‘You’re a good man, Pearce,’ Sam said warmly. Pearce turned back, looking Sam in the eyes.
‘So are you. Don’t lose that, okay?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I know what happened in Italy. We’ve been on red alert to find you by the Assistant Commissioner. You lost a dear friend.’
‘I’m not back for revenge,’ Sam said coldly. ‘I’m back to finish this thing for good.’
‘And how does this end, Sam? Are you going to blow up the Metropolitan Police? Or are you going to kill Ervin Wallace? He’s been controlling Ashton like a puppet and using the Met as his own little private police force. The moment Singh started sniffing around, talking about secret projects, she was done for. They shunted her out and she points the finger of blame at me.’
‘Wallace went after Singh?’
Pearce shrugged.
‘She said he visited her one night, threatened her. Told her to stay away from you and your past. She didn’t, so I stepped in. I had to keep her safe.’
‘You did the right thing, Pearce. You always do.’
‘Yeah, well she hasn’t spoken to me since. I’ve heard a few murmurs that her apartment was broken into, that Wallace is still keeping tabs on her.’
Behind Pearce, Wiseman blew a hard, shrill whistle and then comedically collapsed to the floor, while the boys rolled about laughing. They all rushed towards the doors to the centre for lunch and Sam politely shook his head before the offer came.
‘It was good to see you, Pearce.’ Sam spoke sincerely. ‘I wanted to thank you for saving my friend, Paul. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be dead.’
‘Like I said, Sam. How does this end?’ Pearce held his fist against the metal fence. ‘A time will come when someone isn’t there to save them. You know that better than most. This is too far gone, Sam. It needs to end before people like Paul, or people like Singh, really do get hurt.’
Sam nodded solemnly and then raised his fist and tapped it against Pearce’s. A sign of genuine friendship in what had resembled a war zone.
‘It will. I promise.’
Both men nodded one final time and just as Sam turned to leave, the heavy breathing and leaden footed steps of Wiseman approached. His face was flushed, his breathing stunted, and his T-shirt was stuck to his body.
But he looked a world away from the wide-eyed, terrified numbers man working for a gang.
He looked happy.
‘Hey…Sam…’ He panted. ‘…I just wanted to…thank…you.’
‘What for?’ Sam shrugged.
Wiseman took a deep breath, his hands on his hips and regained his composure.
‘You saved my life.’
‘I shot you,’ Sam said, his words heavy with guilt.
‘You put me on the right path. You showed me that some people are inherently good. You turned this city upside down to find that young girl. No matter what the police say, or what the papers say, you’re a damn hero. The world could use more people like you.’ Wiseman suddenly looked embarrassed and arched his neck towards the centre. ‘I better check on the kids.’
As Wiseman jogged off, Pearce turned to a thoughtful looking Sam.
‘He’s training to be a social worker.’
‘He’s come along way,’ Sam said quietly, touched by the impact he’d had on the young man’s life.
‘You’re a good man, Sam,’ Pearce said. ‘So, finish what you need to do and then try to make peace with it all.’
Pearce slapped the chain-link fence a few times before turning and heading back to the centre, ready to join the raucous noise of a gleeful lunch. Sam watched him disappear into the centre and then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket.
‘I’ll try,’ he uttered, before lowering his head and marching back towards the station.
While Sam had been enjoying the Saturday sunshine, Etheridge had been glued to his desk. The luxurious loft conversion did offer a splendid floor to ceiling window, which meant natural light flooded through the room like an unstoppable force and the air conditioning unit had kept him cool.
But he hadn’t moved.
Across the screens that presented themselves like a news station, a number of algorithms were running, desperately trying their best to crack the security protocols attached to the USB stick.
It had been semi-successful, with a few less important folders soon wriggling free from the cyber security, but for the most part, Etheridge had been impressed.
He had made millions being able to break, and therefore fix, a company’s online security.
Blackridge.
Almost uncrackable.
He had been at it for over eighteen hours and the slog of the mission, along with the lack of sleep, were starting to pull down on his eyelids. He reached for the coffee he’d freshly made and took a large gulp, just as the sound of Sam’s footsteps echoed up the stairs. Moments later, Sam pushed open the door and was greeted by a very tired, very smiley Etheridge.
‘Afternoon,’ Sam said stoically.
‘Welcome back.’ Etheridge’s hand shook as he raised the coffee, instantly explaining to Sam that he was on a caffeine high and careening towards a crash. ‘Good news or bad news?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. Which one do you want first?’
‘Good news.’
‘Well, the good news is, I know how to open the USB stick and I have the necessary equipment.’
‘Brilliant. Let’s do it,’ Sam said eagerly, sliding his jacket off.
‘Bad news is, it’s only functional with a fingerprint scan.’ Etheridge sighed. ‘I have a scanner and can set up a direct link between it and the Blackridge network to verify it. But I can’t build a fingerprint. I’m not god.’
Sam chuckled and stretched his back. Etheridge turned back to his screens, understanding the scrawling that flickered across the monitors. To Sam, they looked like scribbles.
But then Etheridge was an elite hacker.
If it came to hand-to-hand combat, or putting a bullet in a sex trafficker from three hundred yards away, Sam rose to the occasion.
Etheridge clicked away on the keyboard and then slumped in the chair.
‘Do you need another coffee?’ Sam joked. Etheridge flipped him the bird.
‘No, I need a fucking fingerprint. But to get a fingerprint, we need to find a Blackridge operative with sufficient clearance. And how the hell do you find a task force that exists in the shadows?’
A light bulb pinged above Sam’s head.
‘You give them what they’re looking for.’
‘What do you mean?’ Etheridge turned to him, his eyes narrowing.
‘Are you able to set up an untraceable line?’
‘Do bears go to church?’ Again, Sam stared silently at him. ‘Of course I can. Why?’
Sam took a deep breath. He hated the idea of it, but they needed to move quickly.
He pushed his guilt aside.
‘We need to call Amara Singh.’
Chapter Thirteen
General Ervin Wallace had never appreciated a weekend.
In his line of work, which was to protect the country, there were no days off. When he was in the armed forces, out on tour, they never took breaks because they had ‘got to the end of the week’. The culture of his country, to get boozed up at the end of a week sat behind a cushy desk embarrassed him.
He worked effortlessly for their freedom.
They were pathetic.
But ever since he’d gone into lockdown, Wallace had more free time than he’d anticipated.
The very real threat of Sam’s return had led him to call upon an old acquaintance that he’d tried to resign to the past.
Desperate times. Desperate measures.
But now, as he sat on the balcony of the safehouse he’d accosted in his bid for survival, he stared out over the fields below. The spring sun had risen over the trees and cast his beautiful country in a magnifi
cent gold shimmer.
This, he thought, this was worth fighting for.
Not the miscreants who didn’t understand the meaning of the word sacrifice. The maggots who spout about how great their country is but would turn on each other the second shit hits the fan.
They were not worth the buckets of blood he’d spilt.
But this country was.
The evening before, he’d invited Assistant Commissioner Ashton over once again, their meal laden with awkward conversation verging on apologetic. Wallace could sense her fear of failure, which made her more accommodating when they made their way to his quarters. Again, the sex was more transactional than passionate and Wallace had arranged for her to be taken home early in the morning.
He had assured her that the discretion was for the protection of her sparkling career.
He was sure she believed it.
All he wanted to do was make a batch of Colombian coffee, light a cigar and sit on the balcony, trolling through the online papers.
It was then that his fist crashed ferociously against the glass table, shaking the pane, and spilling his latte.
His tablet rocked before falling forward onto its screen.
Wallace took a long, hard pull on his cigar as he launched to his feet, pushing out the thick, grey smoke in an endless plume towards the sun.
He rested his meaty forearms on the balcony railing and shook his head.
Helal Miah.
The fucking irritant.
The article had gone live that morning, an exploratory piece on Wallace’s career, with several serious accusations and links to some insidious deeds that Wallace had worked his hardest to keep off the books.
But nothing was ever fully off the books.
Someone knew. Someone always knew.
With a rage shaking through his body like a vibration, Wallace returned to the table and lifted his tablet, glad to see there was no damage to the screen. He scanned through the article again, bewildered at the level of detail the man had gone into.
Whoever his source was, they knew something.
Maybe it was Sam?
Wallace immediately laughed away the idea. Sam was blinded by his own self-righteousness, but he would never paint a bullseye on a civilian.
Whoever it was, Wallace needed them silenced.
Another thick cloud of smoke wafted from the balcony and Wallace pondered his next move.
He could call Ashton, tell her that Pearce’s efforts to quiet Miah had been pathetic.
Perhaps he could check in with his team and see if they had had any luck locating Sam?
Or Farukh for that matter.
The idea of such a violent man walking freely in his country made Wallace uneasy, like a sudden attack of sea sickness. But Farukh, while as barbaric as they came, wouldn’t attract needless attention. The man was a ghost.
Not one of Wallace’s.
He was his own man.
Thinking of his own assets, Wallace wondered about reaching out again to locate Mac, the man who had come so close to finishing off Sam Pope and rendering all of this pointless. The man had lived and breathed his vengeance for years, blaming Sam for the horrors he suffered through two years of captivity by the Taliban.
But that chance of redemption had been snatched away.
And with it, Mac had disappeared too.
Dangerous. Unhinged. Untraceable.
Wallace knew it was another mess to clear up, but it was quickly tumbling down the list of priorities. Mac was a potential problem.
Wallace was dealing with absolutes.
As Wallace took a deep inhale of his thick cigar, a voice he’d feared echoed behind him.
‘You still smoke those shit?’
Wallace dropped the cigar, turning abruptly and doing his best to hide any fear. The gentle shake of his hand and the sweat building on his line addled forehead betrayed him instantly.
It had been a long time since he’d seen Farukh.
The years had been somewhat kind to him. His hair, now tinged with grey was thinner, arching over his dome like a dull, wispy rainbow. His thick beard hid the cruel smile that sent shivers down Wallace’s spine.
Age had played the same trick on them both, their once impressive frames now bulking out, as the metabolism slowed.
Whereas Wallace looked like a big man in a neat suit, Farukh was a different type of menacing. He wore a black jacket and T-shirt, both of which were wrapped tightly against his solid mass. Jeans and boots.
The man carried little else, except for the box of cigarettes which he retrieved from the inside of his jacket. Without asking, he stepped out onto the balcony and took Wallace’s lighter, sparking the cigarette to life. Wallace shot a concerned glance to the front door.
‘Don’t worry. Your doorman is alive.’ Farukh took a puff and chuckled. ‘Asleep. But alive.’
‘How did you find me?’
Farukh smiled, his yellow stained teeth were crude and sharp, like a Rottweiler ready to pounce.
‘I find people. It is what I do.’
‘It’s what you used to do. Nowadays, not a month goes by where I don’t get fed a report of another high-profile target found hanged in a remote location.’
‘I have to eat,’ Farukh responded, dismissively.
‘Quite.’ Wallace stubbed out his cigar. ‘But I need you to find someone.’
Farukh, unblinking, took a long pull on his cigarette. The smoke filtered through the patio door and into the spacious kitchen, irritating Wallace. But he stayed silent.
‘You need me to clear up mess. Mess you promise never happen.’
Wallace sighed.
‘I know. Believe me, I have done everything to keep this contained. Hell, I even killed a dear friend of mine.’ Wallace shook his head as he remembered pulling the trigger and sending a bullet into the body of Carl Marsden. ‘But it wasn’t enough.’
‘What is name?’ Farukh said, flicking the cigarette off the balcony. He gazed out over the sun-drenched fields and was surprised to find such beauty in a disgusting country.
‘Sam. Sam Pope.’
Farukh turned, his eyebrow cocked.
‘Pope? The sniper?’
‘You remember him?’ Wallace could feel his palms sweating. As a man who had faced war with a grin on his face, he found himself scared of the man before him.
‘I remember what you did.’
‘Yes, well, that is part of it. He needs to be stopped and he needs to hand over the information.’ Wallace tried to wrestle the authority back. ‘Otherwise it will be over for both of us.’
Farukh lit another cigarette before taking two steps closer to Wallace. Both men stood tall and proud, their chests out. A silent dick measuring contest. With a cruel grin, Farukh took a puff and blew the smoke directly into Wallace’s face.
‘I will find him. This Sam Pope. I will make him give me the stick. I will kill him. I will kill those who help him.’
‘Good,’ Wallace stammered.
‘But I want that stick destroyed. All files wiped. And I never want to hear from you again.’
Wallace nodded greedily.
‘Absolutely. You have my word.’
Farukh took one step closer, seemingly growing in stature as Wallace shrank.
‘If not, then I will hang you for your country to see.’
As the threat hung heavy in the air like the tobacco laden fog, Farukh turned and marched back through the apartment, merrily puffing on his cigarette without any hint of respect for Wallace’s abode. As the door slammed shut, Wallace realised he’d been holding his breath and he let out a large exhale. As the air flooded through his lungs, he was able to stop his hands from shaking.
He was clammy. Sweat had drenched him.
There was very little in the world that scared him.
But Farukh did.
The Hangman of Baghdad.
Wallace smirked as he imagined the fate that awaited Sam, and all those who dared to oppose him.
‘C
an I buy you a drink?’
The man flashed a perfect white smile, his strong jaw sprinkled with stubble. The question snapped Singh back into the world, her mind wandering down several paths.
She hadn’t been home since her drink the evening before, instead dropping by her sister, Priya’s house in Barnet.
Three years older, married and with two beautiful daughters, Priya was the spitting image of the perfect child in the eyes of their parents. She had a stable family life with her husband, Ravi, a highly successful lawyer. Their home, a four-bedroom detached house, was as pristine as the outfits her sister always wore.
Even to pop to the shops, Priya looked like she was about to hit the catwalk.
But none of that had ever appealed to Singh, and she knew it never would.
While her parents were resigned to only having one pathway to grandchildren, she did feel some sense of pride from them when it came to her career.
The public praise she’d received for her work on project Yew Tree, as well as her handling of some potential terror threats, had filled her family with pride.
The brutal beating she’d suffered at the Port of Tilbury had shaken both her parents, but they’d showered her with praise for her determination to find those missing girls.
She hadn’t told them that she had worked with Sam Pope, the man she’d very publicly been put in charge of catching.
Now, with her career in the mud and being slowly stomped to a pulp, her parents saw nothing but failure.
For so long, she never failed.
Now, as she looked at the empty glass in front of her, it was all she was achieving.
She offered the man a smile.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Shame.’ The man shrugged. He had the arrogant aura of a man who made too much money. ‘I could have shown you a good time.’
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