The image is frozen on the screen and using state-of-the-art technology, it is enhanced.
‘Rumours abound that the man in question is Sam Pope, the wanted vigilante who was last reported to have brought down a people trafficking ring. A further sweep of the building found three unconscious people, all belonging to the same private security firm, Blackridge. They have been contacted for a comment, but so far, all contact has been unsuccessful.’
Wallace slumped in the chair opposite the tablet, his mind racing. Again, it felt like the tablet itself was running his own inner monologue out loud.
‘With the first sighting of Sam Pope in months, what does this mean for the city of London? What are the links to Blackridge? Who was the unidentifiable man who tried to kill Sam Pope? These are questions that will probably burn on for a while, until the Metropolitan Police, Blackridge, and our own government, can provide answers. Aseem Chaudary, BBC News, London.’
Wallace slammed the tablet face down onto the glass table. The crack from his earlier display if frustration had grown and he grunted as he made a note to have it replaced. He would claim it back through the government, another gift, paid for by the good people of Britain.
The way he saw it, he’d sacrificed enough over his lifetime for their freedom. The least they could do was pay for his comfort.
Comfort? He chortled, pouring himself another glass from the decanter and smelling the fiery stench of his Scotch. This was what he’d been reduced to.
Hidden away, drinking away his fears and frustrations, and hoping for a solution. A man of his stature and reputation had never left anything to chance. There was always a plan, always an angle to work. Whether it was infiltrating various terrorist cells, planning the coup of a government, or just executing a known traitor, Wallace had a plan.
There was always a road to his desired outcome, one that he would have meticulously laid out by his experts.
But this?
They had released the most brutal assassin he’d ever come across into the country, hoping he would bring Sam in. It had almost worked, but they were fishing in the dark.
He needed an absolute.
He needed a plan.
First things first, he needed to shut down the media. A quick phone call later and he’d given a clear directive to the communications expert of Blackridge, to give a blanket statement distancing themselves from the operation. As vague as possible, it would at least keep some of the wolves from the door.
But others would be more persistent.
Like Helal Miah.
As if his skull was an empty piggy bank, he felt the penny drop, rattling inside his brain. An evil smile crept across his unshaven face, his teeth, stale and unclean chomped together. Another phone call, this time to his software experts and the plan was in motion. It would only take them a few moments, as they were some of the best on the business. Although, after being outshone by whoever was helping Sam, Wallace wasn’t sure that held any weight anymore.
They needed to deliver, especially if they wanted to keep their jobs.
Feeling a little more relaxed, especially as he’d begun to claw back elements of control of a situation that threatened to bring his entire empire to its knees, his tablet pinged.
The email had been sent.
It was a record of Helal Miah’s phone record, all the messages and most importantly, the location. On a separate tab, he had the exact same information for Amara Singh.
On a third tab, his analyst had pulled together all the instances of communication between the two. While only a couple of text messages had been sent, the records pinpointed the exact date, time, and location when they met.
Two evenings ago.
It was the day before the ‘Project Hailstorm’ article was published.
‘Bingo,’ Wallace spoke, his sinister words creeping from a cruel grin.
There were a thousand reasons why people went to war. Power. Religion. Racism. Freedom. Famine. The list was endless. But for men like Sam, there was only one. The need to fight. Wallace admired, envied, and loathed Sam’s boy scout nature, his incessant need to fight for the right thing. It had led them on a collision course that by now, they both knew could only end one way.
But to lure Sam from the mission, Wallace had to make him fight for something else.
Something he cared about.
Amara Singh.
Chuckling at his own twisted genius, he lifted his phone once more and called the Hagman of Baghdad. There was no fear this time.
After a few rings, the phone answered, but there was no voice. No respect. No honour among thieves.
Wallace gave the clear instruction, hung up the phone, took a large swing of his drink and toasted to the memory of Helal Miah.
‘Stop being such a pussy.’
Etheridge shook his head at Sam, who hissed in pain as he pressed the cloth to his busted lip. Etheridge had invested decent money in a top of the range medikit, not wanting to take any chances after the beating he’d received from the man in black at the end of the previous year.
Sam understood, and was grateful, but pressing antiseptic liquid onto his split lip stung like hell.
Etheridge lifted Sam’s shirt and pressed his fingers against his ribs, prodding them gently. On the fourth prod, Sam grunted, and the bone was definitely cracked.
‘You certainly took a beating,’ Etheridge said.
‘You should see the other guy,’ Sam said dryly, pushing himself up from the chair and pull his shirt down.
‘I did. He was terrifying.’
‘Not going to argue with that.’
Etheridge smiled and pulled two beers from the glass fridge under his desk, popping the caps off with his keyring and handing one to Sam. While his new diet and lifestyle had seen him cut out his daily alcohol habit, something told him his friend needed a beer.
By the look of him, he needed a doctor, but sadly, there wasn’t too
