The rain washed across his face and he walked towards the row of cars ahead, slipping his arms from his jacket and wrapped it around the rifle, sliding it underneath the ambulance.
Behind the cars, lines of civilians waited, all of them watching the action unfold, their phones lifted high in the air, trying their best to capture anything that would grant them any fame online.
None of them noticed the man slip between the cars and join them.
Walking with a purpose into the crowd, eager to disappear, Sam looked back over his shoulder. Two police officers marched Aaron Hill out through the front door, his hands in cuffs and his face wrought with fear. They brought him to a stop in front of their commanding officer, the stern woman he had seen earlier.
Sam pushed on through the crowd and headed into the darkness of the city’s alleyways. The final High Rise had been shut down, another criminal enterprise brought to its knees.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his fingers running across the Aaron Hill’s driving license.
He had made the man a promise.
With the death that he had dealt that night, he knew he had once again broken the promise to his son. Allowing the wet, dark labyrinth of the city to swallow him, Sam Pope vowed that he would not break another promise that night.
Chapter Nine
The following morning was mayhem.
The press was having a field day, each paper using the terror of a rampant vigilante to push their own political agenda. The scare mongers questioning the safety of the people and the competency of the senior police figures. The debate about how to tackle gun crime raged on, whereas the number of articles supporting Pope were beginning to, rather worryingly, increase.
People were beginning to show their support.
News had leaked about the task force, with the word ‘Watchdog’ now being bestowed upon Pope like a well-earned title.
It made Mark Harris’s blood boil.
The rain had continued into the following morning, covering the streets surrounding his office in a bright gleam. The sun was threatening to rear its head, occasionally poking a bright beam through the clouds. His large desk was covered in the morning papers, all of them covered in photos of the chaos from Shepherd’s Bush the night before, the failure of the police which he knew he could use to his advantage.
Anti-gun crime was one of the pillars of his mayoral campaign.
His entire career had been spent being one of the most trusted and respected MPs, serving his district of London with distinction. The next logical step was to be Mayor of this great city.
It had only been twenty-four hours since he had stood in front of the cameras, proudly launching the dedicated task force to catching Pope.
Now, according to the papers he had spent the morning flicking through, they were already a laughing stock.
Sam Pope needed to be stopped.
Immediately.
Harris glared out of the window, his anger shaking through his arms and balling his hand into a fist. At that moment, the door to his office opened and Burrows, immaculately dressed as ever, entered.
‘Sir, I have DI Adrian Pearce as requested.’
‘Send him in,’ Harris snapped, not even acknowledging his well-mannered assistant.
‘Of course.’
Moments later, Adrian Pearce stepped into the office, letting out a whistle of appreciation. Compared to the cramped storage cupboard he was working out of, Harris’s office may as well have been the Oval one in Washington DC. The grand bookcase housed several books, many that Pearce had read, and he made a note to test the young politician’s knowledge on them. It would help him gauge just how genuine the young man was. Throughout his extensive career, the majority dealing with people with something to hide, Pearce’s default mode was to approach everyone with an open mind.
The likelihood they had something to hide was high.
With politicians, almost definitely.
As he crossed the carpet towards the desk, he felt slightly underdressed, his parka coat was soaked through, as were his jeans and black trainers. Harris, turned, dressed in expensive designer clothes that made him look like he had stepped straight off the golf course. He offered the expertly honed smile as he stepped forward, hand outstretched.
‘Detective. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ Pearce said, shaking the hand firmly. Even the man’s handshake felt rehearsed. ‘Nice office.’
‘It’s a bit extravagant but needs must,’ Harris replied, gesturing to the seat opposite his desk as he took his own. ‘Thank you for coming on such short notice. I trust I haven’t kept you from anything?’
‘Just sleep.’ Adrian smiled.
‘Ah yes, you run the Bethnal Green Youth Social every Saturday evening, correct?’ Harris said, posing the fact as a question. Pearce nodded. ‘It’s very commendable. Not a lot of senior officers, especially as distinguished as yourself, give back that much.’
‘I have my reasons,’ Pearce stated, patiently waiting for the segue into the real reason he was summoned.
‘Theo Walker?’ Harris said solemnly. ‘He used to run that before his unfortunate death earlier this year.’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Yes, of course. He was a good man who served his country. He died a hero.’
‘That we can agree on.’ Pearce smiled, the animosity in the room rising slightly. Both men had already realised that they opposed the other and were equally thankful as Burrows opened the door, bringing in two cups of piping hot tea. Pearce accepted his graciously, thanking the senior figure. Harris waited for Burrows to leave and allowed Pearce a satisfying sip. He bridged his fingers together and began.
‘We need to stop Sam Pope.’
Pearce took another sip from his mug before leaning forward and carefully placing it on the coaster, not wanting to stain the large oak desk that separated them.
‘I agree,’ Pearce said calmly. ‘That’s why you’ve set up the task force, right?’
‘Exactly.’ Harris pointed a congratulatory finger at Pearce. ‘Some very good officers involved too. DI Singh has made quite the impression.’
‘I bet,’ Pearce said dryly, raising his eyebrows. As a highly experienced detective, he knew of Harris’s reported indiscretions and wondering eyes. ‘I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting her.’
‘She is quite something, isn’t she?’
‘You could say that,’ Pearce said diplomatically, his mind returning to the rather heated meeting between them.
‘I need you to step up and help her.’
Pearce let out a chuckle, causing Harris to scowl with frustration. As the rain collided with the window behind him, Harris pushed himself from his seat and turned his gaze to the city beyond. The rain-soaked city was still lazily waking up, the combination of the weather, reduced transport services and later opening hours meant the streets were relatively clear. Somewhere nearby an ambulance wailed loudly, weaving a rapid pathway towards one of the nearby hospitals.
In a months’ time, it would be his. Stopping Sam Pope would all but guarantee it. Knowing he needed Pearce onside, he decided to try a different angle.
‘I get it. Six months ago, you uncovered a terrible crime perpetrated by one of your own. Now whether that was with or without Sam Pope’s help, you need to look at what has happened since then. The man has gone on to terrify this city. He is one of the most dangerous men in the country, trained well beyond the usual gang bangers who are flooding the streets with guns.’ Harris noticed the frown on Pearce’s face at that comment. ‘What I mean is, Sam Pope is a different calibre of criminal. He is highly trained and has left a number of dead bodies on his outrageous quest for justice. Several more have been put in the hospital. It has to stop. He has to be stopped.’
Pearce sat contently, one leg draped over the other and took another sip of his tea. Harris clenched his fist in frustration once more.
‘Not everyone sees it that way.’
‘Not at all. But while yourself, the Met, and even the press are putting Sam front and centre, the real issue of police corruption was glossed over. Howell, despite everything he did, was still seen as a good man who made a mistake. Everything else was kept in-house, swept under the rug, and I was shunted to a goddamn cupboard for ‘sticking my nose in’. I was just doing my job. Whilst I don’t condone what Sam Pope is doing, I will not toe the line that he is as dangerous as he is being made out to be.’
Harris folded his arms across his chest, his eyes locked on Pearce. The senior officer was formidable, something Harris noted for the future.
‘You don’t consider a trained vigilante with an arsenal of weapons to be a danger to society? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Sir, when senior figures in our own police force are willing to kill their own family to line their own pockets, our society has no idea of much danger it’s in.’
‘Those allegations were unfounded…’ Harris began, only for Pearce to hold up a hand.
‘Just stop.’ Pearce pushed himself from his seat, fumbling with the zip of his wet coat. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘Pearce, he needs to be stopped,’ Harris blurted out, his composure wobbling. ‘Whether you believe me or not, I just want our city to be safe. Now you might believe his intentions are good, but the man is a criminal. No one gets to take the law into their own hands and the longer he is out there putting bullets in criminals, the more terrifying he becomes. He will lose himself to the point of no return and it will only end in one way.’
Pearce extended a hand to Harris, who took a couple of steps forward, frustrated at his lack of influence over the detective. Usually, he had most people eating out of the palm of his hand.
‘Good luck with the election,’ Pearce offered, leaving his hand in place for a few more moments. Harris just glared at him, the pleasantries clearly gone. Pearce raised his eyebrows and shrugged before turning on his heel and heading towards the door. As he reached for the handle, Harris propped himself against his desk, arms folded.
‘When the time comes, and Sam Pope is killed, just know that you could have stopped it from happening.’
Pearce turned the handle and pulled open the door, turning back once more to lock eyes with the cocky politician.
‘With all due respect, when it comes to Sam Pope, there isn’t anything anyone can do. You’ll find that out soon enough.’
With that, Pearce stepped through the door, almost colliding with Burrows who had quietly approached. He apologised and headed to the exit, wanting to distance himself from the situation and return to the warmth of his house.
As Pearce stepped out onto the pavement, Harris stared from the window above. Anger pulsated through his body as the resilient detective headed towards Regent’s Park, the rain soaking him in seconds. Watching with fury, Harris wondered if it was the lack of respect for the task force or the man’s misguided loyalty to Pope which angered him most. Deep down, he knew it was neither.
It was the fact that the man didn’t buckle to him.
Needing his ego massaged, he wondered if bringing in DI Singh and berating her would make him feel better. She would surely be hurting after the extreme failure of her first day in charge of the task force. As he watched Pearce pass the gate and into the park, he heard the shuffling footsteps of Burrows behind him.
He sighed.
‘Sir, I trust that didn’t go as planned,’ Burrows said, pushing his spectacles up his hooked nose.
‘No. That man is a pain in the arse.’
Burrows stepped forward, joining his boss by the window and looking out over the city he had served for decades. Pearce was long gone, and the roads were slowly getting busier. A few news vans had appeared on the road, no doubt eager to speak to Harris about the apparent failure of his task force.
Burrows could sense the tension and spoke.
‘Sir, redoubling our efforts to catch Sam Pope has to be the number one priority.’ Harris turned and glared at him.
‘Don’t tell me how to do my job,’ Harris spat. ‘Get me DI Singh in here and get her here now.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Burrows nodded with respect. ‘Just remember, the longer Sam Pope is at large, the sooner some of your biggest backers will get nervous.’
Burrows marched out of the office to call Singh as Harris massaged his temples. Taking a seat, he thought about Burrows’ warning. His highly backed campaign was focused on stopping Pope.
It needed to deliver.
It had to.
With a deep sigh, he reached for his cup of tea, the stone-cold cup was just another in a series of kicks in the teeth that the morning had offered.
After spending the night in a tiny, concrete cell and an entire morning being treated like a pervert while being interviewed, Aaron Hill was finally released into the freezing afternoon. DI Singh had pulled no punches, labelling him a disgrace for attending the High Rise and asking him a number of personal questions to find the reason for his depravity.
The fact that she didn’t recall him from the day before had caused him to keep quiet.
Her focus was so hell bent on finding Sam Pope that she didn’t realise he was the desperate father looking for his daughter. Granted, he had been drunk at the time, but she dismissed his pleas then and he was sure she would have that morning.
Pulling the collar up on his coat, he fished his wallet from his pocket to check for cash, remembering his license being taken by Sam Pope. Judging by the anger of the fiery detective, Pope’s plan had worked and both of them had escaped the building alive and well. Aaron had been threatened with further action but didn’t care.
He needed to find his daughter.
Rushing home, he walked the seven miles in the bitter cold, trying his best to formulate a better plan. Getting drunk, buying a gun, and storming a known criminal hot spot wasn’t the best idea and it was a near miracle he hadn’t been killed.
The memory of the evening had flashed in small snippets through his hangover, the vision of being on his knees in front of a large, black man with a gun caused him to go deathly pale, lean over a wall, and empty his guts into a bush. He had come so close to death while his daughter was still missing.
He could have died, leaving her to a fate which he presumed would be worse than that.
Tears filled his eyes as he ran the final few streets, turned onto his road and approached his house.
He pushed open the gate, marched up the garden path and as he pushed his key into the door, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.
In a blind panic he turned, swinging the key between his fingers and trying his best to blind whoever they’d sent to finish the job.
His wild swing was stopped, a strong grip around his forearm.
As the panic subsided, he opened his eyes, staring straight into the unimpressed face of Sam Pope.
‘Careful,’ Sam warned. ‘You could have someone’s eye out.’
A sudden wave of relief flooded through Aaron and despite his best efforts, tears began to stream down his face. Sam gave him a few moments to compose himself, stuffing his hands into his coat pocket as the wind whipped through them.
As he finally calmed, Aaron realised that Sam was being true to his word and offered him a smile.
‘I don’t know how I can thank you for this.’
Sam smiled back.
‘You can open that door and make me a cup of tea.’
Chapter Ten
That very morning, Singh had awoken in her bed, her head pounding like a two-day hangover. While the bitter cold day tried its best to creep through the Roman blinds that covered her window, she tried to shut her eyes and force herself back to sleep.
All she could hear were the sirens.
All she could feel was failure.
She had returned home at just after four in the morning,
a soul-destroying conversation with Assistant Commissioner Ashton had caused her to pack up her stuff and head home. The task force was less than twenty-four hours old, yet there were two dead, several injured, and no sign of Sam Pope.
Singh clenched her fingers around the duvet and squeezed until her nails dug through into her palm. It was no use and she sat up, her T-shirt hanging loosely from her frame. She lived alone, much to her delight and her parents’ chagrin. They were strict Hindus, wanting nothing more for her to be married to a wealthy man of their choosing. Her trail blazing career through the police, from the Armed Response to dangerous task forces, wasn’t exactly what they’d had in mind for their little girl. Still, as the years went by, their sadness at her loneliness was abated by their pride of her achievements.
Amara Singh didn’t fail.
The very thought of it drove her from her bed and to the floor where she performed a rigorous press-up and sit up circuit. Her frame, while small, was lean with muscle and her unbeaten record within the Met boxing club was well known.
And well earned.
After a smoothie, coffee, and a long shower, Singh opened up the folder she’d discarded on the kitchen table the night before. As she roughly attacked her wet hair with a towel, she sat at the table, flicking through the preliminary reports and photos of the crime scene.
The two 4X4 cars destroyed and bullet ridden.
The passengers similar.
Shaking her head in anger, she made a note to read the sergeant in charge of the Armed Response team the riot act. To allow a member of his team to be attacked was one thing. To allow Sam to mimic him and walk out of the front door was another entirely.
Her kitchen opened up onto a modern flat, with rich, wooden floor panels. The furniture was minimalistic, more out of ease than of fashion, and the walls were empty beyond a few framed certificates to honour her sparkling rise through the Met.
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