MUSTAPHA / RASIM JANET /WALES

               The yellow Sea-King helicopter landed on the car park at Holyhead Hospital, where press photographers and TV camera crews laid siege to the building. Tank and David Bell ducked as they exited the helicopter and ran toward the rear entrance of the hospital, and reporters raced toward them shouting questions at them trying desperately to be heard over the rotor blades. The press had become interested in the growing news story about Islamic extremism, and they were feeding the public enough disinformation to cause a media frenzy countrywide. Random racist attacks had become commonplace in response to the growing suspicion that was being generated by media coverage. The shooting dead of Yasmine Ahmed and Sian had just added fuel to the flames. Stories that the dead body of Mustapha Ahmed had been misdiagnosed were leaked from sources within the hospital. The press had not taken long to connect Mustapha with the death of a female customs officer hence the massive media presence in the small Welsh port.

             Two armed policemen stood aside as Tank walked toward Mustapha`s room. There was no way Mustapha could remain in the small hospital any longer. Yasser Ahmad and his cronies would be aware by now of where he was and why he was there. He would be a target for Yasser one-way or the other. Sian lost her life trying to protect Mustapha, and Tank had to shoot three men that were sent to collect the Iraqi, so he needed to be moved immediately away from the eyes of the press and out of harm`s way.

            Mustapha sat up when Tank walked in followed by the fat controller. The bite mark on his cheek looked nasty, and a large blackened scab covered the stitches that closed the wound. Tank nodded at David Bell.

           “Is this the man that tried to abduct you from South Stack?” the fat controller asked.

           “Yes that`s him. Who is he?” Mustapha seemed to pale as looked at the grainy CCTV still.

           “Are you positive that this is the man that shot Sian?” David Bell needed to be certain that the man who claimed he was a polish immigrant was actually a Bosnian mercenary. He was recovering from a shoulder operation in a hospital that was just thirty miles away.

          “Well I did get pretty close to him, so yes I am certain,” Mustapha pointed to the bite mark on his face sarcastically.

          “We need to be sure, Mustapha. We are keeping this man under observation until he leads us to his accomplices,” Tank said trying to calm him down.

          “You mean my brother don’t you? Why don’t you just say that then?” Mustapha was becoming upset. He had lost his sister and his lover in the space of two days and nearly died himself along the way. Now he was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by armed policemen and besieged by hundreds of paparazzi, and he could see no end to it at all.

          “Okay, Mustapha, we are hoping that he will lead us to your brother. We need to remove him from society and then you are a free man,” Tank said. He could see that Mustapha was breaking under the strain.

          “I will never be free of him unless he is dead. You need to kill him or his people will haunt me as long as he lives. I cannot see any future while he is still alive.” Mustapha touched the thick scab on his face thoughtfully.

         “Why don’t you use me to lure him out? If he knows where I am he will send his people to find me. You could follow them back to Yasser. You could follow me back to my brother,” Mustapha said exactly what David Bell wanted to hear. He could not suggest this as a valid option himself without compromising the taskforce`s position. Mustapha had volunteered which was completely different.

         “You would be putting yourself in a position of intense danger. You are fully aware of what your brother is capable of. You need to think about this very carefully,” Tank said pacing the room as he spoke. It was a valid option. Yasser had twice tried to contact his younger brother by sending armed men to retrieve him, and Tank had little doubt that he would try again if knew where he was.

         “I would rather die trying to help, than to live in my brother`s shadow any longer. I have spent my life running and hiding from him and his enemies. They would kill me to get at him if they could. I will hide no more, I want to do this,” Mustapha sounded certain.

         Thirty miles away, Rasim Janet pulled a jumper over his head and his shoulder wound raged at him. He gritted his teeth and pulled a coat on over the jumper. He squeezed into a pair of Adidas trainers that were two sizes too small and fastened the laces. Rasim was stealing the clothes from a staff changing room that was located just down the hallway from his recovery ward, and he thought that it was odd that there was only one set of clothes hanging up in the room. It didn’t matter though; he had to move before his cover story was exposed as a lie, and so he had stolen extra painkillers from the pharmacy trolley earlier that morning. Once the morning doctors` rounds were completed he used the opportunity to escape without arousing suspicion. He pulled on a baseball cap and headed for the fire exit that was sign posted at the end of the corridor. Rasim opened the door and instinctively pushed it with his shoulder. The fresh wound hurt terribly and he felt the stitches straining and a trickle of blood ran down his back. The cold fresh air revived him and he stood on the fire escape and leaned against the wall to recover a little before moving on.

           Rasim could see across the hospital car park to the train station, as it was only a few hundred yards away. He climbed down the metal staircase and then reached into a small grid that was situated underneath it. He retrieved Sian`s Glock 9mm from where he had hidden it when he arrived at the hospital. Rasim had kept it dry by wrapping it in a plastic shopping bag. He crossed the parking lot and entered the small station without incident, and then he bought a single ticket to Warrington and sat on a bench seat to wait for the next train to arrive. His shoulder was causing him pain and he swallowed two of the stolen painkillers that he had in his pocket. He scanned the railway platform nervously. There were three other people waiting for the train, an elderly couple and a young woman. The young woman stood nearby reading a celebrity magazine. The people of the West seemed to be obsessed with celebrity, and he could not understand it. It seemed that football stars and pop singers were more revered than God to most people.

           The young woman wore tight faded denim jeans and a loose knitted jumper that clung to her curvy body. Rasim flushed as he felt sexual desire pulse through his body. She was sexy; there was no doubt about it, and he tried not to stare at the woman but he found it very difficult not to. She looked up and caught him staring and he flushed again, this time with embarrassment. She smiled at him and he looked away quickly. He should not have such thoughts on his mind but he couldn’t help it. She tossed her long black hair over her shoulder and he stared at her again.

           The Holyhead to London express train appeared, heading toward the platform that Rasim was waiting on, and he stood and walked toward an empty carriage as the train came to a halt. The train would not stop again until it reached the fortress city of Chester, which was built on the border of Wales and England as a garrison town for the invading legions of Rome. Rasim would need to change trains at Chester to continue his journey to Warrington. He sat at an empty table next to the window of the express train, and the dark haired woman had chosen to sit in the same carriage as him, but she was further down the train. He could not see her from where he was sitting. She could see him though. Detective Constable Ruth Walsh was an experienced Armed Response Officer. She was approaching thirty but looked much younger. Surveillance, detection and undercover operations were her specialities. She placed her celebrity magazine on the unoccupied seat that was next to her and checked that she could see her target. His reflection was mirrored in the carriage glass; she could watch every move that he made without compromising her cover. She typed a message into her MMS communicator and pressed send. The communicator looked like a mobile phone and was just as simple to operate. The Bosnian man looked uncomfortable when he moved, and Ruth knew that the hole in his shoulder would negate the use of his right arm. If he still had a weapon he would have to use his left hand to shoot. He would also not be able to support his shooting arm, which made accurate shots almost impossible to achieve. DC Walsh had assessed most of this information in the short space of time that she had been watching him. The taskforce had correctly guessed that he would use a train when he left the hospital, and they had placed DC Walsh at the station in case they were correct.