Behind him, he could hear the calm steps of Farukh, his military boots clapping casually behind. Whoever this man was, he was not part of Blackridge. Something told him that he was much worse. But what was his investment in Sam?
If he was working for Wallace, why?
Sam struggled to piece the dots and as he continued to drag himself across on his body like an injured snail, he could hear the man chuckle.
‘You were supposed to be challenge.’ The man tutted. ‘Like everything to do with this country, you are nothing but disgrace. Now tell me, where is USB stick.’
Sam pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from the punishment the man had dished out. His face was dripping with blood and his ribs felt like they’d been run through a blender.
‘Who are you?’ Sam asked, each word causing his split lip to sting.
‘My name is Ahmad Farukh. You know this name?’
Somewhere in the back of Sam’s mind, he did. While he couldn’t place the how or the why, he knew that the man wasn’t known for his good behaviour.
‘Why are you helping Wallace?’ Sam demanded, taking small steps as he walked backwards, edging his way closer to freedom. While his hopes of escaping had already diminished, Farukh humoured him by allowing him to continue.
‘I don’t help Wallace. I want stick,’ Farukh said calmly. ‘For it, I am willing to kill you quickly if you’re helpful. Continue to fight me, Sam, and I will ensure the pain is such that you beg for death.’
Sam took a second to contemplate his options. His body wasn’t capable of outrunning Farukh, that much was sure. The man had systematically targeted his legs, back and shoulders, ensuring Sam’s freedom of movement was compromised. Whatever red flag the name had set off in Sam’s mind, the man’s actions had clearly back them up. Over the past year, Sam had been through enough battles to know when he was outmatched. He had fought Mark Connor in the High Rise, the two of them dismantling the apartment before Sam had lodged a knife in the man’s eye and pushed it through to the brain.
In the abandoned tower overlooking the Port of Tilbury, he’d fought Oleg Kovalenko to the death, eventually hanging the simple behemoth with a hook through the jaw. Buck had fought with all the ferocity of a marine in the underground bunker in Rome, but Sam had been armed then and was able to put a bullet through the man’s skull.
All of those fights had pushed Sam to his limit.
But Farukh had every intention of pushing him beyond. Sam took a deep breath and his shoulders slumped.
‘Fine.’ He eventually relented.
‘Good. Hand it over.’ Farukh held out his hand, the knuckles a faint memory after years of fighting.
Sam reached into the inside of his jacket, his face resigned to defeat.
It was the only option he had.
It was a Hail Mary, but it was at least a fighting chance.
His fingers clasped around the handle of the thin blade Masters had attacked him with and in one swift movement, he drove it clean through Farukh’s palm, the blade bursting out the back of the hand with a visceral spray of blood. With one fierce shove, Sam drove the man’s hand down to his own thigh, pushing the blade through the jeans and into the thick muscle.
Farukh grunted with pain as Sam stepped back, hobbling as fast as he could towards the walkway and the possibility of escape.
That’s all it was.
A possibility.
Farukh pulled the hand clean from his thigh, his jeans stained with blood and in one sickening act of grit, pulled the knife back through his hand. He slammed the blade down onto the ground and then stomped after Sam, ignoring the roaring pain of his wounds and the blood that gushed from the both.
Sam stepped onto the walkway, just as Farukh grabbed the back of his jacket.
He spun Sam on the spot and drove a hard elbow into Sam’s throat, doing his best to crush it. Sam coughed blood, the air struggling to slide through and he stumbled back against the railing, the concourse behind him. Nearby civilians screamed in terror as the two bloodied men emerged from the corridor, and as Farukh stepped forward, Sam took his final throw of the dice.
He threw a leg out, driving his trainer into the fresh wound that adorned Farukh’s thigh.
It was like kicking a bee’s nest.
Nothing but rage erupted from Farukh, who drove forward, grabbed Sam by the scruff of his jacket and hurled him over the railing, letting him drop the fifteen feet to the unforgiving concrete below.
Singh had to clench her hands to stop them from shaking.
As the doors had shut and she descended in the elevator, she second guessed whether she should rush back to the top and help Sam.
But he’d made it clear to her.
This was his fight.
He had apologised as honestly as he could for dragging her into his world, and while her mind raced due to the kiss they’d shared, she knew she had to return to reality at some point. The man was a vigilante, paying no respect to the law that she’d dedicated her life to. While the system was doing its best to push her out and mark her as a criminal, she knew she couldn’t afford to give them any further reason to.
After a few moments, the lift shunted to a stop and Singh looked down at the motionless body of Brandt. The man had pointed a gun at her, with every intention of using it and thankfully, Sam had been there to save her.
Again.
She’d returned the favour of course, cracking the gun across the man’s skull to give Sam the advantage.
Her eyes lit up.
The gun.
Singh dropped to her knee and retrieved the handgun, and as she
