With blood dribbling down her lip and her eyes squinting from the throbbing pain in her skull, she locked eyes with the burly man who stared down at her. His face was a crimson mask, the damage she’d caused made her heart swell with pride. Beside him, his comrade grunted his fury, his hand pressed to the bullet wound in his shoulder.
She had gone down fighting.
That was enough.
The man removed his foot from Singh’s arm and then raised his rifle, the barrel a mere inch or two from Singh’s forehead.
Singh closed her eyes. A myriad of images flashed before her eyes, memories of her childhood leaping through each other like she was whizzing past on a roller coaster. She found herself passing through fond moments of her life, from winning a netball championship in high school to passing out as a police woman.
A life well lived.
The man rested his finger on the trigger.
The rain crashed down around her, and Singh felt a sense of calm.
A gunshot rang out.
Singh opened her eyes as the man spun to the side, half of his skull splattering the concrete surrounding her. His wounded companion spun in a blind panic, his one good arm nervously holding her pistol out at the darkness. The body that had crashed next to her was still, blood spilling from the gaping hole in the man’s head.
A second shot rang out.
The bullet caught the man between the eyes, whipping through and out the back of his skull in an explosion of blood, brain, and bone. It splattered the concrete like an upturned can of paint, and he was dead before he hit the floor.
Singh tried to regain her thoughts, the blow to her head had scrambled her brain. As she slowly pushed herself to her feet, she heard the purposeful footsteps of her saviour. As the blurring began to subside, she looked out into the clearing at the figure marching through the dimly lit rain, reloading his rifle.
Sam Pope.
Still woozy, she stumbled forward, trying to recover the gun from the dead grip of the recently deceased.
Sam approached quickly.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘Sam Pope, you’re under arrest. You do not have to say anything…’ Singh said, pressing one hand to the back of her head. She pulled it back and thankfully, there was no bleeding.
‘Stop it,’ Sam ordered. ‘Right now, there are bigger things going on here than you and me, have you got that?’
‘I’m taking you in,’ she said, aware of her own desperation. Her obsession to catch Sam Pope had put her life in danger. She had been seconds from death and at that moment, the shock of what had just happened hit her.
Sam had seen it before many times when he’d served overseas. The first time someone is forced to face their own mortality and still walk away is a harrowing experience.
‘Look, you and I can settle up later. But right now, these people have Hill’s daughter and goodness knows how many other girls locked in a crate. I know where it is but it’s not going to be long until they do too.’
Singh took a deep breath and turned to Sam.
‘What do you need me to do?’
‘I need you to take this and get to that crate first.’
Sam smiled warmly and held his hand out, offering his own handgun. A conflict collided in Singh’s brain, as the dangerous vigilante she’d become obsessed with catching had not only just saved her life but was placing his trust in her enough to arm her. It annoyed her but he was right, there were bigger things at hand. She gingerly reached out her hand and took the gun, her knuckles aching from the furious punches she’d landed on her now deceased attackers.
Sam told her the location of the crate before expertly snapping the new cartridge into his assault rifle. He pulled it up to his chest and began to head towards the pathway Singh had just emerged from, heading directly towards the battle zone.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ Singh asked, perplexed at her concern for Sam’s wellbeing. Without looking back, Sam slowly walked towards the walkway as he responded.
‘To buy you some time.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mark Harris sat at his desk, his eyes scanning the speech he had commissioned the second he had gotten off the phone with Assistant Commissioner Ashton. She had informed him that they knew Pope’s location, as well as a possible shipment of abducted women. They were heading to put the entire situation to bed and Harris was preparing to milk the situation dry. He had hammered his flag to their mast, promoting the ‘Sam Pope Task Force’ publicly. After each failure, he himself had shielded the police, taking all the criticism on his perfectly structured chin.
Now it was time to reap the rewards.
The speech spoke of the bravery and dedication of the city’s finest officers. He even demanded a credit to DI Singh, despite her failure to get the job done. Harris still maintained a romantic interest in the fiery policewoman and pulling her up from the wreckage would surely work in his favour.
A polished grin flashed across his face as he imagined taking her out for dinner, knowing she would be indebted to him.
Harris always got what he wanted. It was what made him such a great politician and a shoe in for the mayor’s job. Everything was falling into place and as he finished reading the final line, he decided he had earned a treat.
He pushed himself out of his leather chair and strode across his plush office to his drinks cabinet, rows of expensive liquors all promising sweet inebriation. Harris removed the glass lid of the decanter and the scent of a twenty-year-old single malt Scotch wafted seductively towards him.
A liquid pat on the back.
As Harris tilted the decanter and let the rusty liquid splash into the expensive, crystal tumbler, he wondered whether he should call for Burrows. The man had worked diligently behind the scenes, managing the partnerships with his biggest benefactors. All Harris had to do was smile for pictures. What those companies did or how they impacted the city were of little consequence to him.
The only consequence that mattered was him being sworn in as Mayor of London, and then he would open as many doors for those who had opened them for him. Harris chuckled as he sipped his drink, the warmness tickling his throat as it smoothly slid towards his stomach. The amusing thought was how little he knew of his stuffy assistant. The man was militant in how he went about his duties, which Harris found commendable. Any document he needed was always delivered before time, all meetings set, and photo opportunities sussed out. Benefactors donated large sums to the cause, all of which Burrows initiated and had done for the past three mayors to come from Harris’s political party.
Burrows had been the one who had strapped the rocket to Harris’s back and let him fly up the political ladder. Perhaps, Harris chuckled once more, he would let Burrows have the weekend off.
‘Drinking alone?’
A surprising voice snapped Harris back to reality and he turned, startled. Adrian Pearce stepped into the office, his coat soaked through and his hands stuffed deep into the pockets. Harris raised his eyebrows.
‘I was. Fancy one?’
‘Very kind.’ Pearce flashed his warm smile, sliding his arms out from his long jacket and letting the warmth of the room envelope him. The weather had taken a horrible turn, the lashing rain hitting like freezing daggers. He recalled being in the office a few days before, the politician demanding that Pearce help him bring in Sam Pope.
If Harris had been trying to get Pearce onside, he had pushed all the wrong buttons. He wasn’t anti-authority by default, but Pearce knew he had a problem with being told what to do. Especially when it didn’t follow the chain of command. Harris’s infiltration into an almost advisory role with the police was a testament to his gift of the gab and Pearce found it a little disconcerting that the higher ups were pandering to him so much.
It was clear why. The man was the Mayor elect.
It was a formality.
At least it had been.
Harris handed Pearce an identical tumbler and lifted his sligh
tly. Pearce followed suit, gently clinking the glasses together before he took a large swig.
‘Whoa,’ Harris said smarmily. ‘Don’t rush it.’
‘Long day,’ Pearce offered, placing the empty glass back on the drinks shelf before striding back into the centre of the room. Harris frowned, following.
‘Is there a reason you’re here, detective?’ Harris asked rather curtly. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t pop in just to have a drink with me?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Pearce said, looking around the room. ‘Question, how long did you think it would take when you were in office, for the press to find out that you’re supporting the abduction of young girls?’
Harris spat his Scotch across his desk, the brown liquid splattering the laptop and loose papers.
‘Excuse me?’
Pearce turned on his heel, his dark eyes locking onto Harris like a heat-seeking missile and he saw fear in the politician’s eye. Pearce had interrogated more men than he cared to remember, and he knew that when he flicked the switch, his charm was swiftly replaced with a quiet fury.
‘Let me rephrase that. How long have you been paying money into this bank account?’
Pearce placed a piece of paper on the desk, spun it to face Harris, and pushed it across. Harris looked at it, his eyes wide with horror.
‘Burn Group Inc.?’ Harris stammered. ‘What the fuck is that?’
‘Come on, Mark. You’re a bright chap. That’s the bank account belonging to The Acid Gang. The ones who throw the acid at people. I think you gave a speech about it when you realised it could help your campaign.’
‘Fuck you,’ Harris spat, his hand shaking as he polished off his Scotch.
‘It’s also the bank account that receives five grand for every snatched girl, paid by Transcendence Holdings, which, if I’m not mistaken…’ Pearce pulled out another sheet of paper and confidently tossed it onto the laptop. ‘Is the campaign management company that has your name as the CEO.’
‘I don’t know anything about this…’ Harris began and slumped into his chair, running a nervous hand through his hair. Pearce stepped around the desk and stood before him, feeling the confidence draining from him with every tick of the grand clock on the wall.
‘I’ve connected these dots so you’re going to have to connect a few more, Mark. As this will either be handled behind closed doors or your name will be dragged through the mud, with your entire political career not far behind.’
Harris glared at Pearce with venom in his eyes.
‘I have nothing to do with this. Just because you’ve been shelved and your career is wasting away, you think it gives you the right to threaten me? After everything I’ve done for this city? Everything I’ve done to get the people to believe in your beloved Metropolitan Police?’
Harris stood, trying to assert his authority. With one, swift, open-palmed shove, Pearce knocked him back into his seat. Harris looked shocked, the fear at being physically restrained evident. Pearce leaned in close.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck about your career. Teenage girls are being taken off the streets. Do you understand me? They are being snatched from their lives and sold to whatever godforsaken hell hole and in to a life that would make Satan himself shit his pants. So if I have to rip you and your fucking career into a million pieces to find them and the people responsible, then you can bet every penny in your campaign fund I will. Do you understand me?’
Pearce stepped back, taking a deep breath. He knew his words had shaken the man who was so used to having his ego stroked. Pearce watched as Harris’s eyes darted back and forth, the man running every possible outcome to what he had just been told. Pearce watched as Harris broke.
Harris began to cry.
‘I don’t know anything about this,’ he said through sobs. ‘I swear. Ask Burrows, he knows how little I get involved with the business side of things. I don’t even fucking sign anything.’
Pearce frowned with confusion.
‘But this is your signature.’
‘It’s electronic. They paste it into documents to save time.’ Harris dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. Pearce rubbed his temple with frustration.
He hated being wrong.
‘Who authorises these payments then?’
‘The only person who has access and authority to use my signature is Burrows.’ Harris had regained a little composure. ‘I’m sure he can clear this up.’
Pearce stomped across to the chair and lifted his coat, sliding his arms back into the drenched sleeves as Harris leant forward and pushed the top button on his phone.
The speaker phone beeped to life.
‘Carl, can you come in here please?’ Harris waited. Pearce was already heading to the door. ‘Carl?’
‘Don’t bother.’ Pearce stopped at the doorway, shaking his head with anger. ‘He’s already gone.’
‘Gone? But why?’ Almost immediately the realisation hit Harris like a lightning bolt. ‘No? Not Carl?’
‘I need to find him. Now!’ Pearce shouted, turning to leave.
‘But what about me? My campaign?’ Harris whinged. The self-centred nature made Pearce clench his fists with anger.
‘Like I said, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.’
With that, Pearce marched back out into the hall, fishing for his police radio to put out the search on Carl Burrows. In his office, Harris slumped into his chair once more, tears flooding his eyes. In a moment of rage, he lifted the crystal tumbler and hurled it across the room, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces and crashing to the ground.
A horrible similarity to his political career.
He wept.
Sam burst out from his dark shadow and into the opening of the port, three of Kovalenko’s armed guards instantly raining heavy gunfire in his direction. The barrage of bullets rattled the metal just behind him and he leapt through the rain and crashed down behind a forklift truck. More bullets rattled off the frame work of the vehicle and he readjusted his grip on his rifle, the relentless rain causing it to slip in his hand.
The gunfire would undoubtedly alert more henchmen and armed police.
He was a sitting duck.
As he’d raced through the port, he’d done his best to draw the attention of Kovalenko’s men, luring them away from their intended cargo. If all the gunfire was aimed in his direction, then there was none aimed at Singh as she made her way to Jasmine. Beyond the three men was the outer fence, and Sam could see the radio tower.
His back-up plan.
Three more bullets ricocheted off the metal and he knew it wouldn’t be long until his time ran out. Sam slipped the cartridge from the gun and checked.
Five bullets left.
He snapped it back in and scrambled to his feet, his back pressed against the side of the truck. Somewhere behind, he could hear footsteps slowly splashing in puddles. As he had darted into the clearing, he had clocked the location of the three men, committing to memory their standing points.
He made a logical conclusion as to how far they’d moved by the slowness of their steps slapping the wet concrete.
It was something he had done a number of times when buried deep under cover on a cliff face, his rifle aimed at a moving enemy target. Anticipating the movement was what had made him so deadly.
Anticipation and his clarity of thought. Sam never second guessed himself and as he spun out from the lifesaving cover of the vehicle, he saw that he had been correct. The floodlight above hindered his view, but the three figures were approaching in his anticipated formation, their rifles ready.
One bullet slammed into the metal a few inches from Sam’s body.
Sam sent his bullet directly into the shooter’s forehead. Spinning on his heel, Sam dropped to one knee as three bullets skimmed past him, the last one grazing the sleeve of his jacket.
Sam unloaded two more. They embedded in the second shooter’s chest, lifting him off the ground and two red sprays bursting out of his back and into the rain. The man was
dead before he crashed into the ground.
A gunshot rang out.
Sam felt the burning sensation ripple through his left thigh as the metal ripped through his flesh and muscle. The bullet burrowed through and out the other side of his leg, a spray of blood chasing after it. The memories of Project Hailstorm came flooding back, the searing pain of being shot and the feeling of your life escaping your body with every pump of blood.
Sam collapsed to the side, swung his rifle up, and sent his penultimate bullet into his attacker’s knee cap. The man screamed in agony as he collapsed forward, and Sam pulled the trigger for the final time.
He watched as the bullet pierced the man’s eyeball before blowing out the back of his skull. He collapsed forward, his back arched and blood overflowed from the gaping hole in the back of his head.
Sam groaned with pain as he pushed himself up, pressing his hand firmly against his thigh. He felt the thick, warm blood filter through his fingers, and he tried to run, his leg buckling and he limped unsteadily towards the fence. Behind him, he could hear furious voices screaming commands and the incoming patter of footsteps.
Quicker, Sam.
Every step caused him to wince, but he hobbled through the bloody battlefield and made his way to the fence, falling against the chain-link panel and trying desperately to catch his breath. He could see the flashing sirens further to his right, the final few officers retreating to think up a new strategy. Beyond them, four more SUVs were gunning down the road towards the war zone.
Kovalenko had called for the cavalry.
A bullet clattered the fence post next to Sam and a few more whizzed by. Another band of armed men had flooded the area, all of them training their guns at Sam. Ignoring the pain Sam pushed himself upwards, scaling the fence and dropping to the other side and into the shadows below.
He felt woozy, the blood loss nipping at his consciousness like an over eager puppy.
With painful steps, he hurried across the dark street to the abandoned radio tower, dislodging the wooden panel he had loosened earlier and he slipped in, just as a fresh bout of gunfire polluted the airwaves.
The Takers Page 22