‘I have to eat,’ Farukh responded, dismissively.
‘Quite.’ Wallace stubbed out his cigar. ‘But I need you to find someone.’
Farukh, unblinking, took a long pull on his cigarette. The smoke filtered through the patio door and into the spacious kitchen, irritating Wallace. But he stayed silent.
‘You need me to clear up mess. Mess you promise never happen.’
Wallace sighed.
‘I know. Believe me, I have done everything to keep this contained. Hell, I even killed a dear friend of mine.’ Wallace shook his head as he remembered pulling the trigger and sending a bullet into the body of Carl Marsden. ‘But it wasn’t enough.’
‘What is name?’ Farukh said, flicking the cigarette off the balcony. He gazed out over the sun-drenched fields and was surprised to find such beauty in a disgusting country.
‘Sam. Sam Pope.’
Farukh turned, his eyebrow cocked.
‘Pope? The sniper?’
‘You remember him?’ Wallace could feel his palms sweating. As a man who had faced war with a grin on his face, he found himself scared of the man before him.
‘I remember what you did.’
‘Yes, well, that is part of it. He needs to be stopped and he needs to hand over the information.’ Wallace tried to wrestle the authority back. ‘Otherwise it will be over for both of us.’
Farukh lit another cigarette before taking two steps closer to Wallace. Both men stood tall and proud, their chests out. A silent dick measuring contest. With a cruel grin, Farukh took a puff and blew the smoke directly into Wallace’s face.
‘I will find him. This Sam Pope. I will make him give me the stick. I will kill him. I will kill those who help him.’
‘Good,’ Wallace stammered.
‘But I want that stick destroyed. All files wiped. And I never want to hear from you again.’
Wallace nodded greedily.
‘Absolutely. You have my word.’
Farukh took one step closer, seemingly growing in stature as Wallace shrank.
‘If not, then I will hang you for your country to see.’
As the threat hung heavy in the air like the tobacco laden fog, Farukh turned and marched back through the apartment, merrily puffing on his cigarette without any hint of respect for Wallace’s abode. As the door slammed shut, Wallace realised he’d been holding his breath and he let out a large exhale. As the air flooded through his lungs, he was able to stop his hands from shaking.
He was clammy. Sweat had drenched him.
There was very little in the world that scared him.
But Farukh did.
The Hangman of Baghdad.
Wallace smirked as he imagined the fate that awaited Sam, and all those who dared to oppose him.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
The man flashed a perfect white smile, his strong jaw sprinkled with stubble. The question snapped Singh back into the world, her mind wandering down several paths.
She hadn’t been home since her drink the evening before, instead dropping by her sister, Priya’s house in Barnet.
Three years older, married and with two beautiful daughters, Priya was the spitting image of the perfect child in the eyes of their parents. She had a stable family life with her husband, Ravi, a highly successful lawyer. Their home, a four-bedroom detached house, was as pristine as the outfits her sister always wore.
Even to pop to the shops, Priya looked like she was about to hit the catwalk.
But none of that had ever appealed to Singh, and she knew it never would.
While her parents were resigned to only having one pathway to grandchildren, she did feel some sense of pride from them when it came to her career.
The public praise she’d received for her work on project Yew Tree, as well as her handling of some potential terror threats, had filled her family with pride.
The brutal beating she’d suffered at the Port of Tilbury had shaken both her parents, but they’d showered her with praise for her determination to find those missing girls.
She hadn’t told them that she had worked with Sam Pope, the man she’d very publicly been put in charge of catching.
Now, with her career in the mud and being slowly stomped to a pulp, her parents saw nothing but failure.
For so long, she never failed.
Now, as she looked at the empty glass in front of her, it was all she was achieving.
She offered the man a smile.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Shame.’ The man shrugged. He had the arrogant aura of a man who made too much money. ‘I could have shown you a good time.’
‘I doubt it,’ Amara retorted. ‘Money can’t buy you brains.’
The man went to respond, smirked, and casually strode back across the bar, looking for another pretty woman to harass. What annoyed Singh most was that he would most likely be successful. She looked at her watch, noting that it was probably time to find a hotel for the night.
The article had gone out that morning.
Singh had enjoyed her chat with Helal, finding him to be a charming man with a genuine ability to listen. He was engaging and just as passionate about getting the truth out there as she was about exposing it.
But now that it was, she’d felt a sickening puddle begin to pool in her stomach.
It was one thing to kick the hornets’ nest.
It was another thing entirely to slather yourself in honey and dive in headfirst.
Blackridge had been tracking her ever since she’d typed the words ‘Project Hailstorm’ into her computer. The visit from Wallace, the unsubtle threat to her safety. Since then, every door had been slammed shut and every shoulder had turned cold. She was sure Ashton was screwing Wallace, the ridiculous schoolgirl crush was the easiest case she would ever crack.
Pearce had also dobbed her in, but as time had passed, she felt bad for the way their friendship had ended.
He was a good man and probably did put her safety first.
But it was too far gone now.
She was being followed.
Her home had been invaded.
Her safety had been threatened.
As she signalled for the bartender for
