Operation Last Assault

By Richard Joyce

Johnny Vince has retired from the Special Forces – but Johnny doesn’t do civilian life. When a mission is offered alongside US military, he grabs at the chance. The task: to rescue wealthy American, Larry Schultz, from captivity in Yemen. However, Johnny has always attracted trouble. From the outset, he is up to his neck in danger. The explosive race to free Schultz from Somali pirates leaves a trail of death, destruction and deceit. Just why is Schultz so important?
But who comes first: his squad members, Larry Schultz, or his brother, held hostage by the same drug cartel which is after Schultz? All Johnny knows is that it has become personal. To save his brother, he has to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amolibros
• Release date: Jun 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781908557902

Richard Joyce

Inspired in 2013 by his favourite author, Damien Lewis, Richard Joyce began to write his first of the Johnny Vince series. Right from the first book, Operation Blue Halo, he continues to finely blend historical facts and events, combined with raw emotion, suspense, and unexpected twists.When not writing, researching, and editing in his ‘man shed’, Richard enjoys time with his wife and dog on beach walks; oh, and a sneaky beer. As well as raising funds for charitable affairs that are connected to his writing, he is now busy typing away for a new book, away from the Johnny Vince series.

Book preview

Operation Last Assault

by Richard Joyce

Published as an ebook by Amolibros at Smashwords 2016

Table of Contents

About This Book

About the Author

Notices

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

About This Book

Johnny Vince has retired from the Special Forces – but Johnny doesn’t do civilian life. When a mission is offered alongside US military, he grabs at the chance. The task: to rescue wealthy American, Larry Schultz, from captivity in Yemen. However, Johnny has always attracted trouble. From the outset, he is up to his neck in danger. The explosive race to free Schultz from Somali pirates leaves a trail of death, destruction and deceit. Just why is Schultz so important?

But who comes first: his squad members, Larry Schultz, or his brother, held hostage by the same drug cartel which is after Schultz? All Johnny knows is that it has become personal. To save his brother, he has to survive.

About the Author

After the success of his first novel, Operation Blue Halo, Richard Joyce has published this second in the series Operation Last Assault, featuring that novel’s hero, Johnny Vince, now retired from UK Special Forces. However, retirement is the last thing Johnny wants, and he accepts a contract as a mercenary. Filled with trouble from the outset, it turns into a race against time to rescue a wealthy American, Larry Schultz, from captivity by Somali pirates. It soon becomes apparent that other groups are also interested in Schultz, making it hard for Johnny to know who to trust, especially when he learns that his brother, Oliver, is being held in ransom for Shultz.

Also by Richard Joyce

Operation Blue Halo, featuring Johnny Vince.

Notices

Copyright © Richard Joyce 2016

First published in 2016 by Oliver & Lewis | [e-mail]

www.richardjoycebooks.co.uk

Published electronically by Amolibros 2016 | Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF | http://www.amolibros.com | [e-mail]

The right of Richard Joyce to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This book production has been managed by Amolibros | www.amolibros.com

Print version printed and bound by T J International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall, UK

Acknowledgements

All the characters, and any military operations, mentioned in this book are totally fictitious. However, I have tried to make the book as factually accurate as possible. If I haven’t mentioned you below, please accept my apologies, and at the same time, my gratitude.

First and foremost, I would like thank those who bought my first novel, Operation Blue Halo, and continue to support my endeavour to write and to raise funds for military charities.

Again, I would like to note a massive appreciation of Hilary Johnson and her authors’ advisory service.

I can’t thank Helen Vincent enough for the hand-painted book cover design. What a truly great thing to do. www.helenvincentart.com

Thanks to Lina La Rotta and Natalie Edes for English to foreign translation. I hope you enjoy this book as much as the first.

I’d also like to serve a big plate of gratitude to my wife and kids, who haven’t seen much of me lately, due to my passion for writing. And yes, there is another Johnny Vince mission coming!

Jane Tatam of Amolibros, thank you for all your advice and enabling me to get this book published.

I would like to thank the British Military who are safeguarding our country in these difficult times. Please support them all.

Dedicated to Alexander Blackman

‘Turn your back on the hero, and you become the enemy.’ #FreeMarineA

Prologue

After my return from Afghanistan ten months ago, I took time out to recover from my near-death experience. Mike, who was still serving in the SBS, came down to Newquay to spend a bit of time with me. He filled me in on the latest gossip. Joe had eventually received his Sig pistol, but soon after he left the US Seals. I knew deep down the bet had caused us both serious troubles. I just hoped he could forgive me one day. Also, I learned that my CO, Dick Brown, had been asked to leave, which pleased me no end. In fact, now that my head was clearer, I knew I had made a massive mistake leaving the Special Forces. I missed that unique bond. Your background, colour, race, creed—none of these mattered. Once you were in the SF, it was the best. I’d worked so hard to pass selection; the euphoria of that moment lives with me still. It was beyond fucking awesome. Only now do I realise that losing my three best mates, my close squad, wasn’t the end of the special brotherhood.

Oliver had kept his side of the deal by selling my house in Poole. The divorce from Ella was in its last stages. My horribly realistic nightmares of watching Haleema blaming me as she dies in my arms, and feeling the sharp edge of the machete cut through my neck as Baha laughs were getting less frequent. However, I would wake up in a pool of perspiration, shouting and looking for the nearest exit.

Holding down a civvy job was very difficult. Adjusting to the new life outside the SF had got me into trouble with the police. Watching the news reports of the growing global terror threat, I found myself again doubting the decision I’d made to quit the Special Forces. I tried hard to quash the niggling feeling that I needed some action, and ignored Will’s phone-calls offering me further work. His last voicemail asked me to return his call urgently; he said he had a cushy job to get eyes on a factory and monitor any movements. Maybe this one job could open doors to meeting more contacts. It was time to go on the lash and contemplate it.

Chapter One

There was no way any of us would survive the amount of formidable power; it was just a matter of time. I sat alone, a few metres from Oliver and his mates, who were all supporting each other. The first waves of destruction hit the front outer wall. In the distance, rolling booms and crashing followed the harsh winds. The tension in the air was stifling. My fists gripped, secretly. We anticipated each other’s fate once the second wave breached the rear outer wall’s defence. Loss was imminent. A larger sonic boom rolled in with the sea of death. My hands tightened further as I heard grown men’s shrieks of dismay. With the main defences down, the tide of doom entered the grounds. We waited. Who was the first to go? I looked over at my brother once more, but his eyes were firmly fixed front, ready for the outcome. Some of his comrades watched through their fingers. I looked back, my heart racing, knowing this was the end.

Cheers from the opposing team went up, just as my large indestructible defence sank into the sea and the flag on top floated away. I’d lost the challenge. I lifted my face from my hands and looked across at the jeering crowd, and then to the tanned face of my brother topped by blond, scruffy hair. He sat there triumphant as I endured the lonely walk through the mob that had gathered to see the spectacle. I made a quick retreat towards the bar. Sorrowfully, I handed the barman a hundred pounds for my comeuppance. The jeers continued inside the Watering Hole. There was no getting away from them. People were slapping me on the back, and already making a hustle to order. After bragging to Oliver that I could build a better sandcastle with a far superior all-round defence than he could due to my elite expertise, the gauntlet had been slammed down. How naive of me to take on a bunch of lanky surf dudes on their own territory. I was asked to join in their celebrations, which I certainly did, drowning my sorrows.

The morning after had arrived. Oh, my head! The squawking of the seagulls was piercing. Prising open my unwilling eyes, I squinted across the vast sandy beach. The sun was radiant as a cool breeze whipped up over the waves. The only sign left from the night’s challenge was the empty bottles of beer lying next to me. I studied the dead insects at the bottom of a half-cocked-upright bottle in the sand. I felt as if I had also succumbed to the same fate of flies in the dregs of alcohol. Beyond, my view through the clear glass was alien-like, with warped shapes and lights.

I had curled up in a small scrape in the ground. Lifting my head slightly, I yawned like a grizzly bear stirring from hibernating and, as I did, I breathed in the delicate dried granules of sand thrashing around me. They stuck to my fur-carpeted tongue, and a few tickled my tonsils. I went into a fit of choking, which erupted into a rapturous cough. I sat upright to clear my throat, but was rudely interrupted by a hard thud to the top of my already banging head.

I took a slow look above me. Bronzed strips of timber in neat rows held by low beams lay overhead. Where the hell was I? I studied the ceiling and waited for the answers to enter my befuddled mind. The more I thought, the harder it became. I turned back to the roar of the sea in the distance. A family had gathered and were looking at me. The dad put his hand in his rear pocket and pulled out his wallet. The young girl beside him tugged at his shirt. Strangely, she took a five pound note from him. Bending down, scarcely entering my strange new home, she placed the money under a stone. She stared at me, and I inquisitively stared back before her dad quickly pulled her away. They made some sort of nodding-hello-come-apology and went up the wooden stairs to the floor above. Their feet thumped, the noise echoing in my head. Crawling towards the fluttering note, I tried to avoid hitting more beams.

A hot flush tore through me. My stomach churned and the gases entered my throat. Whatever it was, it wanted out. Just before I had reached the payday under the rock, I bulked up the evening’s mischief. Jeez, I felt as rough as a badger’s arse; after the culling. The note blew away, dancing and stopping in time with the sea-breeze. Crawling the rest of the way out, I made sure I kept clear of my deposit, and then lay on my back catching the warmth from the sun. I had to shade my eyes to focus on the sign above Perranporth’s beach pub. It had certainly been the Watering Hole till the early hours of this morning. With the smell of late breakfasts arousing the gases in my gut again, I decided to find a world away from this spot in which to curl up and die.

*

I felt myself being rocked from my coma.

‘Ere, boy. I think ya had better move. The tide is comin’,’ a voice said.

I wiped the dribble from my chin and looked up to see a large elderly woman peering through her glasses as she leaned over me. Her breath smelt of pickles, which made me turn away quickly.

‘Oh… yeah… thanks,’ I said, taking a quick look at the incoming tide.

I lifted my lazy arse off the beach as the woman waddled off with her podgy little dog. I brushed the sand from my jeans and T-shirt and dragged my feet towards the car-park. A few parents coming onto the beach kept their children away by putting a hand across them. Did I really look like a tramp?

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I squinted at the text through heavy eyelids: ‘Thanks for fun night! First time I do it on beach!! Where you go after? I could not find you at bar. Can we meet again? Call me. Lena. X’

Who the fuck was Lena? Her message was poor English, or she was as hung-over as me. What did she mean by ‘do it’? Eventually, after deciding the text had been sent to the wrong person, I found my vehicle. Opening the door, I gingerly lent across the warm black leather seats and grabbed a bottle of water from the glove compartment. Since my dehydration battle in Afghanistan, I always carried two or three bottles of water; force of habit. The tepid liquid washed the fur from my tongue. I drank a few more gulps; it simmered with the fizz in my guts. A burp of gases followed, releasing an evil smell through my nose. I laid my head back on the headrest and shut my eyes. Details of the previous night sieved through my mind: losing the sandcastle competition, wild drinking games after, and being chatted up by a lovely girl, and then the pleasant sex in the dunes, but that’s where they stopped. I couldn’t remember ending up beneath the pub.

I sat up and drank some more water. My phone rang again: private call. Maybe it was Lena. Oh hell, was she a bunny boiler? Best let it ring, I thought. I spent the next half-hour trying hard to resurrect myself from the hangover from hell. On the journey home, I was on autopilot. I turned into Fore Street, where I lived, and the parking was abysmal, the norm.

Looking for the tiniest opportunity to squeeze into a space, I came alongside a black Range Rover Evoque with blacked-out windows that had parked a few doors away. The hairs on my neck stood up. I couldn’t distinguish between the hangover and the headache that I got when I felt threatened, something I had inherited from the Chinook crash. Side on, I saw the silhouettes of three figures. I idled by and looked in my rear-view mirror, but the Range Rover screen was slightly tinted and I couldn’t make out the driver. As I drew alongside the steps to my terraced house, I saw a heavily-built man standing at my door.

The thug was dressed in a black suit with white pinstripes. His shoes were brown leather and highly-polished, like those from a nineteen-twenties-era film. As I drove past, he turned and stared. I kept facing forward, relaxed, as if he was of no interest. However, in that glance, I registered his tanned bald head, menacing eyes, and a nose that looked like it had seen its fair share of fists. Rather like the gangster, David Courtney. A little way up, taking several goes at it because of my thumping head, I reversed into a space. I searched for my wallet to make myself sterile of ID, just in case it kicked off and they got the better of me. However, I couldn’t find it anywhere on me. Bollocks! Don’t tell me I’d lost it! I checked my mirrors and saw that Courtney was still looking in my direction. As I clambered out, the first thing that hit me was cooking smells from the local pub and I fought back a heave. From the car’s boot, I took out my Nike gym-bag. Whilst bending down, covered by the vehicle next to mine, I pulled out my baseball cap and shades, making sure my latest toy, a pair of nunchuks, was in the end compartment.

Casually walking to my property, I pulled out my bunch of house keys. Courtney was paying a lot of interest. Trying to look as normal as possible, I began to whistle as I walked. Inside though, I was sizing up Courtney, and going through my plans of attack if it went noisy. These blokes weren’t here on a Jesus mission. I opened my neighbour’s small gate and bounded up the stairs. Just as I put my neighbour’s key in the lock, as we shared spare keys, I heard the Range Rover’s doors open. I glanced around. Three blokes were getting out. My heart picked up pace, pushing the adrenaline to the right places ready to explode. The two gorillas who came from the rear wore tight white T-shirts and baggy jeans, and black leather shoes and belts. They stopped on the pavement and crossed their arms, their sovereign rings pushing into their flexed muscles. Both showed gold-capped teeth as they did a weird smile. Like Courtney, their faces had been involved in some feisty encounters. They were fucking ugly. Maybe they would be better off spending their money on a facelift rather than gold, I thought. The driver was smaller in stature, but still powerfully built. He appeared swankier, with his designer clothes and large watch. They didn’t look English.

‘Excuse me, sir. Do you know where Mr Vince is?’ Courtney asked.

Russian, I thought. ‘May I ask who you guys are and what you want?’ I replied.

Courtney looked at the driver either for permission to answer, or for the driver to answer the question. The driver, who I quickly named Ape One, purposefully walked over and leant on the gate pillar.

‘We are bailiffs, and are here to collect an outstanding debt,’ he said. ‘We’re a private contract firm who cover work for many types of lawful businesses. Do you know where Mr Vince is?’ This one seemed to me to have a South American accent.

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘Has he not paid his parking fines again?’

‘Yes. Do you know where he is, or when he is back?’

I narrowed my eyes and quickly reached into my inside jacket pocket to gauge a reaction. I judged right. Courtney flinched first and put his hand inside his, but left it there. The two other gorillas did the same. Making out I hadn’t seen them, I took out my mobile and tapped its screen. From the corner of my eye, I saw the nervous hands gradually come out from their jackets and go by the men’s sides.

‘Glupyye duraki!’ Ape One scowled at his companions.

I guessed he was the man in charge, and his bark in Russian confirmed the rest of the band’s nationality.

‘Ah, right. He’s back from Barcelona on the twenty-first of August. Can I leave him a message? Do you have a business card to leave? I’m sure he would like to pay his debt off,’ I said.

‘When did he leave for Barcelona? Are you sure he has left the UK? We would have been notified.’

‘Yes, he left Friday. Blimey, must be a big debt if you are watching the airports.’

‘Sest v mashinu,’ he barked. The two gorillas got back in their rear cage, whilst Courtney gave me a long hard stare before getting into the passenger seat. ‘Do you have a mobile number for Mr Vince?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Do you have one I can pass on, please?’

‘No!’

He made his way back to the driver’s seat, eyeballing me all the way. Beads of sweat started to creep from under my cap. I still had my phone in my hand as their vehicle roared up the street. I went inside my neighbour’s house, closed the door behind me, and lent back against it, breathing a sigh of relief. My hangover returned immediately. I checked to make sure what I had recorded, and that the registration number I had typed in when pretending to use the calendar had saved. Who were these blokes? What did they really want with me? They certainly weren’t bailiffs. I didn’t have any outstanding debts. With my new info, I would contact some old friends to identify them.

My phoned vibrated with an incoming text: ‘How’s your head? Dude, you were hanging last night. I found your wallet at the bar, you cakey. Couldn’t find you after you went off with some chick, you dirty dude. I’ll pop around tonight with your wallet. Hair of the dog?’

Well, at least my wallet was safe with my brother. Just then, as I was replying, the front door opened. I didn’t know who looked more startled, me or my neighbour. Simon Walker had served in the police armed response unit, and then in national security. I didn’t have to tell him exactly what I used to do; he kind of read between the lines.

‘Hi, Simon. Thought I heard some banging. I knew you were out, so I came in to check,’ I said, taking a look around his hallway.

‘Really? Is it all clear?’ he said, and chuckled. ‘It’s funny, as I’ve seen a car hanging around a few times that I didn’t recognise.’

‘Was it a black Range Rover with blacked-out windows?’ I asked.

‘No, it was a white Audi Q7 with blacked-out windows. One of the guys knocked at your door.’

I pulled out my mobile and showed him the photos. ‘Was it one of these thugs?’

Putting his glasses on, he studied the pictures. ‘Yeah, looks very much like him. Who are they?’

‘I owe some money. If they come back and ask questions, tell them I’ve gone back to Scotland to look after a dying relative. Whatever you do, don’t let them in my property. OK?’

‘Sure, shall I call the pol…’

‘No!’ I said, cutting him short, ‘I mean, there’s no need. Let’s not complicate things.’

‘It was a joke, Johnny.’ He grinned. ‘If you need further help, let me know. I have a few friends in the know, as I’m sure you have.’

I stayed for a while, drinking strong coffee and agreeing to further hospitality in the way of bacon butties. Slowly, I could feel my hangover fade. After saying goodbye, I made my way around to the rear and snuck in. Cautiously, I checked the house and then made sure the outside was clear back and front. Images of Courtney and the gang played on my mind as I soaked up the hot shower-jets. Feeling revived, I set up the laptop and downloaded the photos off my phone. I studied them for any clues as to who they were, trying to make out anything I might have missed. All of a sudden, I remembered a green gem-stoned ring Courtney and Ape One had been wearing. Maybe it was nothing of significance. I zoomed in on the driver’s hand to double-check. Scenarios raced around my mind, but even with my colourful past I couldn’t work out who they were and what the wanted. I emailed the photos to Mike, with a short covering message: ‘Quick favour. Can you get the snot-heads to check intelligence on attached items, and the vehicle registration: AB15 HUA. Reply by secure means.’

My phone buzzed again in my pocket. Busy day for texts today, I thought. It read: ‘Bad Boys. Paras. Please phone me. Urgent!’ I laughed as Will was still using coded messages. I had told him so many times there was no need, and also, he didn’t resemble the actor Will Smith anymore. I knew he desperately wanted me to accept a new mission to recce a factory and report all movements. The key figure was a wealthy American businessman, Larry Schultz. I must admit, I was tempted.

I had tried to fit into civvy street on my return from Afghanistan the previous year, but had lost two local jobs. The first job was as a security-guard. The boss decided to drag me over the coals for being five minutes late. He was getting redder in the face, so I laughed at him. As I turned and walked away, he grabbed me hard by my shoulders and yanked me back. A flashback to a recent event made me react; he spent the day in hospital wondering what had hit him. However, as soon as he was out, he pressed charges. The judge took pity on me. My lawyer put forward all the miserable details of Operation Blue Halo, and the after-effects that had beleaguered me. I didn’t deny the PTSD in court, but I knew I was over it. At least this lawyer was better than the last one at the military inquest. All I received was a slap on the wrist and a fine.

The second attempt at keeping a job, as a pub barman, soon got me into trouble with the police again. A drunken twat started to racially abuse a young lad who was out with his girlfriend. Both had probably only just turned eighteen. The young lad didn’t know what to do. No one took on the out-of-town tattooed heavyweight moron, except me. I gave him one chance to make his own way out: the company’s rule. Once he declined my polite invitation with further threatening verbal abuse, and after a little scuffle, I threw him out the double doors: my rule. In the shadows, I’d given him a little reminder of my disgust. He returned a little while later, still bloodied, with another drunken moron. They entered the pub and started to harass anyone who got in their way. The young couple sat in fear of more abuse. This time, I didn’t give the morons a chance with a polite invitation. With the help of a stranger, we dragged his mate outside first. The other moron followed and we gave them a good beating; of course, in self-defence. I hate bullies. Unbelievably, I was arrested and soon after charged and fined. I was now very tempted by Will’s persistent nagging.

I phoned him back. Afterwards, I sat back with a brew and contemplated what he had said. Larry Schultz had been captured after a raid by rebels in Yemen. Larry was working on a project that even Will was not privy to, or so he said. The gunmen had stormed the high-security factory; obviously, the defence was run by fools. Fourteen co-workers and eight bodyguards had possibly been killed. However, one worker had made it out alive. Some of the bodies had been dumped over the barbed wire perimeter fence. According to the survivor, he’d hidden in a cupboard and had watched the beheading of a senior manager. The local press, intent on showing what had happened, had been pushed back by US forces. This had only taken place the following evening. It was amazing how quick the military and media knew about this. I was sure there was more that Will wasn’t telling me, but I trusted his judgement. There had been no contact between the US and the captors.

My new role would be to lead a four-man squad to rescue Larry. Three other members had already agreed, and were waiting for me to decide. If the mission was a success, with Larry rescued alive, I would receive a quarter of one hundred thousand dollars. If any of our squad were killed, we wouldn’t get their percentage. Furthermore, if Larry was killed, we would only receive our travel expenses. Such was the importance of keeping him alive. I had only five minutes to make up my mind.

Chapter Two

Sitting in the taxi heading for Newquay airport, I texted Oliver: ‘Dude, something important has come up. Going on a special holiday. You’ll be glad to know, not Afghan. Post my wallet through my front door. Make sure you leave the cash in it! Tell my boss to stick his boring job.’ I’d only been in that one a few days anyway and already I was weary of hanging around in a dingy office. Pressing ‘send’, I leant back and smiled. I knew he would be squirming reading it. The thought of my boss’s face was priceless. Working as a security advisor for a low budget firm wasn’t my idea of fun, or action. Will had timed his offer to perfection. He must have known I would say yes, as he had already pre-booked me a flight. The plane left in one hour. I had a decent amount of cash and was travelling light. I didn’t even have a spare set of clothes. Apparently special clothing and equipment were being prepared. Gazing at the beautiful scenery of Newquay on a tranquil sunny day gave me a feeling of slight apprehension about leaving. I thought back to the mishaps on my return visit to Afghanistan with the intention of finding closure from the trauma of losing my squad and of finding Haleema, the doctor who had helped me at great risk to herself. It nearly ended with me being added to the body count.

My thoughts turned to my passions, GKR karate and rock climbing, but I needed more. I couldn’t deny it any longer. However, past experiences had at least taught me that I had to wind my neck in and be careful what I wished for. Surely, this time, a quick planned explosive entry to capture Larry and kill any terrorists wouldn’t be that hard. I’d practised and carried out such missions on many occasions. On top of this, I knew we had the backing of top-notch US forces and three other SF lads.

The flight was basic and boring. The person picking the air-stewardesses should have gone to Specsavers. One of them was so ugly, I’m sure the tide wouldn’t come in if she went to the beach. However, just over an hour later at Gatwick there were many pretty ladies to ogle. When the person in front of me finished checking in, I clapped eyes on the stunning woman at the desk who had taken over from her colleague. A cold fear filled me and my chest tightened. She was the spitting image of Haleema. Apart from the nightmares of her dying in the car bomb blast, I’d blocked all recollection of her.