‘It’s really not that easy. See, those files you have. He wants them gone even more than I do. So, my life, in his eyes, isn’t enough.’
‘Well, that sucks for you.’
‘Give it up, Sam.’ Wallace snarled. ‘We both know how this goes. So here it is. You give us the stick, you let me go, and Singh lives. That much we can do. But if you think you’re going to get out of this, then you really are delusional.’
‘You are not in the position to be making threats.’
‘These aren’t threats, Sam.’ Wallace countered. ‘It’s just how it is. This is bigger than you. It’s bigger than your little journey and it’s what you fail to realise. It’s what Marsden failed to realise and it’s…’
Sam’s fist collided with Wallace’s jaw at such a pace it broke his knuckle. A spray of blood and two teeth splattered onto the floor, quickly followed by Wallace himself. Sam shook his hand, the broken bone causing severe discomfort.
‘That was for Marsden,’ Sam said calmly and then stretched his back. The adrenaline of the morning had seen him through but now, with the brisk, spring chill and a slower pace, the impact from his fall yesterday was locking around his spine like a mechanical vice. Wallace swung his massive bulk to the side, sitting himself up. He drew a large mouthful of blood and spat it forward, not caring if it hit Sam or not. Holding the gun casually in his left hand, Sam squatted down next to Wallace and reached into the inside of his blazer. Wallace moved ever so slightly, and Sam pushed the gun into his throat, making his threat very clearly.
Wallace relented, and Sam could feel the clamminess of the man as he slid his hand into the blazer pocket and removed the mobile phone.
‘Passcode,’ Sam demanded. Wallace obliged and Sam unlocked the phone, surprised to see a photo of three kids as the screen saver on Wallace’s phone. He knew they weren’t his own, the man had dedicated his life to the country.
He had no family.
Possibly a sister? Sam only mused for a moment or two before sliding open the contacts on the screen, flicking through the numbers. There was no Farukh, and Sam scowled as he turned to Wallace.
‘What’s he saved as?’
Wallace chuckled. ‘He isn’t saved as anything.’
‘Then how do we contact him?’ Sam demanded.
‘He sent the message from a phone. I don’t have the number, but you can pull it from the message.’
Sam was surprised by Wallace’s helpful attitude, but he knew the game here. The assault on Tower Bridge and subsequent kidnapping had thrown a spanner in the works and Wallace knew he had to adjust his plan. While they didn’t hold all the cards, they still had a strong hand.
Sam knew it.
More worryingly, Wallace knew it too.
The fastest way out of this situation was to cooperate and Wallace sat, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms pinned to his back. His face, slashed from being peppered by shards of glass, bore the irritated look of a man who had been told there was an hour’s wait at the doctors.
Sam, ensuring his finger was still resting on the trigger of his gun, just in case, pulled up the message and then clicked on the number.
He pressed call.
As the phone began to ring, he pulled one of the plastic sheets to the side, looking out over the stunning city of London as it glowed underneath the spring sun, the city still reeling from his assault an hour ago.
Chapter Twenty-Six
As Singh slowly blinked her eyes open, she could feel the thudding ache of her skull. The impact of her collision with the wall had rattled her brain and as she tried to blink away the darkness, she felt a twinge of pain with every blink.
Everything was still dark.
Was she blind?
Had the impact been so severe that it had severed her retina?
Refusing to let herself panic, Singh took a deep, calming breath and allowed herself to recollect. She was blindfolded, that much was certain and judging by the material pressed against her mouth, she had a sack over her head.
It wasn’t a preferable situation, but at least her mind had caught up.
Helal.
She remembered the horrible sight of the journalist, dangling from the ceiling, the cable ripping into his throat as it choked the life from him.
She’d rushed to his aid, then everything went black, as a sack was pulled over her head and then everything went silent.
How long had she been out for?
Was Helal still alive?
As she moved to push herself up, Singh found her arms bound at the wrist, clasped together at the base of her spine. She lay on her front, pressed against the hard wood floor.
Was she still at Helal’s?
She began to roll, trying to flip onto her back so she could sit up. Then, she could try to locate an edge or a sharp corner to free herself. A bored voice cut the tension but raised her fear levels.
‘Do not bother to try escape.’ The man sighed. ‘I am watching you.’
Singh felt her breath catch in her throat. After a few moments of nervous thought, she decided to speak.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a man who needs to clean up mess. Mess that you have found and made worse.’ The man took a deep breath in and Singh could smell the cigarette smoke. ‘If Sam Pope is smart, then you will live.’
Singh felt her muscles tighten with anxiety. She trusted Sam, he’d saved her life before, but this was a dangerous game. While Sam, to an annoying degree, was bound to doing the right thing, did that mean sacrificing the truth for her life?
Was Project Hailstorm, and the chance to bring Wallace down, a greater goal than saving one person?
‘Where are we?’ she finally asked, and within two seconds, felt the cloth whipped from her head. The light was blinding, and she squinted, trying to protect her
