Aaron knew that and despite the fury, Sam could tell the man was nervous. A few droplets of sweat were forming around his hair line, his eyes flickered from side to side.
Sam watched, took it all in.
Every detail.
He may not have had a plan, but he had a gun.
He had training.
And he had a rapidly declining window.
Calmly, he reached a gloved hand to the door handle and flicked it, the door popping open slightly and an immediate blast of cold air violated the vehicle. Aaron turned uncomfortably.
‘Wait here. Don’t do anything stupid,’ Sam ordered. ‘If I’m not back in five minutes, go. Okay? You do not wait for me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Aaron stammered. ‘B-but…’
‘Do you understand?’ Sam barked firmly, causing the driver to jolt with apprehension.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Sam kicked open the door and stepped out, feeling the eyes of the gang latch on to him like an eagle swooping over a field mouse. He casually eased a hand to the base of his spine and felt the pistol wedged in the band of his jeans. He lowered his head back into the car as Aaron spoke.
‘What are you going to do?’ Aaron asked, his eyes wide with fear.
Sam offered his reassuring smile.
He was headed into a no-win situation.
As rogue rain drops infiltrated the back of his neck and slid down his spine, he replied, ‘Something stupid.’
Slamming the door shut, Sam stepped around the car, headed towards the building and the eagerly awaiting gang, as the arch of Wembley Stadium cut through the dark, grey sky above. As he approached the doorway, the first hooded figure moved forward, his head low, a bandana pulled across his face.
‘Yo, what you doing here, cuz?’ the young man said coldly, his arms out as if he was offering a hug. Despite the boy’s intentions, Sam felt no intimidation.
Just pity.
The gang consisted of teenage boys, all of them besotted with the gangster lifestyle. All of them dealt horrible hands by society and gang culture which had undoubtedly run rife through this part of London.
The parts that are not just forgotten about.
The parts people didn’t even know existed.
Sam knew the young man would have a blade on him, the rules of the street pretty much necessitated these gangs were armed. In a different scenario, he would want to help them all. Talk to them. Try to put them on a better path.
But somewhere, Jasmine Hill was terrified and facing a life worse than the ones they’d chosen.
There was no time.
As the thug reached towards the pocket of his hoody, Sam thrust his arm forwards, connecting with a hard uppercut right to the diaphragm. Despite the tight muscles of the gangster’s stomach, he felt the air rush out, winding him instantly. As the thug hunched over, gasping for air, Sam expertly drove his knee into the side of his skull.
The thug crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
The next hooded guard dog was on him within seconds, wildly slashing at him with a crude knife, the blade slicing through the rain drops as Sam arched his neck back, evading each murderous swipe. On the fourth one, he threw up his arm, connecting his elbow viciously with the attacker’s frail forearm.
He heard it snap.
The knife fell to the floor.
The attacker stumbled back, and Sam took a two-step run up, leapt upwards and caught him with a punch which cracked his jaw and shut his lights out.
The two remaining gang members were fumbling in their pockets, one of them desperately trying to find his weapon while the other flicked through his phone in terror.
Sam whipped the gun out from the back of his jeans with a fluid motion, bringing it up with both hands until the chamber was at eye level.
He couldn’t miss.
‘Stop. Both of you,’ Sam demanded.
The two gang members did as they were told and Sam approached them both slowly, the rain crashing against the metal of his Glock. With their hoods up and faces covered, it was hard to identify them, but Sam could see from their eyes that they were terrified. He needed them that way.
‘Hoods down, now,’ Sam ordered, knowing that there would be no chance of a police intervention. Not in this estate. Both of them obliged, their hoods sliding backwards and their bandanas pulled down.
They were so young.
Sam’s knuckles whitened with fury at the lives these young men were exposed to. They couldn’t have been older than eighteen years old. The two unconscious members who were motionless in the rain behind him couldn’t have been either.
Sam knew he had a mission, one that was rapidly running out of time. He knew that he needed the head of the gang, the person who put all this into action.
The man who had orchestrated the kidnapping of Jasmine. Knowing he was the same man who encouraged these young men to strive for this lifestyle, who demanded they use acid to disfigure and destroy to prove their ‘worth’ to him made this even more necessary.
Sam needed to get to him. Now.
With regret, he looked at the two frightened young men before him. They were drenched, the relentless rain soaking them through. He marched towards the one to his left and before the thug could react, Sam swung the gun and crashed the hard, metal handle against the side of his head.
The young man crumpled into the puddles surrounding them.
Sam spun on his heel, aiming the gun at the final member who swallowed hard and was shaking more out of fear than the cold. Sam was sure, that despite all the tough talk and the gangster lifestyle, the young man had never looked down the barrel of a gun before.
If he had, Sam was sure it wasn’t attached to someone as deadly as he was.
With brisk steps he approached, pressing the gun to the young man’s chest.
‘How many?’ he demanded, looking up at the dour building and trying to think back to a time where he wasn’t about to storm a building full of criminals.
‘Eight. Including us.’
