Sam was lucky to be alive.
And, as her hand trembled as she lifted her glass, she realised so was she.
As she’d meandered through the backstreets of London, she’d stopped to withdraw three hundred pounds from her account, maxing out the withdrawal limit, but made sure she ventured further. In all likelihood, her peers would link her to the scene of the chaos and would be looking for her.
Ashton would make it a priority.
If she needed an excuse to finally shove Singh through the exit door, she now had one. In fact, she probably had enough to build a case to put Singh behind bars.
Knowing she couldn’t go home, Singh continued through the sunshine until it began to descend, walking through the beauty of Russell Square, amazed at the greenery smack bang in the centre of the city. Kids ran gleefully through the fountains, as parents gathered on the grass, joking with each other as they sipped Pimm’s and shared snacks.
Normal lives lived by normal people.
For the first time in her own life, Singh envied them. She envied her sister; the tranquil family life she’d settled into was a world away from her own.
Once a promising detective, she was now a wanted woman. Not only had she bitten the hand that fed her, but she’d also enraged an entirely different beast.
Wallace had sent Blackridge to the station to catch Sam and judging by the gun pointed at her face by the agent at the lift, she was now expendable. They would be watching her home like a hawk.
Things could never go back.
Not while Sam’s war waged on.
She finished her drink and motioned to the barman for another; the young man offering her a sorrowful smile as he obliged. The Lord John Russell was a small pub just off the Bloomsbury shopping arcade near Euston and afforded her enough of a hiding place for now. The narrow alleyway that ran alongside the pub was packed with locals, all of them enjoying the humid evening and filling the tunnel with drunken banter and cigarette smoke.
As she sat against the old, wooden bar, she’d already rebuffed the lecherous advances of two separate men, both of them offering her a good time but unlikely to follow through.
As she paid for her drink, she felt anger at having to pay in cash.
It was a reminder of her situation, that she had to stay off the radar and it filled her with rage. Sam had used her as bait. He explained to her why, trapped in the small, metal lift with her, but it still hurt.
While Sam may have been a good man, he’d still put her in harm’s way.
A means to an end.
As she furiously knocked back her drink, she wondered if that was really what had angered her. That, or the kiss they’d shared. That among all the mayhem, the violence, and the fight that had ruined her life, there was a glimpse of a life she could have had.
What annoyed her most was that she cared about him.
That after everything, from the humiliation he put her through at Etheridge’s house, to the beating and near death she suffered in the port, she still cared for a man that her entire life’s work had told her she should despise.
With the alcohol now taking full effect, she stumbled from her bar stool and weaved her way through the pokey establishment, sliding past a group of guys who offered her a crass night with all four of them.
She responded with a middle finger, before buckling over the small step and stumbling out onto the pavement outside. The groups of friends, penned in on the benches that framed the doorway, cheered in the sarcastic way all British pub goers did.
She was too drunk to care.
Too angry to feel embarrassed.
As she stumbled back to the cheap bed-and-breakfast she’d already paid for, she stopped in at the off-licence, buying another litre bottle of gin and some tonic water, letting the shop keeper keep the generous change she got from her twenty.
She didn’t care.
All she wanted was to get back to her room, drink away the myriad of confusing thoughts swarming in her head and blackout, hoping the next morning would bring about change.
It was unlikely, but it was better than wallowing in the ashes of her life.
As she kicked open the door to her grotty room, she dumped her jacket on the rickety chair opposite the vanity mirror and dropped onto the uncomfortable bed. The room spun, the alcohol playing havoc with her sense of balance and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. In the room next door, she could hear the TV, the occupant watching an action movie. The sound of gunfire and explosions wasn’t welcoming, given the current circumstances, so Singh reached for a glass from the tray, ignoring the meagre offering of coffee and tea. She unscrewed the gin and poured in a generous helping, before pulling out the tonic. Just as she unscrewed the cap, her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Despite her drunken state, curiosity took over and she pulled up the message.
We need to talk. Privately. Come alone.
It was Helal Miah.
Singh sat upright, her interest piqued, and she slammed the tonic down, spilling it slightly.
Another message followed.
It was his address.
Considering everything she’d told him, his article that had already spread across social media like wildfire and the day’s events, she imagined he’d connected some dots.
Maybe he had found something?
Possibly about Project Hailstorm.
With jittery fingers, she typed her brief reply.
On my way.
With the units of alcohol heavily outweighing her better judgement, she slid her arms back into her leather jacket, collected her phone and money, and headed for the door, trying her best to clear her head and work out her route to
