Run

by Adam Hamdy

Genres: Suspense; High-tech & Sci-fi Thrillers

Synopsis

JAMES PATTERSON called Adam Hamdy's debut PENDULUM 'one of the best thrillers of the year '. Now meet John Wallace, the lead of PENDULUM in this exclusive novella, perfect for fans of Lee Child' s JACK REACHER series and Gregg Hurwitz's ORPHAN X. Embedded with the British Army in Afghanistan, recording the devastation that the war on terror has brought to the country, photo-journalist John Wallace's endurance is about to be put to the ultimate test. A planned assault on an insurgent compound has gone wrong with devastating consequences. Now Wallace has only one option if he is going to get justice for those involved. He can expose those responsible. But to do that, he will have to RUN... The noose is tightening...

Release date: September 22, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 90

Sample

Wrapped in a white womb, blind, deaf and numb, Wallace felt strangely calm. The world had ceased to trouble him. Past and future had no meaning; there was only now, and in the deadened present, he lost all sense of himself. Robbed of history, ambition and desire, he believed he might be at peace, but at the very instant he began to savour the blissful serenity, it was torn from him. The protective shield of the transient womb was the first thing to go, and the white dust cloud thrown up by the explosion began to dissipate. Like a slumbering baby hauled into the world for the first time, he struggled to cope with the sudden rush of feeling as his senses were assaulted by the unfamiliar chaos that surrounded him. The sweet aroma of gunpowder mingled with the heady scent of burning oil, but both were quickly overpowered by the acrid stench of scorched flesh.

He realised that the blast had blown him onto the soft sand that surrounded the walled compound. He rolled onto his front and pushed himself to his knees, invigorated by a sudden burst of survivor’s glee: he was alive. He could see wraiths running through the dust and smoke, shadowy figures moving with deliberate urgency. Soldiers, he realised, the word suddenly filling his mind. Sabre Platoon . . . J Company . . . Fourth Battalion . . . Lancaster . . . Marwand. His thoughts were slow and disjointed, as though they too had been thrown into disarray by the grenade. Camera. That single word connected everything, and Wallace sparked to life with a sudden recollection of his place in the world. He checked his chest as he got to his feet, but his camera was gone, blown clear by the blast. As he staggered through the swirling dust, scouring the ground, he realised that his hearing hadn’t returned. He had the vaguest sense of a world of sounds, but everything seemed distant, muted by a swollen pressure.

He saw his D800 lying in the dust, the Nikon’s strap torn free. When he picked it up, he saw that one of the eyelets had snapped, so he unclipped the other end of the strap and dropped it in the dirt. When he checked the lens, he was relieved to see that the ND filter had taken the brunt of the blast; the 35mm’s glass was unscathed. He unscrewed the shattered filter and put the camera to his eye, the world suddenly taking on a familiar, comforting perspective. Events seen through the viewfinder seemed unreal, and Wallace felt safely isolated from them, removed to the role of voyeur, unable to participate any more than someone watching a movie. He focused, tracking a shadow through the dust cloud. As it drew closer, the form took shape: a man in the familiar tan and brown camouflage of the Fourth. Wallace recognised the dust-encrusted face that glanced back at him: Piney, the jovial Mancunian who’d so willingly posed for photos with the SA80 machine gun that he now held in front of him. Piney yelled something, and although the words were indistinct, the gesture wasn’t: he was signalling Wallace to stay back. Wallace hesitated and watched as Piney ran alongside the wall before disappearing through the hole where high gates had once stood. Another shape followed him through the gap, and Wallace realised that the Delta fireteam was now racing into the insurgent stronghold.

Wallace started moving, following in Piney’s footsteps, running next to the painted white concrete. As he neared the gate, he saw that the explosion had sheared away some of the wall, revealing the steel struts that lay beneath. When he reached the splintered remains of the heavy gates, he peered into the large courtyard and saw the fifteen soldiers who made up Sabre Platoon. Beyond the men lay a long, squat house with a flat roof, constructed of the same material as the wall that encircled it. Years of dusty abrasion had ground away the colour of the building, but as he looked through the viewfinder, Wallace was convinced he could see the faintest hint of blue.

He tracked the soldiers, snapping at random, until he found Captain Nash, the relief officer who had stepped in to cover for Lieutenant Bowyer, the unfortunate platoon leader, who’d been stricken by Q fever. Nash’s short brown hair, his uniform and his boots were white with dust, as was his face, which bore an unfamiliar expression. Instead of the pre-mission confidence, which had bordered on arrogance, Wallace saw uncertainty. He changed perspective, and followed Nash’s gaze down to the ground, where he saw the twisted body of a child splayed in the dust.

He lowered the camera and took his first proper look at the scene. Lying between the soldiers and the house were dozens of bodies, most of them small, the motionless remains of children. Wallace had been present for the company commander’s briefing. Major Hoyle had told Sabre Platoon that intelligence indicated this was an insurgent base, a stronghold from which operations were run against the British Amy and Afghan forces. But there were no fighters here. Instead, as Wallace raised his camera and continued taking pictures, he saw the splintered pieces of a trestle table, scraps of cake, and scorched, bullet-ridden gifts: the platoon had raided a children’s party.

The click of the shutter was the first proper sound Wallace’s ears had registered since the explosion, and it snapped furiously as he took pictures of the dead: the frozen faces of a handful of Afghan parents and at least a score of their children, all lost to violence. He photographed the shocked soldiers as they tried to comprehend what had happened. He had enough combat experience to know that Nash had been overly reliant on the intelligence assessment, and hadn’t reconnoitred the compound properly. He’d split the platoon into two squads: Charlie Fireteam had been assigned to frontal assault, while Delta had been tasked with providing cover and bringing up the rear. Wallace had seen doubt on the faces of the soldiers, and suspected that if Lieutenant Bowyer had proposed such a simplistic assault, Beatrix, the grizzled platoon sergeant, would have challenged him. But Nash was new to them all, and he’d been given a glowing, almost heroic introduction by Major Hoyle. Beatrix lacked the confidence to undermine the golden captain’s orders on his first combat deployment with the platoon, and Nash didn’t know the men well enough to read the subtle signals that they weren’t happy with his plan.

As he looked through the viewfinder, Wallace could see hindsight filling the men’s faces with regret. Those who weren’t immobilised with dismay were trying to help the badly wounded survivors, whose screams and cries filled Wallace’s ears as his hearing returned. He focused on movement in the doorway of the house. A young woman burst into the courtyard, her hijab falling away to reveal her jet-black hair, but she didn’t care; her attention was locked on a tiny figure lying in the dust, a little girl of ten or eleven whose glassy brown eyes stared directly at Wallace. The woman ran across the courtyard, and collapsed in the dirt, her tearful lament echoing off the walls as she pawed ineffectually at the child’s lifeless body. Wallace photographed every agonising moment, his fingers trembling as he changed the camera’s exposure, his body shaking as though he was about to be swept into the terrible storm of sadness that was emanating from his subject.

‘Imdad.’

The word was so quiet, at first Wallace thought he’d imagined it.

‘Imdad,’ a voice repeated softly.

Wallace had spent enough time in Afghanistan to recognise the Pashto word for ‘help’, and lowered his camera to look around. To his left, about ten yards from the gate, he saw what appeared to be a pile of ragged clothes, but as he looked closer, he realised it was the crumpled figure of a little boy, his face turned away.

‘Hey!’ Wallace yelled, trying to attract the attention of the soldiers who stood nearby. He hurried towards the child. ‘This kid’s alive.’

As he reached the boy, he dropped to his knees. Dressed for a party, the child wore a fine white khet partug, but the puffball trousers and embroidered tunic were covered with dirt and blood. His shoes had been blown off and his feet were pale with dust. Wallace touched the boy’s chest, and felt a small heart thunder erratically beneath his fingertips, skipping like a rapidly spinning, badly scratched record. When he caught sight of the child’s face, he forced himself to smile in an effort to stifle the urge to cry out. The kid’s right eye looked normal, but his left was full of blood, and a bright red trail ran down his lacerated cheek and pooled in the grey dirt. The good eye turned to look at Wallace, and he felt the boy’s heartbeat quicken.

‘Sah tasmiya?’ He asked the child his name. ‘Someone help!’ he cried towards the soldiers.

‘Elam,’ the boy replied between rapid, shallow breaths.

‘Ta ye khah,’ Wallace lied, his voice faltering as he told the boy he was going to be okay. He wanted to run screaming into the street at the horror that lay before him. This tiny boy, this child, Elam, was dying.

‘Let me take a look at him.’

Wallace glanced up to see Nash running towards them, but when he returned his attention to Elam, he saw that the boy had fallen still, and realised that he could no longer feel the child’s erratic heartbeat beneath his fingers.

Nash crouched down a. . .