Singh had to clench her hands to stop them from shaking.
As the doors had shut and she descended in the elevator, she second guessed whether she should rush back to the top and help Sam.
But he’d made it clear to her.
This was his fight.
He had apologised as honestly as he could for dragging her into his world, and while her mind raced due to the kiss they’d shared, she knew she had to return to reality at some point. The man was a vigilante, paying no respect to the law that she’d dedicated her life to. While the system was doing its best to push her out and mark her as a criminal, she knew she couldn’t afford to give them any further reason to.
After a few moments, the lift shunted to a stop and Singh looked down at the motionless body of Brandt. The man had pointed a gun at her, with every intention of using it and thankfully, Sam had been there to save her.
Again.
She’d returned the favour of course, cracking the gun across the man’s skull to give Sam the advantage.
Her eyes lit up.
The gun.
Singh dropped to her knee and retrieved the handgun, and as she stood, the doors slid open.
A team of six security guards and two police officers greeted her. Carefully, she slid the gun into the back of her jeans and retrieved her badge from her back pocket.
One of the young officers, keen to impress the security guards, stepped forward.
‘Don’t move,’ he said cockily. Singh responded by shoving her badge in his face.
‘I’m a fucking detective,’ she barked. ‘DS Amara Singh. Stand down.’
The young officer crumpled like a house of cards and as she stepped out of the lift, the other officer cut her off.
‘What the hell happened here?’ He gestured to the prone body of Brandt.
‘This man tried to attack me in the lift. Something to do with a drug ring we busted last year.’ The lie came to her pretty quickly. ‘Fortunately, he was bigger in size than in brains.’
The security team chuckled, and the more experienced officer regarded her with a careful eye.
‘Okay. You two, get him some medical attention.’ He turned to the younger officer. ‘Stay here with them until the ambulance arrives.’
‘Good work, officer,’ Singh said firmly. The officer offered her a smile, one she didn’t fully trust.
‘Assistant Commissioner Ashton has just arrived with an armed response unit in tow. We have reason to believe that Sam Pope is in the vicinity.’
‘Right, well… I better help the search…’ Singh began. The officer grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her, luckily avoiding the handgun.
‘I think we should go and see her together, don’t you?’ the officer said. Clearly, he was aware of the rumours linking Singh to Pope and with the likely event of Wallace tipping off Ashton, her presence at the train station wouldn’t be seen as a coincidence.
Most likely, it would be the final nail in her coffin.
Resigned to her fate, she marched with the officer who seemed to be basking in the glory of his discovery. Sadly, she understood the feeling, his smugness at climbing the hierarchal ladder echoed her own ambitions less than six months before.
The only way she would ever clear her name with the police was if she brought Sam in wearing cuffs.
As they moved from the corridor and across the concourse, panicked screams filled the upper walkway and the officer stopped, spinning round and relinquishing his grip on Singh’s arm. Singh followed his gaze to the railing above, where Sam Pope was leaning, his face bloodied as he held the metal barrier for support.
Then, to Singh’s horror, the hulking man she’d glimpsed before grabbed Sam by his jacket and hurled him over.
The station fell silent as Sam tumbled down, dropping about eight foot onto the roof of a sweet trolley, decked out like and old school wagon. He landed with a sickening thud, before rolling to the side and dropping onto the hard, unforgiving concrete.
As panic began to spread through the crowd as the bloodied man grunted with pain and began to stir, Singh saw her only chance.
She grabbed the gun from the back of her jeans, lifted it into the air and pulled the trigger.
Nothing shot fear through a crowd faster than the sound of gunfire and within seconds, the station was in a frenzy. Sam scrambled to his feet and Singh made sure he was moving with the crowd, as they rushed towards the exits, the escalators, and stairways to Liverpool Street crammed with people. Sam managed to move within the crowd and he vanished.
The armed response began to flood in through the side entrance, rifles at the ready, with Ashton’s hopes of catching Sam vanishing by the second.
Singh knew the attacker would be long gone, and decided to follow suit, pushing the officer as hard as she could in the back, propelling him into the panicked crowd and watching as he crashed to the floor.
She felt bad, realising that the few ties she had left to the police were about to be severed, but she slipped into the terrified stream of people making their way to the exit and as she made her way to the street, she realised she’d gone too far now.
There was no way back.
Chapter Eighteen
‘The scene at London Liverpool Street Station today, was one of terror. A sunny afternoon in Spring, turned into a nightmare for those commuting into the city.’
Wallace sighed at the dramatic introduction of the news report, watching on TV as the cameraman tried his best to capture the business of the station, as well as the stunning weather coating it all in a bright sheen.
The man was trying to channel his inner Spielberg, while the reporter was doing his best to add some gravitas. CCTV footage of a figure lifting their arm in the air and a sudden flash, accompanied by thunderous clap followed.
‘A gunshot, triggered by this assailant, sent panic through the station, one which has seen five people admitted to hospital with severe injuries. Amongst the five, a senior police officer, who was trampled underfoot and is suffering with several broken bones and a concussion. All of those injured are in a stable condition and expected to make a full recovery.’
‘Whoopie-fucking-do,’ Wallace slurred, slamming back another glass of Scotch and ignoring the burn as it fell down his gullet. He followed it with a thick, clogging breath of cigar smoke.
His safehouse had become his prison and he realised that for a man who feasted on fear, he was now a slave to it. A man of his stature and power, who had brought entire countries to their knees, was holed away in a remote location, all because of one man.
Sam Pope.
As his fists clenched, it felt for a moment that the tablet, propped in its carry case on the table, was reading his mind as the news report continued.
‘Mobile phone footage submitted from a few anonymous sources caught sight of a struggle on the upper floor of the station. A confrontation involving two men, one of whom can be seen to be bleeding heavily from the face. In an act of unprecedented violence, the man is thrown from the upper level, thankful for the sweet cart below to break his fall.’
The image is frozen on the screen and using state-of-the-art technology, it is enhanced.
‘Rumours abound that the man in question is Sam Pope, the wanted vigilante who was last reported to have brought down a people trafficking ring. A further sweep of the building found three unconscious people, all belonging to the same private security firm, Blackridge. They have been contacted for a comment, but so far, all contact has been unsuccessful.’
Wallace slumped in the chair opposite the tablet, his mind racing. Again, it felt like the tablet itself was running his own inner monologue out loud.
‘With the first sighting of Sam Pope in months, what does this mean for the city of London? What are the links to Blackridge? Who was the unidentifiable man who tried to kill Sam Pope? These are questions that will probably burn on for a while, until the Metropolitan Police, Blackridge, and our own government, can provide answers. Aseem Chaudary, BBC New
s, London.’
Wallace slammed the tablet face down onto the glass table. The crack from his earlier display if frustration had grown and he grunted as he made a note to have it replaced. He would claim it back through the government, another gift, paid for by the good people of Britain.
The way he saw it, he’d sacrificed enough over his lifetime for their freedom. The least they could do was pay for his comfort.
Comfort? He chortled, pouring himself another glass from the decanter and smelling the fiery stench of his Scotch. This was what he’d been reduced to.
Hidden away, drinking away his fears and frustrations, and hoping for a solution. A man of his stature and reputation had never left anything to chance. There was always a plan, always an angle to work. Whether it was infiltrating various terrorist cells, planning the coup of a government, or just executing a known traitor, Wallace had a plan.
There was always a road to his desired outcome, one that he would have meticulously laid out by his experts.
But this?
They had released the most brutal assassin he’d ever come across into the country, hoping he would bring Sam in. It had almost worked, but they were fishing in the dark.
He needed an absolute.
He needed a plan.
First things first, he needed to shut down the media. A quick phone call later and he’d given a clear directive to the communications expert of Blackridge, to give a blanket statement distancing themselves from the operation. As vague as possible, it would at least keep some of the wolves from the door.
But others would be more persistent.
Like Helal Miah.
As if his skull was an empty piggy bank, he felt the penny drop, rattling inside his brain. An evil smile crept across his unshaven face, his teeth, stale and unclean chomped together. Another phone call, this time to his software experts and the plan was in motion. It would only take them a few moments, as they were some of the best on the business. Although, after being outshone by whoever was helping Sam, Wallace wasn’t sure that held any weight anymore.
They needed to deliver, especially if they wanted to keep their jobs.
Feeling a little more relaxed, especially as he’d begun to claw back elements of control of a situation that threatened to bring his entire empire to its knees, his tablet pinged.
The email had been sent.
It was a record of Helal Miah’s phone record, all the messages and most importantly, the location. On a separate tab, he had the exact same information for Amara Singh.
On a third tab, his analyst had pulled together all the instances of communication between the two. While only a couple of text messages had been sent, the records pinpointed the exact date, time, and location when they met.
Two evenings ago.
It was the day before the ‘Project Hailstorm’ article was published.
‘Bingo,’ Wallace spoke, his sinister words creeping from a cruel grin.
There were a thousand reasons why people went to war. Power. Religion. Racism. Freedom. Famine. The list was endless. But for men like Sam, there was only one. The need to fight. Wallace admired, envied, and loathed Sam’s boy scout nature, his incessant need to fight for the right thing. It had led them on a collision course that by now, they both knew could only end one way.
But to lure Sam from the mission, Wallace had to make him fight for something else.
Something he cared about.
Amara Singh.
Chuckling at his own twisted genius, he lifted his phone once more and called the Hagman of Baghdad. There was no fear this time.
After a few rings, the phone answered, but there was no voice. No respect. No honour among thieves.
Wallace gave the clear instruction, hung up the phone, took a large swing of his drink and toasted to the memory of Helal Miah.
‘Stop being such a pussy.’
Etheridge shook his head at Sam, who hissed in pain as he pressed the cloth to his busted lip. Etheridge had invested decent money in a top of the range medikit, not wanting to take any chances after the beating he’d received from the man in black at the end of the previous year.
Sam understood, and was grateful, but pressing antiseptic liquid onto his split lip stung like hell.
Etheridge lifted Sam’s shirt and pressed his fingers against his ribs, prodding them gently. On the fourth prod, Sam grunted, and the bone was definitely cracked.
‘You certainly took a beating,’ Etheridge said.
‘You should see the other guy,’ Sam said dryly, pushing himself up from the chair and pull his shirt down.
‘I did. He was terrifying.’
‘Not going to argue with that.’
Etheridge smiled and pulled two beers from the glass fridge under his desk, popping the caps off with his keyring and handing one to Sam. While his new diet and lifestyle had seen him cut out his daily alcohol habit, something told him his friend needed a beer.
By the look of him, he needed a doctor, but sadly, there wasn’t too many people wanting to join the illegal cause they were fighting for. For a moment, Etheridge thought of Theo, a sudden twinge of pain flickered through him like photo flash and he knew good people had died for the cause.
That whatever he and Sam were fighting for, it was worth it.
Theo.
Marsden.
Good people who had died to protect others. Etheridge would honour them all by seeing it through to the end, and that meant giving Sam all the help he could.
‘Who was that guy?’ Etheridge asked, sipping his beer.
‘Ahmad Farukh,’ Sam replied. ‘I recognised the eyes. Somewhere, I’ve seen that man before but I couldn’t tell you where.’
‘A horror film, perhaps?’ Etheridge joked and Sam raised his eyebrows in agreement. ‘Well, whoever he was, he’s working for Wallace. He said he wanted the stick.’
Etheridge slid open the draw of his desk and pulled out a secure, metal box. Taking the key from his key chain, he clicked the lock and pulled out the USB stick Sam had mailed him months ago.
He had tried in vain to hack into it, but the security was top of the range.
They needed a fingerprint to access it.
Sam had pulled thirty of them straight from the company themselves and Etheridge took a chance that the more senior of the team would be more privy to the files.
‘What’s the plan?’ Sam asked, always enthralled by the complexity of Etheridge’s knowledge.
‘First, I’m going to run a quick scan across all databases to confirm which sheet is Brandt’s.’ Etheridge began clicking away on the keyboard. ‘Once we establish that, I’m going to transfer all fingerprints onto the scanner, until one of them unlocks them.’
‘You have program that does that?’ Sam asked, impressed. He grimaced slightly, his body reminding him of the beating he’d taken. Etheridge flashed him a grin.
‘Yup. It’s a delicate process of placing each print on the scanner.’
Sam stared blankly at him, unimpressed. Etheridge chuckled and continued as Sam stepped away to the bathroom. He took a quick shower, allowing the water to try to calm the pain raging through his body. After a few moments, he stepped back out, got dressed, and rejoined Etheridge in the loft. Impressively, Etheridge had already identified which sheet belonged to Brandt and was now going through the arduous process of pressing the prints against the scanner.
On the eighth print, they got a match.
Two of the screens flicked to life, as the unlocked files of the stick suddenly opened on the screen and an avalanche of documents flooded the folder, all of them labelled in a random code of numbers.
It would take a while to crack the code on each one, but Etheridge interlocked his fingers and cracked them, ready to accept the challenge. After flicking through a couple of documents, he typed out an intricate formula in a separate window, inputting the numbers from the document name in, before hitting the enter button.
Each number was turned into a letter, and Sam blin
ked twice to try to comprehend it.
While he could dismantle and rebuild a sniper rifle with his eyes shut, Sam was a novice when it came to computers, He could do enough to survive in a world that was on the cusp of complete digitalisation, but what he’d just witnessed felt like magic. He patted Etheridge on the back, who seemed chuffed with the approval.
‘This may take a while.’
Whatever Etheridge did, Sam wouldn’t understand. But as his fingers tap danced across the keyboard, the large servers in the room roared into life, as Etheridge’s genius began to push them into overdrive.
The numbers on the file names began to scramble and slowly, they were replaced with letters.
The process took over three hours, and the two of them shared a couple more beers as Etheridge ordered them a pizza from a local eatery. According to him, it ‘shat all over Domino’s and Pizza Hut’ and while Sam wasn’t particularly au fait with either chain, he didn’t doubt it. The pizza was incredible and the two of them shared stories of their lives before.
Etheridge asked Sam about Jamie, not wanting to know about the pain of his passing, but the good times before that.
It was cathartic for Sam to recount his little boy talking to him about books. Sam had always struggled with his son’s academic prowess but had promised him he would read more to give his son tips.
It was one of the two promises he’d made his son. The other, not to kill anymore, he’d broken.
‘But for good reason,’ Etheridge pointed out. ‘You are not letting him down by doing it, Sam. You are honouring him.’
Sam could feel his eyes watering.
‘How?’
‘Because he knew his dad was a hero. That you fought for what was right.’ Etheridge held out his beer bottle. ‘You still are fighting, Sam. And I guarantee you, Jamie is looking down at you with pride.’
Sam took a moment to compose himself, took a deep breath and then clinked his bottle.
‘Thank you, Paul. For everything.’
Etheridge shrugged.
‘Also, I got a shit tonne of books in this place. Help yourself.’
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 14
