Wallace took a long puff and stared out into the darkness. His COBRA meeting tomorrow would be a formality. He would lay out the plan to the prime minister and his cabinet, and while they would baulk at the lengths he’d gone to, they would green light it.
Matters such as this were left to men like Wallace.
The men who were not afraid to get things done.
As he tapped the ash over the edge of the railing, he contemplated telling Ashton his method. How would she react to know that one of her own, DS Singh, was currently in his capture? That she’d been beaten and was facing the very real prospect of death.
The ripple effect of Project Hailstorm coming to light threatened way more than just a few lives.
International relationships would be broken.
The very real threat of retaliation could see the country head to war for the first time in nearly eighty years.
What was one life to save millions?
‘This question may seem redundant considering the success rate your team has had so far.’ Wallace’s tone was nasty. ‘But how do you catch a man like Sam Pope?’
Offended, Ashton shrugged before offering her suggestions.
‘CCTV footage? Expert analysts?’
‘No. You take something he cares about. You take it, you threaten it, and you lure him to it.’
Ashton shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. Wallace was a powerful yet secretive man. She was under no illusions that he did things that crossed the line of right and wrong. His closet undoubtedly had skeletons, more than most, but his position required it.
While she didn’t fully trust him, she did trust him to put the country first.
Wallace’s phone rumbled and the text message drew a smile to his face. He flashed her a quick glance and a stern nod, his way of effectively drawing their night to a close. Ashton, cursing herself for once again rushing to his bed as soon as he clicked his fingers, marched to the door of the apartment where a driver would be on hand to take her home.
Wallace waited until the door had closed behind her, sneered and then selected the number he’d been sent, knowing the phone would be answered on the first ring.
Neither Etheridge nor Sam said anything for the first minute or so after the message had come through.
Somehow, Blackridge had reverse engineered Etheridge’s secure line into Singh’s phone and located his number. As impressive as that was, the message that was sent through was haunting, drawing both men into a shocked silence.
The image depicted Amara Singh, sprawled on the floor of an unknown room, her right eye swollen, dripping with blood from the cut that sliced her eyebrow.
She was clearly unconscious.
She was in a shit tonne of trouble.
Under the horrifying image of their acquaintance, the message simply said:
Answer the phone when I call.
Guilt had been an emotion that Sam had wrestled with so many times, he considered it a tag team partner. His entire life, ever since he lost his son, had been moulded by it, by the nagging feeling that things were his fault. The blame lay at his door, as he failed to protect his son.
He had spent his whole career protecting others, under the false pretence of peace, but he’d failed to keep his son safe. Ever since then, every criminal he’d put down or every bad guy he’d killed, had helped him claim a little bit of himself back. With the discovery of Project Hailstorm and the atrocious reality of his career, Sam knew he had a lot to make up for, and that the guilt would once again hang from his neck like a pendant.
He felt guilty for the death of his best friend, Theo Walker.
He felt the guilt of Adrian Pearce’s career meandering to a disappointing end.
The guilt of the permanent disability that would hinder Etheridge’s life forever.
And now Amara Singh. Beaten and held captive by a man who ruthlessly clung to power. They wouldn’t have long, and even then, she was as good as dead.
She’d dug too far, drawn into a world that she didn’t belong and once again, the blame lay at Sam’s door.
He was tired of feeling guilty.
His fists clenched as the phone rang and Etheridge leant forward and clicked the green button and slid the call onto speaker phone.
‘Where is she?’ Sam demanded, crossing his muscular arms across his chest.
‘I take it we are skipping the pleasantries?’ Wallace chuckled, revelling in the control.
‘We are a long way past that.’
‘She has twenty-four hours to live, Sam.’
‘This has nothing to do with her.’
‘Quite right. This has nothing to do with her, Sam. It has everything to do with you.’ Wallace’s tone had changed, snapping into a venomous snarl. ‘You chose not to hand over the files, you chose to fight back in Rome, and now you are the reason this has gone this far.’
‘If you hurt her…’
‘What? Sam? You’re going to kill me?’ Wallace scoffed. ‘Let’s save the macho bullshit. You want Singh, I want the USB stick. You have twenty-four hours. You can reach me on this number.’
‘I know the truth, Wallace.’ Sam spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Project Hailstorm. All the lies. The bullets you put through me. I know everything.’
‘But you can’t prove it,’ Wallace responded smugly. ‘Bury it, Sam. Before it buries you. Twenty-four hours, gentlemen. I’ll be waiting.’
The line went dead.
Sam turned and slammed his fist against the wall in anger, before raising both hands to his head. Every possibility was a dead end and his muscles tensed with frustration.
‘Check mate.’ Etheridge sighed, picking up his phone and sliding it into his pocket. Crest fallen, he limped back towards his desk, reaching for the USB stick. Sam’s eyes lit up.
‘Wait.’
‘It’s over, Sam. He has Singh. He’ll kill her.’
‘He’ll kill her the second he has the USB stick. And me. But what does Wallace value more than the stick?’
Etheridge shrugged.
‘Power?’
‘Himself.’ Sam’s eyes twinkled fiendishly.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You said he had a meeting first thing tomorrow morning, right?’
Etheridge glanced down at the
