Ashton didn’t respond, she was already mobilising an armed squad to head towards the High Rise. Pearce quietly left, hoping that whatever impact his decision would have, that Sam would understand. While Sam may have been looking to fight until his dying breath, Pearce had to do whatever he could to keep them all safe.
It would be his final act as a member of the Metropolitan Police, and ten minutes later, with his desk and locker cleared and as he stepped out into the evening rain, he’d made peace with his decision.
It was the right thing to do.
Pearce packed his belongings into his car, took one final look at the building with which he had served his country with such distinction for three decades, before he dropped into the driver’s seat.
His car roared to life and he headed for home.
Retired.
Farukh didn’t take his eyes off Sam. Not once.
As the standoff continued, the tension in the room rose, just as the temperature dropped. Outside the High Rise, a wind had picked up now, crashing rain against the plastic sheets. Sam looked to Singh.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ve been better,’ she replied, offering him a hopeful smile.
‘Drop the gun,’ Farukh ordered, his voice calm.
‘You drop yours.’
Farukh laughed at the insinuation.
‘I do not carry gun. I prefer to kill man by my bare hands. To see life choke from him.’ Farukh smiled. ‘You will find this out.’
Sam pulled the gun away from Wallace’s head and tossed it to over the desk. He raised his hands up, signalling he was unarmed, and then he drilled his foot into Wallace’s spine, pushing him towards Farukh and sending him sprawling across the floor.
‘Now her,’ Sam demanded and Farukh raised his eyebrows at Singh, encouraging her to move. She stepped across the room to Sam, and they hugged. Wallace, hauling himself to his feet, dusted down his ruined, expensive suit.
‘Very touching,’ he spat. ‘The stick?’
‘Yes,’ Farukh echoed. ‘The stick’.
‘Sam, you can’t give them it,’ Singh pleaded. ‘The world needs to know the truth. About him. About you. Everything.’
‘Don’t be stupid, you daft cow,’ Wallace joked. ‘You’re lucky to still be alive. Now, Sam, hand…over…the…stick.’
Sam looked at the two men and then back to the pleading eyes of Singh. Her right eye was heavily bruised, but her piercing stare still carried enough emotional weight behind it.
She understood.
Sam wasn’t just fighting because he had nothing better to do. He was fighting because no one else would.
Knowing Singh was nearest to the doorway, Sam finally sighed and nodded.
‘Okay.’ Sam reached into his pocket and tossed the stick towards Wallace. His meaty hand clapped it out of the air and his eyes widened with glee. Instantly, he dropped it to the floor and stomped it, the plastic shattering, the memory device cracking into multiple pieces.
All the files. All the proof.
Gone.
Another crushing defeat under the oppressive boot of Blackridge and Wallace turned and nodded to Farukh.
‘Kill them.’
Farukh nodded, seemingly pleased with Wallace’s end of the bargain. As Farukh took a step forward, Sam placed a protective arm across Singh’s stomach and stepped in front of her.
‘That wasn’t the deal.’
‘The deal’s changed,’ Wallace casually replied. ‘You are both too dangerous to our mission going forward. I hope you understand that. Now I would say it wasn’t anything personal, but it definitely is.’
As Farukh took another step towards them, he reached to the back of his jeans, and released the two grips from the leather pouch. Unbuckling the curved blades, he pulled them out with relish, his eyes glistening at the thought of putting them to use. Sam looked at the two men, regretted tossing his gun but then pulled open his shirt.
‘You’re right,’ Sam said defiantly. ‘The deal has changed.’
Strapped across his muscular, bullet scarred chest, was a wire. Taped between the two bullet wounds that Wallace himself had administered, Sam let the two men glare at the device, before Farukh turned to Wallace.
‘What is this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Wallace stammered. ‘Sam, where is that wire feeding to?’
‘It’s been feeding all day. To a remote location where Etheridge is ready to post to every single news broadcaster on the internet.’
‘What has he said?’ Farukh demanded, pointing one of his razor-sharp blades menacingly at Wallace. ‘Did you mention me?’
‘Oh, he told me everything,’ Sam lied. ‘How you brutally murdered Abdullah Bin Akbar during Project Hailstorm, how you killed his family and murdered his kids in cold blood.’
Farukh turned to Wallace, incensed. Wallace, panicked, held up his hand.
‘He’s lying. I didn’t say any of that!’
Sam continued, ushering Singh towards the door as Farukh took another step towards Wallace.
‘How you have killed for several governments. How Project Hailstorm was your idea and that all the deaths should be laid at your door.’
‘This is bullshit, Sam. I didn’t say anything.’
‘I do not take chance.’
Farukh’s words echoed in Wallace’s ears, as the man swung his arm with the speed and precision of a heavyweight boxer, plunging the curved blade into the top of his stomach. Slicing right through the skin and muscle, the burning sensation roared through Wallace’s body, exploding with a cough of blood which shot onto the floor. Wallace’s eyes begged for mercy, and Sam and Singh watched on in horror as Farukh pulled Wallace towards the large, plastic sheet covering the nearest window, the blade slicing the large war monger open, his intestine slowly flopping through the tear in his gut. Farukh twisted his hand, rotating the razor within Wallace’s inside, dicing his organs, before pulling it out. Blood and remnants of his insides splattered the plastic and Wallace, with his life flashing before his eyes, was reduced to nothing more than a man.
A man about to reach his end.
Without batting an eyelid, the Hangman swung his other hand, the blade slashing the fat hanging underneath Wallace’s chin, his throat opening up like a packet of crisps. Before the blood could cover Farukh, he drove his military boot into Wallace’s ruined stomach, propelling him through the sheet and
