Then, once word hit the police of a suspected gang hit with high powered guns, the whole of the Met would be swarming over the streets, not resting until they’d overturned the last paving slab if it meant they had a chance of finding him.
Sam had to end this soon.
As if he knew what Sam was thinking, Riggs finally spoke up.
‘So what the hell you want, man? You already hurt two of my boys. You want me?’
‘I want you to shut it down,’ Sam said calmly.
‘Shut it down? Are you dizzy, bruv?’ Riggs chuckled. ‘I got more money, gear, and pussy in this damn room than you will get in your lifetime. I ain’t shutting it down.’
‘The last man who ran the High Rise, he decided he didn’t want to listen to me neither. It didn’t work out so well for him.’
‘Yeah, well he was too polite for his own good, ya feel me?’ Riggs said. ‘We don’t play by the same rules.’
‘I’m going to give you to the count of three, Riggs, to do the right thing and shut it down. Or else I will.’
The rain clattered all around Sam, the open, damaged building offering little protection from the winter evening. He readjusted his grip, pulling the stock of the rifle tight against his shoulder.
‘You wanna shut me down? Give it your best.’ Riggs yelled defiantly. ‘Like I said, there is only one of you and from what I heard, you ain’t killed anyone since you put a bullet in Jackson and saved me a job.’
Sam shuffled uncomfortably on the stone floor, the image of ramming a knife into Colin Mayer’s stomach flashed to the front of his mind. The warmth of the blood rushing over his hands as he gutted the corrupt cop before leaving him for dead on that small boat in Dawlish.
The last time he broke the promise to his son.
As he stared through the scope of his rifle, the crosshairs still aimed at the overturned table that sheltered Riggs, he felt the temptation to break it once more. He took a breath and spoke.
‘One.’
‘I’m hanging up the phone now, Sam. You wanna come see me, you come across now. Before my boys turn up and tune you up.’
‘Two.’
‘Congrats. You can count,’ Riggs retorted, craning his neck to the side, signalling to his eager henchmen to aim at the window. Sam could hear his words shaking, the fear in the gangster’s voice betraying his apparent bravado. Sam took a deep breath before responding calmly.
‘Three.’
At that moment, the door to the top floor of the new High Rise burst open and a middle-aged man was hurled over the threshold, stumbling forward and falling flat onto his chest. Two hulking men, both with cane rowed hair and several tattoos followed, laughing, with one of them holding a handgun. Sam quickly scanned the situation through his scope, squinting hard through the torrential rain to piece together the situation. The man was clearly terrified, scrambling to his knees and looking around frantically. Sam could hear the commotion over the phone, the noise calming down to a laughter before Riggs piped up.
‘Well, what do we have here?’ he said, standing up from behind the table and looking out of the window, daring Sam to fire. ‘I thought you worked alone, Pope?’
‘I have no idea who that man is,’ Sam responded, smoothly shifting his line of sight from Riggs, back to the panicked man who feebly held his hands up in surrender. Sam could see blood trickling from the man’s eyebrow, evidence of a beating that Riggs’s henchman undoubtedly enjoyed giving. As Riggs sauntered across the room towards the terrified man, Sam assessed the man’s situation and quickly concluded it wasn’t good.
The man was as good as dead.
Sam told himself to stick to his spot.
To keep his focus on the mission at hand.
Riggs interrupted his internal struggle.
‘Let’s find out the name of our contestant, shall we?’ Riggs cackled, the laughter of his henchmen audible behind him. Sam watched through his scope as he leant down towards the frightened visitor. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I-I-I…’ the man stammered, and Sam watched as Riggs lashed out, the clunk of the gun colliding with the man’s head echoing down the phone.
‘Leave him alone,’ Sam demanded, his fingers tightening around the rifle.
Stick to the mission.
‘Nah, this nigga ain’t a customer of mine and my boys found him creeping through the corridors with a fuckin’ gun in his hand. So I ain’t gonna leave him alone.’
‘He isn’t with me,’ Sam said through gritted teeth.
‘Well I don’t give a fuck what you say, Pope. He turns up the same time you do so you know what I’m gon do? I’m gon put a bullet in every one of his joints and then, when my boys pick you up any minute now, I’ll keep him alive long enough for him to watch me kill you. How does that sound?’ Riggs turned to the window, awaiting a response.
Sam lowered his head, closed his eyes, and thought about his son.
His Jamie.
Memories began to flood into his mind like a broken dam, from his son showing him his favourite books, to them play fighting on the sofa in front of a Disney film.
The memories always ended the same way, with the image of his son’s dead, lifeless body staring up at him from the pavement. The swerved car, driven by a drunk that Sam could have stopped.
All the guilt.
All the pain.
It flooded back, along with the empty promise to Jamie that he wouldn’t kill again.
A promise he had broken several times when he took down the High Rise.
A promise, he would break right now.
‘Sorry, Jamie,’ Sam uttered quietly.
‘Jamie? What the fu—’ Riggs’s question was cut off, as a bullet sliced through the glass window, zipped through the room, and penetrated the side of his skull. With a loud crack, it ripped out the other side, spraying the wall with brain matter and a fantastic red mist. Riggs fell to the floor lifeless and for a moment, the only sound was the crashing of the rain as it hammered the capital. Then, a barrage of gunshots echoed, along with shattered windows and cries of anger as Riggs’s men emptied their guns into the dark of the night, hoping to catch their unknown attacker with a stray bullet.
Sam stayed calm.
He was trained, and he pushed himself up onto one knee, resting a foot in front of himself and steadied himself. He pulled the gun tight to his chest, resting it in the grove between his pectoral and shoulder. It felt natural and despite the bitter chill of the rain, he felt back in Afghanistan all those years ago.
Scanning the top of the building, he noticed the terrified man crawling towards the door, when one of the thugs stepped towards him, clearly intending to lay down a marker of who was in charge.
The man raised his gun.
Sam pulled the trigger.
Silently, he saw a burst of red explode from the man’s chest as he spun and fell to the floor, lifeless. With the phone somewhere in the chaos, Sam could hear the cries of terror from the rest of the gang, as they rushed towards the door, all of them looking to escape the onslaught. Sam pushed himself up, his drenched clothes clinging to him as he ran across the fifth floor of the derelict building and he stepped through an empty doorframe onto a rickety, metal fire escape. The wind shook it like a baby’s rattle, but Sam carefully navigated down the steps, his boots gripping against the slippery metal, as he kept his gun trained on the building. The front door flew open and three shifty business men ran in any direction they could, clearly paying customers who had heard the commotion and realised they were a long way from home.
Sam continued down the metal stair case, his boots thudding each step, when suddenly, the blast of gunfire shook the night sky followed swiftly by the ricochet of a bullet on the steps behind him. Sam instinctively ducked down, jumping the final three steps to the second-floor platform and swivelling on his heels, the scope of his gun peering between two of the railings that surrounded him.
Two of the gangsters had their gun drawn and aimed at his location, their
faces plastered with murderous intent.
Sam aimed low and squeezed twice.
The first man cried out in agony as the bullet shattered his knee cap. The second followed suit, only that bullet had snapped his shin in half. They both fell into a crumpled heap onto the cold, wet pavement and Sam leapt to his feet, scaling the last two floors two steps at a time.
Sirens wailed in the distance, their volume increasing with every second as they rapidly approached his location. Any reports of gunfire were met with a swift and armed response by the Met, who worked tirelessly to protect the good people of their district. But Sam knew they were after him and even the slightest hint that he may be involved, and he was sure they were sending everyone they had.
He had to move.
Fast.
Just as he approached the final staircase to the street, two 4x4s screeched around the corner, the booming music and the over the top stylisation to the vehicles told him it was Riggs’s aforementioned back up. Sam whipped up the rifle once more and despite the obscuring downpour and speed of the vehicle, he sent one bullet straight into the front right tyre of the first vehicle.
The rubber exploded, blowing out instantly and the driver clearly panicked, the large car turning sharply to the right and screeching like a banshee as the metal wheel scrapped the pavement. The second car collided into it at full speed, spinning it even further and sending it careering into a lamppost in a magnificent display of sparks and flying metal.
The second car, now crumpled from bumper to windscreen, slowed to a stop a few feet from the two fallen gangsters, whose cries of pain had silenced as they lost consciousness. Three of the doors opened and three men stumbled out, all of them dazed from the collision. The driver, a broad man of Indian heritage, had blood trickling from a head wound and he lazily raised a gun as Sam jumped from the final few steps onto the street in front of him. Sam dropped to his knee.
He lifted the rifle.
Three shots this time.
Three more legs were ripped apart by the severity of his ammunition.
Sam surveyed the situation. Five men were littered across the street in various stages of consciousness, all of them immobilised. The door to the first car swung open and another henchmen dropped out, his arm clearly broken and the left side of his face covered in blood.
Sam raised his rifle but quickly dropped it.
The man was no threat.
All threats had been neutralised.
Suddenly, the end of the street burst into flashing blue lights and the sirens wailed a haunting welcome as five police cars swung around the corner. A van followed, undoubtedly filled with highly trained, highly armed officers all with orders to bring him down.
One way or the other.
Sam looped the strap of the rifle over his neck and swung the gun onto his back, the metal was warm against his drenched clothes. As the police drew near, he pulled his Glock from his side holster and raced towards the make shift High Rise, hoping the mystery man was still alive and knowing that he was quickly running out of time.
As the police cars screeched to a halt as they reached the carnage he had left behind, Sam raced full pelt through the rain, and into the High Rise.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Singh had been sat at her desk, sleeves rolled up, head rested in one hand staring at some therapy notes about Pope when the call had come in. A young PC, a little portly but incredibly bright, had knocked on her door and told her that there had been reports of multiple gunshots fired in Shepherd’s Bush. The reports said that they’d sounded like an automatic weapon.
Despite the terrifying rise in gang and gun crime in London, Singh launched out of her chair instantly. She knew exactly what it meant.
Sam Pope.
As she marched through the office, barking out orders to the team to set up a perimeter and send an Armed Response unit immediately, she felt the adrenaline pump through her veins. Her conversations with Harris and Pearce had threatened to shake her confidence.
All it had done was reinvigorate it.
As she raced down the stairs to the parking lot, Singh thought about the impact stopping Sam Pope would have on her career. After the outrage from the public regarding the bombing at the London Marathon, the Met spin doctors had worked well to shift the focus towards the organised crime and perceived vigilantism that was plaguing the city. As far as the public saw, the police were fighting a losing battle against the likes of Sam Pope.
Bringing him in would make her a hero.
Singh jumped into the passenger seat of a police car, the warmth of the heaters hitting her instantly as the young PC in the driver’s seat brought the car to life. The wind was littered with rain drops as it swept by, the freezing night sky was thick with grey clouds. Instantly, the darkness was eradicated by the flashing blue lights of the police car as it shot forward, its siren wailing like a battle cry.
Followed by another three cars, Singh barked her orders across the radio, telling a number of her task force what she expected and where she needed them. An update came through that a civilian had seen a man shooting oncoming vehicles and then unloading on the passengers.
It was Sam Pope.
Armed Response took control of the radio waves, announcing their arrival in less than two minutes, a squadron of ten highly trained, lethally armed officers who would enter the building and bring Sam Pope out at gun point.
Singh smirked as she thought about slapping cuffs around his murderous wrists, reading him his rights, and shoving him into the back of the car. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty seat behind the cage and pictured it.
With the chance to end the task force before it had even begun, she demanded her subordinate put his foot down, and as he obliged, the car roared loudly and hurtled through the rain towards the gunfight.
As Sam entered the stairwell of the factory, he swept the corridor with the rifle, the stock lodged firmly against his wet chest, his gloved finger wrapped around the trigger. Other than a couple of weak bulbs that flickered, the stairwell was drenched in darkness. A dripping sound filtered through the shadows every ten seconds or so, the upkeep of the building had been abandoned a long time ago. Taking the steps two at a time, Sam approached the door to the first floor, gently pressing it open with his foot before sweeping the corridor.
Nothing.
He marched through the dark corridor, dimly lit from a few swinging, unshaded bulbs. The walls were a depressing grey, severe signs of damp and mould creeping through. What was once a proud office for a large company was nothing more than a damp, desolate shell. Shaking his head, he walked a few steps further, before deciding to ascend further, knowing he needed to find the mystery man who had caused such havoc.
The man had barged into a criminal hideout with a gun, with clearly no idea how to use it.
A man who clearly had nothing left to lose.
As Sam approached the corridor again, he heard a gentle thud behind one of the doors. Raising the rifle once more, he threw his body weight forward, raised his leg and planted a boot against the door.
It swung open.
Originally, the room would have been a bright office, a nice desk in the corner and a few chairs for a chat over coffee. Now, the seedy room was dark, the smell of mould and drugs hit him like a wall and on the floor, was a crumpled, stained mattress. Atop it, a flabby man scrambled in a panic to cover his modesty at Sam’s intrusion, fear plastered across his sweaty face.
Laying sprawled on the mattress was a malnourished woman, her eyes glazed and her body coursing with drugs. The prostitute made no attempt to cover her naked body and didn’t even acknowledge Sam at all.
Sam pulled the rifle up, aiming it squarely at the man, who cowered in fear. His thin, wispy hair was slick against his head.
‘Please. Don’t shoot me,’ the man begged, his flabby body reminding him of Chris Morton, a rapist who Sam had battered to a pulp over six months before. Sam eyed the ‘customer’ once more, noticing the wedding band
he was desecrating around his chunky finger.
‘Get out,’ Sam demanded, shaking his head in disgust. ‘Now.’
The man nodded, weeping pathetically as he reached for his clothes which were balled up beside the mattress. Outside, the rain rattled the window, and the sirens grew louder, telling Sam he was rapidly running out of sand in his hour glass. With one final, sympathetic look at the violated woman, Sam stepped back into the corridor.
The fist collided with his cheek instantly, the impact sending him sprawling into the wall and dropping the rifle, the strap causing it to swing wildly.
Sam hit the wall, blood spraying from his mouth and he tried his best to focus. Everything went a bright, painful white for a split second when he suddenly regained control, quick enough to see another fist hurtling towards his nose. Quickly, he dropped to his left, allowing his attacker’s knuckles to crack sickeningly against the brick, the large, African man howling pain at the impact. Sam burst forward, ramming his shoulder into the man’s solid stomach, before rattling the attacker with a hard right hook. The man reset his footing, his eyes wild with murderous intent, and he pulled a knife from his jeans, slashing wildly as he approached.
Sam weaved like a boxer, watching the blade slice the air in front of him, before catching a swipe with his forearm and lifting a swift chop of his hand into the man’s throat. As his larynx closed, and he gasped for air, the attacker dropped the knife, both hands clutching his neck as he struggled to breathe. Dropping to his knees, the man gasped, and just as a stream of oxygen filtered its way to his lungs, Sam leapt forward, swivelled his hips and planted a ferocious knee into the man’s face.
His nose shattered.
A few teeth shot forward like blood-stained missiles.
He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Sam let out a deep sigh, running his tongue against his quickly swelling cheek and tasting the warm, coppery blood still sloshing in his mouth. Spitting it out onto the filthy hallway floor, he cracked his neck, before pulling his weapon up once more. In the doorway, the plump business man, now dressed, looked on in shock. Sam, seeing the man’s fear at his fighting prowess, took a second to point at his eyes, before pointing at the man, mouthing, ‘I’m watching you.’
The Takers: An action packed thrill ride that you won't put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 2) Page 5