He hated being wrong.
‘Who authorises these payments then?’
‘The only person who has access and authority to use my signature is Burrows.’ Harris had regained a little composure. ‘I’m sure he can clear this up.’
Pearce stomped across to the chair and lifted his coat, sliding his arms back into the drenched sleeves as Harris leant forward and pushed the top button on his phone.
The speaker phone beeped to life.
‘Carl, can you come in here please?’ Harris waited. Pearce was already heading to the door. ‘Carl?’
‘Don’t bother.’ Pearce stopped at the doorway, shaking his head with anger. ‘He’s already gone.’
‘Gone? But why?’ Almost immediately the realisation hit Harris like a lightning bolt. ‘No? Not Carl?’
‘I need to find him. Now!’ Pearce shouted, turning to leave.
‘But what about me? My campaign?’ Harris whinged. The self-centred nature made Pearce clench his fists with anger.
‘Like I said, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.’
With that, Pearce marched back out into the hall, fishing for his police radio to put out the search on Carl Burrows. In his office, Harris slumped into his chair once more, tears flooding his eyes. In a moment of rage, he lifted the crystal tumbler and hurled it across the room, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces and crashing to the ground.
A horrible similarity to his political career.
He wept.
Sam burst out from his dark shadow and into the opening of the port, three of Kovalenko’s armed guards instantly raining heavy gunfire in his direction. The barrage of bullets rattled the metal just behind him and he leapt through the rain and crashed down behind a forklift truck. More bullets rattled off the frame work of the vehicle and he readjusted his grip on his rifle, the relentless rain causing it to slip in his hand.
The gunfire would undoubtedly alert more henchmen and armed police.
He was a sitting duck.
As he’d raced through the port, he’d done his best to draw the attention of Kovalenko’s men, luring them away from their intended cargo. If all the gunfire was aimed in his direction, then there was none aimed at Singh as she made her way to Jasmine. Beyond the three men was the outer fence, and Sam could see the radio tower.
His back-up plan.
Three more bullets ricocheted off the metal and he knew it wouldn’t be long until his time ran out. Sam slipped the cartridge from the gun and checked.
Five bullets left.
He snapped it back in and scrambled to his feet, his back pressed against the side of the truck. Somewhere behind, he could hear footsteps slowly splashing in puddles. As he had darted into the clearing, he had clocked the location of the three men, committing to memory their standing points.
He made a logical conclusion as to how far they’d moved by the slowness of their steps slapping the wet concrete.
It was something he had done a number of times when buried deep under cover on a cliff face, his rifle aimed at a moving enemy target. Anticipating the movement was what had made him so deadly.
Anticipation and his clarity of thought. Sam never second guessed himself and as he spun out from the lifesaving cover of the vehicle, he saw that he had been correct. The floodlight above hindered his view, but the three figures were approaching in his anticipated formation, their rifles ready.
One bullet slammed into the metal a few inches from Sam’s body.
Sam sent his bullet directly into the shooter’s forehead. Spinning on his heel, Sam dropped to one knee as three bullets skimmed past him, the last one grazing the sleeve of his jacket.
Sam unloaded two more. They embedded in the second shooter’s chest, lifting him off the ground and two red sprays bursting out of his back and into the rain. The man was dead before he crashed into the ground.
A gunshot rang out.
Sam felt the burning sensation ripple through his left thigh as the metal ripped through his flesh and muscle. The bullet burrowed through and out the other side of his leg, a spray of blood chasing after it. The memories of Project Hailstorm came flooding back, the searing pain of being shot and the feeling of your life escaping your body with every pump of blood.
Sam collapsed to the side, swung his rifle up, and sent his penultimate bullet into his attacker’s knee cap. The man screamed in agony as he collapsed forward, and Sam pulled the trigger for the final time.
He watched as the bullet pierced the man’s eyeball before blowing out the back of his skull. He collapsed forward, his back arched and blood overflowed from the gaping hole in the back of his head.
Sam groaned with pain as he pushed himself up, pressing his hand firmly against his thigh. He felt the thick, warm blood filter through his fingers, and he tried to run, his leg buckling and he limped unsteadily towards the fence. Behind him, he could hear furious voices screaming commands and the incoming patter of footsteps.
Quicker, Sam.
Every step caused him to wince, but he hobbled through the bloody battlefield and made his way to the fence, falling against the chain-link panel and trying desperately to catch his breath. He could see the flashing sirens further to his right, the final few officers retreating to think up a new strategy. Beyond them, four more SUVs were gunning down the road towards the war zone.
Kovalenko had called for the cavalry.
A bullet clattered the fence post next to Sam and a few more whizzed by. Another band of armed men had flooded the area, all of them training their guns at Sam. Ignoring the pain Sam pushed himself upwards, scaling the fence and dropping to the other side and into the shadows below.
He felt woozy, the blood loss nipping at his consciousness like an over eager puppy.
With painful steps, he hurried across the dark street to the abandoned radio tower, dislodging the wooden panel he had loosened earlier and he slipped in, just as a
