Singh stepped forward, her face a few inches away from the battered remains of Wiseman’s.
‘We will find Jasmine Hill, because we are damn good at our jobs. And I will personally bring Pope in myself.’ Singh stepped back, looking at the brutal beating the young man had taken. ‘Why are you protecting Pope, anyway?’
Wiseman turned his head away from her, surprising a tear that was struggling to make it through the broken remains of his eyes.
‘Because he didn’t turn his back on me. He tried to get me out of it.’
Wiseman thought about the card Sam had given him, the idea of a safe haven, a sanctuary that may be able to save him. Pull him back from the life he had always feared, that had finally caught up to him. The pain was agonising, his face was a battered mess and he was doubtful he would ever have a functioning hand again. Singh didn’t care, he knew that. Neither did the Met. He was just another criminal who had received a well-earned comeuppance.
But Sam Pope, despite his extreme measures, had given Wiseman the opportunity to step away. Had offered to help him.
Had cared.
Now, as the pain of his injuries threatened to overwhelm him and the angry Detective berated him, he refused to accept that Sam Pope was a danger to anyone other than criminals. He was far from a hero, but at least Sam Pope was doing things for the right reasons.
Unimpressed, Singh turned on her heel and stomped away from the brutalised young man, marching back down the corridor towards the elevator. She grunted a goodbye to the sister, who returned in kind.
They were both busy, the weight of expectation that rested upon their shoulders made them kindred spirits. As the elevator door pinged open and Singh stepped inside, she thought back to her grandfather, his words pushing her to do what she needed to.
Catch Sam Pope.
At all costs.
As the rain collided against the steel door of his garage, Aaron Hill took a deep breath. Sat in the driver’s seat of the hired car, he still had his fingers gripped around the wheel. His knuckles were white and a blister was threatening to form on the palms of his hands.
He felt sick.
Desperation had taken a hold of him, the anger of being so impotent. Sam Pope had dragged a naked gang leader into the boot of his car and got in, demanding he drive immediately. Aaron had panicked, stalled the car and had felt his breath quicken. Behind them, a gang of locals was gathering, all of them angry that a white man had stormed their estate and beaten the living hell out of a group of youths.
Things would turn even uglier very quickly.
Eventually, he had gotten the car started and pulled away, just as a brick had crashed against the rear window, cracking the glass into a tremendous pattern. They had sped through the busy streets until Sam finally got him to pull over, demanding he take deep breaths. Shaking, Sam had told him to get out, that he would take the car and handle it from there. Aaron, fear threatening to choke him, obliged, stepping out into the rainy streets of Sudbury and walked aimlessly away. Sam assured him he would see him tomorrow; that he would find out where his daughter was and get her back.
That had been nearly twenty-four hours ago. Since then, he had been visited by DI Singh and passively threatened as an accomplice.
He didn’t care.
All he cared about was getting his daughter back.
Anger jolted through his body once more and he took another deep breath. Seeing those photos earlier had lit a fuse and with Sam nowhere to be seen, Aaron had let it explode within him. He knew he was in too deep. He had known that when he approached the estate on his own, passing the discarded police crime scene tape that had been mockingly tossed to the ground. The same group of boys had been huddled around the door, a slight look of trepidation in their stance after yesterday’s humbling.
As Aaron had approached, one of them had stepped forward, just as they had done to Sam Pope the day before.
This time, however, they were not greeted by extensive hand to hand skills and a highly trained soldier on a mission. They were confronted by a desperate father who had seen red, and the oncoming youth was greeted with a gun barrel.
Aaron screamed at him to get on the ground, which the young man did instantly. Before the rest of the gang could hightail it, Aaron screamed at them to stop, marching through the rain, the gun pointed at them and his heart beating like a pneumatic drill. They stopped and he approached, demanding they remove their hoods. As the third member of the gang did, Aaron felt the flame reach the end of the fuse and he lunged forward, cracking Tyrone Clark with the handle of the gun. As he dropped to the ground, the rest of the gang ran in any direction they could, racing as far away as they could from the mad man with the gun.
Aaron, still seething, reached down and slid his hands under the lifeless arms of Tyrone and for the second day in succession, passers-by witnessed a man dump a gang member into the boot of a car and speed off.
Now, as he sat in his garage, a moment of calm wrestled control of his body and the gravity of what he had done hit him.
Aaron pushed open the door of the hire car, ignoring the collision with the wall of his garage, hunched over and vomited onto the concrete below. As he emptied his stomach, he fell to his knees, catching himself with his outstretched arms before he plummeted into the pile of
