Airport - Code Red: BookShots Read online

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Read on for an extract from The Hostage

  Also by James Patterson

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  A major terrorist cell sets a devastating plan in motion. Their target? One of the world’s busiest airports – London Churchill International Airport.

  Retired SAS captain Matt Bates and ex-Delta Force officer Chaz Shoeman find themselves caught up in the attack. And they are London’s only hope at stopping an atrocity that could kill thousands.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. His books have sold in excess of 300 million copies worldwide and he has been the most borrowed author in UK libraries for the past nine years in a row. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers.

  James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young readers including the Middle School, I Funny, Treasure Hunters, House of Robots, Confessions and Maximum Ride series. James is the proud sponsor of the World Book Day Award and has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.

  STORIES AT THE SPEED OF LIFE

  What you are holding in your hands right now is no ordinary book, it’s a BookShot.

  BookShots are page-turning stories by James Patterson and other writers that can be read in one sitting.

  Each and every one is fast-paced, 100% story-driven; a shot of pure entertainment guaranteed to satisfy.

  Available as new, compact paperbacks, ebooks and audio, everywhere books are sold.

  BookShots – the ultimate form of storytelling. From the ultimate storyteller.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bradford, England, Tuesday evening

  ‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’ shouted Ilham Al-Yussuv. He was dressed in combat fatigues and strutted in front of a group of forty-one men. They screamed back: ‘ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!’

  Al-Yussuv turned to his right. His wife, Hubab Essa, a woman almost as tall as him, who was wearing a black robe and black headscarf, nodded, her expression blank. Kneeling at her feet was a young man. He was blindfolded; sweat ran down his cheeks and into the open collar of his shirt. The couple pulled on masks and Al-Yussuv nodded to a man videoing them.

  ‘This is James Dalton,’ Al-Yussuv said to the camera, pointing to the shaking prisoner. ‘A student from Nottingham University. He has been found guilty of mocking the Holy Book and shall be punished.’ He nodded to his wife. Hubab Essa stepped forward, pulling a Walther PPK from a pocket in her robe. She placed it against the back of Dalton’s head and pulled the trigger. The prisoner fell forward and the crowd of men cheered and shouted in jubilation. A few were waving guns and knives over their heads. The man with the video camera kept recording the two masked leaders.

  Essa stepped beside James Dalton’s dead body and spat on it. Then she raised her head, wiped her mouth and put up her hands. ‘Silence. Silence, my brothers. This is but the start,’ she said with quiet menace, then looked round at the gathering. ‘I am not a woman. I am a Muslim. I am a jihadist. A holy warrior. I am the Infidel’s worst nightmare.’

  CHAPTER 2

  THE TERRORIST CELL had been in Numbers 54 and 56 Glimmer Street, Bradford, for ten days. Combined, the two derelict properties served as a perfect safe house. They were the last buildings still standing on a street two miles from the centre of Bradford, and were set for demolition in two weeks. The houses were off the grid, listed in some city council office computer file but ignored by everyone. Everyone, that is, except the forty-two men and one woman who had suffered squalid conditions for ten days and were waiting to spring into action. There was no running water, electricity came from a small generator in the backyard of each house and there were more rats than there were humans. Apart from the cell’s leaders, Al-Yussuv and Essa, the jihadists had no sanitation or privacy whatsoever. If any members of the cell needed to leave the street, they wore disguises and travelled by public transport. They never hung out in groups and they always left and returned via different routes.

  Morale was ebbing. That was part of the reason for Tuesday evening’s entertainment with the captured Nottingham University student, the eighteen-year-old son of a baker, originally from London, who had been visiting friends in Bradford. During his short lifetime, James Dalton had barely seen a copy of the Quran, let alone insulted it.

  Al-Yussuv and Essa had a small room to themselves at the rear of Number 54. Their men were spread out over a dozen other rooms in the two decrepit houses. It was late, quiet.

  ‘The show was a success, husband,’ Essa said as they sat on the edge of the mattress on the floor. ‘It served a double purpose. Saabiq has uploaded the film already and it’s been passed through half a dozen servers and IP addresses. It’s completely untraceable. It’ll be big news by tomorrow.’ Essa grimaced: ‘But we cannot do it again, and I’m worried the men are becoming restless.’

  ‘Wife, do not fear. Allah is watching over us. It will not be long now.’ Al-Yussuv kissed the woman on her bared forehead and ran a hand through her cropped black hair. ‘I loved your hair, dearest one.’

  She smiled. ‘I did not want to risk tripping on it when the action starts, Ilham.’

  He kissed her again and then their lips met. Al-Yussuv’s mobile rang. He pulled back, stood and walked over to where he had left the phone next to his commando jacket. He heard a click and then a series of bleeps. He counted them. Four. He pushed the red button and then punched in a number he had memorised. He said nothing.

  A distorted voice at the other end of the line delivered one short, crisp sentence: ‘Friday, nine thirty a.m. T3.’ Al-Yussuv heard another click and the line went dead. Essa looked at him expectantly. ‘Friday morning,’ he said, feeling his hand shaking as he held the phone at his side.

  CHAPTER 3

  Wednesday, 7.30 a.m., 64 miles north of London

  Ilham Al-Yussuv gazed through the window at the green summer fields dotted with sheep. He was alone in the train carriage, but he knew five of his men were scattered throughout the other fifteen carriages of the 5.55 a.m. express from Bradford to London’s King’s Cross.

  Everything had been planned down to the tiniest detail. The cell had split into seven groups. The teams had all travelled, or were now
travelling, to London via entirely separate routes: three by car taking different roads south, one by coach, two by train and a final team in three trucks hidden with their equipment behind crates. Al-Yussuv looked down at his tailored suit, neatly ironed shirt and Windsor-knotted tie. As Dr Omar Shalim, an orthopaedic surgeon returning from a medical conference at the Norcroft Centre, Bradford, he had drawn the cushy straw: a first-class carriage and a Louis Vuitton briefcase. He also had a large suitcase filled with weapons, gas masks, explosives and sophisticated computer equipment.

  The first sign of trouble came with a slowing of the train. A shiver of anxiety shuddered through him, but he pushed it away. Trains slow down and speed up all the time, even the expresses. But then it slowed some more, jolted and went into an emergency brake. Al-Yussuv was thrown from his seat and flew across the narrow space between the rows. Cursing loudly, he landed, twisted, on the padded seat in front of him.

  The train ground to a stop; the screech of metal on metal.

  Al-Yussuv pulled himself upright, reached for his briefcase, unclasped the twin locks and took out his Glock. He lifted the suitcase from the rack and lowered it to the floor. Then he swung round to see his friend Haadii Fahmy coming through the doors connecting a second-class carriage with the first-class. The door opened with a hiss and Fahmy was through, an MP5K in his right hand, the barrel pointing to the floor. Al-Yussuv pulled back as Fahmy reached him.

  Shouts, commands.

  ‘Allah! This is it,’ Fahmy whispered, his voice full of fear. ‘How? How could they know?’

  A quick burst of gunfire and the glass upper half of the door connecting the carriages shattered. Al-Yussuv glimpsed a black figure, a helmet. There was a second burst of automatic fire from the other end of the carriage, and then a terrifying silence.

  Smack! The two terrorists had barely registered the canister of tear gas flying through the door to their right when a flash grenade exploded less than two metres away towards the north-facing door. As 170 decibels and a blinding light filled the carriage, Al-Yussuv’s training kicked in. He threw himself to the floor, peeling off three rounds towards the nearest entrance. He glimpsed Fahmy as he stumbled forward, spinning on his heel, his 9mm sub-machine gun spraying shells. Fahmy buckled like a collapsing beach chair as his spine was shattered by a shell from a semi-automatic.

  Al-Yussuv, flat on his stomach, tossed his gun forward, watching it spin along the polished floor, and raised both hands as the gas-masked firearms team charged into the carriage.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ealing, West London, Thursday evening

  It was all over the TV and the Internet, of course. A terrorist cell busted. But the details were sketchy. Hubab Essa stared at the screen of her laptop, trying to get any scrap of information she could. One of her mobile phones trilled. It was the Nokia fitted with the highest security protocols. She snatched it up.

  She had not heard the computer voice before. They had always called Ilham. But he was not here. She had no idea where he was. Was he in heaven with his well-deserved virgins? she mused as the voice spoke.

  ‘The package is on schedule. No change, but you must be home to sign for it.’ She understood what that meant and went to ask a question. Did they have any news on Ilham? But the line was dead. She stared at the blank screen and could see her reflection, a black scarf framing her narrow face, her steely eyes and tight jaw. She could not remember the last time she had laughed. ‘So, I am now in command,’ she said to the empty room. ‘I shall not fail.’ The muscles in her cheeks tightened. ‘I am the Infidel’s worst nightmare.’

  She returned to the laptop, stabbing at keys. She was deep inside the Dark Web, but there was nothing more to learn. The British authorities had already passed on to the press as much as they were going to. If Ilham had survived, he would be in detention now and no one but the military would know anything about her husband. Central Command in Raqqa might know scraps, but comms were kept brief and strictly for essentials only. She would learn no more that way. She snapped out of it and closed the laptop lid. She had a job to do.

  There came a quiet tap at the door.

  ‘Yes.’

  A young man appeared at the opening. It was her seventeen-year-old cousin, Nadir Abdallah. He was a kid, his beard patchy.

  ‘Nadir,’ Essa said. ‘Come.’

  He gave his elder relative a small bow and entered, closing the door behind him.

  ‘What is it?’ Essa asked. ‘You look worried.’

  The boy couldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘Look me in the face, Nadir. What’s wrong?’

  Nadir raised his eyes, and without his needing to utter a word Essa could see what was troubling him. ‘You are afraid?’

  He nodded and lowered his eyes again.

  ‘Look at me, Nadir. It is natural to be afraid. We are all afraid. But Allah gives us strength. You do love Allah, don’t you, Nadir?’

  ‘Of course, cousin. Of course I do.’ He looked genuinely shocked.

  ‘And the Infidel?’

  ‘The Infidel must die. And I will follow you to victory tomorrow.’

  ‘That is good.’

  ‘I cannot sleep, cousin. I want to serve Allah and I know I shall gladly die for Islam. It is just . . .’

  ‘You are afraid of death?’

  Nadir said nothing, looked at his palms. ‘I hate myself for my fear, but yes, cousin, I am. I’m afraid to die.’

  ‘But you shall go to heaven. Your name will live for ever. You will be a martyr and you will kill many before you die. It will be a moment to make your mother proud, our whole family proud.’

  He produced a strained smile. Hubab Essa stood. ‘Come here, Nadir. Give your cousin a hug.’

  He put his arms around his cousin’s muscular, hard body. She held his shoulders. ‘Now, Nadir. I have just received final confirmation that the mission is to go ahead as planned in spite of . . .’

  Nadir looked at her gravely.

  ‘I have a small but very important job for you tonight.’

  They sat and Essa explained; then she watched the door close behind the kid. As it clicked shut, she picked up a second mobile and pressed a single digit. She could hear it ring in a room upstairs before the soft voice of Zahoor Ashmina, her closest lieutenant, came through the speaker. ‘I need you to do something for me,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 5

  NADIR ABDALLAH STOOD at the back entrance to the terraced house. A small garden strewn with rubbish stretched to a gate in the wooden fence. He moved quickly, unlatched the gate with shaking fingers and dashed into the dark alleyway running behind the scruffy houses. A left, a right; keeping to the shadows, he was out on the quiet street.

  He swerved into the street with a small parcel under his right arm. His instructions from Essa were clear. He needed to drop the parcel in a waste bin outside a grocer’s shop on the main road. He turned down another narrow lane, through puddles. Muddy water splashed up his trouser legs, but he didn’t care at all. Then he was out on another, bigger street that led to Western Avenue, thirty metres ahead.

  Single-focused, Nadir stepped from the pavement onto the tarmac without paying any attention to anything around him. He believed that this part of the mission was everything. Essa had impressed upon him the importance of the parcel and the drop.

  An old black Ford came round the corner, its lights off. It accelerated along the short road. Nadir was so lost in his own world he only heard the car when it was five yards from him. The headlights came on – full beam – a blinding light. Nadir froze, like a rabbit. Then some sort of survival instinct booted up and with a great burst of energy, he leapt forward. But it was too late, far too late. The car hit him square on at forty miles per hour.

  Nadir left the ground, slid up the bonnet and the windscreen like a ski jumper in reverse. He spun round a metre above the car and smacked onto the road with a loud, hollow crunch.

  His former colleague, Zahoor Ashmina, tightened his fingers on the wheel and kept driv
ing. Nadir was dead before the Ford reached the end of the street. The car screeched around the corner and Ashmina returned to the house via an indirect route.

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘Black’ Detention Centre, North-west London, Friday, 8.44 a.m.

  ‘The fucker won’t break!’ SAS officer Colonel Jack Stewart hissed. ‘Thirty-five hours, and nothing.’ He and Captain Nigel Grant were in the corridor. Stewart glared at the door in front of him. ‘I’m not sure I could hold out that long. You have to give the bastard credit.’

  Behind the door, a long, narrow room; low ceiling, powerful fluorescent strip lights, a metal floor streaked with blood. In the centre of the room, a table. At one end, a trough filled with water. Beside the trough on the metal floor lay a pile of towels and next to this, a bucket half-filled with freezing-cold water. A hosepipe ran from a tap inserted into one of the room’s shorter walls.

  On the table lay Ilham Al-Yussuv, his body covered with bruises and lacerations. His blood had pooled under him and dripped from the table to the floor. Al-Yussuv was barely conscious. He had no idea where he was or how long he had been here. All he knew was a world of pain, agonies he had never imagined possible. He’d been cut, beaten, burned and waterboarded. But he would say nothing. He had told them his name but no more, not a clue, not a hint. The Infidel would never break him. He would never betray Allah. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!

  All the British had was what Al-Yussuv had been carrying with him when he was caught on the train: a suitcase full of weapons, explosives and other equipment; and an expensive briefcase which contained two things – a plastic box holding feta-and-tomato sandwiches and a copy of the Quran. The book had been analysed by intelligence officers trained to unravel hidden coded messages, but they had drawn a complete blank.

  Outside in the corridor, Captain Nigel Grant turned his back to the door. ‘All our intel says something will happen today, this morning. But where? The clock is ticking, sir.’