She had gone down fighting.
That was enough.
The man removed his foot from Singh’s arm and then raised his rifle, the barrel a mere inch or two from Singh’s forehead.
Singh closed her eyes. A myriad of images flashed before her eyes, memories of her childhood leaping through each other like she was whizzing past on a roller coaster. She found herself passing through fond moments of her life, from winning a netball championship in high school to passing out as a police woman.
A life well lived.
The man rested his finger on the trigger.
The rain crashed down around her, and Singh felt a sense of calm.
A gunshot rang out.
Singh opened her eyes as the man spun to the side, half of his skull splattering the concrete surrounding her. His wounded companion spun in a blind panic, his one good arm nervously holding her pistol out at the darkness. The body that had crashed next to her was still, blood spilling from the gaping hole in the man’s head.
A second shot rang out.
The bullet caught the man between the eyes, whipping through and out the back of his skull in an explosion of blood, brain, and bone. It splattered the concrete like an upturned can of paint, and he was dead before he hit the floor.
Singh tried to regain her thoughts, the blow to her head had scrambled her brain. As she slowly pushed herself to her feet, she heard the purposeful footsteps of her saviour. As the blurring began to subside, she looked out into the clearing at the figure marching through the dimly lit rain, reloading his rifle.
Sam Pope.
Still woozy, she stumbled forward, trying to recover the gun from the dead grip of the recently deceased.
Sam approached quickly.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘Sam Pope, you’re under arrest. You do not have to say anything…’ Singh said, pressing one hand to the back of her head. She pulled it back and thankfully, there was no bleeding.
‘Stop it,’ Sam ordered. ‘Right now, there are bigger things going on here than you and me, have you got that?’
‘I’m taking you in,’ she said, aware of her own desperation. Her obsession to catch Sam Pope had put her life in danger. She had been seconds from death and at that moment, the shock of what had just happened hit her.
Sam had seen it before many times when he’d served overseas. The first time someone is forced to face their own mortality and still walk away is a harrowing experience.
‘Look, you and I can settle up later. But right now, these people have Hill’s daughter and goodness knows how many other girls locked in a crate. I know where it is but it’s not going to be long until they do too.’
Singh took a deep breath and turned to Sam.
‘What do you need me to do?’
‘I need you to take this and get to that crate first.’
Sam smiled warmly and held his hand out, offering his own handgun. A conflict collided in Singh’s brain, as the dangerous vigilante she’d become obsessed with catching had not only just saved her life but was placing his trust in her enough to arm her. It annoyed her but he was right, there were bigger things at hand. She gingerly reached out her hand and took the gun, her knuckles aching from the furious punches she’d landed on her now deceased attackers.
Sam told her the location of the crate before expertly snapping the new cartridge into his assault rifle. He pulled it up to his chest and began to head towards the pathway Singh had just emerged from, heading directly towards the battle zone.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ Singh asked, perplexed at her concern for Sam’s wellbeing. Without looking back, Sam slowly walked towards the walkway as he responded.
‘To buy you some time.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mark Harris sat at his desk, his eyes scanning the speech he had commissioned the second he had gotten off the phone with Assistant Commissioner Ashton. She had informed him that they knew Pope’s location, as well as a possible shipment of abducted women. They were heading to put the entire situation to bed and Harris was preparing to milk the situation dry. He had hammered his flag to their mast, promoting the ‘Sam Pope Task Force’ publicly. After each failure, he himself had shielded the police, taking all the criticism on his perfectly structured chin.
Now it was time to reap the rewards.
The speech spoke of the bravery and dedication of the city’s finest officers. He even demanded a credit to DI Singh, despite her failure to get the job done. Harris still maintained a romantic interest in the fiery policewoman and pulling her up from the wreckage would surely work in his favour.
A polished grin flashed across his face as he imagined taking her out for dinner, knowing she would be indebted to him.
Harris always got what he wanted. It was what made him such a great politician and a shoe in for the mayor’s job. Everything was falling into place and as he finished reading the final line, he decided he had earned a treat.
He pushed himself out of his leather chair and strode across his plush office to his drinks cabinet, rows of expensive liquors all promising sweet inebriation. Harris removed the glass lid of the decanter and the scent of a twenty-year-old single malt Scotch wafted seductively towards him.
A liquid pat on the back.
As Harris tilted the decanter and let the rusty liquid splash into the expensive, crystal tumbler, he wondered whether he should call for Burrows. The man had worked diligently behind the scenes, managing the partnerships with his biggest benefactors. All Harris had to do was smile for pictures. What those companies did or how they impacted the city were of little consequence to him.
The only consequence that mattered was him being sworn in as Mayor of London, and then he would open as many doors for those who had opened them for him. Harris chuckled as he
