‘Helal…’ Amara took a step forward before everything went dark. A black cloth sack was slid over her head then wrenched back with enough power to behead her. She stumbled back, her balance gone, and then with a mighty swing, she felt herself propelled into the air.
Farukh slammed her headfirst into the wall, the impact sending her limp.
As he watched her slump to the floor, he took out his mobile phone. He bent down and removed the cloth, revealing an unconscious Singh, whose right eye was starting to swell, and a trickle of blood skirted down from her eyebrow.
Farukh took the picture and sent it to Wallace, before popping the cloth back onto her head. When she awoke, he wanted her to be suffocated by the darkness, it would only add to the fear.
Fear meant she would listen.
Which would make it a lot easier.
As Singh lay motionless beneath him, Farukh reached into his pocket and lit himself a cigarette. Closing the door, hiding his sadism from the world, he turned casually back to the horror playing out before him.
Helal had slowed his struggle, the final strains of life being squeezed from him. He looked to Farukh with an acceptance of death, his eyeballs a bloodshot red. His neck was purple, a few veins pressing against his skin.
Farukh blew smoke into the room, his face blank, as if ending the man’s life meant nothing to him.
As far as Farukh was concerned, it was just part of the job. Helal had painted the target himself by typing the words Project Hailstorm and considering the almighty mess Wallace had made, Farukh was leaving little to chance.
Sam may have got away, but he would meet him again.
Then, he would kill Sam and he would kill the woman.
Wallace, he would keep alive.
But there would be no more chances.
Helal jolted one final time, his heart stopping, and the final strands of life left him. Swinging gently from the ceiling, he looked as peaceful as Farukh had ever seen a man.
‘Aljulad bin Baghdad.’
The Hangman of Baghdad.
Farukh stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and then made his way to the kitchen. It was going to be awhile before the trade would happen and he was hungry.
He wanted to be at full strength the next time he came face to face with Sam Pope.
As next time would be the last time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Control.
It was something General Ervin Wallace had craved ever since he put on the camouflaged uniform of the United Kingdom armed forces and he’d fought, killed, and betrayed for it. Control was power and with that came fear and respect in equal measure.
When people respected you, they listened.
When people feared you, they obeyed.
It was something he had been accustomed to for nearly forty years and now, as Ashton writhed on top of him, the bed sheets wrapped around her waist, her exposed chest bouncing with each thrust, he could feel it returning to him.
The control.
The power.
It had been just after eleven when he received the text message from Farukh. While he didn’t want to know the full details of the mission, the bloodied, unconscious face of Amara Singh was enough for him to know that the pendulum had swung back in their favour. Wallace had sent the image on to his operatives working in the Hub, telling them to trace the number on Singh’s phone from earlier that afternoon and make contact.
He wanted to be on the other end of the phone when Sam answered, and he wanted to hear the pain in the man’s voice when he told him he had lost.
That Singh would be brutally killed unless he handed over the files.
To celebrate his newly returned mojo, he made a call to Ashton, inviting her over under the false pretences of discussing the events of that afternoon. They both knew it was a lie, and as the car arrived to pick her up, she’d wondered if her infatuation with the General was worth the emptiness she felt when he dismissed her after their sessions.
Wallace didn’t care.
All he saw was an attractive woman who was pulled in by his magnetic stature.
Throughout the past few months, ever since Sam Pope had decided to try to destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build, Ashton had been a chief ally. While her command of some of her more irritating staff had left a lot to be desired, Wallace had enjoyed using the Metropolitan Police as a more local branch of Blackridge.
But now, with the whole situation under control and what would likely be less than twenty-four hours before he had the USB stick in his hands, Farukh gone for ever, and Sam Pope most likely dead, he had little use for Ashton.
This would be the last time he invited her over to massage his ego, and he contemplated whether he would cut ties completely. He had dangled the carrot of his backing when the Commissioner seat became available and for everything she’d done for him, he would most likely give it.
It would pay to have the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police at his beck and call.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Ashton excused herself from the bed and made her way to the bathroom, and Wallace could hear the shower burst into life. He took himself to the balcony, looking at the overstuffed ashtray from the afternoon. He chortled.
How quickly things changed.
Earlier that afternoon he was foaming at the mouth, his rage threatening to derail everything he’d worked for. But now, as he stood, his thick arms resting on the balcony railing, he smiled.
This time, he lit a cigar in success.
Ashton soon joined him on the balcony, dressed and ready to leave. She put an apprehensive hand on his shoulder.
‘I hope tomorrow goes well,’ she said hopefully, offering him a smile.
‘It will.’ Wallace puffed his cigar. ‘The government want to know what the plan is. By this time tomorrow, Sam Pope will be dealt with.’
‘Really?’ Ashton raised her eyebrow. ‘How
