He lifted the rifle.
Three shots this time.
Three more legs were ripped apart by the severity of his ammunition.
Sam surveyed the situation. Five men were littered across the street in various stages of consciousness, all of them immobilised. The door to the first car swung open and another henchmen dropped out, his arm clearly broken and the left side of his face covered in blood.
Sam raised his rifle but quickly dropped it.
The man was no threat.
All threats had been neutralised.
Suddenly, the end of the street burst into flashing blue lights and the sirens wailed a haunting welcome as five police cars swung around the corner. A van followed, undoubtedly filled with highly trained, highly armed officers all with orders to bring him down.
One way or the other.
Sam looped the strap of the rifle over his neck and swung the gun onto his back, the metal was warm against his drenched clothes. As the police drew near, he pulled his Glock from his side holster and raced towards the make shift High Rise, hoping the mystery man was still alive and knowing that he was quickly running out of time.
As the police cars screeched to a halt as they reached the carnage he had left behind, Sam raced full pelt through the rain, and into the High Rise.
Chapter Seven
Singh had been sat at her desk, sleeves rolled up, head rested in one hand staring at some therapy notes about Pope when the call had come in. A young PC, a little portly but incredibly bright, had knocked on her door and told her that there had been reports of multiple gunshots fired in Shepherd’s Bush. The reports said that they’d sounded like an automatic weapon.
Despite the terrifying rise in gang and gun crime in London, Singh launched out of her chair instantly. She knew exactly what it meant.
Sam Pope.
As she marched through the office, barking out orders to the team to set up a perimeter and send an Armed Response unit immediately, she felt the adrenaline pump through her veins. Her conversations with Harris and Pearce had threatened to shake her confidence.
All it had done was reinvigorate it.
As she raced down the stairs to the parking lot, Singh thought about the impact stopping Sam Pope would have on her career. After the outrage from the public regarding the bombing at the London Marathon, the Met spin doctors had worked well to shift the focus towards the organised crime and perceived vigilantism that was plaguing the city. As far as the public saw, the police were fighting a losing battle against the likes of Sam Pope.
Bringing him in would make her a hero.
Singh jumped into the passenger seat of a police car, the warmth of the heaters hitting her instantly as the young PC in the driver’s seat brought the car to life. The wind was littered with rain drops as it swept by, the freezing night sky was thick with grey clouds. Instantly, the darkness was eradicated by the flashing blue lights of the police car as it shot forward, its siren wailing like a battle cry.
Followed by another three cars, Singh barked her orders across the radio, telling a number of her task force what she expected and where she needed them. An update came through that a civilian had seen a man shooting oncoming vehicles and then unloading on the passengers.
It was Sam Pope.
Armed Response took control of the radio waves, announcing their arrival in less than two minutes, a squadron of ten highly trained, lethally armed officers who would enter the building and bring Sam Pope out at gun point.
Singh smirked as she thought about slapping cuffs around his murderous wrists, reading him his rights, and shoving him into the back of the car. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty seat behind the cage and pictured it.
With the chance to end the task force before it had even begun, she demanded her subordinate put his foot down, and as he obliged, the car roared loudly and hurtled through the rain towards the gunfight.
As Sam entered the stairwell of the factory, he swept the corridor with the rifle, the stock lodged firmly against his wet chest, his gloved finger wrapped around the trigger. Other than a couple of weak bulbs that flickered, the stairwell was drenched in darkness. A dripping sound filtered through the shadows every ten seconds or so, the upkeep of the building had been abandoned a long time ago. Taking the steps two at a time, Sam approached the door to the first floor, gently pressing it open with his foot before sweeping the corridor.
Nothing.
He marched through the dark corridor, dimly lit from a few swinging, unshaded bulbs. The walls were a depressing grey, severe signs of damp and mould creeping through. What was once a proud office for a large company was nothing more than a damp, desolate shell. Shaking his head, he walked a few steps further, before deciding to ascend further, knowing he needed to find the mystery man who had caused such havoc.
The man had barged into a criminal hideout with a gun, with clearly no idea how to use it.
A man who clearly had nothing left to lose.
As Sam approached the corridor again, he heard a gentle thud behind one of the doors. Raising the rifle once more, he threw his body weight forward, raised his leg and planted a boot against the door.
It swung open.
Originally, the room would have been a bright office, a nice desk in the corner and a few chairs for a chat over coffee. Now, the seedy room was dark, the smell of mould and drugs hit him like a wall and on the floor, was a crumpled, stained mattress. Atop it, a flabby man scrambled in a panic to cover his modesty
