espionage [h.s.]

FIFTY THREE

A.N. in this chapter, i mention an ethnic group in relation to the terror cell that has been mentioned throughout this story. by using this ethnicity, i am in no way claiming that the characters in this book are representative of that whole ethnicity, i simply only included it due to inspiration from some terrorism/intelligence shows i've watched. it is simply for the purpose of the book, and i am in no way intending to make sweeping generalisations, to perpetuate harmful stereotypes or to cause any offence whatsoever. terrorism has no religion or ethnicity.

HARRY

HOUR 1

She's shaking. Her hands are full with constant tremors and her bottom lip is quivering. The relentless wind ripples through her clothes and her hair, attacking her harshly with its bitter chill, but I know that's not why she's shaking. It's not why I'm shaking, either.

She won't let me come close, but if I'm being honest, I'm kind of too scared to anyway. Not really because of what will happen to me, in fact that didn't really cross my mind until a few minutes ago, but simply because too much movement may seal her fate. And even if I could touch her, even if she'd let me, I can't comfort her. I can't wrap her up in my arms or stroke her hair or whisper softly in her ear, telling her everything will be ok, that she'll be ok, that we'll be ok. Because I don't know if any of that's true anymore.

What are we going to do? What are we going to do?

Her question echoes through the cold air and swirls around inside my head, continuously bouncing off each side of my skull. Again and again, over and over, as if my own brain is deliberately torturing me.

I don't really know what state I was expecting Rochelle to be in when I first saw her again; a few bruises perhaps, maybe some small wounds or other marks, all of which I'm sure would've filled me with murderous rage, but I never expected something like this. I never would've even let myself imagine something like this. Never this.

Eventually, once I've semi-recovered from my momentary paralysis, I manage to get some words out. "How long has this been on you?" I ask, my quiet voice almost getting lost amidst the deafening roar of the wind. Or maybe that's just my heartbeat.

"I-I don't know," she trembles. "I-I woke up with it on. I think they....they must've d-drugged me. It doesn't h-have a timer, so I don't know h-how long it has...." She pauses to take a much-needed shaky breath, and when she looks up at me again, her eyes flash with an emotion that I don't think I've ever seen in her before: pure, unadulterated fear. And the longer I stand staring at her in silence, the longer the fear grows, and then, after a few seconds, she eventually whispers, "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

"No," I reply quickly, firmly, shaking my head fervently to dismiss the thought. She doesn't look very reassured, and out of habit I take a step forward to comfort her, until I realise I can't and I have to step back again. "You're not going to die," I tell her in the calmest voice I can manage. "I'm not going to let you die. We're going to disarm this bomb and.....and you'll be fine."

"But how?" she asks, her panic clearly beginning to rise. "I haven't seen a bomb like this before. It doesn't have a panel, or a timer, or any open wiring..."

Even though I don't want to, I glance back down to the explosive strapped on her chest. It's relatively simple in nature; made up of three patches, clearly the explosive element, and a thick strap which is securing the death sentence to her body. The longer I continue to inspect it, the more I come to the rather sickening realisation that she's right. In all my years of dealing with explosives, I don't think I've ever seen a bomb like this before either. And with that realisation, the first thought I have is: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.