Sean Wiseman moaned in agony, the bullet colliding with the bulletproof vest and sending a jolt up his spine like a cattle prod. It had sent him sprawling forward, and he could already feel his muscles bruising, the severe ache from the shot causing him to groan.
The order was given to get him out of there, with the two closest officers reaching down with their gloved hands, lifting his limp body to his feet and draping his arms over their shoulders. As they ambled back through the smoke, the commanding officer ordered the two officers nearest to the hallway to provide cover, while he and the final five officers would sweep the top floor.
Sam Pope obliged, following the officers down the stairs, bringing up the rear to stay as far out of their sight as possible. Each second passed like a minute, with Sam expecting them to discover their fallen comrade in moments and then all guns would be trained on him.
They reached the bottom floor, the noise of the outside roaring through the open front door, the rain-soaked street a sea of activity. Several police cars had lined up around the building, the officers all standing to attention, their uniforms covered in see-through plastic to shield them from the freezing downpour.
Three ambulances were set further back, the paramedics tending to the wounded men Sam had left in his wake, and a crew of police officers were searching the two cars they’d arrived in.
The entire street was carnage.
All caused by him.
Sam stepped out onto the street, casually following the two officers as they carried their victim. Wiseman would be badly bruised and would walk with a limp for a few days, but he would be fine. With the original excitement dissipating into disappointment at his disappearance, Sam watched as a petite, pretty officer with a stern demeanour barked orders into a radio, clearly running the show and furious at their lack of progress.
With all eyes on the building, no one had noticed him, the fact that his black trousers and boots were not identical to those of the officers before him.
The rain helped, drenching everyone to their core and providing him with a curtain to hide behind.
He had to move.
Carefully, he followed the officers through the crowded street, nodding casually at a few PCs who looked at his assault rifle with envy. Their attention was suddenly pulled to their radios, the fiery woman he had passed was barking an order and quickly, the officers approached the building. Some punters had been found and needed to be removed from the building, but there were no signs of Pope.
There had been no alarm raised either.
As the rain collided with the fury of the failed raid, the two Armed Response officers carried Wiseman to the back of the ambulance, an overworked paramedic with a thick brow greeting them and helping them with the weight of the limp body. As they handled Wiseman, Sam carefully walked around the side of the ambulance, out of the glare of the police presence and quickly unclipped the helmet and removed it, followed by the mask.
The rain washed across his face and he walked towards the row of cars ahead, slipping his arms from his jacket and wrapped it around the rifle, sliding it underneath the ambulance.
Behind the cars, lines of civilians waited, all of them watching the action unfold, their phones lifted high in the air, trying their best to capture anything that would grant them any fame online.
None of them noticed the man slip between the cars and join them.
Walking with a purpose into the crowd, eager to disappear, Sam looked back over his shoulder. Two police officers marched Aaron Hill out through the front door, his hands in cuffs and his face wrought with fear. They brought him to a stop in front of their commanding officer, the stern woman he had seen earlier.
Sam pushed on through the crowd and headed into the darkness of the city’s alleyways. The final High Rise had been shut down, another criminal enterprise brought to its knees.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his fingers running across the Aaron Hill’s driving license.
He had made the man a promise.
With the death that he had dealt that night, he knew he had once again broken the promise to his son. Allowing the wet, dark labyrinth of the city to swallow him, Sam Pope vowed that he would not break another promise that night.
Chapter Nine
The following morning was mayhem.
The press was having a field day, each paper using the terror of a rampant vigilante to push their own political agenda. The scare mongers questioning the safety of the people and the competency of the senior police figures. The debate about how to tackle gun crime raged on, whereas the number of articles supporting Pope were beginning to, rather worryingly, increase.
People were beginning to show their support.
News had leaked about the task force, with the word ‘Watchdog’ now being bestowed upon Pope like a well-earned title.
It made Mark Harris’s blood boil.
The rain had continued into the following morning, covering the streets surrounding his office in a bright gleam. The sun was threatening to rear its head, occasionally poking a bright beam through the clouds. His large desk was covered in the morning papers, all of them covered in photos of the chaos from Shepherd’s Bush the night before, the failure of the police which he knew he could use to his advantage.
Anti-gun crime was one of the pillars of his mayoral campaign.
His entire career had been spent being one of the most trusted and respected MPs, serving his district of London with distinction. The next logical step was to be Mayor of this great city.
It had only been twenty-four hours since he had stood in front of the cameras, proudly launching the dedicated task force to catching Pope.
Now, according to the papers he had spent the morning flicking through, they were already a laughing stock.
Sam Pope needed to be stopped.
Immediately.
Harris
