‘Is he armed?’
‘No. He’s with his yat.’ Sam arched an eyebrow. ‘His girl.’
‘Take me to him.’
‘The boss don’t like being disturbed when he’s getting fresh, you know what I’m saying?’
Sam pressed the gun to the young man’s forehead. The colour fell from his face, his eyes widening in genuine terror.
‘I do know what you’re saying and I don’t give a damn.’ Sam nodded to the door. ‘Let’s go.’
Slowly, the boy turned and walked calmly back towards the door of the building, the cold metal of Sam Pope’s gun pressed to his forehead. Behind him, three gang members were sprawled across the concrete in an unconscious tribute to his abilities.
In the Ford Mondeo parked at the side of the road, Aaron Hill stared, mouth open, at the sheer brutality of the man he had put his faith in.
Chapter Fourteen
Pearce let out a deep sigh as he pulled up to the estate, the streets a beehive of activity as police officers battled tirelessly against the elements and the growing crowd. Police tape framed the crime scene in front of the run-down estate and the groups of locals were angrily gesticulating that the law wasn’t welcome on this turf. Considering what Pearce had been told by Singh when the radio call had come in, it seemed like a bigger police presence in this area was exactly what was needed.
It would stop young adults falling in with the wrong crowd.
It could have stopped Sam Pope dismantling them in broad daylight.
Pearce and Singh had been in the Bethnal Green Youth Centre, discussing previous cases and war stories like old friends. As their tea had gotten colder, Pearce found himself warming to the ambitious young lady, recognising a tenacity that many would mistake for rudeness. She was a serial winner, determined to make the streets a safer place, and he admired her for it.
Sure, she was curt, but she cared.
Which made it difficult when it came to her priority.
Despite spending his entire life upholding the law, Pearce felt a kinship with Sam Pope. The man was a vigilante, taking the law into his own hands and representing everything Pearce had dedicated his career to stop. But somewhere along the line, Sam had shown him the clear fractures in the very system he served, exposing crime and corruption on a level that Pearce never could. Since then, he had taken down more criminal safe houses in six months than the entire Metropolitan Police had in six years.
Good and bad used to be black and white.
Sam Pope had painted it grey.
As Pearce stuffed his bearded chin into the collar of his coat, the wind slapped a frozen hand across his face, coating his dark skin with icy drizzle. The estate was a depressing collection of dirty, decrepit buildings, all shooting out from the earth like jagged teeth. The narrow balconies spiralled around the building and Pearce could see eager faces peering over the edges, members of gangs all wishing ill upon the unwelcome police force.
He didn’t blame them.
It wasn’t as if the Met had forgotten about this place.
It was as if they never knew it existed.
As he thought of the kids who walked through the doors to the Youth Centre, he looked over at the stern, wrinkle free face of DI Singh. Her dark eyes were wide with interest as a SOCO pointed to an area on the floor where they’d removed a young man with a broken arm and a shattered jaw.
Pearce could feel the ferocity emanating from her as she turned away and marched back towards him. The rain seemed to bounce off her like bullets off of Superman.
‘This is a lovely way to spend a Sunday, eh?’ She offered with a smile, looking around at the dreary estate.
‘It could be worse. I could be watching X Factor.’
Singh chuckled.
‘Well there goes my suggestion for this evening.’
Pearce smiled, annoyed at the inner conflict he was experiencing. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, gently rocked on his heels and looked around at the mayhem.
‘So, how many?’ Pearce eventually asked.
‘Eight in the hospital. No casualties,’ Singh stated coldly. ‘Seems your boy is showing some mercy.’
‘Firstly, he isn’t my boy, Detective Inspector,’ Pearce corrected with an authoritative tone. ‘And second, this doesn’t feel right does it?’
‘What do you mean?’ Singh raised her thin, dark eyebrows and turned to him. Pearce pulled his lips into a thin line, his eyes darting around the crime scene.
‘This. Last night. It doesn’t fit his routine.’
‘So he decided to beat eight men half to death instead of kill them. So what?’
‘But that’s just it. Six months ago, Sam wiped out an entire crime gang, killing thirteen men in the process. Since then, nothing. Sure, he’s put over forty people in the hospital and a number into wheel chairs, but he staved off the executing. But last night … last night was different.’
Pearce stepped forward, looking around the crime scene, imagining a rain-soaked Sam disarming and demobilising the look-outs. The young men who knew all the right words and stringently followed orders. Any normal man would have either turned and ran as fast as they could or would have been found dead in a bin behind the stadium.
But Sam took them apart quicker than he could dismantle a hand gun.
Why?
Singh stepped forward, her hair flat and soaked through. Behind her, a few police men in high-vis jackets spoke to an agitated group of locals, all of them decrying a ‘white man beating up black kids.’
‘So what the hell is going on?’
‘Something’s changed. Pope isn’t just on a quest for justice anymore. He’s too careful to be this reckless.’ Pearce shook his head. ‘Think about it. Yesterday, he only killed a few of the men in that High Rise. Riggs and a couple of his lackeys. The others … the guys in the street. He put them down with leg shots. So why did he kill the others?’
‘He had no choice?’ Singh offered, realisation creeping into her voice. ‘He
