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Following Nazim’s instructions, Amir had taken the M6 south, the M56 and the A56 to Frodsham, where they took a left turn at the traffic lights into Church Lane.
The motorcyclist behind them said: “Whisky six, left, left, left at the lights. The B5152 towards Delamere.”
“Whisky one, yes yes. Looks like the forest again. Anyone take the car parks?”
“Whisky seven, taking Whitefield.”
Two other call signs volunteered; a motorcyclist and two saloon cars sped up the long slow incline of Fluin Lane, Frodsham, towards its eventual junction with the B5152.
“Whisky six, I can take the Ashton Road car park if someone takes the eyeball.”
“Whisky five I have the eyeball.”
Seeing an opportunity for an overtake, the motorcyclist Whisky six pulled out and shot past the people carrier leaving it in her wake.
“Whisky five. Subjects blocked by traffic entering the car park at the shopping parade.” Thirty seconds later: “Whisky five, mobile now towards Delamere, thirty miles an hour.”
Whisky seven reached Whitefield car park with ease and parked centrally towards the far end. The occupants, a couple in their sixties, stood at the open boot of their car and were donning drab coloured walking jackets when Amir, giving them only a casual glance, drove the people carrier containing El-Hashem and the others passed. A Jack Russell Terrier scuttled back and forth around the couple’s feet.
Amir parked the vehicle in the northeast corner, reversing into position. Other than themselves and the couple with their dog, the car park contained only five other vehicles. They remained seated.
Whisky seven’s occupants now stood on opposite sides of their car as the ‘husband’ poured some tea from a thermos flask and passed it to his ‘wife’. To an onlooker, they were just talking and enjoying a quick drink before taking their dog for a well-earned walk.
Abdul Azeez El-Hashem sat in the front passenger seat of the people carrier. “The English and their dogs,” he laughed, then looked at his watch and said to his driver: “Amir, we seem to be early. You stay here and wait for our friends.”
“How will I know them?” Amir looked quizzically at him.
Abdul Azeez smiled benignly. “They will find you.”
He turned around in his seat and declared to the others: “It is a nice day. Come with me for a walk. I have something to discuss with you.”
He turned back, opened the door and got out. They stood outside putting their jackets on, then Abdul Azeez said: “I seem to remember this is a pleasant walk,” indicating the footpath fifteen metres away. He strode off, the others obediently following.
Whisky seven’s crew observed the movements within the vehicle and reacted to the doors opening by calmly packing up the thermos and cups into their car. A quick call brought the dog running to the female, who having leashed him said quietly into her concealed microphone, “Seven one...four subjects on foot to north east pathway into woods. Subject four remains with vehicle...subjects into woods now. Keeping the eyeball.” Her call sign indicated she was now on foot.
“Whisky one, yes yes.”
She and her partner set off at a brisk pace along a trail leading east into the trees. As they walked she reported: “Seven one. Subject one now wearing blue jacket with fur hood.”
Within thirty metres of entering the tree line, they reached a junction with a track running north. Out of view of Amir in the people carrier the male set off at a jog northwards. His partner continued to broadcast the descriptions of the others, slowing her pace to a stroll until she found herself in a position to monitor the people carrier and its occupant through the trees. The dog sniffed around then urinated briefly on the nearest tree trunk.
Nicks exited the car just before the entrance to the car park. At a fast jog, he took the path leading along its northern edge. As he ran he activated the tracking device and replaced it in the right chest pocket of his waterproof jacket.
“Elvis on plot. Talk me in,” he gasped into the microphone.
“Seven two, yes yes” replied the male operative. “Tracking now. Slow down but stay on that line. Temporary loss.”
Nicks wasn’t complaining. He’d overlooked the fact he hadn’t even run for a bus recently and had set off too quickly. He slowed to a manageable jog, concentrating on getting his breathing regulated. He could now see the people carrier parked at the top end of the car park so knew he’d have to veer further to the left if he was to remain unseen by its occupant. Ahead he could see the junction of two paths. He broke into a brisk walk taking the left one which he saw opened out onto a field after approximately seventy metres. He checked behind him to his right and saw his view of the people carrier was obscured by the trees.
“Seven two ... Elvis”
“Elvis, go ‘head.”
“Seven two. Eyeball regained.” He was out of breath and whispering. “Keep on that track. When you get to the end where it enters the field you need to turn right and come along the tree line for two hundred metres then stop. Subjects temporarily halted in a small clearing sixty metres from that location.”
“Elvis, yes yes.”
Following the instructions, he picked his way along the edge of the field, still happy he couldn’t be noticed from the car park. After what he estimated to be two hundred metres, he used the undergrowth for cover.
“Seven two... Elvis”
“Elvis. Go ‘head.”
“Seven two. Interesting development.” He’d got his breath back now, but was still whispering. “Subject one directing matters. Subjects two and three have jumped five and now have him tied up kneeling on the ground. Subject one not happy. Repeatedly slapping five about the head and face.”
“Elvis, yes yes. Wait... wait,” Nicks replied, taking out the tracker device and holding down button ‘B’ firmly whilst counting to three. The screen sprang into life. “I’m tracking you now.”
“Seven two, yes yes. You need to go another fifteen metres further, then turn to face me. They’ll be directly in front of you, sixty-five metres away.”
“Elvis, yes yes.”
He moved slowly and carefully along the tree line until he heard “Seven two. Elvis. Stop. Subjects in a direct line towards my location, sixty-five metres from your position.” Nicks checked his tracker then replaced it in his chest pocket, acknowledging the call. Concealed by the undergrowth, he pulled up his neck gaiter to cover the lower part of his face, took his beanie hat from his leg pocket and pulled it over his head: the combination left only his eyes exposed. Removing his day sack, he took the P226 from its coverings, briefly checked the magazine and suppressor were secure, zipped the bag up and put it back on. A deep breath then he moved stealthily forward, through the trees and sparse undergrowth.
“Seven two, Elvis.”
“Elvis. Go ‘head,” Nicks whispered.
“Seven two. Subject one has left the group. He’s walking up a mound that separates the group from you and... wait.... wait... he’s over it now and out of my view heading in your direction.”
Nicks stopped. “Yes, yes ... What about the others?”
“Seven two, I think they’re going to top him. One of them’s filming while the other one’s waving a big fuck off knife about and looks like he’s giving some sort of speech.”
A whispered: “Yes yes ... Elvis has entered the building.”
He moved swiftly through the trees in a crouch, suddenly seeing his target walking away from the incline over which remained the rest of the group. El-Hashem turned to his left and after a few paces stopped, taking up the unmistakable stance of a man about to relieve himself of body fluids. Nicks slowed but continued forward, carefully placing his feet so as not to break anything underfoot that would attract El-Hashem’s attention. The Target, undisturbed, unleashed a stream of urine onto the forest floor.
Nicks, now less than fifteen metres from him, raised the weapon. Pausing momentarily, he squeezed the trigger. ‘Klak’. El-Hashem collapsed instantly. As he hit the ground, his face slapped against the urine-soaked dirt and debris of the forest floor.
Abdul Azeez El-Hashem’s last thought was fairly mundane. It was simply: “I wonder how far I can piss.”
As quickly as stealth permitted, Nicks moved to the base of the incline then began to crawl rapidly up it, making sure he didn’t gain his viewpoint at the same place El-Hashem had left the group. On reaching the top of the mound, he slowly, carefully, peered over it and saw them. One was blindfolded and kneeling on the ground facing away from him, his hands clearly fastened behind his back, his head bowed. Alongside him, and nearest to Nicks, stood another, holding the kneeling man by his hair whilst gesticulating with a large knife in his right hand. The third male stood facing them, filming the event on a small handheld camera. The man with the knife began proclaiming: “Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.” Nicks raised the P226, sighted and exhaled.
“Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar,” Nazim said to the camera, his voice raised in passion. With a final flourish of the knife, he stepped quickly behind the kneeling Salim, pulled his head up so his neck was exposed and was about to draw the knife across his victim’s throat when he suddenly collapsed as if his strings had been cut. He didn’t even register the ‘Klak’ the 226 made as it sent him on his final journey.
Hakim, who was filming, heard the ‘Klak’ but didn’t understand its importance or meaning. He was still struggling to comprehend what had happened to Nazim when the next two rounds slammed into the top of his chest and throat. He dropped the camera and, clutching his neck, sank to his knees before collapsing onto his right side.
Nicks scrambled up from his firing position making his way down the incline. He didn’t bother checking Nazim. He knew he didn’t have to. He was more interested in Hakim. The headshot hadn’t been on because of the way he’d held the camera so he’d opted for two to the top of the chest. As he approached Salim he said: “Don’t say a fucking word! If you say anything I’ll kill you.” He walked calmly past him, noting his ankles were cable-tied, and went to Hakim. Standing over him, it was obvious he was still alive. He was making gurgling noises and moving his left leg as if to gain a position from which he might be able to stand up or at least make it to a crawl position. He had no fight, but Nicks could see his flight response was still partially intact. He rolled him onto his back. From Hakim’s eyes, he saw he was still taking things in. Nicks leaned into his field of vision, unmasked his face, smiled and softly said: “God is indeed great” then, pulling the neck gaiter back over his nose, he stood up and shot Hakim in the head. Bending down again, he picked up the camera that lay between Hakim’s now lifeless legs, and pressed ‘stop’, then ‘rewind’.
“Stay exactly where you are. I’m watching you,” he said to Salim before pressing the camera’s ‘play’ button followed by ‘fast forward’. Satisfied he didn’t appear on the footage, he dropped the camera back on the ground between Hakim’s legs and went to Salim. “You understand me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” sobbed Salim, the tension and relief followed by returning tension proving too much for him.
“I’m going to leave you now. I want you to count slowly to six hundred. If I hear you shouting before that time has passed, I will come back and kill you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand you,” whimpered Salim.
Nicks leant close to his ear: “You know that little voice in the depths of your head, the one asking you if you’re doing the right thing? Who do you think that is?” He waved the weapon casually around. “This lot, they’re just a random selection of knobheads venting their own anger. God’s not speaking to them, he doesn’t want to speak to knobheads but he’s talking to you. Listen for fuck’s sake!” He stood up, looked down at the sobbing Salim then leant down again, whispering in his ear: “I was sent to save you. Fucking earn it.”
With that, he was gone. Up and over the mound, past the body of Abdul Azeez El-Hashem, or whoever he really was.