Stepping towards his drink cabinet to fix himself a drink, Andrei lit a cigar to remove the coppery smell of blood that clung to his expensive suit. It would be burnt.
It was okay.
His murderous stranglehold over the city of London ensured that he had a selection of replacements hanging in his wardrobe.
Stood on the walkway, exposed to the elements, Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets for warmth. Icy rain danced along the wind as it crashed into them and he stared at the young man before him. Wiseman was clearly terrified, his dark eyes shifting from Aaron to Sam. Now that Wiseman was clearly no threat, Aaron’s posture had changed and the anger and desperation to find his daughter were dancing dangerously close to the surface.
‘That’s all I know.’ Wiseman shrugged, pulling his jacket tighter to his body.
‘He’s fucking lying,’ Aaron spat, gesticulating wildly.
‘I’m not. Seriously, we don’t really have much dealing with that side of things.’
‘Think, Sean. Think back a couple of evenings. Who was there?’ Sam spoke calmly, stepping forward gently to provide a blockade between the cowering young man and the furious father. ‘Jasmine Hill went missing nearly two days ago. In this city that means we have a few more days tops before her life and her future disappear like that.’
Sam snapped his fingers, causing both Wiseman and Aaron to shudder. Her fate wouldn’t be worth contemplating. Sam continued.
‘I’m not saying you did this, Sean. But you have done some bad things for worse people. This girl is only fifteen years old. You can help her.’
Wiseman swallowed, his eyes watering and he looked out over the balcony to the estate below. The rain was thrashing the gloomy streets and old, damaged cars. Aaron took a deep breath, shaking his head with anger.
‘He’s wasting our time, Sam. Do your thing and make him talk.’
‘My thing?’ Sam turned, an eyebrow raised.
‘Yeah, do what you do. Hurt him or whatever.’
‘He’s already done that,’ Wiseman barked, raising the bloodstained bandages that were strapped to his hand.
‘Then I’ll do it,’ Aaron snapped, lurching forward and gripping the wounded hand in his own. Squeezing with all his might, he crushed down on the fresh bullet wound, causing Wiseman to squeal with pain and buckle loosely. With his other hand, Aaron grabbed the lapel of his coat, forcing Wiseman back and rocking him over the edge of the balcony. ‘Where the fuck is my daughter you piece of shit?’
‘Easy,’ Sam muttered, placing a hand on Aaron’s shoulder and gently pulling him back. Aaron brushed him off, roughly shoving a terrified Wiseman back further, one of his feet coming off the concrete walkway as gravity threatened to take control of the situation.
‘Please, help me,’ Wiseman begged, tears streaming down his rain-stricken face.
‘Tell me where she is,’ Aaron spat venomously, his own tears drawn by rage. ‘Tell me.’
Sam reached out again, firmly pulling both Aaron and Wiseman back. Instantly, Aaron slapped Sam’s hand away and stormed back towards the stairwell, his rage pouring out of him. Sam watched him leave, annoyed by his lack of composure but he understood.
A father’s drive to protect his child is something he understood.
Something he had failed at.
Wiseman fell forward onto his knees, gingerly massaging his injured hand with the other and holding back his tears. Having grown up on the estate, he knew better than to show weakness, but the gravity of the whole situation had gotten to him.
He had been shot twice in the last two days.
He had seen his lifelong friend killed.
A young girl was now missing and most likely facing a fate worse than death. Despite turning a blind eye to Riggs’s dealings in women, Wiseman knew the operation. They got the girls young, they hooked them on drugs and then they sold them overseas to dangerous men with worse intentions.
The thought of it broke the barrier, and Wiseman began to weep.
‘Sean.’ Sam broke the silence, his arms folded. ‘Sean, you need to tell me what you know.’
‘I don’t want this.’ Wiseman’s words were quiet and feeble. ‘I never wanted this.’
Sam squatted down to face him, his hair slick with rain.
‘Look, Sean. I have about two days, tops, to help this man find his daughter. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happens when young girls go missing with guys from your gang. So I’m asking you, if you don’t want this … help me.’
Wiseman took a couple of deep breaths before wiping his eyes with his drenched sleeve. Sam extended a hand which he gratefully took and he pulled himself up, groaning slightly as he wiped away the final tears. A couple of his neighbours were loitering in front of one of the doors further up the walk way, carefully eyeing up Sam Pope. Wiseman shook his head to signal it was okay, but it was more for their safety than Sam’s.
Wiseman looked out over the drab surroundings, the gritty world that had encompassed his life so far. Although he had never pulled a trigger or sold any of the product, he had enabled others to do so. He was just as big a monster as they were, if not worse.
It was time to do the right thing.
‘That evening, we had a couple of new members of the NW Acid Gang with us.’
‘Acid Gang?’ Sam’s eyes narrowed with anger.
‘Yeah.’ Wiseman looked away with shame. ‘They work for some big people. I’m talking dangerous, paid up people. The people who have connections, you know?’
Wiseman’s lip wobbled with sadness as Sam pulled his focus back.
‘What do they do? For these people?’
‘The gang? They are the takers.’ Wiseman’s voice cracked again. ‘They take the girls to sell on…’
‘You’re doing great,’ Sam said, swallowing his own disgust. ‘Where can I find them?’
‘Stonebridge Estate,’ Wiseman said, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s in Harlesden and…’
‘I know where it is.’
‘A couple of their younger members were with us that night, but there was no girl.’ Wiseman had stopped crying, but his body shivered in the cold. The temperature was dropping as the city lashed its freezing power on its inhabitants. ‘That’s all I know, I swear.’
‘Thanks. It’s a big help.’ Sam offered a smile, which soon dissipated. ‘One last thing, why do they call them the Acid Gang?’
Wiseman rocked nervously from one foot to the other.
‘Because they have to perform an acid attack as initiation.’
Sam nodded, his fists clenching in anger at the senseless violence deemed necessary for acceptance. The newspapers were rife with innocent people being blinded, scarred, or even killed by someone throwing acid in their face. It was cowardly and it was vicious.
It was wrong.
It made doing things the hard way a little more appealing. As the silence grew between them, Wiseman took one last glance towards the stairwell, but Aaron was gone. He offered Sam a meek smile, before walking past him, headed towards his flat.
‘Sean,’ Sam called after him, taking a few steps towards him. ‘Did you mean what you said? About wanting out?’
Wiseman nodded. Sam asked for the young man’s phone, and he reluctantly handed it over. He tapped in an address and handed it back, smiling at Wiseman’s confusion.
‘When you realise you really want to help, go there. And Sean…’ Wiseman looked up from the screen to Sam’s smiling face. ‘I hope I never see you again.’
Wiseman finally cracked a smile and Sam nodded his thanks, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and marched back down the walkway with a renewed purpose.
A new target.
As the rain lashed the poverty-stricken estate like a cat-o’-nine-tails, Sam disappeared into the stair well to tell a desperate dad that he may have some hope after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘I don’t believe in no-win situations, sir.’
Sam Pope spoke proudly, his back straig
ht, chest out. His jaw was set, a thin layer of stubble an indication of the three-day hike he and his squadron had taken. The relentless heat poured from the sun like a broken tap, bathing Sudan in a scorching glow. The African country, home to over thirty-eight million people, sat just below Egypt, with the town of Wadi Halfa situated just over twenty kilometres from the border. With the rocky, desolate plane that they were walking, it had taken the troop just over a day, and as they reached the border to Egypt, Sergeant Carl Marsden had called them to a halt. He had asked his squadron to lie low, set up base camp, and for them to keep an eye out for Egyptian patrol. When questioned, he had responded with the notion that being spotted would end in defeat. It had been Corporal Sam Pope who had responded with his usual lack of fear.
‘Every situation is a no-win situation, Corporal. It’s just you are trained to not lose.’
Pope smiled, his white skin clearly sun kissed and sweat dripped from his forehead. As a man whose parents had emigrated from the very continent they were standing on, Marsden’s skin showed less evidence of the heat. He wiped his brow with the back of his forearm and looked around at the five-man team. Corporal Simon Murray, as loyal as he was intimidating, who had proven himself to be an exceptional leader of men. Theo Walker, calm, well-educated, and one of the finest young medics within the armed forces. Private Lawrence Griffin, the youngest of the group, a little scrawny and his ginger complexion was providing a lot of entertainment for the rest of the crew, especially in the relentless heat. Corporal Paul Etheridge, a bomb disposal expert and one of the most intelligent men Marsden knew, if maybe a little too smug for his own good.
And Sam Pope. The man was by far the finest sniper he had ever witnessed in his twenty-two years serving his country. With over fifty confirmed kills, he had been the first name on the sheet that Marsden’s superior had given him for the mission.
General Ervin Wallace.
Marsden knew that there was a specialist unit being put together under the notorious General, one that would exist so far off the books they were out of the library.
Project Hailstorm
Marsden knew he was too old for such an elite team, his years of combat were weighing heavy on his body, despite the lengths he went to maintain his physique. He still ran an extra mile than even the youngest recruits every morning, but his wisdom and experience was best served in putting together the team.
Not leading it.
This exercise would be a simple in and out job, with the team expected to infiltrate a Jihad base just past the Egyptian border and neutralise the threat. Intelligence had strong suspicions that a bomb factory was hidden behind the ancient, rural ruins that housed a small terrorist cell and Marsden was to deploy the team at midnight.
Pope would cover from the rocks. Murray and Griffin would accompany Etheridge in, eliminate any hostiles and decommission any explosives. Etheridge would do the technical parts.
Murray and Griffin the grunt work.
A simple job.
As the men checked their weapons, Marsden tried to radio back to base, his signal hitting nothing but a high-pitch block. Angered by the uselessness of his equipment, Marsden turned to Etheridge expectantly, the man’s reputation with technology preceded him. Etheridge gladly took it and began twisting the frequency knob, staring intently at the device, his attention focused on the task and not on his feet. With the rocky terrain alienating them from existence, Etheridge took a few steps to the right side of a large boulder, lost his footing and found himself tumbling down a twenty-foot slope. His body bounced and collided with a few rocks, his femur shattering in an instant.
His cry of pain alerted his squadron to his dilemma.
It also drew immediate fire from a three-man patrol that was circling the area in a roofless jeep.
Etheridge closed his eyes and accepted his fate.
Three shots echoed through the caves in quick succession.
When he opened his eyes again, Etheridge saw the last of his attacker’s slump forward from the vehicle and hit the dusty track, a bloody hole in his forehead. He assumed the other two motionless bodies bore the same injury.
As he peered back up the slope, he could see Theo Jackson carefully abseiling down towards him, the beefy Murray holding the other end of the rope and gently feeding it to Griffin who steadied it as best he could. Marsden stood beside them, offering his expert hand and still considerable strength to the task.
Beyond them, Sam Pope stood, the rifle still in his hands, his eye at the scope, ready to lay down covering fire. As the sun began to set beyond the rocky vista, Etheridge took a deep breath. Although his left leg was shattered, his pride hurt more.
He wasn’t seen as a soldier. He had been trained as they all had, knew how to handle a gun and himself in hand to hand, but his strengths were in strategy and the equipment.
The man was a genius.
He was a thinker. Not a fighter.
Tumbling down a mountain, exposing the mission, and sending three men to their graves would give the guys no end of material.
He would never hear the end of it.
Theo fashioned a makeshift splint and with careful, measured steps, the two of them ascended the incline, hand over hand as they made their way back to base. After a gentle ribbing by his team, Etheridge thanked them from the bottom of his heart for saving his life.
Marsden watched on with pride.
Wallace was right.
This squadron was something special.
As the men made their way back through the rocky path to their base camp to collect their stuff, Murray and Griffin began plotting a new location to set up as their position had been compromised. Etheridge took a seat on a dusty rock, the pain of his broken body bouncing through him like an echo. Jackson began packing away the gear, updating Marsden on the condition of their fallen comrade. As the first stars began to emerge like blossoming flowers in the navy skyline, Sam Pope stood, one foot rested on a rock, his rifle resting against his chest, the barrel aiming at the wondrous twilight above. The evening soon turned chilly and as the night sky lit up with a thousand more stars, Etheridge felt a chill run through him.
‘Thank you, Sam.’
Sam smiled, nodding his acceptance to his friend and looked out into the dark, rocky surroundings.
‘No problem, bud.’ He offered him his hand, to help him limp through the base. ‘Although for someone with a high IQ, you have pretty shit vision.’
The two men laughed and Sam’s attention turned to Marsden, who beckoned him to the side. Sam smiled at Etheridge, before walking across the dusty gravel path to his superior.
‘That was some good shooting, Sam,’ Marsden said admiringly.
‘It’s what I’m here for, sir.’
‘Quite.’ Marsden smiled. ‘Tell me, Sam, you have a family, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sam said with respect. ‘My wife, Lucy, is expecting our first child.’
‘Fantastic.’ Marsden genuinely beamed. ‘Etheridge also has a wife who, because of you, will be seeing him again.’
They both let the importance of his actions sit silently between them like an ugly secret. Sam glanced back to Etheridge, who was trying his best to get the radio to work.
Despite the horrendous fall and injury, he was still following orders.
They all were.
Sam took a deep breath, his chest filling with fresh, humid air and swelling with pride.
‘Like you said, we are trained not to lose.’
‘That maybe so.’ Marsden chuckled. ‘But we are also trained not to put ourselves in those situations to begin with.’
Sam could sense Marsden’s frustration and offered him another smile.
‘With all due respect, sir, he fell. It’s not like he ran head first into a gun fight.’
Marsden shook his head.
‘What he did was reckless. We are trained to win, Sam. But we are also trained not to put ourselves needlessly in danger.’ Both of them could see an embarrassed
Etheridge arch his head round. He had obviously heard but Marsden ignored it. He rested a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Because if we do, regardless of whether we walk out alive, we still lose a piece of ourselves if we go looking for it.’
Sam watched as Theo finished packing up and called their superior down the final few rocks and into the group which had begun to regroup, their packs strapped to their backs. A glum, humiliated Etheridge pushed himself to his feet, waiting patiently as the always attentive Theo scurried to help.
The mission would need to be re-evaluated and most likely postponed for the night.
As another brisk chill danced along the night sky, Sam climbed down to the rest of the group and followed his orders.
Sam sat in the passenger seat of Aaron Hill’s black Ford Mondeo and thought about no-win situations. Everything since the High Rise six months before had been meticulously planned. Every attack on a safe house, every ambush of a criminal’s hide out. Sam had scoped and planned it to the finest detail.
There were no surprises.
No blind spots.
There was always a chance of winning.
This … this was different.
Sam stared out of the rain-covered windscreen at the towering concrete block before them. Similar to the urban pillar that they’d confronted Wiseman on, the Acid Gang were a notorious stain on the map of Wembley. Despite its connections to the national football team, the town of Wembley had decayed badly. While the modern, gentrified streets that surrounded the stadium gave off the scent of money, the poverty rippled outwards from it, as if the stadium was a huge, expensive rock dropped in a sea of suffering.
‘So … what’s the plan?’ Aaron asked, his brow furrowed and his fingers nervously drumming the leather steering wheel.
‘Plan is, is I go into that building and try to find out where the hell they took your daughter.’
‘And how are you going to do that, huh?’ Aaron’s words were laced with agitation. ‘You’ve never been here before.’
‘Look, you need to calm down,’ Sam said sternly. ‘What you did back there, to Wiseman. You can’t lose your mind like that.’
The Takers: An action packed thrill ride that you won't put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 2) Page 10
