Anything.
As the day filtered through to the afternoon, Wallace felt himself dozing, his eyes weighing heavy, and he soon sprawled on his side, allowing himself a few hours’ sleep.
An hour or so later, he was awoken as a spray of water crashed across his face. Spluttering awake, Sam dropped a sandwich and a bottle of water on his lap, having popped to the nearby Tesco. Wallace, fuming that his chance of escape had passed, was soon calmed by Sam’s insistence that he would never leave with the stick.
Wallace relented, agreed, and then asked Sam for the use of his hands. Sam agreed, telling Wallace that any false move would result in a bullet through the knee cap. He had spoken to Etheridge and apparently that hurt like hell.
As the hours ticked on, Wallace watched Sam like a hawk, impressed by the resolute man who was ready to fight until the end.
The sky turned dark and Wallace knew Farukh was drawing out the day. He was hoping that Sam wouldn’t be able to source food or sleep, through fear of dropping his guard. It was a cruel move, but Farukh was as brutal as they came.
The Hangman.
Somewhere, in the back of Wallace’s mind, the image of Singh and Sam being hung from the roof lingered. He didn’t doubt for a second that Farukh was capable of it.
Dangerous, but not reckless.
They needed the stick. Wallace needed proof.
‘Did you read all the files on stick?’ Wallace asked, looking at Sam who was again, peering out through the plastic, beyond the scaffolding to the street below.
‘I read enough.’
‘Did you read about Chakari?’
The word struck a chord with Sam, straightening his back as if an ice cube had been passed down his shirt. It had been over a decade since he’d been blown from the mountain face, left to die like his good friend Mac. A local doctor, Farhad, had nursed him back to health, only to give up his own life for the safety of his children.
Sam had never forgiven himself for the orphaning of those boys, knowing that their father’s good nature had kept him alive, but got him killed.
Sam had wiped out the terrorist cell responsible for Farhad’s death, but it had felt like scant consolation.
The boys were never located.
Mac’s body was never found.
‘That was a long time ago,’ Sam eventually said.
‘Yet, we are all haunted by ghosts from our past. Aren’t we, Sam?’ Wallace continued, his arms resting over his knees. ‘You are haunted by the memory of your son. Don’t get sensitive about it, it was in the reports that Mrs Devereux filed a year ago. Marsden stopped you from killing yourself and you had to have mandated therapy sessions.’
‘You were keeping tabs on me?’
‘Absolutely. Sam, you’re one of the deadliest soldiers this country has ever produced. All of this, this war against the system, it doesn’t have to happen. I know you think I’m the enemy, that I’m the bad guy, but what I am is a necessity.’
‘You have killed hundreds of people…’ Sam interjected, turning from the makeshift window.
‘To save millions,’ Wallace snapped. ‘In black and white, it looks like I’m a monster, but you don’t see the grey areas. The areas where, thanks to my interventions, entire countries are now free of tyrannical reign. Free from oppression. Because of the deaths that I facilitated, there is actual freedom. Men like me will never be celebrated, but we are needed. You, Sam. You could achieve so much more. Alongside me, you could change the world.’
Sam shook his head in disbelief.
‘I would rather die than help you mould the world in your image.’
‘My image? Sam, some of my work is based on what you created.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
Wallace’s face twitched with a smirk, a twinkle appearing in his heavily bruised eye.
‘The man who I left you with in Italy. The one who ran you off the road. The one who put two bullets through you.’
‘The one who tortured Paul?’ Sam stepped forward; his interest peaked.
‘A man of that fury. Consumed by that much vengeance. That is not something I can create. Even I cannot generate hatred to that degree.’ Wallace flashed his cruel grin. ‘That was created by you.’
Before Sam could respond, and wonder further down that rabbit hole, the sound of footsteps echoing from the stairwell filled the room. Sam snapped his head to the doorway and took a step forward. Wallace made a movement to stand, but Sam pressed the gun against the side of his sweaty, blood-stained head, encouraging him to stay seated. As the footsteps grew in volume, Sam determined there were two sets, encouraging him that Singh was still alive.
Moments later, the plastic sheet to the penthouse was pushed aside, and Singh was shoved through. Her face was heavily bruised, with a crude plaster pressed to her eyebrow. Beyond that, and the fear in her eyes, she looked okay.
She greeted Sam with a weak smile, clearly understanding the gravity of the situation. Sam looked to reassure her with a nod, but his eyes were soon drawn to the mighty figure who emerged behind her.
While Sam’s lip was scabbed and caked with dried blood, and his body screamed in agony from their last encounter, Farukh looked fine.
As if fighting Sam was as difficult as swatting a fly.
This time, there was no escape.
Fate had pulled them all to the empty, spacious room atop an old war zone, where Sam had made his first statement to the country.
He was ready to fight.
And now, as all four of the occupants took their time to look at each other, he wondered if he was getting ready to
