But it had been enough. Before Farukh could do anything, Sam dropped to his knee, grabbed the blade, and slammed it into Farukh’s calf. Roaring like a mountain lion, Farukh fell forward onto his knee, and before he could say anything further, Sam grabbed his thick beard, wrenched his head back, and drove the blade as hard as he could into the centre of his throat.
Farukh gargled, the blood filling his throat instantly and as he choked and spluttered for life, Sam pushed it in further, the curve driving the blade up through his neck and into his mouth.
Farukh’s eyes widened, his life ending quickly and as the rain soaked them both, Sam drilled one final punch into Farukh’s throat, slamming the blade clean through and he let go.
The Hangman collapsed into a pool of his own blood, a slight twitch reverberating through his body.
An echo of his life.
Farukh was dead.
Wallace was dead.
It was over.
The fight was over.
As the rain crashed against him, Sam looked at his fist, the knuckles split open from the beating, Farukh’s blood joining with own in a sickening scarlet glove.
Sam closed his eyes and dropped to his knees, the pain getting the better of him.
Below, he could hear the commotion of the impending police raid of the building.
Somewhere, he could hear the muffled sounds of Singh begging him to stand up.
Sam opened his eyes, and he saw his son, Jamie, stood in front of him, a hopeful smile on his young, innocent face.
‘Not yet, Dad,’ his son said. ‘Not yet.’
Sam closed his eyes once more, bowed his head, and let the water trickle from his brow.
The fight was over.
It was finally over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Sam!?’
Etheridge held his head in his hands. He had been calling Sam’s name for the last five minutes, to little avail. Sam’s earpiece had been disconnected earlier in the afternoon, no doubt during a heated discussion with Wallace.
From what Etheridge could see through CCTV of the surrounding buildings, someone had been hurled from the top of the old High Rise.
Was it Sam?
He had no way of knowing, but he had one of his screens trained on a CCTV camera which was pointed straight at the door of the High Rise. The building, destroyed a year prior by Sam, was armoured with scaffolding, the windows empty caverns poorly covered in dusty sheets, What was once the most sought after hot spot in the criminal underworld was nothing more than an empty husk, an eyesore of a previous regime.
Sam had cut the High Rise off at the source, destroyed the smaller sister arms of the business until it was nothing but a memory.
But now, inside the building where Sam had truly found his calling, Etheridge worried whether he would ever see his friend again.
The feeling was compounded when the radio piped up, with an all guns blazing Ashton bringing the full blue fury of the Metropolitan Police straight to the doorstep. Even if Sam was alive, his chances of getting away were dwindling with every passing second.
Etheridge felt sick and he popped two paracetamols in his mouth and threw them back with a mouthful of water. He rubbed his chin, the grainy stubble itching, and he realised it had been a few days since he’d showered. Since he’d focused on anything other than the mission.
In that aspect, they had succeeded.
The recording of Wallace’s confession had come though crystal clear and Etheridge had made several copies across servers, sticks, and discs.
Just to be on the safe side.
They had what they’d set out for.
Wallace. Bang to rights.
Whatever the outcome of the following events was, Etheridge knew that he would see the mission through to the end. Just as Marsden had willingly given his life for the files, Sam had risked it all to bring the man down.
To burn Blackridge to the ground.
As the excitement rose over the radio and the net began to tighten, Etheridge stared hopelessly at the screen, hoping beyond that his friend would emerge.
‘Come on, Sam,’ Singh said, her words shaking. ‘We have to move.’
Singh peered over the railing to the street below, the blue lights flashing like a street rave, illuminating the rain drops in their glow. The armed team was discussing tactics, and more uniformed officers were arriving, setting up the necessary cordons, keeping the public at bay. Wallace’s body had already been discovered on the other side of the building, and several officers were locking down the scene.
They were completely surrounded.
More worryingly, Sam was hardly moving.
Singh leant down, wrapped her arms around Sam’s and tried to lift him, but he was almost dead weight, like everything had shut down.
‘For fuck’s sake, Sam.’ She cursed. ‘Get up.’
‘It’s over,’ Sam said quietly. ‘It’s done.’
With visible discomfort, Sam reached up, taking hold of Singh’s arm and pulling himself off the ground. The large slice that ran across his spine had pumped warm blood across his back, his T-shirt stuck to him. The blood loss had made him woozy and combined with the probable concussion from the collision with the scaffolding pole, Sam could barely stand.
The rain was cooling, washing the blood from his face, and he stood for a few moments, letting the water crash against him.
Below, he heard the excited buzz of a police force, ready to finally bring him to justice.
Singh, defiant to the end, yanked at his jacket.
‘We need to go.’
‘Where?’ Sam spoke softly, following her as she stepped back through the old window and into the High Rise. The office was splattered with blood, the thick trail from Wallace led to the other window, a horrifying splatter ran the length of the plastic sheet.
It was done.
Wallace was dead and Sam had got enough of a confession top burn everything he’d built with Blackridge to the ground. He had discovered the truth about Project Hailstorm, the life altering facts of what he himself had been a part of.
The source of the two scars that adorned his
