The man cowered, before running to the stairwell, allowing Sam a rare smile.
Following behind, he continued up the staircase, each floor welcoming him with a fresh stench of drugs and desecration. The second floor held no violent attacks, Sam clearing out each room and finding a couple with fresh needle punctures in their arms, vacant faces, and their veins filled with heroin. Shaking his head, he left, knowing that some people were beyond saving. As he continued to the next floor, he wondered what had led those poor people to that moment.
Did they suffer something truly horrific, like he did, and not know how to deal with it?
Or was it just a bad choice?
With a trail of dead bodies, and an even greater list of those he had injured, Sam was fully aware of the different ways people dealt with their grief. But as he cleared out another building that was a central point of crime that was rotting the country like a cancer, he tried to console himself with the notion that he was helping.
The wailing sirens on the street below laughed in the face of that thought.
Sam pushed the door open to the fourth floor.
Carefully, he swept both sides of the hallway with his gun, on high alert after the previous attack. One wall of the corridor had been stripped down to the bare brickwork, a plastic sheet crudely nailed atop it. The wind, which had crept in through every possible crack in the old building, caused it to flap loudly. There were no makeshift rooms on this floor, the punters not given access to the penthouse.
With reserved steps, Sam approached the open door, a puddle of blood welcoming him at the threshold. The room was bright, the lights burning brightly from the beams above and Sam cast his eye over his handiwork. Tiny, the large enforcer he had disabled at the door, was now unconscious, the pool of blood belonging to the bullet hole in his knee cap. The room was littered with drugs and money, the overturned tables had sent their riches scattering. Among the expensive debris was the motionless body of Riggs, his eyes still open, the side of his skull ripped apart by the impact of the bullet Sam had sent his way.
Another dead body lay among the fifty-pound notes, blood still trickling from the hole in its chest. Sam stopped for a moment and took a deep breath.
‘Sorry, Jamie,’ he muttered again, his words laced with self-loathing. As the screeching tyres of the police cars rounded the corner of the street, Sam scanned the room and saw the cowering body of the mystery man in the corner of the room, his knees tucked tightly into his chest. Sam marched purposefully through the carnage and as he approached, the man held his hands up in panic.
‘Please, don’t hurt me!’ he exclaimed, his face stained with tears.
Sam lowered his weapon and held his hands up, listening as a myriad of car doors slammed on the street below, the police surrounding the building and no doubt on the verge of sending an armed team in to drag him out. As the room was bathed in intermittent flashes of blue, Sam took a step closer.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Sam spoke authoritatively. ‘I need to know who the hell you are.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the man spat, pushing himself to his feet slowly. He was middle aged; his eyes were read from a mixture of booze and fatigue. The only thing more powerful than the stench of alcohol was the stench of desperation. ‘It’s done.’
‘What’s done?’ Sam demanded. At that moment, a thud echoed from the other side of the room. Sam span instinctively, his hand skimming to his waist and retrieving his pistol. Before he spun to a stop, he had it held out, both hands wrapped around it, ready to fire.
The movement had been fluid.
Muscle memory kicking in.
Standing on the other side of the blood-soaked room, with his shattered hand held high in surrender, was Sean Wiseman. Sam held the gun steady but softened his scowl from anger to disappointment.
‘Please, don’t shoot,’ Sean begged, his whole body trembling. Despite his brown skin, Sean looked a deathly pale which Sam quickly attributed to the gunfire and death of Sean’s gang. He had seen a number of young soldiers keel over the same way after their first introduction to war.
‘Stay where you are,’ Sam demanded. ‘I told you that your life as a criminal was over.’
‘I know.’ Sean panicked, his eyes jittering with every flash of the police sirens. ‘I was here telling them that. Honest.’
Sam arched an eyebrow and then lowered his gun.
‘Stay there. I’m going to need your help.’ He turned back to the random intruder, who let out a defeated sigh. ‘Now tell me, what’s your name?’
‘Aaron. Aaron Hill.’
‘I’m Sam,’ Sam offered, and Aaron looked at him sceptically.
‘Sam? As in Sam Pope? Jesus … you’re in the news. You’re a killer!’
‘A killer who just saved your goddamn life,’ Sam retorted. ‘Now what the hell are you doing here? Do you know how fucking stupid that was?’
Wiseman had ventured towards the window, peering down onto the street below. Despite the torrential rain, he watched as a ten strong group of heavily armed men made their way to the door, a strict formation and clear instructions.
Aaron took another deep breath and then, fighting back tears, finally spoke.
‘My daughter. They took my daughter.’
Sam’s eyes narrowed with anger.
‘Who did?’ Sam asked, but Aaron was shaking his head, tears overflowing through his fingers. ‘Who took your daughter?’
Outside, Singh marched through the rain and gave the go ahead for the AR team to enter the building. A few hand signals later, and the team filtered into the building.
They had breached.
Wiseman, without looking back, spoke.
‘I hate to interrupt, but I think we have company.’
Sam turned towards the window, watching as the last of the Armed Response entered. He predicted he had two minutes before they reached the top floor. Instantly, he began to unzip his vest, removing the sling that carried his two grenades and then slid his arms out of his jacket. As the excitement built outside the building and the Armed Response team began its clearance, Sam told both Wiseman and Aaron what he needed them to do. As they nodded their understanding, he turned to Aaron, who looked broken. Sam reached into the man’s jacket, pulled out his wallet and removed his driving license. Before Aaron could complain, Sam spoke.
‘I promise you, when I get out of here, I will come to you and I promise we will find your daughter.’
His words clearly hit home and Aaron’s eyes welled up once more. Sam barked his final instructions, and both men went about following them.
By now, the team would be on the first floor. Sam took a deep breath and headed to the stairwell.
Time to go meet them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rain clattered against the side of the building, the bitter cold seeping in through the cracks. The building was as depressing as it was broken, a broken relic that had once been a thriving focal point for the community. A memory washed away by the downpour of modern-day progression.
Aaron Hill could relate.
When he and his wife had separated four years previously, his daughter suffered. From the moment Jasmine had been born, they had an unbreakable bond. While he was never the most confident man, he loved his daughter dearly and her smile had brought out a fun-loving side to him that he had never known existed. They would bike ride together most Sunday mornings, he remembered watching with gushing pride as she sped off, whipping through the woodland tracks on their outings.
Then suddenly, his wife, Emma, was diagnosed with breast cancer.
All their smiles faded along with his wife, who deteriorated before their eyes, passing away somewhat peacefully in her sleep over two years ago. It had shattered them both, the pillar of strength of their family had been cruelly taken by the most devastating force.
After that, the smiles stopped altogether.
Jasmine had become distant, her transition into puberty collided with her grief and she be
gan to act out, her grades plummeting and the calls from the school regarding her behaviour had been frequent. Aaron had tried his best but working longer hours to ensure the roof over their head stayed there, meant he felt further from her than ever.
He was a marketing director at an advertising agency.
His life wasn’t supposed to be this way.
The previous weekend, he had spent the Saturday evening trying to get Jasmine to pick a film and not watch it from behind her phone screen.
Now he was in one of the most dangerous places in London, having stormed a building full of criminals with an illegally purchased firearm.
As he peered around the room, the chill of the night slithered down his spine and he shuddered.
A beaten, dirty mattress lay against the wall, a couple of used condoms carelessly thrown to the side. Beside them, a pile of needles and some foil.
He thought of his daughter, praying she wasn’t held down against her will in this place.
Tears began to fill his eyes and he wiped them with the back his sleeve, taking a deep breath and calming himself down.
His daughter was missing but he had just been promised by the most wanted man in London that he would help him.
Sam Pope.
Now, under his instruction, Aaron was to wait in this room, among the seedy remains of a deplorable evening, and tarnish his name by pretending to be a punter. It made his skin crawl.
But Sam had been adamant that this was the only way Aaron would get out of the building quickly. The police would be too busy focusing on Pope to care about the depraved, middle-aged man who needed to get his jollies from a drug ravaged prostitute.
They would pity him.
As he heard the doors being kicked open on the floor below by the cavalry, he felt bad for the other guy who had certainly drawn the short straw in Sam Pope’s plan. Aaron stared out of the window once more, his heart pining for his missing daughter and he hoped beyond hope that Sam Pope was as good as the news reports said he was.
Regimented footsteps echoed up the derelict stairwell as the Armed Response unit made their way to the second floor. They would have found the unconscious man from before, but no paramedic would be sent in until they’d given the all clear.
Until they’d neutralised him.
With his back against the grimy wall, Sam leant forward, peering over the bannister, scanning the stairs between the gaps in the stairwell.
Heavily armed police officers were charging up.
Slipping quickly back through the door into the corridor, he dashed across the corridor and slipped behind the door to one of the vacant rooms, pulling the door to but keeping the handle turned.
He would need to be quick.
Just then, he heard the corridor door burst open and the sound of the tactical unit filtering in, their quiet commands just audible against the crashing rain outside. With the dim light bathing the grotty corridor in a thick shadow, Sam gently pulled the door open, peeping through the crack. Two officers were a couple of feet ahead of him, bringing up the rear of the group. Their weapons were raised, their steps as measured and as quiet as possible.
The command to stop filtered through the radios, followed by the bellowing voice of the Specialist Firearms Officer who was in charge of the team.
‘Down on the ground!’
Through the pathetic, flickering light of the hallway, all ten guns were trained upon the figure at the end of the hall. The man had his back to them, wearing a black jacket, a detail passed on by eyewitnesses who had seen Pope on a few occasions.
The man didn’t oblige.
‘I said, down on the ground.’
The figure slowly raised his arms, his hands trembling as he held onto the cylinder. Shrouded in darkness, it took the officer in charge a split second too late to realise what it was.
‘Grenade!’
A shot fired out, the bullet whipping through the hallway and embedding into the centre of the man’s spine. With a cry of anguish, he fell forward, releasing the object and a bright, white flash exploded through the corridor like a tidal wave. As the man collapsed to the floor, the Armed Response team all turned in discomfort, the bright, sudden flash debilitating them for a few moments. Knowing that the visual effects of the grenade would only last seconds, Sam opened the door and rolled the smoke grenade into the centre of the room. As the dizziness of the flash bang pinballed around the room, the smoke began to filter out of the grenade like a genie. A few angry orders were barked, a genuine sense of panic as members of the team spun on the spot, their vision skewed and their senses shaken.
Sam stepped out.
Swiftly, he lunged to the nearest officer, obscured from the rest of the team by the billowing smoke. He expertly wrapped an arm around his throat, blocking his airway and any hope of calling for help. The officer tried to raise his weapon, but Sam latched his other hand onto the man’s wrist, squeezing the pressure point and causing his grip to loosen. He spun back towards the door with the flailing officer in tow.
Thirteen seconds was all it took.
The commotion had alerted the rest of the team, the commands coming through on the radio strapped to his captive’s chest. With time ticking away, Sam spun the man around, striking the back of the man’s leg with his foot, bringing him to his knees. With a silent apology, he removed the gun from the waistband of his jeans and cracked it across the man’s head.
Slumping forward, the man was unconscious before he hit the floor.
Nearly a minute.
As the smoke-filled corridor began to regain a sense of a calm despite the thick, unwelcome smoke, Sam quickly stripped the officer of his jacket and helmet, sliding his own, muscular frame into it. A little tight, but it fit. He took the man’s face mask, latching it around his face before securing the helmet tightly.
With a mighty heave, he pulled the unconscious man to the corner of the room, picked up the thin, stained sheet from the mattress and draped it over him. In the dark, it could easily be dismissed by a quick search.
It would have to do.
An order crackled from the Kevlar on his chest and Sam slipped on the man’s gloves, hoisted the rifle to his waist, and marched to the door. Carefully slipping back into the corridor, he closed the door quietly and assumed the position of the man he had just expertly eliminated.
Ninety-seven seconds.
It’s all it had taken.
Now, as the after effects of the flash bang had begun to wear off, the Armed Response team approached the fallen man, the commanding officer instructing two of his officers to check him.
It wasn’t Sam Pope.
Sean Wiseman moaned in agony, the bullet colliding with the bulletproof vest and sending a jolt up his spine like a cattle prod. It had sent him sprawling forward, and he could already feel his muscles bruising, the severe ache from the shot causing him to groan.
The order was given to get him out of there, with the two closest officers reaching down with their gloved hands, lifting his limp body to his feet and draping his arms over their shoulders. As they ambled back through the smoke, the commanding officer ordered the two officers nearest to the hallway to provide cover, while he and the final five officers would sweep the top floor.
Sam Pope obliged, following the officers down the stairs, bringing up the rear to stay as far out of their sight as possible. Each second passed like a minute, with Sam expecting them to discover their fallen comrade in moments and then all guns would be trained on him.
They reached the bottom floor, the noise of the outside roaring through the open front door, the rain-soaked street a sea of activity. Several police cars had lined up around the building, the officers all standing to attention, their uniforms covered in see-through plastic to shield them from the freezing downpour.
Three ambulances were set further back, the paramedics tending to the wounded men Sam had left in his wake, and a crew of police officers were searching the two cars they’d arrived in.
The enti
re street was carnage.
All caused by him.
Sam stepped out onto the street, casually following the two officers as they carried their victim. Wiseman would be badly bruised and would walk with a limp for a few days, but he would be fine. With the original excitement dissipating into disappointment at his disappearance, Sam watched as a petite, pretty officer with a stern demeanour barked orders into a radio, clearly running the show and furious at their lack of progress.
With all eyes on the building, no one had noticed him, the fact that his black trousers and boots were not identical to those of the officers before him.
The rain helped, drenching everyone to their core and providing him with a curtain to hide behind.
He had to move.
Carefully, he followed the officers through the crowded street, nodding casually at a few PCs who looked at his assault rifle with envy. Their attention was suddenly pulled to their radios, the fiery woman he had passed was barking an order and quickly, the officers approached the building. Some punters had been found and needed to be removed from the building, but there were no signs of Pope.
There had been no alarm raised either.
As the rain collided with the fury of the failed raid, the two Armed Response officers carried Wiseman to the back of the ambulance, an overworked paramedic with a thick brow greeting them and helping them with the weight of the limp body. As they handled Wiseman, Sam carefully walked around the side of the ambulance, out of the glare of the police presence and quickly unclipped the helmet and removed it, followed by the mask.
The rain washed across his face and he walked towards the row of cars ahead, slipping his arms from his jacket and wrapped it around the rifle, sliding it underneath the ambulance.
Behind the cars, lines of civilians waited, all of them watching the action unfold, their phones lifted high in the air, trying their best to capture anything that would grant them any fame online.
The Takers: An action packed thrill ride that you won't put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 2) Page 6
