excited, but it would only take moments for the police to take control, push them back and form a sterile ring around Sadiq. But Donaldson knew this was no time to relax because there might be a back-up plan in place. The number two guy with the mobile phone on speed dial, ready to press send. Donaldson didn’t know enough about bombs and electronic pulses even to think of trying to dismantle whatever concoction was underneath Sadiq’s coat, but he knew everyone needed to be on full alert and the lad had to be neutralized as soon as possible.

He guessed that if there was a support bomber in place, that person would either have to have a line of sight on Sadiq to keep a check on progress, or be waiting nearby for a particular time. Such as giving Sadiq half an hour to do his stuff, and if a blast hadn’t been heard by then, press send-and-boom remotely.

Obviously Donaldson did not know for certain, but he did know that these were critical moments.

A bomb disposal expert was needed on scene quickly to disable Sadiq’s body pack.

The public had to be herded away a serious distance. A perimeter had to be established of at least two hundred metres and everyone had to be out of line of sight.

One hell of a job, he thought, as he looked desperately around. Some cops had arrived and, acting on Bill’s shouted instructions, as he held Sadiq down, were moving people away now. But more officers were needed.

Donaldson spun around. Mobile phones were at people’s ears, in their hands, folk were making calls, some were doing their best to take photos as they were pushed back. Panic surged into his gut. He twisted and knelt down by Sadiq’s head. ‘Who’s with you?’ he demanded. Sadiq’s cheek was crushed into the paving and he looked up at Donaldson with one eye, like a flatfish. Spittle dribbled out of his mouth. He sucked it back in. ‘Who’s with you?’ Donaldson repeated.

Sadiq’s half-face laughed. ‘Allah,’ he said.

Donaldson suppressed a serious urge to slam a fist into his head and smash his jaw to pieces, but he fought it, then rose again, his sharp eyes taking in everything that was happening around. The cops working urgently, Joe Public now getting the message, more police arriving.

Bill gripped the rigid bar of the handcuffs, angling them slightly so that they dug into the nerve endings in Sadiq’s wrists, and kept the lad down. ‘Next move?’ he asked.

Donaldson didn’t have an answer. His eyes were constantly roving up and down the street, desperately searching for the accomplice.

Then he saw him. A man moving against the tide of people. The support act.

Curiosity had drawn him out. If he hadn’t been dark-skinned, Donaldson probably wouldn’t have zeroed in. But he did, and he recognized the face instantly. But it wasn’t the face of the other youth from the briefing, the one who was Sadiq’s friend.

This was Jamil Akram, the man Donaldson had been hunting for over a dozen years.

Realization hit Donaldson hard as their eyes locked. Akram immediately saw that he had been recognized and began to fumble through his pockets as Donaldson surged into a run.

There was another roar from Donaldson’s throat. People spun round to see what was approaching and a path opened in front of him. Akram pulled out his phone but it seemed to dance through his fingers as if it was burning hot, or had a life of its own, and it fell to the ground, splitting into several pieces on impact, the battery and the back panel going in separate directions.

Akram turned and ran into the crowd.

Donaldson was only metres behind him, his arms punching like huge pistons. But Akram moved with the agility of a deer. His head went down and he weaved and cornered around people like a skier hurtling down a slalom.

Donaldson had no finesse in his speed, no grace, and he shoved individuals roughly aside. He was taking the direct route and everyone had better get out of his way.

Akram, though, was getting further away. Keeping low, he entered Hounds Hill shopping centre and disappeared into the covered mall. Donaldson cursed as he ran in and found himself faced with a dilemma. The mall was a large, curving semicircle, which split to the left and right. There was no sign of Akram, who could have gone either way and ducked into a shop, then used another exit, or a fire escape.

Donaldson spun on the spot.

Bill Robbins came up behind him.

‘Lost him,’ Donaldson gasped. ‘Is Sadiq still pinned down?’

‘Yes,’ Bill assured him.

‘And has the phone been seized?’

‘Yes,’ Bill repeated.

Two more cops rushed in behind, armed and in uniform, wearing peaked caps with chequered bands, and brandishing H amp;K machine pistols.

‘Who’s the guy you chased?’ Bill asked.

‘Akram — the guy I was telling you about.’

‘Jamil Akram? Shit,’ Bill blurted.

‘Yeah — and he’s gone to ground here — but he won’t be hiding long. He’ll break cover.’

‘I’ll get more people, get the exits sealed.’

‘Make sure you tell ’em to take care. He’ll be armed,’ Donaldson said. ‘And dangerous,’ he added, not caring if it sounded cliched.

‘Description?’

Donaldson gave him a glance. ‘I know this sounds racist, but any Asian male, thirty to fifty, in this vicinity needs pulling and slamming down. But he is wearing a black zip-up wind jammer, blue jeans, grey trainers and he’s got a black moustache.’

‘Understood,’ Bill said, and he transmitted this through to comms.

Donaldson indicated to Bill that he was going to start looking and moved into the mall.

He prowled slowly, like a predator, but felt that Akram was now likely to be on the other side of the shopping centre or maybe in a car — at which moment Donaldson spotted a sign pointing to the Hounds Hill multi-storey car park, adjacent to the mall. It was only a guess, but Akram had appeared at the scene having come from the direction of the shopping centre, so maybe he was simply retracing his steps to get back to his escape vehicle.

Donaldson looked back at Bill and the two firearms officers. Bill was still talking urgently into his PR but Donaldson managed to get his attention, pointed at one of the firearms officers and then placed the flat of his hand on the crown of his skull in the old military signal. Come to me.

Bill nodded and shoved one of the officers in Donaldson’s direction, yelling something in his ear. He ran up to the American, who said, ‘I want to check the parking lot.’

The two men headed towards the double doors leading to the car park steps. ‘I’m Karl,’ Donaldson said quickly.

‘Steve. And what are you?’

‘FBI.’

‘And who are we after?’

‘Jamil Akram.’

‘He’s a bad guy, is he?’

‘Ultra bad.’

Steve, the firearms officer, pushed through the double doors and the two men stepped into a concrete stairwell.

‘Where from here?’

Donaldson thought quickly. ‘First level, then up through the parking lot, one level at a time.’