As the cold wind surrounded him, the rain pelted him, and he felt his throat rip open further and empty, Wallace watched as the top floor of the High Rise raced away from him, and then his life ended.
The fall had shattered his spine and cracked open the back of his head like a cantaloupe.
Wallace was dead, butchered, and laid out for his country to see.
Sam had already ushered Singh towards the door, as Farukh, with the same amount of nonchalance as someone who had just taking the rubbish out, turned to him.
He calmly wiped the bloodstained blades on his lapels, cleaning them as a matter of courtesy, before his eyes locked on.
He raised the blade at Sam, the intent clear.
‘You.’
Sam could hear Singh rushing down the stairs, pleased in the knowledge he’d saved her.
This was his fight.
It may be his last.
But Sam had always fought for something. It was who he was.
With the armed assassin making his first steps towards him, Sam raised his fists, ignored the aching pain that coursed through his war-ravaged body and got ready to fight one last time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘ETA, ten Minutes.’
That wasn’t good enough, thought Ashton, who had never felt her heart race with such excitement. Even as night ascended on a Monday evening the London roads were tough to navigate. It was just under six and a half miles, but through the London traffic, it felt like forever. The estimated arrival of the Armed Response Unit wasn’t good enough and although they would get there just before she would, she wanted Sam in cuffs as soon as possible.
‘Do whatever you have to, but I repeat, we CAN NOT lose him again.’
Her words were as stern as she was worried. The opportunity to catch Sam would all but guarantee her the Commissioner job. While her superior had done an admirable job, there were murmurings that it was time for a change. The Metropolitan Police had taken a bit of battering over the last year, a large part due to the Marathon bombing, another part due to the corruption that Sam Pope had uncovered.
The press was making a hero of him.
A man fighting for the people.
He was a vigilante and a murderer and once Ashton had him in cuffs, she would paint the story for the world to see. With the press leaning heavily on the Met’s failings, the notion of replacing the Commissioner had been mooted.
A new leader. A new beginning.
Ashton was the clear front runner and she was hoping that her recent rendezvous with Wallace would tip the odds in her favour.
Bringing Sam Pope to justice would rubber stamp it.
As her driver sped round a corner, his sirens wailing, she held onto the door handle for support. It had been a long time since she’d ventured out into the field, her days as a street officer were long behind her. When she’d started out in the Met, she’d the same doe eyed view as all the other young upstarts pulling on the uniform.
She wanted to help people.
She wanted to make a difference.
The years of long hours and crushing disappointments soon stamped the optimism out of her, replacing it with a cold, hard realism. She played the game then, working hard for those in power and stepping on the toes of those not strong enough to claim it.
Along the way, she’d made some vital contributions to the cause. Her work on Project Yewtree had seen her name lauded in the papers and would no doubt, be one of her more pushed pieces when the time for her promotion came.
Her coronation to the top of the Met.
That was why it was imperative that she brought Sam in, and hopefully, she thought, catch Singh in collusion with him. It was such a disappointment to see her lose her way. Ashton had such high hopes for her and had championed her for leading the Task Force. Not only did she see potential in Singh but promoting a female officer of ethnicity would look great on her record.
Ashton knew how to play the game.
But she’d become a problem and Wallace had made it abundantly clear that he wanted her removed. Without due course, Ashton had struggled, loosely fabricating the stories of her betrayal of the Met but not enough for it to stick. It had been enough to suspend her pending an investigation, but without Pearce, the best internal investigator, on the case, it had hit many a roadblock.
Catching her with Sam would be two birds with one stone.
Factor in that Pearce, the other perennial pain the arse had willingly stepped aside, it was turning into a good night’s work.
She couldn’t wait to look Sam in the eye and tell him that she’d won.
Nor could she wait for the grateful thanks Wallace would heap on her for ending what had been a long campaign.
As the car whizzed through the traffic on Loughborough Road, Ashton pulled up the radio, barked further instructions to the team, and stared out of the rain speckled window, looking at the city she couldn’t wait to be put in control of.
Farukh took two steps towards Sam and then lunged forward with the curved blade, slicing the air inches from Sam’s throat. Sam leant back, dodging the attack, before sliding out of the way of the follow up swipe. Farukh wasn’t looking to toy with Sam this time.
This was to death.
And Farukh wasn’t holding back.
With a grunt of frustration, he swung again, and Sam ducked, latched onto the arm, and wrenched it backwards, the blade dropping from Farukh’s hand. Before Sam could move, Farukh’s solid elbow cracked the side of his jaw. Sam stumbled to the side, slightly dazed and Farukh charged, slamming his shoulder into Sam’s chest and sending him sprawling over the large oak desk and to the hard floor on the other side.
It was like being hit by a double-decker bus.
The man was as thick as a sand block and Sam gasped for the air that had
