‘Are you able to set up an untraceable line?’
‘Do bears go to church?’ Again, Sam stared silently at him. ‘Of course I can. Why?’
Sam took a deep breath. He hated the idea of it, but they needed to move quickly.
He pushed his guilt aside.
‘We need to call Amara Singh.’
Chapter Thirteen
General Ervin Wallace had never appreciated a weekend.
In his line of work, which was to protect the country, there were no days off. When he was in the armed forces, out on tour, they never took breaks because they had ‘got to the end of the week’. The culture of his country, to get boozed up at the end of a week sat behind a cushy desk embarrassed him.
He worked effortlessly for their freedom.
They were pathetic.
But ever since he’d gone into lockdown, Wallace had more free time than he’d anticipated.
The very real threat of Sam’s return had led him to call upon an old acquaintance that he’d tried to resign to the past.
Desperate times. Desperate measures.
But now, as he sat on the balcony of the safehouse he’d accosted in his bid for survival, he stared out over the fields below. The spring sun had risen over the trees and cast his beautiful country in a magnificent gold shimmer.
This, he thought, this was worth fighting for.
Not the miscreants who didn’t understand the meaning of the word sacrifice. The maggots who spout about how great their country is but would turn on each other the second shit hits the fan.
They were not worth the buckets of blood he’d spilt.
But this country was.
The evening before, he’d invited Assistant Commissioner Ashton over once again, their meal laden with awkward conversation verging on apologetic. Wallace could sense her fear of failure, which made her more accommodating when they made their way to his quarters. Again, the sex was more transactional than passionate and Wallace had arranged for her to be taken home early in the morning.
He had assured her that the discretion was for the protection of her sparkling career.
He was sure she believed it.
All he wanted to do was make a batch of Colombian coffee, light a cigar and sit on the balcony, trolling through the online papers.
It was then that his fist crashed ferociously against the glass table, shaking the pane, and spilling his latte.
His tablet rocked before falling forward onto its screen.
Wallace took a long, hard pull on his cigar as he launched to his feet, pushing out the thick, grey smoke in an endless plume towards the sun.
He rested his meaty forearms on the balcony railing and shook his head.
Helal Miah.
The fucking irritant.
The article had gone live that morning, an exploratory piece on Wallace’s career, with several serious accusations and links to some insidious deeds that Wallace had worked his hardest to keep off the books.
But nothing was ever fully off the books.
Someone knew. Someone always knew.
With a rage shaking through his body like a vibration, Wallace returned to the table and lifted his tablet, glad to see there was no damage to the screen. He scanned through the article again, bewildered at the level of detail the man had gone into.
Whoever his source was, they knew something.
Maybe it was Sam?
Wallace immediately laughed away the idea. Sam was blinded by his own self-righteousness, but he would never paint a bullseye on a civilian.
Whoever it was, Wallace needed them silenced.
Another thick cloud of smoke wafted from the balcony and Wallace pondered his next move.
He could call Ashton, tell her that Pearce’s efforts to quiet Miah had been pathetic.
Perhaps he could check in with his team and see if they had had any luck locating Sam?
Or Farukh for that matter.
The idea of such a violent man walking freely in his country made Wallace uneasy, like a sudden attack of sea sickness. But Farukh, while as barbaric as they came, wouldn’t attract needless attention. The man was a ghost.
Not one of Wallace’s.
He was his own man.
Thinking of his own assets, Wallace wondered about reaching out again to locate Mac, the man who had come so close to finishing off Sam Pope and rendering all of this pointless. The man had lived and breathed his vengeance for years, blaming Sam for the horrors he suffered through two years of captivity by the Taliban.
But that chance of redemption had been snatched away.
And with it, Mac had disappeared too.
Dangerous. Unhinged. Untraceable.
Wallace knew it was another mess to clear up, but it was quickly tumbling down the list of priorities. Mac was a potential problem.
Wallace was dealing with absolutes.
As Wallace took a deep inhale of his thick cigar, a voice he’d feared echoed behind him.
‘You still smoke those shit?’
Wallace dropped the cigar, turning abruptly and doing his best to hide any fear. The gentle shake of his hand and the sweat building on his line addled forehead betrayed him instantly.
It had been a long time since he’d seen Farukh.
The years had been somewhat kind to him. His hair, now tinged with grey was thinner, arching over his dome like a dull, wispy rainbow. His thick beard hid the cruel smile that sent shivers down Wallace’s spine.
Age had played the same trick on them both, their once impressive frames now bulking out, as the metabolism slowed.
Whereas Wallace looked like a big man in a neat suit, Farukh was a different type of menacing. He wore a black jacket and T-shirt, both of which were wrapped tightly against his solid mass. Jeans and boots.
The man carried little else, except for the box of cigarettes which he retrieved from the inside of his jacket. Without asking, he stepped out onto the balcony and took Wallace’s lighter, sparking the cigarette to life. Wallace shot a concerned glance to the front door.
‘Don’t worry. Your doorman is alive.’ Farukh took a puff and chuckled. ‘Asleep. But alive.’
‘How did you find me?’
Farukh smiled, his yellow stained teeth were crude and sharp, like a Rottweiler ready to pounce.
‘I find people. It is what I do.’
‘It’s what you used to do. Nowadays, not
