The country he’d sworn to protect and did so with ruthless efficiency.
It was a stark reminder of what Wallace would have to do. He would give assurances to those in power, then arrange the meet.
Singh for the files. Once they’d been destroyed, Singh would be disposed of and Sam would be arrested. Hell, he would even let Ashton have the credit. It would be the making of her and while Wallace had little interest in another sexual encounter with the woman, she was just another pawn he was moving into place.
Wallace would be in the clear.
Sam would be dealt with.
Singh would be gone.
No more headaches. No more problems.
A large grin spread across his freshly shaved face, as he thought about returning to his home, to the normalities he was accustomed to and the success he would taste.
He always won.
As the Range Rover passed through the tunnel of the stunning towers that leant themselves to the bridge’s name, shadows bathed the vehicle. The mighty suspension bridge was locked in place, allowing an easy passage across the Thames and Wallace peered out at the magnificent tower ahead. He could understand the appeal to the tourists, the floods of people who flock to the iconic landmark on a daily basis were usually spellbound by its beauty. He didn’t blame them and as the car passed through the other tower and back out into the sunshine, Wallace felt a renewed sense of British pride.
Through the windscreen, he could see the car ahead. He noticed the small, round object bounce in front of the car. It took a second for him to realise it was a grenade, but before he could say anything, the entire bridge shook. The grenade exploded, decimating the front of the motorcade in a fiery ball of scrap metal and flailing limbs.
The blast sent a shockwave back, shattering the windows of the two cars in pursuit and slashing the skin of the passengers. Wallace’s driver slammed on the brakes, pulled on the wheel with all his might in an attempt to avoid the fiery remains of the front car.
The car behind slammed into theirs and the entire motorcade came to a violent halt.
Sam had watched from the side of the tower as the cars had pulled onto the bridge. He hadn’t slept all night, his venture out to his safehouse in Greenwich had taken up most of the evening, but he was happy to find his storage bin uninterrupted. Ever since he’d gone missing after taking down the Kovalenko empire, his flat and a number of his safe houses discovered. After Theo’s death, Sam had dug up what they’d called his ‘rainy day fund’, a bag of high-powered weapons that was buried in Theo’s garden. After Theo’s funeral, Sam had committed himself to a life of fighting crime and one of the plus sides of taking on organised crime is they were armed.
Throughout a number of his raids, Sam had amassed a fine collection of rifles and handguns, enough to ensure he had a number of weapon stores dotted around the city. The one in Greenwich was one of the smaller ones, but still, three grenades, a Beretta 92 pistol, and an SA80 Assault Rifle.
A small arsenal.
But in Sam’s arms, it was enough to bring down an empire.
There was no point returning to Etheridge’s, so Sam made his way to a twenty-four-hour coffee shop at a petrol garage and got himself a couple of coffees and a sandwich. It didn’t taste particularly great, but it was enough to keep him going.
Etheridge called him, gave him the details of where he needed to be and when.
Tower Bridge.
Five past five.
That gave him just over an hour.
It wasn’t much to prepare, but there was no other choice. Wallace held all the cards and even if they followed his instructions, Sam knew that Singh wouldn’t survive.
The only way to keep her alive was to raise the stakes.
To go all in.
They needed Wallace, and as Sam rolled the grenade onto the road an hour later, he was damn sure going to get him.
As soon as he rolled the explosive onto the street, Sam dove back and ducked behind the base of the tower, his fingers pressed to his ears. The ground shook as the car exploded, the roar echoing through the tower and undoubtedly waking the city.
A panic would spread, and the entire capital would be flooded with wailing sirens, flashing blue lights, and every policeman.
Sam didn’t have long.
With the SA80 rifle locked to his shoulder, he stepped out from behind the tower, just in time to witness the third 4x4 of the motorcade slam into Wallace’s car. The collision spun the car out of line and both of them came to an abrupt stop.
The driver’s door of Wallace’s car burst open, a Blackridge officer, decked in a black polo shirt and jacket stumbled out, blood streaming from the gashes on his face.
A handgun flailed in his hand.
Sam squeezed the trigger, the rifle sending a three-shot burst through the man, all three bullets puncturing his chest and sending him spinning to the ground, a burst of red mist dropping with him.
From the third car, both back doors flew open and Sam saw the handgun just before the agent pulled the trigger.
Sam spun on his heel, dropping to his knee in one fluid movement, and raised his rifle.
He squeezed the trigger.
The three bullets shattered the glass of the car door, embedding themselves in the woman’s skull and sending her sprawling to the concrete, a trail of her blood and brains following. From the other side of the car, a man spun out, handgun raised but Sam rolled to the side, out of the man’s sight, just in time for the driver of the third car to push open his door.
Sam rolled through, swiftly back onto his feet and he lunged forward with a brutal kick, slamming the open door back into the driver’s head, and knocking him off balance. The window, shattered from the collision, was lined with thin, razor-sharp shards of glass, and Sam reached through with his gloved hand, grabbed the back of the man’s head by his hair and pulled his head through.
Ducking the line of sight of the other gun man, Sam dropped down, dragging the man headfirst onto the broken window, slicing open his throat and feeling the warm flow of blood stream down his arm as the man gasped for life.
He was dead within seconds.
Sam pressed himself against the car, waiting for the final gunman to reveal his location. As he listened for the footsteps on the cracked glass that littered the now devastated road, he could hear the sirens wailing in the background.
The cavalry was on their way and Sam needed to move.
Fast.
Just as Sam zeroed in on the footsteps, the door to Wallace’s car flung open and another agent stepped out, gun aimed squarely at Sam, who had miscounted. The man, clearly concussed from the collision, fired wildly in Sam’s direction, the bullets rattling against the car and Sam spun to the side, released the rifle which clattered to the concrete and drew his Beretta.
The handgun was light, smooth, and slipped seamlessly into his deadly grip.
He squeezed the trigger once, blowing a hole through the man’s forehead and sending him sprawling back into the door of the car.
Before Sam could admire his shot, an arm swung over his head and around his throat, the muscles tightening as he was dragged backwards from his stance. The final gunman had snuck up on him and was now trying to lock in the headlock, cutting off Sam’s air supply and bringing an end to his mission.
As Sam fought for breath and consciousness, he ignored the blurred vision and focused on what he was fighting for.
Singh.
If he faded, she would be killed.
Wallace would hand Sam to the police and while they locked him away in the deepest hole they could find, Singh would never be found.
She would be just another problem that Wallace would have erased from existence.
With one final push, Sam managed to propel himself backwards, taking both himself and his attacker to the floor. As they crashed to the shard covered concrete, the impact drove the air from the attacker who groaned as he released his hold. Sam used the momentum to roll backwards over the
attacker and pushed himself back to his feet.
Stood over the man, Sam stamped down as hard as he could, his boot crushing the windpipe of the man. His neck snapped like a biscuit, and Sam could tell by the vacant stare in the man’s eyes that he was dead.
They were all dead.
Sam reached down and reclaimed his handgun and then slowly walked towards Wallace’s car, massaging his throat. The backdoor of the car finally opened and Wallace, his skin slashed from the shattered glass and his nose bleeding from the crash, stepped out, his hands held high. He looked around, admiring the carnage.
The vehicles were destroyed.
His team lay among the wreckage, all dead.
Blood painted the street, the shattered glass letting it shimmer.
The only thing louder than the ringing in his ears from the collision was the gravity of the situation. After dismissing the battle as being over, Wallace was now looking down the barrel of a gun. One attached to one of the most efficient killers he’d ever met.
The control he’d craved and assumed he had recovered was slipping away once more.
Staring with a vacant look, he surveyed the scene, blown away by the ruthless and pre-meditated attack on his entire team. Good men had just died in the line of duty, paid to protect Wallace. But there was no protecting him from what was coming. The stakes were too high, and the balance of power was about to shift once more.
Before him, walking with a severe sense of purpose, was Sam Pope and Wallace offered his surrender meekly.
‘Sam, let’s talk about this.’
‘Fuck you,’ Sam said as he took a step closer, before drilling the handle of his gun as hard as he could into Wallace’s temple. The burly man slumped back against the car, his lights out, and Sam stuffed the handgun into the back of his jeans and then reached out, steadying the heavy man before he hit the deck.
The sirens wailed, they were only a few streets away now and Sam heard the roaring engine approach.
He’d hated making the call, but he needed the help. He needed to be able to disappear into the sea of flashing blue lights and sirens. He needed to hide in plain sight and as the lone police car sped towards them, he locked his hands under Wallace’s arms and dragged him to the centre of the road.
The police car skidded to a halt, and DI Pearce leapt from the driver’s seat, ran around the car, and flung the door open.
Sam dropped Wallace across the backseat, slammed the door shut, and then jumped into the passenger seat.
The engine had already roared to life and Pearce fired up the siren as they sped away down Tower Bridge, leaving the smoking, bullet-ridden vehicles, and the bodies of Wallace’s team behind them.
With the mayhem of the attack shaking the city, Pearce and Sam melted into the panic, and made their escape.
They had Wallace.
Sam, knowing the fight was far from over, felt like he was now holding one of the cards.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The assault of Tower Bridge was big news.
The story dominated every news station, each one trying to outdo the other with their dramatisation of the events. To be fair, they didn’t need to try too hard, as the story itself was spectacular.
A high-ranking government official, on his way to an undisclosed location saw his entire motorcade wiped out in a wave of bullets, before being kidnapped.
Kidnapped reportedly, by Sam Pope.
As the news outlets brought on an endless train of experts, all offering a deep analysis of Sam’s state of mind or leading discussions about the impact such an attack would have on the government, Pearce reached over and turned it off. He cursed himself for going along with the plan, and for finally doing what he hoped he never would.
Completely breaking the law.
Ever since he’d begun investigating Sam, he could feel his loyalty to the justice system waning. After helping Sam escape custody over a year ago, he let the vigilante run free from the High Rise, believing the country needed someone like him fighting for them. He still believed it.
Just.
But there was always a limit, as far as Pearce was concerned. While his career of hunting corrupt policeman had made him far from popular within his own organisation, he’d never broken the law himself.
Helping Sam Pope, the most wanted man in the UK, wipe out an entire security team and then kidnap a leading government official was too far. He had become what he’d spent his career fighting and even though he understood the need for the attack, there was no way he could go back.
Pearce was a man of principal and when they became compromised, he knew it would be time to call it a day. What struck him the most was how easy it was to decide it was over, how ready he was to walk away.
As he guided the police car through the increasing traffic of the London morning rush hour, he flicked a quick glance to Sam who sat beside him. As always, Sam looked deep in thought, his eyes absorbing the packed streets as they whizzed by.
Sam had called Pearce on his way to collect his weapons, telling him what had happened, and that Singh’s life was at stake. The news hit Pearce like a freight train. He cared for Singh deeply, and although his actions had caused her to push him away, the thought of her being caught in the crossfire of Sam’s war filled him with rage.
He held back on reading Sam the riot act. Judging by the tone of Sam’s voice, he understood the gravity of the situation and the horror of pulling an innocent woman into his world. Pearce had warned Singh to step back, to stop knocking on the door and asking for the devil.
Eventually, he will answer.
Pearce had driven to the station and signed out the panda car as soon as he could and then he waited near the war zone, knowing that Sam would deliver the exact wave of violence he’d promised. That’s what scared Pearce the most.
Behind the complex, broken man was a double-edged sword. One side was possibly the most righteous man he’d ever met, a man who never wavered from right in a world filled with wrong. But on the other side, he was an efficient killer and a knowing criminal, flouting the law and putting people in the ground.
Sam told Pearce he needed three minutes to eliminate Wallace’s security detail.
He did it in just under two.
As Pearce had raced towards the massacre, he watched as Wallace emerged from the car, arms raised, and defeat accepted.
Sam delivered the clubbing blow and they quickly made their getaway. In a city swarming with police cars, hiding in plain sight was the easiest way to disappear, as it would take dispatch at least an hour to unpick the tape and see which car turned up at the scene.
They had already switched cars, with Pearce dumping the police car in the same garage that Sam had parked Etheridge’s Range Rover. Pearce had helped Sam shift the mighty Wallace from one vehicle to the other, binding his hands behind his back with masking tape.
With rush hour washing through the city like a tidal wave, they ventured into the traffic, with Pearce driving quietly back over the Thames to South London. After the attack, the city had ground to a crawl, with the traffic backed up from the detours put in place.
Trainlines were suspended for a second day in a row and Pearce smiled at the thought of Sam’s impact on the Transport for London.
Sam had stayed quiet. He knew Pearce was fuming, the fear of Singh’s potential death had created a palpable tension between the two and Pearce had no intention of breaking the silence.
A journey which had begun a year ago, when the city they were crawling through had been rocked by a terrorist attack. An attack that Sam had exposed as a vile cover-up, a despicable link between the Met Police and organised crime. It had created a bond between the two of them, a mutual trust that both men were committed to doing the right thing.
But the cost, now, was potentially too great.
And half an hour later, as Pearce carefully navigated his way through the streets of Dulwich, still hadn’t spoken a word to Sam.
They turned onto the street, o
ne which had bonded them together the previous year and Pearce pulled the car to a stop, sliding it in behind a van on the side of the street.
They were parked outside the ‘High Rise’, the large, four floored building that Sam had laid siege to a year before, a violent ascent that saw him wipe out Frank Jackson’s army of goons, before riddling the gangster himself full of bullets.
Pearce had been present for that moment, when Jackson threatened the safety of an innocent woman.
Sam had not hesitated.
He unloaded the clip, ripping the man’s chest and stomach to pieces.
Pearce had let Sam leave that night, having delivered the treacherous Inspector Howell to the authorities and exposing the hideous truth.
But now, the building that was once the most feared structure in the city, lay abandoned and derelict. A property developer had purchased the lease of the building not long after Sam had ripped through it like a hurricane. Scaffolding had been erected around the entire structure; the remaining windows removed. A few sheets were pinned to the frames, the thick plastic keeping the rain out, but that was about it.
The bottom had fallen out of the development company, investors pulling out and the building, once a hub of lewd and dangerous appeal, was an empty shell.
A husk of what it was.
Pearce and Sam both looked up at it, and Sam reached for the door handle. He stopped himself, guilt ridden, and he turned to Pearce.
‘Thank you, Pearce.’
‘Don’t.’ Pearce gritted his teeth. ‘This went too far, Sam.’
‘I know.’
‘Then why did it? I told you, keep Singh out of it. She was sniffing around the wrong people and now she’s being used as leverage. Leverage against you.’ Pearce shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, I should arrest you right now, you know that?’
Sam sat quietly, his shoulders slightly hunched. In the backseat, Wallace still lay unconscious.
‘I didn’t mean for it to get this far,’ Sam said quietly. ‘But what the man has done to me, what he has done to the world. He needs to be stopped.’
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 19