There were many shady corners of every government that needed someone of his capabilities and he’d already made up his mind that once Sam Pope had been eradicated, he would step away from Blackridge.
It was time to move on.
But he couldn’t help but smile at Wallace’s order.
Any means necessary.
As all his ducks began to line up, he couldn’t help but let a broad smile crack across his strong jaw when he laid his eyes on a worried looking Amara Singh as she strode back across the station, her phone plastered to her ear.
She was clearly shaken, her panicked lips giving an earful to whoever was on the other end of the phone.
Sam Pope?
Perhaps.
It didn’t matter.
As she hurried her way towards the far end of the station, Brandt turned on his heel and followed. She turned right at the main tunnel to the outside, walking down a deserted walkway towards the staff elevator. Brandt had memorised the layout of the station, as was customary for any mission he undertook.
It was a dead end.
He was almost disappointed at how easy this would be.
As he turned to follow her down the walkway, he reached into his jacket, pulled out the Glock pistol and purposefully made his way towards Amara Singh.
Chapter Sixteen
Sam ran as fast as he could.
Bursting through the security door, Sam shot out onto the main concourse, drawing a few panicked looks from nearby civilians. Given the track record of instances in London train stations, he understood their concerns, but now wasn’t the time to quash public panic.
Not when there was a genuine threat nearby.
‘Where is she?’ Sam spoke, his finger to his ear so the block out the cacophony of noise that enveloped the station. Commuters were loudly discussing their plans, announcements were echoing from the sound system, and trains were roaring their engines as they departed.
Sam needed to hear Etheridge.
It was life or death.
‘Far corner. Nine o’clock.’
Sam propelled himself forward like an Olympic sprinter, barging past a group of lads who threw a few curses his way. Heads turned as a man with a bloodied mouth darted through the station, a few families cowering away. They were sure to alert security, if they hadn’t already clocked him and Sam appreciated all the mornings he’d spent running through the cold streets of Naples.
He rounded the corner, a long corridor leading down to the staff elevator.
There was no sign of Singh or the Blackridge agent.
Etheridge had no visibility.
Sam could feel his lungs screaming as he pushed on, hoping to god that he wasn’t too late.
Singh had walked down the deserted corridor of the station, the hysteria of the main concourse drowned out by the eerie silence afforded by the narrow walkway. A few empty billboards lined the wall, a reminder of a time when the corridor was part of the functioning part of the station. Now, all that remained were scraps of previous adverts, a remnant of something important.
A horrible metaphor for her own career.
Although her heart was racing through a mixture of fear and adrenaline, she zeroed in on her training. She wasn’t a damsel in distress. She was one of the finest young detectives the Met had ever seen, with an extensive background in combat.
But she’d seen the ugly side of Sam’s world and was smart enough to know that a team run by Ervin Wallace wasn’t to be messed with.
Wallace had already made it pretty clear to her that he would go to extreme lengths to keep the truth buried and she was certain that he would have no hesitation in burying her with it.
As she continued down the corridor, Singh heard the clomping of boots behind her. A quick glance told her she needed to hurry.
The man was about six foot three, his dark hair parted neatly at the side. His freshly shaven face was stoic, his eyes locked on her like a homing missile. While he was broad, he wasn’t particularly stocky, but he carried himself with the movements of someone highly trained.
Highly efficient.
The man pulled a Glock from the inside of his black jacket and Singh felt sweat slide down her neck.
Highly dangerous.
She rounded the small corner at the end of the corridor and her heart sank.
A dead end.
To the left, in a small alcove, was a rusty old elevator and she frantically tapped her thumb on the button. To her relief, the green light surrounded the button and somewhere above, she heard the agonised churning of an old pully system.
‘Do. Not. Move.’ The man’s words were deep and powerful, slathered in a thick, German accent. ‘Drop the phone.’
Singh obliged, hoping that Etheridge could still hear as it slapped against the concrete. Slowly, she began to turn.
‘I said don’t move,’ Brandt repeated, taking a step closer before crushing the mobile device under his weighty boot. Singh flinched at the crunch and began to question how many times she was going to look down the barrel of the gun before she realised how dangerous this game was.
In front of her, the lift dinged, and the doors struggled apart, revealing a surprisingly large elevator. A service lift designed for carrying large quantities of stock for the shops and the transport of defunct equipment. The thought crossed her mind to leap into the lift, hit the button, and slide through as the doors closed like a modern day Indiana Jones.
But she knew the man would fill her with holes before she even crossed the threshold.
‘Move. Into the lift.’ Brand stepped forward and prodded the gun into her spine. Singh tensed but then quickly obliged, stepping into the lift which suddenly felt a lot smaller. She finally turned to face her captor, who remained as expressionless as a mannequin.
‘I am a police officer…’ Singh began, scolding herself for even trying.
Brandt didn’t respond. He took a few steps towards the elevator, only turning as he heard the final footsteps but by then it was too late.
Sam had pressed himself against the wall as he approached the end of
