There had been no response.
Wallace took another swig of his Scotch and then lit a cigar.
It was ten to one.
‘This is General Ervin Wallace,’ he barked into his headset. ‘We cannot fuck this up. Sam Pope is a wanted vigilante with government files that we believe he is trying to sell. The man is a turncoat and must be stopped.’
‘Understood.’ Brandt’s robotic voice cackled through, his German accent thick and menacing. ‘STK?’
Shoot to kill.
Wallace smirked. Brandt’s ruthlessness had always impressed him and while he would have loved to have given the order, he had to put his personal vendetta to one side.
‘Negative,’ Wallace commanded. ‘Our target is meeting Amara Singh in the middle of the concourse. Once we have eyes on her, I want all operatives to maintain their positions until visual is established.’
Sarah Masters, one of the other field operatives spoke up.
‘In position, sir.’
The final member of the three strong team, Will Cook echoed her message. Wallace watched the multiple cameras on his screen, all of them laid out like a grid. He could see Brandt stood by the ticket machines to the left of the escalators, his muscular frame shrouded in a leather jacket. Somewhere within, it concealed a firearm that his itchy finger was undoubtedly craving.
All three of them wore earpieces, along with heart rate monitors, their vital signs displayed in a small window on Wallace’s screen.
He had eyes on everything.
‘We have visual of Singh.’
A voice cackled through from The Hub, one of the analysts speaking in a nervous tone.
‘Eyes open,’ Brandt barked, as he tried to blend into the pandemonium of one of the UK’s busiest train stations on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The footfall was massive, with the station linking to a number of major UK cities, bringing a large number of tourists and day trippers to the capital city.
There were plenty of witnesses.
Enough people to blend in.
Several chances for this to go wrong.
Wallace nervously ran his hand across his mighty brow, the skin slick with sweat. He pulled a cigar from the gold-plated case on his desk and snapped the end off with the cigar cutter which still bore the bloodstains of his dear friend, Carl Marsden.
It reminded him of how out of control the whole situation had got.
Good men had died.
The national security of the country was at stake.
The very real threat of Farukh hung over him like one of the bodies of the man’s victims.
‘I repeat,’ Wallace barked as a thick, grey plume of smoke snaked into the bright, spring afternoon. ‘We cannot fuck this up.’
‘Understood,’ Brandt answered immediately, his voice calm.
Wallace’s eyes flickered around the screens and he felt himself hold his breath, as the digital clock at the bottom of his screen flicked to one o’clock.
The knot in Sam’s stomach tightened.
London Liverpool Street Station was a hive of activity, the foot traffic absorbing the concourse as the city went about its business. Stood on the upper level, he watched as people filtered in every direction. Directly in front of him, he could see the steps which led down to the London Underground, connecting the commuters with the rest of London through the Metropolitan, Circle, and Hammersmith & City lines. As droves of people made their way underground, Sam cast his gaze across the rest of the station.
The high ceiling was made of thick, glass panels, allowing the spring sunshine to bathe the public in its warm glow. Underneath the walkway that Sam stood, entrances to the national rail line platforms were in full effect, with station staff checking the tickets of those heading in and out of the city. With connections all over the country, the station was one of the busiest in the country, if not Europe itself. In the centre of the main concourse, a vast, computerised screen hung, divided into nineteen boards, all of them providing information on a specific platform.
Trains were running late.
Some had already arrived.
The volume of the station echoed around the impressive structure like an orchestra, a calming beauty compared to the isolation Sam had endured in Italy.
He thought of Alex Stone.
Where had she gone?
It had broken his heart to leave her. They had forged a bond, not off the back of the one night of passion, but of their reliance on each other. They had saved each other’s lives, literally, and had survived together. Alex had nursed him back to health, when the ghost of his past and come close to claiming him.
He had made her a promise.
While he intended to keep it, he knew he had to break it to keep her safe. Hopefully one day she would understand and when the time came that he could reunite her with her family, he hoped she would forgive him.
If he didn’t end it, she would never be safe.
Lodged in his left ear, the high-tech earpiece crackled.
‘Sam. How’s it looking?’
Etheridge was back at base, headset on, and his permanently damaged knee resting comfortably on the leg support. He had hacked into the station CCTV system, laughing at the pathetic security system they had in place. For such a valuable gem in the London economy, the transport service’s digital protection was alarmingly bad. He made a note to offer his guidance, using his expertise to enhance their platform but there were bigger things in hand.
They needed to bring down Wallace.
They needed to open the files.
They need to know the truth.
Sam looked around, drawing a wry smile from a pretty woman as she walked past.
‘It’s busy,’ he responded, shyly looking away from the woman and lowering his head. He wore a black baseball cap and a navy bomber jacket, with Etheridge ordering him some new clothes online and paying for express delivery.
It paid to partner with a man who had a serious bank
