The Takers

by Robert Enright

  ‘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.’

  ‘Fuck him.’

  ‘Say you had pushed him over the top of that balcony? Say you painted the pavement with his blood. Then what?’

  ‘Then I would say good riddance. Another scum bag off the streets,’ Aaron spat, shaking his head. ‘I’ll be just like you.’

  ‘You’re nothing like me.’

  ‘What? Because you don’t kill criminals?’

  ‘I’ve only killed the ones I’ve had to. And believe me, Aaron, it isn’t easy. None of it is easy and I wish I didn’t have to do it.’

  ‘Then why do it then?’

  ‘Because…’ Sam sighed. ‘Look, bottom line is, if you had killed him, we wouldn’t have known to come here, would we? That kid is just that. A kid. He grew up in a world that you and I will never understand and has had to do things just to survive. That isn’t a reason to take the law into our own hands. You want to do that, then at least do it for the right reason and aim higher.’

  Aaron scoffed, shaking his head and peering angrily out of the window. A group of black youths were gathered in a doorway to one of the buildings, their hoods up, their eyes focused fully on the car.

  They were not welcome there.

  Aaron knew that and despite the fury, Sam could tell the man was nervous. A few droplets of sweat were forming around his hair line, his eyes flickered from side to side.

  Sam watched, took it all in.

  Every detail.

  He may not have had a plan, but he had a gun.

  He had training.

  And he had a rapidly declining window.

  Calmly, he reached a gloved hand to the door handle and flicked it, the door popping open slightly and an immediate blast of cold air violated the vehicle. Aaron turned uncomfortably.

  ‘Wait here. Don’t do anything stupid,’ Sam ordered. ‘If I’m not back in five minutes, go. Okay? You do not wait for me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aaron stammered. ‘B-but…’

  ‘Do you understand?’ Sam barked firmly, causing the driver to jolt with apprehension.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Sam kicked open the door and stepped out, feeling the eyes of the gang latch on to him like an eagle swooping over a field mouse. He casually eased a hand to the base of his spine and felt the pistol wedged in the band of his jeans. He lowered his head back into the car as Aaron spoke.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Aaron asked, his eyes wide with fear.

  Sam offered his reassuring smile.

  He was headed into a no-win situation.

  As rogue rain drops infiltrated the back of his neck and slid down his spine, he replied, ‘Something stupid.’

  Slamming the door shut, Sam stepped around the car, headed towards the building and the eagerly awaiting gang, as the arch of Wembley Stadium cut through the dark, grey sky above. As he approached the doorway, the first hooded figure moved forward, his head low, a bandana pulled across his face.

  ‘Yo, what you doing here, cuz?’ the young man said coldly, his arms out as if he was offering a hug. Despite the boy’s intentions, Sam felt no intimidation.

  Just pity.

  The gang consisted of teenage boys, all of them besotted with the gangster lifestyle. All of them dealt horrible hands by society and gang culture which had undoubtedly run rife through this part of London.

  The parts that are not just forgotten about.

  The parts people didn’t even know existed.

  Sam knew the young man would have a blade on him, the rules of the street pretty much necessitated these gangs were armed. In a different scenario, he would want to help them all. Talk to them. Try to put them on a better path.

  But somewhere, Jasmine Hill was terrified and facing a life worse than the ones they’d chosen.

  There was no time.

  As the thug reached towards the pocket of his hoody, Sam thrust his arm forwards, connecting with a hard uppercut right to the diaphragm. Despite the tight muscles of the gangster’s stomach, he felt the air rush out, winding him instantly. As the thug hunched over, gasping for air, Sam expertly drove his knee into the side of his skull.

  The thug crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  The next hooded guard dog was on him within seconds, wildly slashing at him with a crude knife, the blade slicing through the rain drops as Sam arched his neck back, evading each murderous swipe. On the fourth one, he threw up his arm, connecting his elbow viciously with the attacker’s frail forearm.

  He heard it snap.

  The knife fell to the floor.

  The attacker stumbled back, and Sam took a two-step run up, leapt upwards and caught him with a punch which cracked his jaw and shut his lights out.

  The two remaining gang members were fumbling in their pockets, one of them desperately trying to find his weapon while the other flicked through his phone in terror.

  Sam whipped the gun out from the back of his jeans with a fluid motion, bringing it up with both hands until the chamber was at eye level.

  He couldn’t miss.

  ‘Stop. Both of you,’ Sam demanded.

  The two gang members did as they were told and Sam approached them both slowly, the rain crashing against the metal of his Glock. With their hoods up and faces covered, it was hard to identify them, but Sam could see from their eyes that they were terrified. He needed them that way.

  ‘Hoods down, now,’ Sam ordered, knowing that there would be no chance of a police intervention. Not in this estate. Both of them obliged, their hoods sliding backwards and their bandanas pulled down.

  They were so young.

  Sam’s knuckles whitened with fury at the lives these young men were exposed to. They couldn’t have been older than eighteen years old. The two unconscious members who were motionless in the rain behind him couldn’t have been either.

  Sam knew he had a mission, one that was rapidly running out of time. He knew that he needed the head of the gang, the person who put all this into action.

  The man who had orchestrated the kidnapping of Jasmine. Knowing he was the same man who encouraged these young men to strive for this lifestyle, who demanded they use acid to disfigure and destroy to prove their ‘worth’ to him made this even more necessary.

  Sam needed to get to him. Now.

  With regret, he looked at the two frightened young men before him. They were drenched, the relentless rain soaking them through. He marched towards the one to his left and before the thug could react, Sam swung the gun and crashed the hard, metal handle against the side of his head.

  The young man crumpled into the puddles surrounding them.

  Sam spun on his heel, aiming the gun at the final member who swallowed hard and was shaking more out of fear than the cold. Sam was sure, that despite all the tough talk and the gangster lifestyle, the young man had never looked down the barrel of a gun before.

  If he had, Sam was sure it wasn’t attached to someone as deadly as he was.

  With brisk steps he approached, pressing the gun to the young man’s chest.

  ‘How many?’ he demanded, looking up at the dour building and trying to think back to a time where he wasn’t about to storm a building full of criminals.

  ‘Eight. Including us.’ The words were dripping with fear.

  ‘Is he armed?’

  ‘No. He’s with his yat.’ Sam arched an eyebrow. ‘His girl.’

  ‘Take me to him.’

  ‘The boss don’t like being disturbed when he’s getting fresh, you know what I’m saying?�
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  Sam pressed the gun to the young man’s forehead. The colour fell from his face, his eyes widening in genuine terror.

  ‘I do know what you’re saying and I don’t give a damn.’ Sam nodded to the door. ‘Let’s go.’

  Slowly, the boy turned and walked calmly back towards the door of the building, the cold metal of Sam Pope’s gun pressed to his forehead. Behind him, three gang members were sprawled across the concrete in an unconscious tribute to his abilities.

  In the Ford Mondeo parked at the side of the road, Aaron Hill stared, mouth open, at the sheer brutality of the man he had put his faith in.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pearce let out a deep sigh as he pulled up to the estate, the streets a beehive of activity as police officers battled tirelessly against the elements and the growing crowd. Police tape framed the crime scene in front of the run-down estate and the groups of locals were angrily gesticulating that the law wasn’t welcome on this turf. Considering what Pearce had been told by Singh when the radio call had come in, it seemed like a bigger police presence in this area was exactly what was needed.

  It would stop young adults falling in with the wrong crowd.

  It could have stopped Sam Pope dismantling them in broad daylight.

  Pearce and Singh had been in the Bethnal Green Youth Centre, discussing previous cases and war stories like old friends. As their tea had gotten colder, Pearce found himself warming to the ambitious young lady, recognising a tenacity that many would mistake for rudeness. She was a serial winner, determined to make the streets a safer place, and he admired her for it.

  Sure, she was curt, but she cared.

  Which made it difficult when it came to her priority.

  Despite spending his entire life upholding the law, Pearce felt a kinship with Sam Pope. The man was a vigilante, taking the law into his own hands and representing everything Pearce had dedicated his career to stop. But somewhere along the line, Sam had shown him the clear fractures in the very system he served, exposing crime and corruption on a level that Pearce never could. Since then, he had taken down more criminal safe houses in six months than the entire Metropolitan Police had in six years.

  Good and bad used to be black and white.

  Sam Pope had painted it grey.

  As Pearce stuffed his bearded chin into the collar of his coat, the wind slapped a frozen hand across his face, coating his dark skin with icy drizzle. The estate was a depressing collection of dirty, decrepit buildings, all shooting out from the earth like jagged teeth. The narrow balconies spiralled around the building and Pearce could see eager faces peering over the edges, members of gangs all wishing ill upon the unwelcome police force.

  He didn’t blame them.

  It wasn’t as if the Met had forgotten about this place.

  It was as if they never knew it existed.

  As he thought of the kids who walked through the doors to the Youth Centre, he looked over at the stern, wrinkle free face of DI Singh. Her dark eyes were wide with interest as a SOCO pointed to an area on the floor where they’d removed a young man with a broken arm and a shattered jaw.

  Pearce could feel the ferocity emanating from her as she turned away and marched back towards him. The rain seemed to bounce off her like bullets off of Superman.

  ‘This is a lovely way to spend a Sunday, eh?’ She offered with a smile, looking around at the dreary estate.

  ‘It could be worse. I could be watching X Factor.’

  Singh chuckled.

  ‘Well there goes my suggestion for this evening.’

  Pearce smiled, annoyed at the inner conflict he was experiencing. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, gently rocked on his heels and looked around at the mayhem.

  ‘So, how many?’ Pearce eventually asked.

  ‘Eight in the hospital. No casualties,’ Singh stated coldly. ‘Seems your boy is showing some mercy.’

  ‘Firstly, he isn’t my boy, Detective Inspector,’ Pearce corrected with an authoritative tone. ‘And second, this doesn’t feel right does it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Singh raised her thin, dark eyebrows and turned to him. Pearce pulled his lips into a thin line, his eyes darting around the crime scene.

  ‘This. Last night. It doesn’t fit his routine.’

  ‘So he decided to beat eight men half to death instead of kill them. So what?’

  ‘But that’s just it. Six months ago, Sam wiped out an entire crime gang, killing thirteen men in the process. Since then, nothing. Sure, he’s put over forty people in the hospital and a number into wheel chairs, but he staved off the executing. But last night … last night was different.’

  Pearce stepped forward, looking around the crime scene, imagining a rain-soaked Sam disarming and demobilising the look-outs. The young men who knew all the right words and stringently followed orders. Any normal man would have either turned and ran as fast as they could or would have been found dead in a bin behind the stadium.

  But Sam took them apart quicker than he could dismantle a hand gun.

  Why?

  Singh stepped forward, her hair flat and soaked through. Behind her, a few police men in high-vis jackets spoke to an agitated group of locals, all of them decrying a ‘white man beating up black kids.’

  ‘So what the hell is going on?’

  ‘Something’s changed. Pope isn’t just on a quest for justice anymore. He’s too careful to be this reckless.’ Pearce shook his head. ‘Think about it. Yesterday, he only killed a few of the men in that High Rise. Riggs and a couple of his lackeys. The others … the guys in the street. He put them down with leg shots. So why did he kill the others?’

  ‘He had no choice?’ Singh offered, realisation creeping into her voice. ‘He was protecting someone?’

  ‘That’s my guess. When Amy Devereux was being held at gun point, Sam acted. It’s second nature to him. He’s a born and bred soldier. He serves. He protects.’

  ‘We need to go back through the people who walked out of that building. Lean on them … see who Sam was actually protecting.’

  Pearce sighed, realising that he had just set a very tenacious dog after a potentially delicious bone. While he respected Sam Pope, he also respected the badge.

  The justice system.

  If Sam was as good as he had seen, then he would still be ahead of them. But Singh wouldn’t stop. Pearce knew it because the same tenacity had rocked through him like a hurricane his entire career. Singh barked orders at a few officers and then turned back to Pearce, her face resigned to having to go back to work. There was also a sadness hidden behind her eyes.

  As if she felt guilty.

  She cleared her throat and smiled at Pearce through the rain.

  ‘Thanks for your help today, sir.’

  ‘Please.’ He smiled. ‘Call me Adrian.’

  ‘Adrian.’ She returned a smile in kind. ‘It appears the leader of the gang, a Leon Barnett, is missing. Apparently, Sam pulled him out of bed while he was mid-romp with one of his lovers.’

  ‘Talk about a mood killer.’

  ‘Quite.’ Singh looked back up to the top floor of the building, imagining the sight of Sam marching a naked man through the dangerous stair well at gun point. The man was fearless, she would give him that. ‘We are putting out a BOLO as soon as possible.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Pearce said, as he approached his car. He shook his head, dismissing the ‘be on the lookout’ order.

  ‘How come?’ Singh said, watching in disappointment as Pearce slid into the driver’s seat of his car. The door slammed shut, and with a low hum, the rain drop covered window slid down, welcoming a blast of wet air to assault the leather interior. Pearce looked up at Singh, noticing that sadness once more.

  ‘Because if he took him with him, then it means Sam needs something from him.’

  ‘Do you think he will get it?’

  Pearce raised his eyebrows and turned his attention to the road, turning the key and letting the engine roar to life.


  ‘I’d bet this car on it. And I’ll bet, considering the mess he has left behind, he won’t do it nicely.’

  Sean Wiseman took a deep breath before lifting the photo frame from his bedside table. It had been three hours since he had been confronted on his balcony by Sam Pope and Aaron Hill, and as soon as they’d left, he had marched to his door, entered his flat, slammed it shut, and fell to the floor in floods of tears. The last few days had been a war zone, where he had been shot through the hand, shot in the back, seen his childhood friend die, and realised how their way of life impacted the undeserving.

  Jasmine Hill didn’t deserve what would happen to her.

  The Acid Gang would take her to their employer, and she would be sent abroad, to a dusty, derelict village in Eastern Europe where she would likely be raped, forced into a drug addiction, and then sold to the highest bidder for a lifetime of sex slavery.

  She was just a teenage girl.

  After he had thrown up twice, he had lit a spliff, allowing the calming effects of the marijuana to filter through his body and his worries momentarily melted. The pain in his hand subsided.

  The guilt of the broken family.

  He faded…

  After awaking a few hours later on the floor of his bathroom, Wiseman brushed his teeth and while staring into the mirror, a revelation hit him.

  He wanted out.

  With no idea how or where, he was determined to pack anything of value into a bag, strap it to his back, and leave the godforsaken estate behind. The guns, the drugs, the life of crime.

  The constant looking over the shoulder.

  It was all going in the rear view.

  At any moment, he was expecting a message to ping through on his phone, telling him that someone had burnt the estate to the ground with the Acid Gang in it. He had unleashed Sam Pope on them like a rabid dog, and if it ever came back to them that he was the one who provided the road map, they wouldn’t chuck acid at him.

  They would submerge him in it until he disintegrated alive.