Inner Voice Sweat dripped from Ahmed's forehead down to his dirty white collar. Black hairs from his chest rose up through his unbuttoned shirt and his hands were shaking to the rhythm of the ticking clock on the wall. 'You're wife and three children will be taken care of', Mekiz explained. Although the room was cool and a small plastic fan spun loudly from the corner of the cramp room Ahmed could not control his temperature. He held his daughters close and although he felt the urge, no tears would fall from his dark eyes. 'I know you will take care of them Mekiz, I know they will live a #life I could not give them'. His daughters sat so still and with barely a whisper sobbed for their father. 'May I have a moment with my family' Ahmed said nervously. 'I am afraid, the time has come to do Allahs work' Mekiz explained, stubbing out his cigarette on the rough floor. Ahmed kissed his girls, looked hard into the eyes of his son but said no words. He turned to his wife and nodded, his wife knowing no loving goodbye would be fitting to a warrior of God could only look to the ground in anguish for her Husband. Mekiz stood and placed his hand on Ahmed's cheek, 'it is time' he said and guided Ahmed to the door. Ahmed and Mekiz made their way out into the hot summer air and climbed into the back of a red Ford escort. The seats were worn down and safety belts had long been stripped and sold for parts, two associates of Mekiz were up front and although the never said a word Ahmed noticed the driver glancing at him from his central mirror. 'What you are doing will be remembered forever, you are a messenger of God and a soldier of Islam'. Ahmed could do nothing but think of the look from his wife's eyes as he sat engulfed by fear and confusion. 'You will soon be with our comrades, they are waiting for us at the station, out mission is almost complete'. Ahmed wasn't even listening anymore, he could only wipe the sweat from his palms on his dark trousers and allow his eyes to wander across the Turkish plains. He knew there was no going back now. Chapter 1 'Captain!' Pops shouted from the corner office of HQ, 'yello' the cool, calm voice of Joseph Cradle rang out. 'Its on, you were right 2 dead and four injured'. Pops was known for his loud angry tone and being the eldest of the squad he demanded and earned the respect of the team. 'Where?' Cradle shouted back, a pause as Pops gathered the information from his on screen report. 'Lancaster station 20 minutes ago', Cradle dropped his phone and closed his laptop, he pressed the intercom that lay on his desk waited for the reverb to simmer then called out, 'load up we leave in 10'. Head quarters was a hive of activity as men ran to the armoury and gathered equipment from their lockers. Captain Joseph Cradle a once commando and now leader of an anti-terror group in the UK gathered his bag and ran for the door, 'third attack this week' he murmured to himself. The land rovers were loaded up in 8 flat and the squad were already waiting for the off. Pops drove the front vehicle whilst Jordan Haimes and Kain Proves drove the second and third. Lancaster was their destination, a 3 hour drive at the most. Chapter 2 The smell of beer permitted any other vapour reaching anyone's senses. Though the smoking ban came in a few years ago now the men still sat around with their cigarettes and cigars. The strong Irish accents were heavy and even heavier with the alcohol fuelled conversations. Eddies bar was a known IRA meeting place, sitting in the centre of Belfast within an Irish a Catholic community. Politicians and fallen comrades were framed around the walls, painted images of masked assassins carrying automatic weapons covered the once white bricks. For a neutral this would be a place where nightmares are born. The time is 3.20 am and Finbar Recce raises his glass to an on looking crowd, Finbar is known as a 'techy' a computer whizz. Three days ago he hacked into the online Royal Mailing service, there he planted a virus that disrupted thousands of deliveries across the UK for 2 days. The problem was Finbar viewed the attack as a success and thus his initiation to the IRA. Unfortunately for Finbar some of the IRA long standers did not see it as such, they viewed the attack as bringing unwanted heat to Belfast and stirring up the resting lion. Finbar began slurring his words, "To t' next journey we embarke, those screws will burn, my true Irish compan..", before he had time to explain his #quote Michael cracked him. Michael Mather was 62 years old and a veteran of murder, violence and death. A fist dressed in knuckle dusters met Finbars nose and opened it like a spilled glass of red wine. Finbars head snapped back against the solid brick wall, before he could gather himself another smash burst his eye socket and sent him crashing to the floor. Michael picked up Finbar by his collar and dragged him over to the bar. Michael grabbed an ice bucket, emptying the frozen cubes over Finbars head and the repeatedly dropping it heavy steal bucket onto his head. Each blow made the watching men flinch and jolt their shoulders, no one dared move nor did anyone speak a word. Finbar felt his soul leaving his battered body, he was unconscious but could sense that death was momentary. Michael finally stopped, without even a thought he pulled out a small pocket knife from his jeans, flicked oped the blade and inserted it directly through Finbars throat. As Finbar slowly faded, the extreme violence had lasted barely thirty seconds, the other men were men of violence themselves but still appeared stunned. As Michael sat back down in his seat, he picked up his glass and drank a small sip, whipping his mouth and assessing the blood on his hands, he opened his wide, dark eyes. "We do not lecture, nor do we shout about ar' plans", his accent was strong and deep Irish. The men looked at him still unable to speak nor understand what he was saying, Michael pointed to the sky and simply replied "you never know who might be listening". "Are'tu ya talking about God" Adrian Mathy said, "no you fecking prick, the English".