The Takers

by Robert Enright

  He recognised Sam.

  Then he noticed the blade.

  Hillock instantly reached for the door, pushing his weight behind it but Sam was too quick, slamming his shoulder into the door and letting the edge of it crack Hillock in the face, slashing open a gash above his eye and knocking him back into the dimly lit stairwell. Hillock fell against the stairs, his hands grabbing out at the tatty carpet to try to pull himself up.

  Sam slammed the door shut behind him.

  ‘Please. I’m sorry,’ Hillock pleaded, but Sam swung a hard right hook straight into the man’s kidneys. Hillock rolled over on the stairs, howling in pain and Sam reached out and yanked a handful of the man’s greasy hair. He pulled Hillock’s head back and then slammed it viciously against the edge of the stair, breaking the man’s nose and watching with glee as blood gushed down his murderous face. Sam yanked the hair back again and then held the jagged blade to the man’s throat.

  ‘Slowly,’ he whispered, his words striking fear in Hillock who wept feebly. Obligingly, Hillock rose to his feet and Sam forced him up the stairs, keeping the blade pressed against the man’s unshaven neck. They stepped onto the landing, a cramped space with three doors leading off into separate parts of the rundown apartment. To the right, a mould covered bathroom shrouded in darkness. To the left, a sparse bedroom with cold, wooden floor boards and a crumpled mattress. Ahead, a cramped, grease stained kitchen with a broken, plastic table and an accompanying chair.

  The place was littered with beer cans and fast food packaging. The smell was unbearable, a combination of sweat, bad drainage, and flat alcohol.

  A depressing home for a pathetic existence.

  Sam felt no sympathy, just a seething rage and he removed the blade from Hillock’s neck before shoving him into the kitchen. Hillock stumbled into the room, sprawling across the rickety table. Panicked, he frantically reached for anything to use as a weapon, gripping the handle of a rusty pan smeared in week-old sauce.

  He turned and swung.

  Sam dodged, weaving underneath the blow before striking Hillock with an uppercut under the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. The pan clattered to the floor and as Hillock took a sharp intake of breath, Sam burst forward, hauling Hillock off the floor and driving him through the plastic table. It collapsed beneath their combined weight, Sam driving Hillock into the wreckage. Hillock yelped in pain, flailing his arms and trying to break free.

  Sam rolled on top of him, straddling across Hillock’s chest and pinning him under his weight.

  ‘Please,’ Hillock begged before his words were cut off by Sam’s fingers reaching around his throat. Sam squeezed, staring rabidly into the terrified eyes of Hillock as he began to strangle him. All the pain of his loss came flooding back to him and Sam pressed harder, his hatred driving his weight down onto Hillock’s larynx. Hillock weakly beat at Sam with pathetic slaps, clearly lacking in the notion of self-preservation. As Hillock’s face turned a disturbing purple, Sam let out a pained yell and let go. Hillock gasped for air, greedily sucking in as much as he could. Sam, still atop him, stared at him with hatred and then the image of Jamie’s broken, twisted body flashed in his mind.

  He struck Hillock with a hard right. The already broken nose crumpled further, blood shooting out like a burst blood pack. Hillock rocked back, his eyes rolling, and Sam felt himself lose control.

  He hit him again.

  And again.

  And again.

  After the fifth blow, Hillock was barely conscious. His face had been brutalised, with his eye socket and cheek bone both fractured. Both eyes were quickly swelling like a champion boxer and his nose was shattered beyond repair. A faint wheezing noise emanated, the air waves damaged by the brutal beating. As he slipped nearer to unconsciousness, he feebly tried to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You killed him,’ Sam said quietly, reaching for the serrated blade in his left hand and bringing it towards Hillock’s throat. ‘You killed my boy. You killed my boy.’

  Sam repeated himself, tears flooding down his cheeks, and he grabbed Hillock by the hair, lifting his head and tilting it back, exposing his throat. The knife shook in his hand.

  This man had taken away his son. Snatched him from the world due to his own selfishness.

  Sam could end it right then and there.

  Just as he gripped the knife, readying it to tear into Hillock’s throat, the image of his son came back to him. Jamie was smiling, looking up at Sam with all the hero-worshipping adulation a son has for his father. They were playing in the local park and Sam was recovering from the bullet wounds that would end his career in the army.

  Jamie asked him one thing.

  ‘Daddy. Will you promise not to kill anymore?’

  Sam burst into tears, falling back off of Hillock and leaning against the grimy cupboard. For what felt like an eternity, Sam sat in the dark, damp dwelling and wept, less than three feet away from the man who had caused him his pain.

  The man who had killed his son.

  Sam couldn’t kill him. He had wanted to, more than anything, but it wouldn’t have made him feel any better. His own pain wouldn’t be numbed by ending this man’s life. He’d spend the rest of his life in prison, another crime statistic, and no closer to anything resembling peace.

  There was something else out there for him. Other people who, like him, had been let down not just by life, but by the people dedicated to protecting it. His son had died in a horrible accident, but the man responsible had broken the law. He had served a pathetic sentence and now Sam had delivered another kind of justice.

  Hillock was a drunk driver. Sam wondered how many rapists or murderers still felt the sweet release of liberty while the lives they had shattered still remain unrepaired.

  Sam knew what he had to do.

  He had to fight back.

  It wouldn’t bring back Jamie. It wouldn’t bring back Lucy or the life he had fought to protect. That was behind him and as he pulled himself to his feet, he realised just how close he had been to a different path. One that would have ended in a small, brick cell and a lifetime of incarceration.

  A new path had become clear, and Sam shuffled towards the door, a new sense of purpose developing its own heart beat within in. A sudden wave of exhaustion hit him as if the closure he had experienced tonight had lifted the lid on every need in his body. His stomach growled. His throat was dry. He yawned.

  The new purpose blossoming within in had triggered his body to survive, the basic needs he had neglected popped up like weeds and he was eager to return home for a good night’s sleep before he contemplated his next move. The idea of shaving had never felt so good.

  As he crushed another empty beer can on his way to the stairs, he heard the jostling of Hillock in the kitchen and turned back to the beaten man in the kitchen. The man’s face was a living Picasso, the horrific injuries would require extensive surgery to repair.

  Sam tried, but felt no guilt.

  The man had killed his son.

  Just as Sam went to descend the stair case, Hillock coughed, his throat gurgling blood.

  ‘Kill me.’ Hillock wept. ‘Please.’

  Sam stopped. The offer was tempting but it wasn’t why he was there. The man was clearly suicidal, trying to drink himself to death. The demons of murdering a child, the horrific memories of a being raped in prison. The following morning, Hillock would be found, his wrists slashed vertically with a torn beer can. Sam said nothing, heading down the stairs and out into the night sky.

  For the first time in a long time, the feeling of fresh air hitting his lungs was euphoric. He strode back to his car, massaging his broken knuckles. He got in, turned the ignition, and pulled out onto the High Street, heading to the next stage of his life.

  Sat at Aaron’s dining table, Sam shrugged and took the final sip of his cold coffee. Aaron sat next to him, a look of astonishment on his face.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone that story,’ Sam said, a look of shame on his fa
ce.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Sam shrugged. ‘I guess I never felt it was a memory anyone else needed but me.’

  ‘No, I mean why didn’t you kill him?’ Aaron asked, the bags around his eyes getting heavier by the second.

  ‘Because he was already dead. His life was going in one direction and whatever I did to him wasn’t going to change it. It would have just sped it up.’ Sam took a moment, swallowing the sadness that the memory was bringing up. ‘There are good people in this world. I may not be one of them, Aaron, but you are.’

  Aaron began to cry, turning away from Sam out of a senseless notion of macho pride.

  ‘I’m not. I wanted to kill that kid.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’ Sam pointed out as he stood. ‘You didn’t kill him, because that’s not who you are. You’re a good man and a good father. You’ve knocked on doors even I wouldn’t knock on to find her.’

  Aaron took a deep breath and wiped away the final tear. Sam reached out and patted him on his shoulder.

  ‘I believe your daughter is being shipped out of Tilbury Port at some point this evening. I don’t know when or where to. If you feel you need to call the police, let them handle it, then that’s your prerogative as Jasmine’s father. But I promised you I would get your daughter back, and that’s what I’m going to do.’

  Sam nodded, and then headed towards the hallway, making his way down towards the door. Aaron watched him march to the door, his eyes flicking to the business card of DI Singh who had visited him the day before. She had been so adamant that Sam needed to be stopped, but she would be able to bring the full fury of the Metropolitan Police to the location of his daughter.

  Did he place his faith in one man? Or the entire justice system?

  Sam opened the front door, taking one look at the downpour and then pulled the collar of his jacket up. Just as he stepped out into the elements, Aaron called after him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Sam stopped and turned, the rain crashing into him, soaking him instantly and chilling him to the bone.

  His words were even colder.

  ‘What I do best.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jasmine and the other girls were all huddled together in the dark. With their arms interlinked they did their best to keep calm. Inside the metal crate, the darkness had begun to feel like home. The foul smell of body odour and human waste all too familiar. Outside, they could hear the hustle and bustle of machinery, the warning beep of a truck, and a few voices shouting instructions. An hour before, they felt the crate begin to move as it was loaded onto a small boat, the restlessness of the Thames causing them to rock from side to side.

  One of the other girls emptied her guts onto the floor.

  It didn’t matter. It was just enveloped by the rest of the foul stench.

  Jasmine closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing. Two of the girls were weeping, the realisation that they were about to be shipped to an unknown destination had dawned on them. The words that no one was to touch them until they got to the other side raced around Jasmine’s head.

  Wherever they were going, it wasn’t going to be nice.

  Jasmine wasn’t as young as the other girls and had taken on the responsibility of keeping them calm. While few words were shared between the girls, their fear was.

  They huddled together, knowing that wherever the crate was being transported to, their nightmare awaited on the other side of the door. A life of abuse and violation, so far away from home they would have no chance of returning.

  As the two girls wept louder, Jasmine felt a lone tear slide over the edge of her eyelid, and she yearned for her dad. She had been so horrible to him, pushed him away when all he had wanted was for her to be safe.

  When her mother had died, she’d blamed him.

  She had never taken the time to realise that he had lost a wife.

  Her lip quivered and soon, Jasmine was crying. The other girls snuggled closer to comfort her and the four of them agreed, that no matter what awaited them, they would always have each other.

  But their time was running out.

  The Port of Tilbury was spookily quiet as Sam Pope emerged from the building opposite. After he had left Aaron’s house, he had gone home to grab a few hours of rest and then suited up. He had strapped a bulletproof vest to his torso, remembering the burning sensation of the bullets that had passed through his body before. He had liberated one of the Glock 20s from the wardrobe, and it now hung securely in the shoulder holster under his leather bomber jacket.

  His trusted L85IW SATO assault rifle lay across his back, the strap diagonally dissecting across his vest.

  His back-up plan was nine stories above him.

  Sam had arrived in Tilbury just before five, intentionally missing the rush hour that turned the M25 into a carbon dioxide sponsored game of sardines. He had chuckled as he had broken into another car, wondering if maybe he should go into the lucrative business of boosting cars. It was a skill he had learnt years back while serving in the army when he and Etheridge had come under heavy fire.

  It was Etheridge who had shown him how, which had saved his life.

  Now, he was relying on Etheridge to save another.

  Sam had his fingers clasped around his mobile phone, his hand stuffed in his pocket to shield the device from the relentless downpour. Sam had slowly walked around the outer fence of the port, trying his best to get an idea of the layout. It was the same as before, mountain after mountain of metal crates, all stacked up like an iron metropolis. Sam didn’t like it. He always plotted and planned his attacks to the minutest detail. Nothing was trivial and every fine margin was well scouted beforehand.

  The last time he headed into a situation this severe with no preparation, he took down the entire High Rise, ending with him arresting a senior officer and unloading a clip into the chest of one of the most hardened criminals.

  Now, he needed to avoid a shoot-out on unfamiliar territory while searching for a minor miracle.

  The algorithm would display the crate and its location at seven.

  Etheridge would note it then wipe it instantly. Hopefully, that scramble would buy Pope enough of a head start to locate the crate and get Jasmine and whoever else was locked inside ready to be shipped like a brand-new car.

  Sam closed his eyes and let the rain crash against him.

  He thought of Lucy. They were still married, and she laughed at one of his terrible jokes.

  He thought of Theo Walker, his best friend, reaching across the table to cheers him.

  He thought of Jamie, his son, riding his bike and begging Sam to watch.

  Wonderful memories that Sam held onto like a lifeboat, worried that losing them would cast him adrift into a lonely ocean. His world now was nothing but pain, violence, and death. He relied on those memories, those warm moments of decency to pull him back.

  To make things worth fighting for.

  The scale of the mission wasn’t lost on Sam.

  He had travelled to many distant countries and fought violent terrorists on their turf. This was similar, he was entering unknown territory to face an unknown threat. The day staff had long since clocked off, but just after six an evening crew had arrived. Sam was sure a few palms had been greased by those in charge to allow for some ‘extracurricular’ activities. Seven men had entered and after a few moments, Sam heard the forklift roar into life and the usual orchestra of beeps, clunks, and foul language he expected.

  A car pulled up.

  Sam pressed himself against the nearest wall, leaning back into the shadows. The rain was doing a fine job of obscuring everything, but he didn’t want to be too careful. The front two doors opened in unison and two men stepped out. Their muscular physique and shorn hair screamed Special Forces and Sam could see they were both armed. They barked an order in another language and a few moments later, one of them opened the rear door.

  Out stepped a well-dressed man with neatly combed
blonde hair. The surrounding men stood to attention and the man barked at them, once again in a dialect that Sam was unfamiliar with. He could pinpoint it as Eastern European but wouldn’t hazard a guess as to which country. As the man pointed at two of the men to stay put, another black SUV pulled up, with four heavily armed men quickly filing out and following their leader through the gates and into the port.

  Sam quickly realised he was looking at the man in charge. The one who had put all of this into motion.

  He also drew the conclusion that they were expecting him tonight as there was no chance they would greet the police with such fire power.

  Somehow, they knew that Sam was on his way, he was sure of it and that spelt danger for Jasmine. If they knew Sam was tracking them, then they would have soon realised why. With the bleak future laid out for the poor girls confined to one of those crates, Sam could only imagine the punishment Jasmine would suffer if Sam was unable to bring her out.

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Inside Sam’s pocket, the phone vibrated. Sam held his breath.

  A message from an unknown number glowed brightly, luring Sam to his fate like a crooked finger. Sam swiped to the side to view it.

  Lot 21235. Bay 64. Zone C.

  Sam committed the location to memory and then slammed the burner phone to the ground below, watching the device shatter into a thousand shards. Beyond the fence, the rising sound of fury echoed off the thin, metal clad corridors of the port. Etheridge had wiped the location as soon as it had arrived, his hope of it giving Pope a head start had been fruitful. The algorithm would soon relay it back to the gang, but for now, they were searching for a needle in a haystack, while Sam was ready to zoom in like a homing missile. The odds were still shorter than he would have liked, but he thought back to his entire career, the number of shootouts he had been involved in overseas. Both High Rises.