‘Then stop him,’ Pearce said coldly, looking over his shoulder. ‘Bring back Amara, deal with him, and then stop. Because this will only ever end one way.’
Sam nodded and then let the silence sit between them for a moment. He pushed open the door, the bitter chill of a brisk spring morning filtered around him. As he stepped out the car, he rested his hand on the top of the door and then poked his head back in.
‘What about you?’ Sam asked.
‘What about me?’
‘Are you done now? With me? With Singh?’
Pearce let out a deep sigh. The thought of it pulled at his heart strings. A heart that was no longer in it.
‘I’m done with it all, Sam. The job. The headaches. Everything. After this, I can’t go back. I can’t be the type of officer I’ve spent my career hunting down.’ He pulled his lips tight, grimacing. ‘I hope this is the last time I ever see you.’
Sam nodded respectfully, despite the hurt in the words. He liked Pearce, respected him and to see what he’d done to the man hurt. He offered Pearce a final smile.
‘Likewise.’
Sam slammed the door shut, then pulled open the one to the back seat. Pearce heard the sickening crack as Sam broke Wallace’s finger, a sure-fire way to bring him back to life. Wallace roared with agony, and Sam slapped him cruelly across the face. Reaching behind him, he pulled the Beretta 92 from his jeans and pointed it directly at Wallace.
‘Get out of the car and get in the goddam building.’
With his hands bound, Wallace shuffled out of the car, sneering at Pearce. The man had been a thorn in his side since Sam had resurfaced and he’d pushed for Ashton to remove him. They had shunted him to the darkest corner of the station, given him errands to run but the man was a relentless bastard.
Now, here he was, helping Sam bring him down and he made a promise that if he made it out the other side of this, he wouldn’t be so subtle next time.
He would have Pearce killed.
Sam shoved Wallace across the street and through the refurbished front door. Beyond the new frame, the lobby was exactly as Sam had left it.
Decimated by a hand grenade.
Sam had taken the entire building by force, dropping the element of surprise of the criminals guarding it in the form of a grenade which had blown out the entire floor. A few more were put down with pinpoint bullets, before Sam had taken the building floor by floor. As he pushed Wallace up the stairwell, both of them saw the bullet holes from Sam’s visit a year prior.
Sam recounted the fight with the horribly scarred man, who he’d sent hurtling to his death in the centre of the stair well.
As they reached the top floor, Sam recounted the fight he’d had with Mark Connor, the brutal beating the man had given him before Sam had ended his life.
The entire fourth floor had been gutted, the sleazy rooms now empty shells, the doors removed in a lame beginning of a refurb job.
The door to the penthouse had been removed, and Sam recalled pushing a hapless criminal through as a decoy, watching as Jackson filled his own henchman with bullets and giving away his position.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Since then, Sam had removed all the start-up high rises around London, the smaller ventures hoping to profit from Jackson’s death.
He had taken out the head of the Acid Gang, a notorious street gang who maimed innocent people.
The Kovalenko sex trafficking empire had crumbled, both in the UK and Ukraine.
Sam had fought through Berlin station and brought war to the streets of Rome.
Pearce was right.
It needed to end.
It would end.
Sam pushed Wallace into what was once the penthouse, the plastic sheets, stapled to the stone, rustled in the wind. Outside them, the rickety scaffolding shook and rattled, and Sam didn’t envy anyone who was out on those at such a height.
It was twenty to ten in the morning, and Sam felt a sudden wave of tiredness crash against him and he blinked a few times, trying to stay alert. Wallace noticed and smirked.
‘Why don’t you take a nap?’
‘Why don’t you keep your mouth shut?’ Sam kicked Wallace’s knee out, causing him to grunt and crumple to his knees. ‘Sit down.’
Wallace scowled at him before adjusting himself onto his bottom, sitting on the cold, tiled step. Jackson’s oak desk was still in the room, the large desk either too heavy or too valuable to move. Sam made his way to it, looking over the expert craftsmanship, noticing the spatters of Jackson’s blood that stained it. Sam turned back to Wallace, and plunked himself onto the desk, looking down on his captive.
For a man who had craved power, he looked beaten. Defeat was not a concept that Wallace was accustomed to, and the idea of being overpowered clearly enraged him. With venom behind his glare, he stared at Sam.
‘What are you doing, Sam? Huh? What’s the plan?’
‘Contact your guy. Farukh. Tell him to release Singh, and then I’ll let you go.’ Sam shrugged. ‘Simple.’
Wallace chuckled, his cruel laugh echoing in the empty building.
‘It’s really not that easy. See, those files you have. He wants them gone even more than I do. So, my life, in his eyes, isn’t enough.’
‘Well, that sucks for you.’
‘Give it up, Sam.’ Wallace snarled. ‘We both know how this goes. So here it is. You give us the stick, you let me go, and Singh lives. That much we can do. But if you think you’re going to get out of this, then you really are delusional.’
‘You are not in the position to be making threats.’
‘These aren’t threats, Sam.’ Wallace countered. ‘It’s just how it is. This is bigger than you. It’s bigger than your little journey and it’s what you fail to realise. It’s what Marsden failed to realise and it’s…’
Sam’s fist collided with Wallace’s jaw at such a pace it broke his knuckle. A spray of blood and two teeth splattered onto the floor, quickly followed by Wallace himself. Sam shook his hand, the broken bone causing severe discomfort.
‘That was for Marsden,’ Sam said calmly and then stretched his back. The adrenaline of the morning had seen him through but now, with the brisk, spring chill and a slower pace, the impact from his fall yesterday was locking around his spine like a mechanical vice. Wallace swung his massive bulk to the side, sitting himself up. He drew a large mouthful of blood and spat it forward, not caring if it hit Sam or not. Holding the gun casually in his left hand, Sam squatted down next to Wallace and reached into the inside of his blazer. Wallace moved ever so slightly, and Sam pushed the gun into his throat, making his threat very clearly.
Wallace relented, and Sam could feel the clamminess of the man as he slid his hand into the blazer pocket and removed the mobile phone.
‘Passcode,’ Sam demanded. Wallace obliged and Sam unlocked the phone, surprised to see a photo of three kids as the screen saver on Wallace’s phone. He knew they weren’t his own, the man had dedicated his life to the country.
He had no family.
Possibly a sister? Sam only mused for a moment or two before sliding open the contacts on the screen, flicking through the numbers. There was no Farukh, and Sam scowled as he turned to Wallace.
‘What’s he saved as?’
Wallace chuckled. ‘He isn’t saved as anything.’
‘Then how do we contact him?’ Sam demanded.
‘He sent the message from a phone. I don’t have the number, but you can pull it from the message.’
Sam was surprised by Wallace’s helpful attitude, but he knew the game here. The assault on Tower Bridge and subsequent kidnapping had thrown a spanner in the works and Wallace knew he had to adjust his plan. While they didn’t hold all the cards, they still had a strong hand.
Sam knew it.
More worryingly, Wallace knew it too.
The fastest way out of this situation was to cooperate and Wallace sat, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms pinned to his back. His
face, slashed from being peppered by shards of glass, bore the irritated look of a man who had been told there was an hour’s wait at the doctors.
Sam, ensuring his finger was still resting on the trigger of his gun, just in case, pulled up the message and then clicked on the number.
He pressed call.
As the phone began to ring, he pulled one of the plastic sheets to the side, looking out over the stunning city of London as it glowed underneath the spring sun, the city still reeling from his assault an hour ago.
Chapter Twenty-Six
As Singh slowly blinked her eyes open, she could feel the thudding ache of her skull. The impact of her collision with the wall had rattled her brain and as she tried to blink away the darkness, she felt a twinge of pain with every blink.
Everything was still dark.
Was she blind?
Had the impact been so severe that it had severed her retina?
Refusing to let herself panic, Singh took a deep, calming breath and allowed herself to recollect. She was blindfolded, that much was certain and judging by the material pressed against her mouth, she had a sack over her head.
It wasn’t a preferable situation, but at least her mind had caught up.
Helal.
She remembered the horrible sight of the journalist, dangling from the ceiling, the cable ripping into his throat as it choked the life from him.
She’d rushed to his aid, then everything went black, as a sack was pulled over her head and then everything went silent.
How long had she been out for?
Was Helal still alive?
As she moved to push herself up, Singh found her arms bound at the wrist, clasped together at the base of her spine. She lay on her front, pressed against the hard wood floor.
Was she still at Helal’s?
She began to roll, trying to flip onto her back so she could sit up. Then, she could try to locate an edge or a sharp corner to free herself. A bored voice cut the tension but raised her fear levels.
‘Do not bother to try escape.’ The man sighed. ‘I am watching you.’
Singh felt her breath catch in her throat. After a few moments of nervous thought, she decided to speak.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a man who needs to clean up mess. Mess that you have found and made worse.’ The man took a deep breath in and Singh could smell the cigarette smoke. ‘If Sam Pope is smart, then you will live.’
Singh felt her muscles tighten with anxiety. She trusted Sam, he’d saved her life before, but this was a dangerous game. While Sam, to an annoying degree, was bound to doing the right thing, did that mean sacrificing the truth for her life?
Was Project Hailstorm, and the chance to bring Wallace down, a greater goal than saving one person?
‘Where are we?’ she finally asked, and within two seconds, felt the cloth whipped from her head. The light was blinding, and she squinted, trying to protect her eyes from the immediate change.
Slowly, the burning light became a blur, and after a few moments, little snippets of clarity began to form. It seemed like she was still in Helal’s apartment, the furniture all pressed against the wall, apart from the leather armchair which had been pulled back into the centre of the room.
Sat in it, his meaty arms hanging over the side, a cigarette poking from one hand, was the man who had confronted them at the station. Without his jacket on, he looked like a wrestler, his body so top heavy she wondered how he was able to move. His thick, barrel-like chest filled the entire width of the chair and he drew the cigarette to his heavily bearded face, his bicep almost ripping his T-shirt at the seams.
His eyes, dark and piercing, did not leave her and she followed the smoke as it danced towards the ceiling.
To the dead body of Helal.
Singh screamed at the sight of her associate, his shoulders hunched, his eyes open. His skin had started to drain, a horrible grey tinge beginning to filter through him. As she screamed, the attacker lunged forward from the chair, wrapping his meaty hand around her throat, catching her voice and trapping it.
‘You make more noise, I will cut out tongue.’ His words were laced with intent. ‘Understand?’
Singh nodded and he shoved her away, before taking his seat once again. The concept of time had abandoned Singh, her bout of unconsciousness leaving her in a perpetual state of the unknown. All she knew was that she was in a lot of danger and the chances of her surviving were fading. Before she could contemplate her next move, the buzzing of a mobile phone echoed in the room and the man stood and marched towards the noise. Lifting the phone to his ear, he turned back to stare at Singh.
‘Wallace.’ Even he seemed like he hated the man.
‘Wrong answer,’ Sam replied.
‘Sam,’ Farukh said, a hint of menace in his voice. ‘I did not expect to hear from you.’
‘Yeah, well it’s been a bit of a busy morning.’
‘You have stick?’ Farukh demanded, not even questioning Sam’s voice at the end of Wallace’s phone.
‘I have Wallace.’
‘But do you have stick?’ Farukh repeated, his self-preservation overriding any loyalty to the man.
‘I do,’ Sam confirmed. ‘Here’s the deal. I want proof of life, you hear me. Put Amara on the phone.’
The man sighed with frustration and held the phone up in the air in Amara’s direction.
‘Say something. He wants to know I not kill you.’
‘Sam…!’ Amara yelled, but Farukh pulled the phone back.
‘The woman is alive. I not hurt her much. But if you do not give me stick, I will kill her and write your name on wall with her blood.’
‘Her life for Wallace. My life for the stick,’ Sam said calmly. ‘You get what you want, we get to walk away from it. For good.’
‘I cannot promise you that,’ Farukh responded coldly.
‘Well that’s the deal. You have till this evening to make your mind up. If I don’t see you by ten o’clock this evening, Wallace dies, and your precious files make it onto every news station in the world,’ Sam threatened. ‘Tell Singh we are at the High Rise.’
‘I do not know what that means.’
‘I know. But she does. So, you better keep her alive.’
The phone cut off and Farukh chuckled. He had heard that Sam Pope was a dangerous man, but he’d not had him pegged as a stupid one. Farukh was a reasonable man, but he was not to be provoked.
Sam was playing a very dangerous game and Farukh lit another cigarette, deciding whether he wanted to join in.
‘Pissing him off isn’t a wise move.’
Wallace had watched intently as Sam had made the call. Clearly, Sam had hoped that rail roading the original plan would have caught Farukh off guard, but Wallace knew it would have little impact. Despite his position of power, Wallace knew his life meant little to Farukh.
The man was only interested in self-preservation.
As Sam pressed his hand to his busted lip, it was clear he was nervous.
It was a colour not often seen on Sam, and Wallace saw the chance to dig his nails in.
‘Also, bringing Singh here? That’s not a smart move.’
‘Shut up,’ Sam said quietly.
‘I mean, give her a fighting chance at least, but to put her willingly in harm’s way.’
‘If she is here with me, then she is a damn sight safer than out there with him. Now, I suggest you shut your mouth before I break your goddam jaw.’
Sam’s threat carried enough weight to quieten the large General who grimaced at his treatment. He was a man who commanded such dogged respect, such fear when he entered a room that people would leave. But here he was, on his arse in a dilapidated old knocking shop, being treated like shit by a man who didn’t fear him.
The entire mission had fallen to pieces.
Part of him blamed Trevor Sims, the incompetent American who ran the Blackridge task force briefed with the mission to bring Marsden in alive. A series of failures ended up
costing both Marsden and Sims their lives, one of which, Wallace regretted. He had known Carl Marsden for over thirty years and had nothing but a deep respect for the man who bloomed so many credible soldiers.
Sam Pope became the UK’s deadliest weapon under Marsden’s tutelage, and till his dying day, Marsden was fiercely protective of him.
It didn’t surprise him that Marsden sought to expose the truth when he finally stumbled upon the files. Like Sam, Marsden was steadfast in his distinction between right and wrong and was clearly willing to die for what he believed was right.
There was no doubt in Wallace’s mind that Sam would follow suit, but Singh’s life was different.
This was between them.
She was an unfortunate pawn being used in a violent game of chess, and Sam would do anything to keep her alive.
Wallace was aware of Sam’s trauma, the loss of his son spurring on his one-man war for justice. It was admirable in a way, a pain like that could be harnessed to making him the ultimate asset at Blackridge. But Sam’s quest was more personal, and after not being able to save his son, Wallace was sure that Sam would do anything to make sure he saved Singh.
Anything.
As the day filtered through to the afternoon, Wallace felt himself dozing, his eyes weighing heavy, and he soon sprawled on his side, allowing himself a few hours’ sleep.
An hour or so later, he was awoken as a spray of water crashed across his face. Spluttering awake, Sam dropped a sandwich and a bottle of water on his lap, having popped to the nearby Tesco. Wallace, fuming that his chance of escape had passed, was soon calmed by Sam’s insistence that he would never leave with the stick.
Wallace relented, agreed, and then asked Sam for the use of his hands. Sam agreed, telling Wallace that any false move would result in a bullet through the knee cap. He had spoken to Etheridge and apparently that hurt like hell.
As the hours ticked on, Wallace watched Sam like a hawk, impressed by the resolute man who was ready to fight until the end.
The sky turned dark and Wallace knew Farukh was drawing out the day. He was hoping that Sam wouldn’t be able to source food or sleep, through fear of dropping his guard. It was a cruel move, but Farukh was as brutal as they came.
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 20
