But Sam felt uneasy.
That unease grew, as the ear piece sparked to life once again.
‘Sam, she’s here. Its go time, buddy.’
Sam took a deep breath, finished the last of his coffee, cursed his decision not to bring a gun and waited for their mission to begin.
Chapter Fifteen
The entire journey into London Liverpool Street had felt like a bad idea. With a reduced service running on Sundays, Singh’s journey into city had taken longer than usual. She’d hopped on a train at Barnet station, traversing the Northern Line to Kings Cross before hoping onto the first train through to Liverpool Street. The trains were heaving, a few Sunday afternoon football matches had drawn a worrying number of drunken louts to the city centre like moths to a pointless flame.
Singh had never understood the mass appeal of football, especially from her times as a police officer, managing the raucous crowds and seeing people fighting over the ridiculous notion of football rivalry.
Was it really worth violence?
Especially when she’d been pulled into a world of gunfire and pain. It had rocked her entire life, the past few months shaking her career and her moral compass like a baby’s rattle. For so long, she’d been steadfast in her commitment to the justice system. And while she still knew the difference between right and wrong, she was sure that Sam Pope operated in a small, grey shaded area that existed between.
Singh tapped her Oyster Card on the barrier and was granted passage into the Liverpool Street Station. She weaved her way through the large swathes of tourists and hopped up the steps onto the main concourse. With trepidation, she made her way towards the large screen in the centre of the station as instructed, carefully scanning the station for any sign of Pope.
Etheridge had watched her walk up the steps to the main concourse and took a deep breath.
There was no going back now.
While he fully believed that putting Singh in the firing line was the only way forward, his finger guiltily hung over the enter button of his keyboard.
Along with Pearce, Singh had saved his life when they found him unconscious in the very room he was sat.
Beaten, tortured, and losing an almost fatal amount of blood, she’d helped Pearce load him into the car before she made her getaway. Sam’s mission had smashed her world into pieces, and he watched with regret as she nervously surveyed the station.
It was Etheridge’s responsibility now.
He had to keep her alive.
He was the eyes.
He was the voice.
With a deep breath, he clicked the button, scrambling the CCTV monitors for everyone other than himself. He knew that Blackridge would have already clocked her, instructing their field agents to keep their distance and to shadow her every move. Etheridge had made light work of the Blackridge radio frequency, but the agents were clever.
They gave little away regarding their location.
The vague response of ‘in position’ was all that was said when Wallace barked impatiently for progress.
The moment they saw Sam, then they would engage.
Judging from what happened to Marsden, who Etheridge had privately mourned, they wouldn’t hesitate to use whatever means necessary.
Etheridge quickly pulled up his phone infiltration software and blocked all transmissions from Singh’s phone.
The line was secure and he dialled the number.
Singh answered on the first ring.
‘Sam, where the hell are you?’
‘Amara, it’s Paul Etheridge.’ He heard her responding but cut her off. ‘We don’t have loads of time. Wallace has a team in place at the station, with eyes locked on you.’
‘Oh shit,’ Singh exclaimed, trying to mask the worry in her voice.
‘I’ve scrambled the CCTV, but you need to follow my every word. Do you understand?’
‘Where the fuck is Sam?’ she demanded, her fist clenching the phone and threatening to crack its plastic casing.
‘Do you understand?!’ Etheridge repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, do you see the empty outlet on the far right-hand side of the station, next to the Coffee Cove?’ Etheridge had his hand ready on the side of headset, ready to switch feeds. Singh nodded. Etheridge sighed. ‘You have to speak up.’
‘Yes,’ Singh barked, irritated.
‘Head there, now.’
Singh obliged, keeping the phone pressed against her ear as she began to stride towards the abandoned shop. Etheridge scanned the CCTV and instantly caught a glimpse of a burly man in a black leather jacket, on the other side of the upper floor begin to move, his eyes locked on Singh.
‘Keep heading there. I’ll be back in one minute.’
Before she could fill his ears with expletives, Etheridge flicked the feed of his mic, transitioning back to Sam’s earpiece.
‘Sam, your level. Four o’clock.’
‘Already on it.’
Sam had clocked the Blackridge agent before Etheridge’s instruction and he walked briskly around the upper walkway, trying his best to not draw the attention of the agent on the other side. The man was well built, definitely an ex-soldier, and carried himself with clear intent.
This wouldn’t be easy.
Luckily for Sam, most of the foot traffic was below them, with the family on the upper level fortunately turning towards the escalator before Sam approached.
On the upper level, directly above the Coffee Cove, there was a small alcove, leading towards a staff only staircase. With the CCTV scrambled, Sam knew that unless one of the station security happened to be coming up that stairwell, he had a clear minute or two to make his move.
He rounded the final corner, a mere five metres or so from the agent who finally looked up.
Agent Will Cook was unprepared for the ambush, and Sam wrapped his forearm around the man’s neck and allowed his own momentum to send them hurling back into the alcove.
They were out of sight of the public.
Cook was a broad man, and as he propelled them backwards, he slammed Sam into the brick wall, driving the air from his lungs. Sam relinquished his hold and coughed, wheezing for air. The earpiece dropped from Sam’s ear, clattering to the ground with the cries of Etheridge going unheard. Cook, as deadly as Sam expected, spun on his heel, and launched forward, swinging a solid fist at Sam’s head.
He ducked.
The shattering of bone was sickening as Cook hit the solid brick behind.
Before he could yell in anguish, Sam shot a vicious uppercut into his jaw, shattering it instantly. Shell shocked, Cook swayed on the spot, lazily flinging his other hand at Sam.
With a swift step to the side, Sam hooked his own hand underneath and wrenched upwards. He clasped his hands together, locking Cooks in a brutal choke hold. Still reeling from the jaw shattering uppercut, Cook struggled tamely and Sam, still struggling for breath from the collision with the bricks, hauled him towards the staff only sign. With a sharp kick backwards, he shunted open the door to the stair well and pulled Cook through.
A hard right hand caught Sam in the kidney and he released Cook, who dropped to his knees. Another hard fist caught Sam in the chest, before a third splattered his bottom lip into a bloody mulch.
Sarah Masters leapt forward with a brutal knee strike, hoping to capitalise on her ambush. As she did, Sam managed to grab her leg and haul her off balance, slamming her hard into the metal railing that ran through the stairwell like a vein.
The landing area was a small square of concrete with a set of concrete stairs on either side of the metal. Masters had raced up to meet Sam, clearly having seen him accost her comrade moments before. As she gingerly got to her feet, she removed her black jacket, revealing muscular arms, slathered in tattoos.
She reached up for the knife attached to her bicep and whipped it from its sheath, before lunging towards Sam who had just cleared the ringing from his ears.
He weaved to the left, the blade slicing through the air a few inches from
his ear, before Masters sliced back towards him. Sam managed to raise his arm, countering her momentum with his own powerful forearm. Masters relinquished the knife, dropping it but catching it swiftly with her left hand and again lunged forward, hoping to disembowel Sam. Sam stepped back, colliding with the wall and once the knife missed, he grabbed Masters’ wrist, wrenched her towards him, and dropped to his knee.
The sound of her face colliding with the solid brick wall was sickening and Sam wasn’t surprised to feel her limp body fall on top of him. Blood was pumping from her nose and eyebrow and he would bet his watch and wallet on her missing some teeth.
Sam dropped his shoulder and let her roll onto the concrete. As he lifted himself to his feet, he reached for the knife. After a quick inspection and an impressed nod, Sam slid it into the inside of his bomber jacket. Cook, unable to speak, moaned in pain as he tried to get to his feet. Sam shook his head as the man feebly raised his only functioning hand, challenging Sam to continue.
‘Really?’ Sam asked, shrugging. Cook, his jaw hanging slack, lunged pathetically. Sam easily sidestepped, pulled the arm in, and drove a knee straight into the man’s gut, before driving an elbow to the back of his skull.
Cook was out like a light.
Sam spat blood from his busted lip, stretched out his aching back and then pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. Inside, it contained sheets of transparent plastic which Etheridge had procured from a stationery shop.
Quickly, Sam dropped to his knee and systematically pressed each hand of the unconscious duo against a separate sheet, ensuring their fingerprint smudged clearly.
Neither of them moved throughout the process.
‘Paul, I’ve got two sets.’ He raised his finger to his ear, realising then that the earpiece was gone. ‘Shit.’
Sam scrambled to his feet and stepped out of the stairwell to where he and Cook hit the wall. Scanning the floor, he felt his heart rate calm as he found the earpiece quickly. As he lifted it and turned, a small, portly station security guard stood. With his hand on his radio, his jaw dropped at the carnage through the doorway, he stared at Sam with fear in his eyes. Sam looked at the motionless bodies, as well as the blood on his knuckles, before returning his gaze to the security guard. Slowly, he raised a finger to his lips. The security guard nodded his understanding, before turning nervously and walking back towards the main walkway.
Sam let out a deep breath.
That was close.
He put the earpiece back in.
As soon as he heard Etheridge’s cries of panic, he darted through the door, leapt over the prone mess that was formerly the Blackridge field team and bounded down the steps three at a time, hoping to god he wouldn’t be too late.
‘What the fuck is happening?’ Wallace exclaimed, his fists slamming against his glass balcony table and rocking its contents. The ashtray, now full of disposed cigar ends rattled. ‘Get me some fucking images!’
Wallace was furious. Just as his team had got into place, the CCTV feed dropped. Considering the amount of government money he’d spent to build his operations hub, he doubted it was to do with faulty wiring.
Someone had scrambled the system and what infuriated him most, was that nobody in his team seemed able to reverse it.
Wallace had expected the best.
He made damn sure he paid enough for it.
Failure was not an option and he made a note to march into the secluded location once it was all over and personally end the careers of the hapless team working the operation. He had long passed the point of playing nice.
He needed Sam Pope.
He needed that USB stick.
Not only to protect his career and his reputation, but after the very clear warning from the Hangman, his life. Thinking of Farukh sent a shiver down his spine, then caused his knuckles to whiten as there had still been no response.
Wallace hated not being in control, but at that particular moment, he felt it filtering from his fingers like dust in the wind. A few moments later, he heard from Brandt that Singh had made her way to the far side of the station and the fearless German commanded Cook and Masters to follow. With the reassurance granted by Brandt’s terrifying efficiency, Wallace had afforded himself a brief comfort, lighting yet another cigar and pouring another glass of Scotch.
His lungs and liver be damned.
As he sat back down, his discomfort quickly returned.
The heart rate monitor in the corner of his screen quickly told him things hadn’t gone to plan. Clearly, Cook and Masters were unconscious.
Sam Pope.
Wallace slammed another meaty fist onto the glass table, sending a crack shooting through the pane. A few cigars toppled from the overstuffed ashtray and he hurled his glass tumbler as hard as he could against the balcony wall. It shattered, not unlike his confidence in the mission.
Luring Sam into the open was not going to work.
They had to smoke him out.
Wallace slammed his headset back on.
‘Brandt,’ he barked. ‘Fucking answer me.’
‘Sir,’ Brandt crackled, his voice emotionless.
‘Masters and Cook are down. It’s time to stop pussyfooting around and bring Sam in.’ Wallace puffed his cigar. ‘Get Singh. By any means necessary.’
‘Copy that,’ Brandt replied. ‘Any, sir?’
Wallace dropped back in his chair and squeezed the bridge of his nose with clammy fingers.
He had a potential clean-up job on his hands.
But needs must.
‘Affirmative, Brandt,’ Wallace eventually said. ‘Any means necessary.’
Brandt removed the earpiece from his ear, tired of the weary orders of a man slowly losing his grip. While he’d been handsomely rewarded for being one of Wallace’s top assets, Brandt knew his skill set would see many offers laid at his doorstep.
There were many shady corners of every government that needed someone of his capabilities and he’d already made up his mind that once Sam Pope had been eradicated, he would step away from Blackridge.
It was time to move on.
But he couldn’t help but smile at Wallace’s order.
Any means necessary.
As all his ducks began to line up, he couldn’t help but let a broad smile crack across his strong jaw when he laid his eyes on a worried looking Amara Singh as she strode back across the station, her phone plastered to her ear.
She was clearly shaken, her panicked lips giving an earful to whoever was on the other end of the phone.
Sam Pope?
Perhaps.
It didn’t matter.
As she hurried her way towards the far end of the station, Brandt turned on his heel and followed. She turned right at the main tunnel to the outside, walking down a deserted walkway towards the staff elevator. Brandt had memorised the layout of the station, as was customary for any mission he undertook.
It was a dead end.
He was almost disappointed at how easy this would be.
As he turned to follow her down the walkway, he reached into his jacket, pulled out the Glock pistol and purposefully made his way towards Amara Singh.
Chapter Sixteen
Sam ran as fast as he could.
Bursting through the security door, Sam shot out onto the main concourse, drawing a few panicked looks from nearby civilians. Given the track record of instances in London train stations, he understood their concerns, but now wasn’t the time to quash public panic.
Not when there was a genuine threat nearby.
‘Where is she?’ Sam spoke, his finger to his ear so the block out the cacophony of noise that enveloped the station. Commuters were loudly discussing their plans, announcements were echoing from the sound system, and trains were roaring their engines as they departed.
Sam needed to hear Etheridge.
It was life or death.
‘Far corner. Nine o’clock.’
Sam propelled himself forward like an Olympic sprinter, ba
rging past a group of lads who threw a few curses his way. Heads turned as a man with a bloodied mouth darted through the station, a few families cowering away. They were sure to alert security, if they hadn’t already clocked him and Sam appreciated all the mornings he’d spent running through the cold streets of Naples.
He rounded the corner, a long corridor leading down to the staff elevator.
There was no sign of Singh or the Blackridge agent.
Etheridge had no visibility.
Sam could feel his lungs screaming as he pushed on, hoping to god that he wasn’t too late.
Singh had walked down the deserted corridor of the station, the hysteria of the main concourse drowned out by the eerie silence afforded by the narrow walkway. A few empty billboards lined the wall, a reminder of a time when the corridor was part of the functioning part of the station. Now, all that remained were scraps of previous adverts, a remnant of something important.
A horrible metaphor for her own career.
Although her heart was racing through a mixture of fear and adrenaline, she zeroed in on her training. She wasn’t a damsel in distress. She was one of the finest young detectives the Met had ever seen, with an extensive background in combat.
But she’d seen the ugly side of Sam’s world and was smart enough to know that a team run by Ervin Wallace wasn’t to be messed with.
Wallace had already made it pretty clear to her that he would go to extreme lengths to keep the truth buried and she was certain that he would have no hesitation in burying her with it.
As she continued down the corridor, Singh heard the clomping of boots behind her. A quick glance told her she needed to hurry.
The man was about six foot three, his dark hair parted neatly at the side. His freshly shaven face was stoic, his eyes locked on her like a homing missile. While he was broad, he wasn’t particularly stocky, but he carried himself with the movements of someone highly trained.
Highly efficient.
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