He shook his head and continued.
‘What matters is the fight. Now before you try to talk me down, Sam, I know I was never much of a soldier. But I’m a good man. I watched you go to war for a young girl you’d never met because it was the right thing to do. From what you told me about what happened in Italy, you’ve started a fire with Wallace’s fucking hit squad to try to save a good man. Because it was the right thing to do. I can’t fight out on the streets like you can, but I have the knowledge and the resources to help you. To do the right thing. So what do you say?’
Sam leant back against the doorframe and downed the rest of his beer. He looked at his friend and clenched his jaw.
‘It was never meant to go this far. I promised my son I was done killing people, but when he was taken from me and the law did nothing, it changed me. I came this close to ending it all but a good man pulled me back from the brink. Then, when I started taking down the criminals the police couldn’t, when I saved those girls, I started to get a little piece of who I was back.’ Sam felt his voice break slightly. ‘I know I’ll never see my boy again. That I’ve broken my promise to him. But I couldn’t save him, so if I can save another, then I will.’
Etheridge awkwardly pushed himself up out of his chair, steadying himself on his dodgy leg and extended a hand.
‘Then let me help you, Sam.’
Sam hesitantly took a breath and then clasped the hand and shook it tightly.
‘Okay, on one condition. You stay right here. I won’t have you taking another bullet for me.’
‘Trust me, I am more than happy with that condition.’ Etheridge chuckled and dropped back into his seat, swivelling back towards his screens. ‘So, what’s first?’
‘We find Wallace.’
‘Okay, and then what?’
Sam’s eyes narrowed with fury.
‘We bring it down around him.’
Chapter Eleven
As he drummed his fingers on the desk, Helal stared at his screen. The article had flowed from his fingertips like an unstoppable wave, his trademark dramatic flair dancing across his words.
It was a sensational story.
One he almost fully believed.
And that was the problem.
In the near two decades he’d been writing articles and working his way up the journalistic ladder, he’d always followed one strict principal.
He had to believe in what he was writing.
There were plenty of hacks who were more than happy to bash out a two thousand word click bait article and collect their wages. It didn’t matter if it was an article body shaming a young celebrity, or a needless list about a popular TV show. Some of the newer ‘journalists’ were chasing clicks, which meant more money. It was the way the world had been heading for a long time and Helal had seen the trend emerging way before Nigel and had helped him to somewhat steer the ship upstream.
Sure, the office was filled with the younger generation, fixated on ‘pumping out as much content as possible’. They were a vital cog in The Pulse machine. Their empty, shallow articles generated enough money for Nigel to fund the real writers, the ones who put the world into word and laid it out for the public to see.
Helal knew his articles didn’t make him popular with some places. He was banned from every football ground in London for his expose on the shifty dealings between owners and agents.
He had been given a police escort for a week after he exposed a racist element to a political party.
Death threats had been made.
His name had been dragged through the mud.
But it had never bothered him. Because he’d believed every word he’d written.
This. This felt different.
His last article had landed him in hot water and had clearly irked the chain of some pretty powerful people within the Metropolitan Police. The detective, Pearce, had been polite enough, but it was going to take more than a stern plea from a nice man to get him to back down. Helal knew the only reason they wanted him to stop was because he was right.
But this…he wasn’t so sure.
Amara Singh was an engaging woman and it had taken every part of Helal’s resolve not to turn the drink into something more casual. She was one of the most attractive women he’d ever met, but her tenacity was what really struck him. Clearly, for a young lady who had achieved so much by her mid-thirties, she refused to back down from most challenges.
And from what she was willing to share with him, that was still the case.
She knew she was jeopardising her career, even her own safety.
Singh had told him all about the late-night visit from General Ervin Wallace, a man revered by the national press like the second coming of Winston Churchill. While he shared the same lack of hair and burly physique, that was where the similarities ended. In Helal’s opinion, Wallace was a war mongerer and he questioned whether Singh was right to provoke a beast who has shown many times he was all too willing to strike out.
But she was adamant.
Adamant that the government were hiding something. That there was a secret project, one which tied Wallace and Sam Pope together and one that Wallace wanted kept hidden.
Her life had been turned upside down.
She was being forced out of the job she’d fought for her whole life.
She had to lose a tail just to make it to see him.
Whatever it was, it was big.
Helal glanced at the clock, shook his head at the unruly hour that presented itself and poured himself another glass of Scotch. The liquid burnt his throat as he knocked it back
