His mentor.
His best friend.
His wife.
His son.
Now his career. Everything had been taken from him, but there were still a few things left. A few people, like Etheridge and Singh who believed in.
He had lost so much, but not the one thing that would keep him going.
The fight.
With one final exhale, Sam swung his arm up, clamping his hand around Etheridge’s wrist and allowed his friend to haul him up. The room wobbled slightly, the dehydration kicking in and he offered his friend a smile.
‘Thank you, Paul.’ He gently patted his friend’s shoulder. ‘For everything.’
Etheridge nodded; their friendship had been forged when Sam had saved his life all those years ago. He was happy to return the favour.
‘So…what now?’
‘Right now, I need a beer,’ Sam said dryly. ‘And then we’re going to burn Blackridge to the ground.’
The article had practically written itself.
Helal Miah had been watching the news all evening, open-mouthed at the chaos that had transpired at Liverpool Street Station. A day after his article had seen an avalanche of traffic hit The Pulse website, it was a vindication that something strange was a foot.
Sam Pope was at the scene, clearly in the midst of a brutal battle with an unknown man who had tried to end his life. Discovered among the carnage were three operatives, all of them with links to Blackridge.
They had been beaten badly. Undoubtedly by Sam and Helal had thrown open his laptop and let the words flow. It was a sensational story and one that he knew he was walking dangerously on the cusp of.
Further footage had emerged as the night went on of Amara Singh blasting a handgun into the air moments after Sam had fallen from the balcony. It had caused a mass panic, allowing Sam and Singh to disappear into the crowds and evade whoever the hell was after them.
Blackridge?
The Met Police?
Were they in it together?
The beauty of Helal’s journalistic mind was nothing was out of reach. Speculative as it may be, he was beginning to piece together a very dangerous jigsaw, one which he hoped would shake the country almost as much as Sam’s crusade. After everything Singh had told him, there were too many coincidences, too many of the same names linking together for there not to be an element of truth to it all.
As the evening turned into night, Helal was strapped to his chair, adding the final touches of drama to the most explosive article he’d ever written, a couple of empty energy drink cans littering his desk.
The article had everything in it.
A detailed look back over Sam’s crusade, emphasising the links between the Met Police, Howell, and Frank Jackson. The disappearance of Sgt Colin Meyer not long after. The fall of the Kovalenko trafficking empire and the subsequent withdrawal of Mark Harris from the mayoral race. The emergence of Wallace and his increasing presence within the Met Police, his ties to Blackridge who had been present in Kiev, where Sam had burnt the final embers of the Kovalenkos.
The Blackridge bodies found outside of Naples a week ago while Italy had been the last known location of Sam.
It was all piecing together.
Wallace was hiding something. Blackridge was his shield.
Sam Pope was doing his level best to bust it wide open.
With a satisfying flick of his fingers, Helal signed his name to the article and sent it through to Nigel, knowing his boss would most likely have an aneurism at the wild claims he was making.
They would be liable for a lawsuit.
He could very well lose his job.
But with the same conviction Sam had when he faced the barrel of a gun, Helal believed in his words. He believed in the truth and was damn sure it was being hidden.
Just as he clicked send, there was a knock at his door. He sat upright, a gentle panic vibrating through his body. Hesitantly, he lifted himself from the chair and marched across his apartment, stopping to fetch a cricket bat which had only ever seen a batting cage once in their five-year relationship.
‘Who is it?’ he called out. There was no answer and slowly, he lifted his eye to the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
Shrugging his shoulders, he turned away from the door, only for the knock to return, this time with added venom.
Quickly, Helal reached for the handle, bat in hand and threw it open, hoping to terrify the young hoodlums clearly playing games.
He was welcomed by a hammer like fist to the face, the impact shattering his nose and breaking his glasses. As the shards of glass and stream of blood fell to the floor, he fell back into the room, tripping over his table, and collapsing to the floor, his head ringing and his eyes watering.
Ahmad Farukh stepped in, taking one final look into the hallway of the apartment block, happy that the coast was clear.
Helal rolled onto his front, helplessly trying to crawl back towards his office to reach for his phone.
It was an empty gesture of survival.
With his face as emotionless as his soul, Farukh shut the door and made his way towards his target.
Chapter Twenty-One
Singh took a large sip of her gin and let the alcohol work its calming magic.
Since leaving the station amidst the panic she’d caused, the rest of her day had become a blur. Whether it was fear or adrenaline, or maybe a mixture of both, she’d managed to slip away from Liverpool Street Station and the carnage of the situation. She’d made her way on foot back down towards Farringdon, the trainlines all brought to a grinding halt by the police as they locked down one of the UK’s busiest stations.
The public would be furious, their afternoon out in the sunny captal ruined by her actions, but she did what was necessary. Whoever that man was that confronted them by the lift, he was certainly dangerous, evidenced by the state in which she’d seen Sam.
He had been bloodied
