He weaved to the left, the blade slicing through the air a few inches from his ear, before Masters sliced back towards him. Sam managed to raise his arm, countering her momentum with his own powerful forearm. Masters relinquished the knife, dropping it but catching it swiftly with her left hand and again lunged forward, hoping to disembowel Sam. Sam stepped back, colliding with the wall and once the knife missed, he grabbed Masters’ wrist, wrenched her towards him, and dropped to his knee.
The sound of her face colliding with the solid brick wall was sickening and Sam wasn’t surprised to feel her limp body fall on top of him. Blood was pumping from her nose and eyebrow and he would bet his watch and wallet on her missing some teeth.
Sam dropped his shoulder and let her roll onto the concrete. As he lifted himself to his feet, he reached for the knife. After a quick inspection and an impressed nod, Sam slid it into the inside of his bomber jacket. Cook, unable to speak, moaned in pain as he tried to get to his feet. Sam shook his head as the man feebly raised his only functioning hand, challenging Sam to continue.
‘Really?’ Sam asked, shrugging. Cook, his jaw hanging slack, lunged pathetically. Sam easily sidestepped, pulled the arm in, and drove a knee straight into the man’s gut, before driving an elbow to the back of his skull.
Cook was out like a light.
Sam spat blood from his busted lip, stretched out his aching back and then pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. Inside, it contained sheets of transparent plastic which Etheridge had procured from a stationery shop.
Quickly, Sam dropped to his knee and systematically pressed each hand of the unconscious duo against a separate sheet, ensuring their fingerprint smudged clearly.
Neither of them moved throughout the process.
‘Paul, I’ve got two sets.’ He raised his finger to his ear, realising then that the earpiece was gone. ‘Shit.’
Sam scrambled to his feet and stepped out of the stairwell to where he and Cook hit the wall. Scanning the floor, he felt his heart rate calm as he found the earpiece quickly. As he lifted it and turned, a small, portly station security guard stood. With his hand on his radio, his jaw dropped at the carnage through the doorway, he stared at Sam with fear in his eyes. Sam looked at the motionless bodies, as well as the blood on his knuckles, before returning his gaze to the security guard. Slowly, he raised a finger to his lips. The security guard nodded his understanding, before turning nervously and walking back towards the main walkway.
Sam let out a deep breath.
That was close.
He put the earpiece back in.
As soon as he heard Etheridge’s cries of panic, he darted through the door, leapt over the prone mess that was formerly the Blackridge field team and bounded down the steps three at a time, hoping to god he wouldn’t be too late.
‘What the fuck is happening?’ Wallace exclaimed, his fists slamming against his glass balcony table and rocking its contents. The ashtray, now full of disposed cigar ends rattled. ‘Get me some fucking images!’
Wallace was furious. Just as his team had got into place, the CCTV feed dropped. Considering the amount of government money he’d spent to build his operations hub, he doubted it was to do with faulty wiring.
Someone had scrambled the system and what infuriated him most, was that nobody in his team seemed able to reverse it.
Wallace had expected the best.
He made damn sure he paid enough for it.
Failure was not an option and he made a note to march into the secluded location once it was all over and personally end the careers of the hapless team working the operation. He had long passed the point of playing nice.
He needed Sam Pope.
He needed that USB stick.
Not only to protect his career and his reputation, but after the very clear warning from the Hangman, his life. Thinking of Farukh sent a shiver down his spine, then caused his knuckles to whiten as there had still been no response.
Wallace hated not being in control, but at that particular moment, he felt it filtering from his fingers like dust in the wind. A few moments later, he heard from Brandt that Singh had made her way to the far side of the station and the fearless German commanded Cook and Masters to follow. With the reassurance granted by Brandt’s terrifying efficiency, Wallace had afforded himself a brief comfort, lighting yet another cigar and pouring another glass of Scotch.
His lungs and liver be damned.
As he sat back down, his discomfort quickly returned.
The heart rate monitor in the corner of his screen quickly told him things hadn’t gone to plan. Clearly, Cook and Masters were unconscious.
Sam Pope.
Wallace slammed another meaty fist onto the glass table, sending a crack shooting through the pane. A few cigars toppled from the overstuffed ashtray and he hurled his glass tumbler as hard as he could against the balcony wall. It shattered, not unlike his confidence in the mission.
Luring Sam into the open was not going to work.
They had to smoke him out.
Wallace slammed his headset back on.
‘Brandt,’ he barked. ‘Fucking answer me.’
‘Sir,’ Brandt crackled, his voice emotionless.
‘Masters and Cook are down. It’s time to stop pussyfooting around and bring Sam in.’ Wallace puffed his cigar. ‘Get Singh. By any means necessary.’
‘Copy that,’ Brandt replied. ‘Any, sir?’
Wallace dropped back in his chair and squeezed the bridge of his nose with clammy fingers.
He had a potential clean-up job on his hands.
But needs must.
‘Affirmative, Brandt,’ Wallace eventually said. ‘Any means necessary.’
Brandt removed the earpiece from his ear, tired of the weary orders of a man slowly losing his grip. While he’d been handsomely rewarded for being one of Wallace’s top assets, Brandt knew his skill set would see many offers laid at his
