Then he was given a name.
Elmore Riggs.
Further digging had uncovered Riggs’s volatile history, with several felonies relating to violence and gun crimes. The man was the living embodiment of the London gang culture that was tearing the city apart. Having watched his father get arrested during the Brixton riots, Riggs had found his way on the street. His lack of compassion had seen him rise fast, and he soon went from a dealer to a hired gun.
Riggs spent two years in prison for his role in the London Riots back in 2011, the culmination of rising tensions and a police shooting. Riggs found his way out and soon made his way to the High Rise. Apparently, the ‘Mitchell Brothers’ had labelled him a loose cannon and had advised Jackson to move him to another location.
The Mitchell Brothers were Jackson’s two most trusted henchman, Brian Stack and Mark Connor, both of whom shared similarities with the EastEnders’ characters.
Sam had come face to face with them six months prior.
Both were now dead.
As Sam had delved deeper into the murky waters of the London Underbelly, he had learnt that Riggs wasn’t too good with the numbers. That he needed a right-hand man to oversee the details, to ensure that what he had taken over was being distributed correctly.
That man was Sean Wiseman.
And at that moment, as the ice-cold rain clattered that metal platform and echoed like a shaken rattle, the headlights of his car turned onto the main road, illuminating the downpour and the clear road ahead.
Sam readjusted, pulling the stock back, lodging it into his meaty shoulder and locking it in place.
With a swift, natural swing, he drew the gun up to his eye level, closing one brown eye and casting the gaze of the other down the scope of the rifle, the cross hair locked on the moving vehicle.
His finger looped back into the trigger loop.
He took a breath.
He squeezed.
The bullet blasted from the chamber, travelling through the silencer attached to the barrel, cloaking the roar of the rifle. With pinpoint accuracy, it travelled through the night sky, slicing through rain drops before burying itself in the rubber of the tyre and instantly bursting the tyre of the black Range Rover. A sharp squeal pierced through the air as the driver tried to turn into the swerve, instead causing the 4x4 to spin out completely before colliding firmly with the concrete barricade.
It was all over in seven seconds.
Sam was already stepping off the bottom step and into the alleyway, the wet trash greeting his nostrils with a pungent ‘fuck you’.
Out on the main road, a trail of ripped rubber followed a skid mark all the way to the wreckage. The side panel and bonnet of the car had been heavily dented, a small trail of smoke escaping up into the downpour. The streets were flooded with gawping pedestrians, all of them trying their best to record the incident to post online in the hope of garnering a few extra ‘likes’. Sam was sure a few of them may have had the common sense to call the emergency services beforehand.
After a few moments, the driver side door shunted open, and a burly man stumbled out, his eyebrows stained with blood from the gash across his forehead. He wore a black jumper and jeans, with a thick gold chain and watch. In his left hand, the driver held a Glock 19, the wet metal shimmering the street light.
The sight of the gun sent the watching crowd scarpering, the audible panic of shrieks echoed down the main road.
A bus sped past, barely missing the stumbling driver, who from his wayward steps, was nursing a severe head wound.
Sam stepped out into the street, marching across the other side of the road and straight towards the totalled car.
The driver, frantically trying to regain his composure, locked his eyes on Sam. They widened as Sam pulled up the assault rifle once more.
The driver tried to raise the gun, but Sam expertly dropped to one knee, stock against shoulder, eye down the sight, and shot a small burst.
Two bullets ripped through the left leg of the driver who collapsed instantly to the pavement in agony. His screams were masked by the panicked mayhem of the London public and in the distance, the familiar feint wailing of police sirens.
Sam moved quickly.
He hopped over the concrete barricade and stormed towards the fallen gunman, who was desperately trying to scramble towards his weapon. Blood pumped out from the bullet wounds in his leg, the rain pushing it further out and staining the road red.
Without breaking his stride, Sam violently twisted the gun downwards, crashing the stock of the rifle into the man’s temple. He was unconscious before he fell back onto the pavement, the rain attacking his lifeless body.
Sam raced to the smashed car, letting the rifle drop and hang from its sling, approaching just as the backdoor slowly pushed open.
Sean Wiseman slowly turned his body out of the door, his wiry, thin frame shaken by the collision and he clutched his neck. The obvious whiplash had stopped him making a break for it and now, as he tried to step out of the car, he came face to face with Sam.
The colour drained from his pale face, his blonde hair shaved short. He had two lines shaved in his eyebrows, but Sam could see through the faux gangster act.
Sean Wiseman was a numbers guy.
And, judging by the terror in his eyes, was absolutely petrified.
The sirens echoed loudly, only a few streets away and Sam reached out and grabbed Wiseman by the face, forcing him back into the car before stepping in, thankful for some respite from the downpour. He tightened his grip on Wiseman’s jaw, his fingers digging into the cheeks as he held his head in place.
Calmly, he pulled his own pistol from his side holster, pressing the barrel against Wiseman’s head and thumbing the safety.
The unmistakable smell of urine flooded the car as Wiseman abandoned any tough
