My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (44 page)

A slew of silent bullets suddenly riddled the sword-clutching Iranian, blasting him several feet away and into the pitch-black corridor beyond. His body clanged against unseen metal.

The Master Sergeant turned his head to look behind him, frowning, but relaxing simultaneously as a figure hurried ahead of him.

Two members of the Special Forces team entered the room containing the plastic barrels and the wooden crate housing the shells.

"CWs detected! Repeat, CWs detected!" called one, into his radio.

"We've got a stockpile here, sir. Chemical weapons. Nerve and blister agents. Look like shell and bomb delivery systems too. Shit. We gotta get outta here."

A magnificent light illuminated the room, picking out the entire array of chemical weapons kept there. Rows of red plastic barrels, with some kind of lettering written in permanent marker, indicated what was contained inside. They lined one wall. Against another was a row of white plastic barrels with a yellow liquid clearly visible inside each of them. The wooden pallets displayed artillery shells of some sort against the back wall.

The men exchanged a look of concern as they turned to exit, when one suddenly received a shot to the neck. It sent him staggering backwards and spurted blood, forcing him to drop to the ground.

The second man blasted the Iranian who had just downed his fellow soldier, tearing his chest apart and screaming as he did so. He looked down at his team member and his wound and then applied pressure to it with his hand.

Michael wriggled his wrists as the sound of gunfire echoed all around him. Hamid looked at the video camera and the laptop and then Michael sitting on the chair in front. Hamid's expression was filled with tremendous anger as he turned his attention to Siamak, looking helpless on the cold, concrete ground, but smirking from the shadows at him. That only made him more furious.

Michael rolled his eyes up to meet Hamid's.

Hamid stepped to Michael and with one hand he grasped his hair, yanked his head back so he faced the camera. With the other hand, he pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. Hamid towered above his hostage with the Islamic wording on the sheet backdrop behind. Hamid stared at the camera.

"The sound of Western thunder can be heard around us, invading our land, taking from us, but we will defeat the devils and send them back to hell."

The viewfinder of the video camera fixed on Michael, with his eyes staring straight at the lens. Michael's eyes quickly rolled up and widened with complete surprise. Tears began to stream down his face. His body just couldn't take anymore, yet through his utter exhaustion, he managed a smile. Then he saw his father.

Edward, in combat gear, stood in the doorway. He gripped and aimed a Sig Sauer P226 handgun. His eyes glazed over as he fixed on his son, in the chair, with Hamid looming behind him. Edward formed a half smile.

Michael managed a blood-stained smile through his fear.

Hamid looked past the camera, and as soon as a muscle began to move in his face to form an expression, a shot was fired.

BANG!

Hamid was shot in the forehead.

BANG!

Hamid was then shot in the chest. It forced him backwards, stumbling into the sheet, fixed by pegs, bringing it downwards as he dropped to the floor. Dead.

Edward took three big steps to reach his son and knelt in front of him. He bit the fingertips of his gloves to remove them and gently cupped Michael's face and looked deep into his eyes with nothing but love.

Michael sobbed with relief. Seeing his father confused him, but brought him so much joy.

Edward released a tear.

Siamak squinted his one good eye across the room at Edward clutching his son and untying his wrists, with Michael wrapping his arms around his father, hugging him tightly. Siamak was bemused by the odd sight. He looked up.

The Special Forces Captain stepped into the room and trained his weapon around. He saw blood on Edward's hands, then noticed a gunshot wound.

Edward winced. Pained. He had been shot.

"We've gotta go," ordered the Captain, who looked down to Siamak.

Siamak looked up and gasped.

"Emmett Smith, sir. Codename Siamak. CIA Middle East." 

"I know, sir. OK, gentlemen. We're moving out," said the Captain.

Michael eyed his surroundings one last time.

The cold, dark room where he was first questioned. The terrifying chair he had endured many a beating on. The dead captor, Hamid.

Michael was buckled into the rear of the Black Hawk as the helicopter swiftly rose above the sands and into the night sky.

The morning sun had risen, shining down onto the Turkish US airbase of the Izmir Province. The Black Hawk gently touched down upon the tarmac and the two injured members of the Special Forces team were hurried out and tended to by a medical unit on standby.

Watching with concerned, keen eyes in the doorway of the aircraft hangar were Rebecca and Violet.

Edward clambered out of the Black Hawk. He aided his frail son, Michael, who turned to face a third casualty being helped out by another medic.

Michael extended his hand to grip the other man's. It was the hand of Siamak, also known as Emmett Smith. He helped him upright which enabled him to sit on the edge of the helicopter to face him.

"I tried to tell you who I was many times," Siamak said.

"I did tell you who I was time and time again," Michael replied.

"I'm sorry," said Siamak.

"It didn't start with you," said Michael.

Siamak patted Michael on the back as he was helped into a wheelchair and pushed elsewhere. He looked back to Michael and nodded his head to him, before he was escorted away.

Michael squinted ahead as he cast his eyes on his true love. He trod wearily away from Edward to be met halfway by Rebecca.

She was already in tears and as Michael neared her, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

Edward looked up and smiled at his wife.

Violet rubbed her crying eyes and saw that Edward's arm was in fact in a sling. She shook her head, giving him a look as he made his way to her on the tarmac.

"Don't give me that look. What was I going to do, leave our boy out there?" Edward said, casually, smirking and kissing his wife. He placed an arm around her, clutching her tight, pulling her close to him.

Despite Mubarak's resignation, mass demonstrations continued in Egypt's capital Cairo, as they had done in many other Middle East countries, including the Yemen, Syria and Libya, where civil war raged.

The Libyan leader, Muammar Gaddafi, was sixty-nine years old and died on 20th October 2011. It was reported that Gaddafi's convoy was attacked by NATO warplanes, after which he was captured alive. The world was informed Gaddafi was beaten and then killed by forces loyal to the National Transitional Council of Libya.

Iran had its share of violent protests. However, there had also been reports since suggesting mass censorship of media coverage of any form of uprising.

A candle flickered on the coffee table as Michael and Rebecca hugged one another tightly in their flat as they sat on the sofa. They reached for a glass of red wine each and toasted one another before kissing.

"I love you," Rebecca said.

"I love you, too." Michael sipped his drink and reclined. It had been a month since he had been back in the UK. He was healthier, clean-shaven, fresh-faced, clean-clothed, relaxed. A D Notice was still firmly in place and he was officially signed off sick, with 'work-related stress', covering up any form of doubt from his workplace. When he did return, however, Helen had decided to resign, taking early retirement. She felt it was either that or stay under the reign of Queen Josephine of the PRU and suffer a heart attack during the process. Michael moved to the main site of the PRU, working with permanently excluded children and an entirely new staff team. As luck would have it, bitter head Josephine also resigned, paving the way for a younger more enthusiastic male head teacher, who wanted a child-centred environment and valued his experienced staff members. Nobody at the workplace knew of Michael's traumatic ordeal; his kidnapping in Greenwich or him being held hostage in Iran. They also didn't suspect him of working for the police.  Staff just believed he was off with work-related stress.

Michael exhaled a sigh of happiness. "You never did ask me how my day at work was," Michael quipped, receiving a look from Rebecca, who released a nervous laugh and a sudden flood of tears.

"Stop it! That's not funny," she giggled again, then smiled as she leaned across and kissed him on his lips, nestling herself into his arms, against his chest, closing her eyes, pressing her head to him tightly.

He kissed the side of her head and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He smiled and sipped his wine again. He placed the glass on the coffee table just as his new iPhone vibrated to announce a call from a withheld number.

Rebecca jolted with shock as the phone rumbled on the table.

Michael reached for the phone and took the call. "Hello?"

A male American voice replied to him.

"This is the CIA. Am I speaking with Jacob Ramsay?"

Ben Trebilcook is a Screenwriter / Producer from London. He has balanced his work in film by working in the Education Service, with over ten years of experience as a qualified Learning Mentor and Seclusion Manager. His main focus within education was the management of behaviour of permanently excluded Young People within the Royal Borough of Greenwich, in south-east London. He has strong family connections with the police and secret intelligence services.

Ben Trebilcook can be found on various social media platforms, including Twitter under the @BenTrebilcook handle.