THE TAKERS
ROBERT ENRIGHT
In loving memory of Arthur Baker.
My Poppa.
Table of Contents
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
The rain hammered down relentlessly from the grey clouds that hung over London. The city was illuminated by a plethora of lights, bathing the wet city in a shiny glow. London was still a hub of activity, the midnight crowd just getting started for another Friday night of hard drinking and senseless drugs. Although not as vibrant as Camden or as colourful as Soho, Holborn was equally busy, the large, dual carriage main road separating the bars and pubs on either side of the street.
Despite the inclement weather, every bar was packed, and groups of drunks were huddled in tiny smoking areas, all of them shaking as they had their nicotine fix.
Sam Pope watched intently.
Perched on the first floor of a fire escape which hung to the building like a tumour, Sam shivered slightly as a drop of rain snuck under his collar, before sliding an icy descent down his spine. He grimaced, before shaking it off and refocused, annoyed that the tarpaulin he had draped over the balcony hadn’t done its job. Not only was it acting as a barrier between him and the ferocious November night sky, it was also obscuring him from the eyes of the public.
The eyes of the police.
The eyes of his target.
It had been six months since Sam had started down his current path, all of it triggered by the bomb that had obliterated mile seventeen of the London Marathon and shook the city to its core. Despite the instant headlines of another terrorist attack, Sam, on account of one hunch regarding an officer, ended up uncovering a conspiracy, headed up by a Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, his subordinates, and one of the most dangerous criminals in the country. As he fought desperately to uncover the truth and keep his therapist, Amy Devereux and her husband alive, Sam had lost his best friend.
Theo Walker.
The very thought of it caused his muscles to tighten and he removed his finger from the trigger. His hands gently held the L85IW SATO assault rifle, the stock pressed into his shoulder as naturally as holding a baby. His gloved fingers hovered near the trigger, safe in the knowledge that his years as one of the UK’s most deadly snipers made this shot seem like a walk in the park. He had over sixty confirmed kills from his time serving abroad, the tours through the bloodstained streets of Baghdad had seen him hone his skills to almost unprecedented levels.
That was when he joined Project Hailstorm.
The “need to know” missions soon came thick and fast, and while two years of his record would soon disappear, the two bullet wounds that scarred his body like a tattoo were permanent.
That was when he had returned home.
Not long after that, he lost everything, which soon became the catalyst that had put him on this path. Losing his faith in the justice system had caused him to seek his own, using his job as an archive officer to find ‘innocent’ men who had beaten the system. His violent attacks soon brought him to the attention of DSI Adrian Pearce, who eventually became his only ally.
It had been a crazy week in spring, which not only saw him become one of the most wanted men in the country, but had also seen him break his promise to his son.
He had killed again.
A bitter wind whipped through the side alley where he was perched, shaking the metal staircase and chilling Sam to his bones. It was certainly a contrast to the blazing heats of Africa where he had been deployed numerous times.
Now the missions were on home soil.
Sam knew the ramifications as he uncovered the truth six months ago when he had stormed the headquarters of Frank ‘The Gent’ Jackson. The ‘High Rise’ was infamous as a place where the law wasn’t allowed, yet the police still went. Officer after officer were soon in The Gent’s pocket, his offerings of drugs and cheap sex too much for many.
Sam had brought it all down.
Floor by floor.
Room by room.
Man by man.
When he’d confronted Jackson himself, Sam had put a bullet in his shins. It was only when the threat of Amy’s future was spat out that Sam unloaded the rest of the gun into the crime lord’s chest. That should have been the end of it.
But here Sam was, following the trail for the last six months that had led him to this stairwell on this freezing, rain-soaked night.
The rumours of a second High Rise.
The mission had become clear and Sam knew, with his new-found status as a wanted man, he needed to keep moving. But he couldn’t let the same thing happen again. He couldn’t allow another haven for the criminal underworld of London to establish itself, its allure too strong for the corruptible officers and politicians.
Sam had to bring it to an end.
He had spent the last few months knocking down doors, high jacking a number of illegal gambling facilities, and holding the proprietors at gun point. The money and drugs were coming through somewhere, and Sam knew that Jackson would have contingency plans. The man may have run what was essentially a criminal hotel, but he was connected.
He had links to the people bringing in the drugs, the money, and the women.
Sam had followed the bread crumbs, starting with a few street dealers who had set him onto their handler. A few broken bones later, Sam was working his way through the underground gambling world. A few men had ended up in the hospital.
A couple of properties had burnt down.
Then he was given a name.
Elmore Riggs.
Further digging had uncovered Riggs’s volatile history, with several felonies relating to violence and gun crimes. The man was the living embodiment of the London gang culture that was tearing the city apart. Having watched his father get arrested during the Brixton riots, Riggs had found his way on the street. His lack of compassion had seen him rise fast, and he soon went from a dealer to a hired gun.
Riggs spent two years in prison for his role in the London Riots back in 2011, the culmination of rising tensions and a police shooting. Riggs found his way out and soon made his way to the High Rise. Apparently, the ‘Mitchell Brothers’ had labelled him a loose cannon and had advised Jackson to move him to another location.
The Mitchell Brothers were Jackson’s two most trusted henchman, Brian Stack and Mark Connor, both of whom shared similarities with the EastEnders’ characters.
Sam had come face to face with them six months prior.
Both were now dead.
As Sam had delved deeper into the murky waters
of the London Underbelly, he had learnt that Riggs wasn’t too good with the numbers. That he needed a right-hand man to oversee the details, to ensure that what he had taken over was being distributed correctly.
That man was Sean Wiseman.
And at that moment, as the ice-cold rain clattered that metal platform and echoed like a shaken rattle, the headlights of his car turned onto the main road, illuminating the downpour and the clear road ahead.
Sam readjusted, pulling the stock back, lodging it into his meaty shoulder and locking it in place.
With a swift, natural swing, he drew the gun up to his eye level, closing one brown eye and casting the gaze of the other down the scope of the rifle, the cross hair locked on the moving vehicle.
His finger looped back into the trigger loop.
He took a breath.
He squeezed.
The bullet blasted from the chamber, travelling through the silencer attached to the barrel, cloaking the roar of the rifle. With pinpoint accuracy, it travelled through the night sky, slicing through rain drops before burying itself in the rubber of the tyre and instantly bursting the tyre of the black Range Rover. A sharp squeal pierced through the air as the driver tried to turn into the swerve, instead causing the 4x4 to spin out completely before colliding firmly with the concrete barricade.
It was all over in seven seconds.
Sam was already stepping off the bottom step and into the alleyway, the wet trash greeting his nostrils with a pungent ‘fuck you’.
Out on the main road, a trail of ripped rubber followed a skid mark all the way to the wreckage. The side panel and bonnet of the car had been heavily dented in, a small trail of smoke escaping up into the downpour. The streets were flooded with gawping pedestrians, all of them trying their best to record the incident to post online in the hope of garnering a few extra ‘likes’. Sam was sure a few of them may have had the common sense to call the emergency services beforehand.
After a few moments, the driver side door shunted open, and a burly man stumbled out, his cane rows stained with blood from the gash across his forehead. He wore a black jumper and jeans, with a thick gold chain and watch. In his left hand, the driver held a Glock 19, the metal shimmering the wet street light.
The sight of the gun sent the watching crowd scarpering, the audible panic of shrieks echoed down the main road.
A bus sped past, barely missing the stumbling driver, who from his wayward steps, was nursing a severe head wound.
Sam stepped out into the street, marching across the other side of the road and straight towards the totalled car.
The driver, frantically trying to regain his composure, locked his eyes on Sam. They widened as Sam pulled up the assault rifle once more.
The driver tried to raise the gun, but Sam expertly dropped to one knee, stock against shoulder, eye down the sight, and shot a small burst.
Two bullets ripped through the left leg of the driver who collapsed instantly to the pavement in agony. His screams were masked by the panicked mayhem of the London public and in the distance, the familiar feint wailing of police sirens.
Sam moved quickly.
He hopped over the concrete barricade and stormed towards the fallen gunman, who was desperately trying to scramble towards his weapon. Blood pumped out from the bullet wounds in his leg, the rain pushing it further out and staining the road red.
Without breaking his stride, Sam violently twisted the gun downwards, crashing the stock of the rifle into the man’s temple. He was unconscious before he fell back onto the pavement, the rain attacking his lifeless body.
Sam raced to the smashed car, letting the rifle drop and hang from its sling, approaching just as the backdoor slowly pushed open.
Sean Wiseman slowly turned his body out of the door, his wiry, thin frame shaken by the collision and he clutched his neck. The obvious whiplash had stopped him making a break for it and now, as he tried to step out of the car, he came face to face with Sam.
The colour drained from his pale face, his blonde hair shaved short. He had two lines shaved in his eyebrows, but Sam could see through the faux gangster act.
Sean Wiseman was a numbers guy.
And, judging by the terror in his eyes, was absolutely petrified.
The sirens echoed loudly, only a few streets away and Sam reached out and grabbed Wiseman by the face, forcing him back into the car before stepping in, thankful for some respite from the downpour. He tightened his grip on Wiseman’s jaw, his fingers digging into the cheeks as he held his head in place.
Calmly, he pulled his own pistol from his side holster, pressing the barrel against Wiseman’s head and thumbing the safety.
The unmistakable smell of urine flooded the car as Wiseman abandoned any tough guy act.
He feared for his life and Sam knew it.
With the metal pressing against Wiseman’s skull, Sam stared deep into his bloodshot eyes.
‘Address. Now.’
Wiseman let out a pathetic whimper and Sam pushed the gun harder, pressing him back into the seat. Sam raised his voice.
‘The address of the new High Rise. Give it to me or I’ll blow your goddamn brains out.’
Wiseman shook with fear before he stammered a few words out.
‘The old Kodak factory in Shepherd’s Bush. Please, please don’t kill me.’
Wiseman began to weep, and Sam shook his head in disgust. The man worked for a violent criminal, brokering deals and shipping drugs and women through the city. Yet here he was, stripped of power, begging for his life in piss stained trousers.
Sam pulled the gun away from the young man’s forehead, the pressure leaving an indent in the skin. Wiseman breathed a palpable sigh of relief.
The sirens pierced through the night sky and Sam could see the flashing lights through the blurry, cracked windscreen. He snatched Wiseman’s wrist and pressed his hand down against the white leather seat. He then, much to the young gangster’s horror, pressed the barrel of the gun against it.
‘This is your last night as a criminal. Do you understand me? If I find you again, this bullet will be between the eyes.’
Before Wiseman could protest, Sam pulled the trigger, a cocktail of burning gun powder, splatters of blood and bone, and anguished screams filled the back of the car as he stepped out, Wiseman rolling on the chair in agony, clutching his shattered hand.
Two police cars sped as fast as they could up the main road, their lights and sirens announcing their arrival as elaborately as the cabaret shows in the nearby theatres.
Sam didn’t have any time to think about it. There was only the next phase of the mission.
He had the address. As Wiseman wept with uncontrollable pain, Sam reached into the man’s coat and withdrew his mobile phone, pocketing it instantly. Wiseman begged for help, but Sam ignored him, allowing the rattle of the rain against the window to drown out the man’s pitiful pleas. He would need to regroup, draw up his plan of attack, and hit it as soon as possible.
Riggs would be expecting him, especially when news of this filtered back to him.
Sam wasn’t going to disappoint him.
Under the blanket of the torrential rain, Sam sprinted off towards a nearby side street, allowing the dark, interlinking backstreets of London to swallow him.
CHAPTER TWO
Mark Harris held the newspaper open, scanning his eyes across the article and slowly shaking his head. A disappointed sigh left his immaculately dressed body and he ran a manicured hand through his well-maintained brown hair. As the leading candidate to replace the current Mayor of London, Harris was aware of how important his image was. The youngest candidate to ever get this close to the chair, his entire campaign was based around the rise of crime within the city, boosted considerably by the bomb attack six months previous. Now, as he read about a reported shooting in Holborn the night before, he could already hear his next speech.
Gun crime needed to be stopped.
His office, a minimalistic yet expensive room,
sat overlooking the wonderful grounds of Regent’s Park, the vast, sprawling fields in the heart of London which housed London Zoo, and, when the weather was more accommodating, the London Food Festival. Not far from his office was Harley Street, a plethora of private hospitals charging vast amounts for the sort of healthcare most people could only dream of. A short twenty-minute walk would take him to Holborn itself, the scene of the alleged shooting. The details were murky, the only eyewitnesses were either drunk or ducking for cover, but apparently a man blew out a Range Rover’s tyres, before shooting one man in the legs and the passenger in the hand.
Harris knew exactly who it was.
The man making the headlines for the last six months.
On a rainy night in London, Sam Pope had once again handed out his own brand of justice.
Frustration surged through his body like an electric shock, causing his hands to ball into fists and the pages to crunch. Harris took a deep breath and set the paper down on his oak desk, atop of the closed laptop. He needed to calm himself. His entire campaign was hinging on the capture of a known vigilante, the extra effort to reduce a gun-toting maniac would surely solidify his seat. From there, it would only be a few years until he would undoubtedly be prime minister, the entire country at his fingertips.
He pushed himself from his leather chair and slowly walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out over the city he was hoping to govern. The extra effort hadn’t gone unnoticed, and he had already received word of a large crowd outside the building, ready to listen to his next speech. They would devour every word, cheering his strong stance on making the city safe once more. Journalists would eagerly lift their recording devices, struggling against each other to ask him a question like they were fighting for the last life jacket on the Titanic.
Mark Harris knew he was big news. He was handsome, smart, charming, and pushing all the right buttons. Three months shy of his fortieth birthday, his hair was starting to grey at the edges.
His wife thought it made him look more endearing.
His mistress didn’t seem to care at all.
The Takers: An action packed thrill ride that you won't put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 2) Page 1
