‘Helal…’ Amara took a step forward before everything went dark. A black cloth sack was slid over her head then wrenched back with enough power to behead her. She stumbled back, her balance gone, and then with a mighty swing, she felt herself propelled into the air.
Farukh slammed her headfirst into the wall, the impact sending her limp.
As he watched her slump to the floor, he took out his mobile phone. He bent down and removed the cloth, revealing an unconscious Singh, whose right eye was starting to swell, and a trickle of blood skirted down from her eyebrow.
Farukh took the picture and sent it to Wallace, before popping the cloth back onto her head. When she awoke, he wanted her to be suffocated by the darkness, it would only add to the fear.
Fear meant she would listen.
Which would make it a lot easier.
As Singh lay motionless beneath him, Farukh reached into his pocket and lit himself a cigarette. Closing the door, hiding his sadism from the world, he turned casually back to the horror playing out before him.
Helal had slowed his struggle, the final strains of life being squeezed from him. He looked to Farukh with an acceptance of death, his eyeballs a bloodshot red. His neck was purple, a few veins pressing against his skin.
Farukh blew smoke into the room, his face blank, as if ending the man’s life meant nothing to him.
As far as Farukh was concerned, it was just part of the job. Helal had painted the target himself by typing the words Project Hailstorm and considering the almighty mess Wallace had made, Farukh was leaving little to chance.
Sam may have got away, but he would meet him again.
Then, he would kill Sam and he would kill the woman.
Wallace, he would keep alive.
But there would be no more chances.
Helal jolted one final time, his heart stopping, and the final strands of life left him. Swinging gently from the ceiling, he looked as peaceful as Farukh had ever seen a man.
‘Aljulad bin Baghdad.’
The Hangman of Baghdad.
Farukh stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and then made his way to the kitchen. It was going to be awhile before the trade would happen and he was hungry.
He wanted to be at full strength the next time he came face to face with Sam Pope.
As next time would be the last time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Control.
It was something General Ervin Wallace had craved ever since he put on the camouflaged uniform of the United Kingdom armed forces and he’d fought, killed, and betrayed for it. Control was power and with that came fear and respect in equal measure.
When people respected you, they listened.
When people feared you, they obeyed.
It was something he had been accustomed to for nearly forty years and now, as Ashton writhed on top of him, the bed sheets wrapped around her waist, her exposed chest bouncing with each thrust, he could feel it returning to him.
The control.
The power.
It had been just after eleven when he received the text message from Farukh. While he didn’t want to know the full details of the mission, the bloodied, unconscious face of Amara Singh was enough for him to know that the pendulum had swung back in their favour. Wallace had sent the image on to his operatives working in the Hub, telling them to trace the number on Singh’s phone from earlier that afternoon and make contact.
He wanted to be on the other end of the phone when Sam answered, and he wanted to hear the pain in the man’s voice when he told him he had lost.
That Singh would be brutally killed unless he handed over the files.
To celebrate his newly returned mojo, he made a call to Ashton, inviting her over under the false pretences of discussing the events of that afternoon. They both knew it was a lie, and as the car arrived to pick her up, she’d wondered if her infatuation with the General was worth the emptiness she felt when he dismissed her after their sessions.
Wallace didn’t care.
All he saw was an attractive woman who was pulled in by his magnetic stature.
Throughout the past few months, ever since Sam Pope had decided to try to destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build, Ashton had been a chief ally. While her command of some of her more irritating staff had left a lot to be desired, Wallace had enjoyed using the Metropolitan Police as a more local branch of Blackridge.
But now, with the whole situation under control and what would likely be less than twenty-four hours before he had the USB stick in his hands, Farukh gone for ever, and Sam Pope most likely dead, he had little use for Ashton.
This would be the last time he invited her over to massage his ego, and he contemplated whether he would cut ties completely. He had dangled the carrot of his backing when the Commissioner seat became available and for everything she’d done for him, he would most likely give it.
It would pay to have the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police at his beck and call.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Ashton excused herself from the bed and made her way to the bathroom, and Wallace could hear the shower burst into life. He took himself to the balcony, looking at the overstuffed ashtray from the afternoon. He chortled.
How quickly things changed.
Earlier that afternoon he was foaming at the mouth, his rage threatening to derail everything he’d worked for. But now, as he stood, his thick arms resting on the balcony railing, he smiled.
This time, he lit a cigar in success.
Ashton soon joined him on the balcony, dressed and ready to leave. She put an apprehensive hand on his shoulder.
‘I hope tomorrow goes well,’ she said hopefully, offering him a smile.
‘It will.’ Wallace puffed his cigar. ‘The government want to know what the plan is. By this time tomorrow, Sam Pope will be dealt with.’
‘Really?’ Ashton raised her eyebrow. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Wallace took a long puff and stared out into the darkness. His COBRA meeting tomorrow would be a formality. He would lay out the plan to the prime minister and his cabinet, and while they would baulk at the lengths he’d gone to, they would green light it.
Matters such as this were left to men like Wallace.
The men who were not afraid to get things done.
As he tapped the ash over the edge of the railing, he contemplated telling Ashton his method. How would she react to know that one of her own, DS Singh, was currently in his capture? That she’d been beaten and was facing the very real prospect of death.
The ripple effect of Project Hailstorm coming to light threatened way more than just a few lives.
International relationships would be broken.
The very real threat of retaliation could see the country head to war for the first time in nearly eighty years.
What was one life to save millions?
‘This question may seem redundant considering the success rate your team has had so far.’ Wallace’s tone was nasty. ‘But how do you catch a man like Sam Pope?’
Offended, Ashton shrugged before offering her suggestions.
‘CCTV footage? Expert analysts?’
‘No. You take something he cares about. You take it, you threaten it, and you lure him to it.’
Ashton shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. Wallace was a powerful yet secretive man. She was under no illusions that he did things that crossed the line of right and wrong. His closet undoubtedly had skeletons, more than most, but his position required it.
While she didn’t fully trust him, she did trust him to put the country first.
Wallace’s phone rumbled and the text message drew a smile to his face. He flashed her a quick glance and a stern nod, his way of effectively drawing their night to a close. Ashton, cursing herself for once again rushing to his bed as soon as he clicked his fingers, marched to the door of the apartment where a driver would be on hand to take her home.
Wallace waited until the door had closed be
hind her, sneered and then selected the number he’d been sent, knowing the phone would be answered on the first ring.
Neither Etheridge nor Sam said anything for the first minute or so after the message had come through.
Somehow, Blackridge had reverse engineered Etheridge’s secure line into Singh’s phone and located his number. As impressive as that was, the message that was sent through was haunting, drawing both men into a shocked silence.
The image depicted Amara Singh, sprawled on the floor of an unknown room, her right eye swollen, dripping with blood from the cut that sliced her eyebrow.
She was clearly unconscious.
She was in a shit tonne of trouble.
Under the horrifying image of their acquaintance, the message simply said:
Answer the phone when I call.
Guilt had been an emotion that Sam had wrestled with so many times, he considered it a tag team partner. His entire life, ever since he lost his son, had been moulded by it, by the nagging feeling that things were his fault. The blame lay at his door, as he failed to protect his son.
He had spent his whole career protecting others, under the false pretence of peace, but he’d failed to keep his son safe. Ever since then, every criminal he’d put down or every bad guy he’d killed, had helped him claim a little bit of himself back. With the discovery of Project Hailstorm and the atrocious reality of his career, Sam knew he had a lot to make up for, and that the guilt would once again hang from his neck like a pendant.
He felt guilty for the death of his best friend, Theo Walker.
He felt the guilt of Adrian Pearce’s career meandering to a disappointing end.
The guilt of the permanent disability that would hinder Etheridge’s life forever.
And now Amara Singh. Beaten and held captive by a man who ruthlessly clung to power. They wouldn’t have long, and even then, she was as good as dead.
She’d dug too far, drawn into a world that she didn’t belong and once again, the blame lay at Sam’s door.
He was tired of feeling guilty.
His fists clenched as the phone rang and Etheridge leant forward and clicked the green button and slid the call onto speaker phone.
‘Where is she?’ Sam demanded, crossing his muscular arms across his chest.
‘I take it we are skipping the pleasantries?’ Wallace chuckled, revelling in the control.
‘We are a long way past that.’
‘She has twenty-four hours to live, Sam.’
‘This has nothing to do with her.’
‘Quite right. This has nothing to do with her, Sam. It has everything to do with you.’ Wallace’s tone had changed, snapping into a venomous snarl. ‘You chose not to hand over the files, you chose to fight back in Rome, and now you are the reason this has gone this far.’
‘If you hurt her…’
‘What? Sam? You’re going to kill me?’ Wallace scoffed. ‘Let’s save the macho bullshit. You want Singh, I want the USB stick. You have twenty-four hours. You can reach me on this number.’
‘I know the truth, Wallace.’ Sam spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Project Hailstorm. All the lies. The bullets you put through me. I know everything.’
‘But you can’t prove it,’ Wallace responded smugly. ‘Bury it, Sam. Before it buries you. Twenty-four hours, gentlemen. I’ll be waiting.’
The line went dead.
Sam turned and slammed his fist against the wall in anger, before raising both hands to his head. Every possibility was a dead end and his muscles tensed with frustration.
‘Check mate.’ Etheridge sighed, picking up his phone and sliding it into his pocket. Crest fallen, he limped back towards his desk, reaching for the USB stick. Sam’s eyes lit up.
‘Wait.’
‘It’s over, Sam. He has Singh. He’ll kill her.’
‘He’ll kill her the second he has the USB stick. And me. But what does Wallace value more than the stick?’
Etheridge shrugged.
‘Power?’
‘Himself.’ Sam’s eyes twinkled fiendishly.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You said he had a meeting first thing tomorrow morning, right?’
Etheridge glanced down at the watch strapped to his wrist.
‘Well, technically it is tomorrow, so yeah, he has a COBRA meeting in a few hours.’
‘You can pull up his journey plans, right?’ Sam turned towards the door, and Etheridge connected the dots.
‘Jesus, Sam. You’re going after Wallace?’
‘You’re damn right I am.’ Sam stopped, looking back, his face as serious as Etheridge had ever seen. ‘You’re right, Paul, this has gone too far. The only thing that Wallace will trade for Singh’s life is his own. I take Wallace, he frees Singh and the rest I’ll figure out as we go.’
‘What about you?’ Etheridge asked as Sam slid his arms into his jacket.
‘This is my fight, Paul. Let me fight it.’
‘This is crazy,’ Etheridge said with a sigh, looking back at the grid of screens that adorned his wall. With access to all the databases he could imagine and the ability to traverse them undetected. With an almost limitless bank account, he had the resources to do anything. Be anything. With a smile, he turned back to Sam. ‘I’m in.’
Sam extended his arm and Etheridge clapped his hand around it, cementing their agreement.
‘First things first, I need to know which of my safe houses the police hit while I was away,’ Sam commanded. ‘I’m going to need some fire power.’
Etheridge was already back at his computer, looking over the details.
‘You’re not wrong. Apparently, the itinerary says that Wallace drives in the middle of a three-car motorcade, with two Blackridge operatives riding with him, and three in each of the others. Jesus, he’s got his own private army.’
‘He’s going to need it,’ Sam promised, heading towards the door.
They only had a few hours, but it was their final hope. Without Wallace, there was no saving Singh. They would put two bullets in her the second they had the stick and they would never find the body. If they didn’t kill Sam too, maybe they’d put her blood on his hands, but either way, there was no other outcome.
Without Wallace, they had lost.
Sam stomped down the stairs towards the front door, his phone buzzing.
Etheridge had already located a lock-up that the police had yet to discover, and Sam was hopeful it would still be untouched. He needed all the weaponry he could lay his hands on. But that wasn’t all.
He knew he had to make a phone call; one he didn’t want to make but couldn’t think of any other solution.
Etheridge needed to stay in the house. Sam needed him on point, watching the roads and ensuring a clear oversight of the mission at hand.
The phone call was one he was dreading, but as he pulled open the front door to the house, Etheridge appeared at the top the stairs, his face fraught with fear.
‘This is suicide, Sam.’
‘It’s our only shot.’ Sam turned back to face his friend. ‘I have to save her, Paul. This is my fight. I have to end it.’
Etheridge nodded, a begrudging understanding.
‘Say you do get her back, then what? What are you going to do then?’
Sam turned on his heel and marched out of the house, leaving Etheridge with a very clear answer.
‘What I do best.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was hard to measure success before the event.
Wallace had had a few hours’ sleep after his successful phone call to Sam, the terms laid out plainly for his adversary. While he had no doubt that Sam and Etheridge would be looking for some kind of way out, he knew he had them where he wanted them.
He had Singh, her life now tied to whether Sam Pope would do the right thing.
Wallace knew him well enough. He had recruited him when he was just a boy, an innocent young man who watched his father pass away, a life spent in the military. He was easy pickin
gs but instead of just being another grunt under his command, Sam had developed into one of the deadliest soldiers the UK had ever seen.
But beyond all that, Sam had never lost the sense of morality, something Wallace had willingly sacrificed years ago. In a way, he envied Sam’s commitment to good, but for now, he would prey on it.
Sam wouldn’t let Singh die.
He wasn’t capable of making the hard sacrifices. It was what Sam never understood, and while the reports of Project Hailstorm may have made for horrifying reading, there was more to it than that. Yes, Wallace’s wallet had grown fatter and the power he wielded made him near on unreachable, but the world was a safer place.
Terrorists, sponsored by the government, were less likely to be a threat.
In Wallace’s mind, it made sense. The government looked the other way, allowing the General to police the world, ensuring the country was safe and the breadcrumb trail ended a long way from their door.
But Sam was a threat.
Not just to Wallace’s safety and reputation, but to the government. To the international security of the country.
They would want him dealt with.
As the Range Rover turned the corner and began its smooth passage across Tower Bridge, Wallace felt a sense of pride as he looked out of the sleepy city of London. Beyond the odd fitness fanatic, there was nobody on the streets at five in the morning. The roads were clear too, the first buses of the day yet to depart from their various garages and Wallace was enjoying the calming journey.
The sex with Ashton had been enjoyable, the following sleep uninterrupted. Now, in the middle of a three-car motorcade heading to the remote location for the COBRA meeting, Wallace could afford himself a smile.
The coffee in the flask mug was still hot, and he sipped it gently, the piping caffeine stinging the back of his throat as he swallowed. The sun, slowly beginning to peak through the buildings like a child playing peek-a-boo, bounced off the murky waters of the Thames, the reflection basking the river in a stunning glow.
The city truly was beautiful, Wallace thought. Strip back the cars and the hordes of people. Pull it back to its bare bones and it was a tremendous reflection of what the country was capable of.
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 18
