The Takers Page 3

  Still, he would persevere.

  For his Jamie.

  Sam walked past his single, battered mattress that rested on top of rickety camp bed and opened his wardrobe.

  An array of weapons greeted him.

  After Theo had been killed and his house destroyed by a grenade, Sam had recovered his ‘rainy day fund’. A stash of weapons he had hidden, a paranoia that his past discretions while part of Project Hailstorm would reappear somewhere down the line.

  The things they’d done wouldn’t stay hidden forever, and Sam was sure that one day, those sins from his past would rear their head.

  But it was the injustice of the Metropolitan Police, the death of his friend, and the safety of an innocent woman that had put a gun back in his hand.

  That had made him do the right thing.

  Sam glanced at the weapons, all of them polished and cleaned weekly, a regiment he had performed blindfolded to the delight of his comrades. During a few of his tours in Afghanistan, he had been christened ‘The Silent Death’, for his streak of headshots without ever giving away his position.

  The L85IW assault rifle was affixed to two hooks on the inside of the door, Sam making a mental note to clean it thoroughly when he returned. On the inside of the other door was a Remington Model 870 Pump-Action Shotgun, used by the British Special Forces as a breaching weapon. The barrels were clean, and at the bottom of the cupboard were several segmented shelves, all of them filled with boxes of bullets or full cartridges.

  Two Glock 20s were hanging on the back wall of the cupboard, their larger cartridges stacked neatly below. The powerful handguns were regularly cleaned by Sam, and he usually carried one in the inside of his jacket while on a recon mission.

  He reached a muscular arm into the cupboard and withdrew one of them, quickly sliding back the chamber and inspecting the inside of the weapon.

  It was good to go.

  He pulled up a full, fifteen round cartridge and satisfyingly snapped it into the gun. Sam gave it one more admiring glance and tossed the weapon onto his bed, before reaching for the large, black case that rested atop his makeshift armoury.

  With a large heave, he pulled it down, taking the weight of it onto his broad chest, before carefully lowering it to the recently swept floorboards. The case was locked with a combination lock, which Sam quickly set to his son’s birthday.

  The case pinged open.

  A smile crept across his stubble covered jaw.

  His sniper rifle.

  The Accuracy International Arctic Warfare bolt action sniper rifle had been with him through thick and thin.

  It had been with him on the cliff face on the outskirts of Kabul when he single-handedly took out a squadron to protect his own.

  It had been the instrument of over sixty deaths.

  He had taken great joy in cleaning it two weeks previously, sliding the plastic tubing down the forty-six-inch barrel and removing the flakes of gun powder that would eventually cause a potential rivet in his shot. He had taken himself to Cassiobury Park in Watford one night, speeding up the M1 to Hertfordshire and found a dark, quiet spot on a pitch-black field.

  He fired two rounds into a tree from over a hundred yards. It was a simple shot to make, but he needed to iron out the first few potential skewed shots which always happened after a clean.

  Sam needed the gun to be accurate.

  Just not tonight.

  But soon. He could feel it.

  Sam slowly ran the palm of his hand across the stock of the rifle, feeling every groove of his war-torn weapon and trusting every single inch of it.

  It had become an extension of his body.

  Sam patted the rifle and then slammed the lid shut. Pushing himself up again, he turned, stretching his lower back before heaving the case up once more and sliding it back atop of the cupboard. Before shutting the door, he unhooked his assault rifle from its hook, the trusted gun ready for another night of action. With a smile, he felt the rifle’s weight in his muscular arms as he turned and faced the opposite wall.

  A map of London was pinned to the white wall, the recent paint work a poor attempt at injecting some brightness to the wall.

  The map was littered with markings, with different pins denoting different points of interest.

  Blue were known drug hot spots.

  Green were the vicinities that willing snitches patrolled.

  Yellow were strategically placed ‘emergency stashes’, which consisted of fake documents, weapons, and cash.

  Red was his favourite, recording all the places he had hit since he’d begun his crusade.

  Seventeen separate drug dens or gang hideouts had been successfully cleared down. All of them without killing.

  But now, he marched to the map and slammed a pin into the Kodak factory in Shepherd’s Bush. Long since abandoned, he now knew it was the makeshift High Rise being run in memory of the one he had torn down six months ago.

  All that bloodshed would not be for nothing.

  He glanced at his wrist, the watch telling him it was a little after two.

  With the rain refusing to relent, he snatched his parka from the back of the door and slid it around his muscular frame. Sam pulled a black sports bag from under the bed and laid it on the sheets, carefully placing the rifle inside. Lastly, he picked up his Glock 20, slid it into the back of his jeans, and headed to the door.

  Sam knew it would take him roughly forty-five minutes to drive to Shepherd’s Bush and he wanted as much time as possible. Once he had scouted the area fully, he was planning on returning with his rifle.

  Because tonight, he was going to introduce himself to Elmore Riggs.

  He was going to shut down the final door of the High Rise once and for all.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Come in.’

  DI Adrian Pearce didn’t even look up from his blank computer screen, his scowl furrowing a brow that was turning grey. His hair, closely shorn to his scalp was already a faded grey colour, contrasting strongly with the darkness of his skin. Having passed his fiftieth birthday that summer, he knew he looked youthful for his age. But time was starting to catch-up with him.

  A creak here.

  A crack there.

  And his utter contempt for computers.

  The door to his small office opened, clattering against a metal filing cabinet that had been shoehorned into a corner that was just too small. The gap was just big enough for people to slide through, which wasn’t a problem for Amara Singh, as she eased through the gap and into the room.

  The sleeves of her white shirt were rolled up, revealing her delicate forearms. The lapels of her shirt wore ‘pips’, the proud insignia of an Inspector and she cast her dark eyes around the room, a look of pity on her face. Pearce looked up, peering over the top of his mandated spectacles and caught her silent judgment.

  ‘Hardly the Ritz, is it?’

  She forced a smile, ignoring the obvious elephant in the room. It was an elephant that had followed Pearce around ever since he had arrested Inspector Howell at the top of the High Rise. In the six months since, he had been moved from the Department of Professional Standards to working internal cold cases.

  They hadn’t reallocated him.

  They had neutered him.

  His office, stuffed away behind the printing room on the fourth floor of the iconic Met building in Westminster, was a place to hide him from the world. After exposing the ‘terrorist attack’ as an inside job, Pearce knew what was coming next. The powers that be ensured that Howell was put away, but they swept a laundry list of indiscretions under the rug. Pearce’s access had been restricted, and they soon removed him from a number of potential internal investigations.

  Now he sat, in a dark corner of the police service, killing time until they gave him his golden handshake and a severe confidentiality agreement.

  Pearce leant back in his chair, his head just missing one of the overstuffed shelving units above him. He regarded Singh with an experienced eye, noting
how she carried herself, the sternness of her expression and her clear obsession with proving she was more than a pretty face. Eventually, she offered him a smile that he was sure turned plenty of heads on a daily basis.

  ‘DI Pearce.’

  ‘Please, call me Adrian.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ She shuffled as he raised his eyebrows. ‘I mean, Adrian. I’m Detective Inspector Si…’

  ‘Singh. I know.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, her posture as straight as an arrow.

  ‘It’s my job to know.’ Pearce flashed her a warm smile. ‘How long have you been with us now?’

  ‘I transferred just over three months ago, sir,’ Singh said.

  ‘They still let you carry a gun?’ Pearce asked, nodding towards the holster that was strapped securely to her curved hip. Singh flashed a glance down at the Glock 26 pistol that rested against her, the halogen light bathing it in a menacing sheen. ‘You transferred from AR, am I right?’

  Singh raised a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. She smiled.

  ‘I served in the Armed Response unit for over two years sir, with distinction.’ She smiled warmly. ‘As did you, am I right?’

  ‘A long time ago.’ Pearce motioned to the small unit in the corner which housed a rusty old kettle and a small jar of instant coffee. Singh waved away politely. ‘I’m essentially a book keeper nowadays.’

  Pearce chuckled to himself, clicking his mouse in frustration as his computer still refused to burst into action. Singh cleared her throat.

  ‘That’s not entirely true, is it, sir?’ Singh asked rhetorically. Pearce could see the effort she was putting into being authoritative.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘With all due respect, sir. The reason you have been blackballed in this organisation is due to your involvement in the Sam Pope case from six months ago.’ Singh carefully selected her words. ‘So it hasn’t been too long since you were seeing some action.’

  Pearce smiled again, linking his fingers together before letting his hands drop into his lap. Singh stared at him, her tenacity threatening to sour the mood between them.

  ‘You mean the Inspector Howell case, for which he was arrested for the murder of his own nephew?’ Pearce corrected, adding a sternness to his words for extra impact.

  ‘Forgive me, sir. But I’m not here to sully the name of a peer who has passed away.’

  Pearce raised his eyebrows, conveying his difference of opinion. After arresting a bloodied and bullet ridden Howell at the top of the High Rise, Pearce had followed Howell’s descent with intrigue. He was sentenced to life in prison, which came to a non-surprising end after only a few months when they found Howell dead in his cell from suicide. Singh spoke again, breaking his train of thought.

  ‘My focus is on Sam Pope, the man who killed over a dozen men, including Frank Jackson, and who is still at large. A man who, and I mean no disrespect, you’re accused of aiding and abetting.’

  ‘Allegedly,’ Pearce stated calmly.

  ‘Well, for someone who has worked for years to ensure that the police uphold the law, the evidence against you is rather damning.’

  Pearce rose from his chair, his athletic frame evident through his grey suit and which was impressive for a man of his age. His reputation as a crack shot on Armed Response had followed him into his job of investigating his own colleagues, as well as his unbeaten record in the boxing ring. He was well aware of how imposing he could be and he noticed just a flicker of nerves on Singh’s face.

  It was what he was trained to notice.

  It was all he needed.

  ‘DI Singh, if you have come here to test my knowledge on that case then you are succeeding in only testing my patience.’ He fastened the top button of his suit, the blazer clasping across his yellow tie. ‘Now, I’m assuming you didn’t come all this way to insult me, so why don’t you tell me what it is you want?’

  Singh straightened her stance, her hands clasped behind her back. Pearce admired her attempts at standing strong.

  ‘I have been assigned to the Sam Pope Task Force, sir, and I was hoping I could lean on you for information or maybe even entice you to join.’

  ‘Join?’ Pearce raised an eyebrow again, never tiring of leading people to their point.

  ‘Yes, sir. With your knowledge of the previous case and your alleged dealings with Pope himself, your contribution in bringing this violent criminal to justice could be huge.’ Pearce chuckled and Singh’s face scrunched in frustration. ‘I don’t see what is so funny, sir?’

  Pearce shuffled around his desk and sat on the edge of it, gently pushing a few files to the side. He regarded Singh carefully.

  ‘So, let me get this straight. You have walked in here, have almost accused me of aiding and abetting a criminal and now you want my help?’ Singh went to speak but Pearce held up an authoritative hand. ‘Let me offer you some advice, Detective. Don’t let your ambition cloud your application. I may be under my own cloud at this moment, but I’ve been doing this job a long time and I know how to play the game. I know where all this fire comes from, I do. You’re a female and you’re Indian. That’s two ticks against you and you have knocked it out of the park. But just remember, I’m a black man who did all of that through the seventies and eighties.’

  ‘No offence, sir. But I didn’t ask you for a character assessment.’

  ‘You keep saying no offence.’ Pearce shook his head once more. ‘Tell me, Singh. What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to help me catch Sam Pope,’ Singh said firmly. ‘Assistant Commissioner Ashton has assigned me to track him down and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Even our mayoral candidates are backing our campaign.’

  ‘Well, that must mean it’s a really dumb idea.’

  Singh ignored him and continued.

  ‘Sam Pope is a dangerous man, highly trained in conflict and clearly has access to deadly weapons. No matter how well he served his country, he cannot take the law into his own hands. He has killed a number of people and will be held accountable for his crimes.’

  ‘Crimes?’ Pearce interrupted. ‘There are those, not just in this station but in the press, who think he is just cleaning up the streets.’

  ‘Are you one of those people, sir?’ Singh shot an accusing glare at him and Pearce found himself liking her even more.

  ‘People will believe what they want to believe, Singh.’ Pearce carefully sidestepped the question. ‘But a few years ago, there was a gentleman called Lucas Cole who took down one of the most notorious crime gangs in London. Killed all four of the siblings and left the head of the snake for the police.’

  ‘Then he was a criminal, just like them,’ Singh said, crossing her arms in frustration.

  ‘They raped and killed his pregnant wife and we did nothing,’ Pearce responded solemnly. ‘The Met stood back and tried to sweep it under the rug. Lucas Cole fought back. It may not have been legal, but I wouldn’t tarnish him with the same brush when all he sought was justice.’

  Singh shifted on the spot uncomfortably.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died.’ Pearce shook his head. ‘He gave his life to avenge hers. While that was a different story, I wanted to paint a picture for you, Singh. I understand that you have orders and you have your eyes on the headlines you will make if you succeed. But if you really want my help on this, all I can offer you is my advice.’

  ‘Which is?’ Singh asked, a hint of anger in her words at being rejected.

  ‘Sam Pope is a good man. You might not think it and this organisation has gone above and beyond to put him in everyone’s cross hairs. But that man has been through more than you know and I believe, as a man who has hunted down corrupt ‘good guys’ for a living, that Sam Pope is on the wrong side of the law for the right reasons. My advice is the same advice that Howell gave me. Advice he should have heeded then. When it comes to Sam Pope … leave that man alone.’

  Pearce smiled warmly and slowly eased himself off the desk, h
is back creaking once more as a mocking reminder of his age. Singh burnt a hole through him with her stare and he shimmied back around his desk to his battered leather chair and lowered himself down, the muscles aching in his legs. Singh stepped forward, pressed her hands to the desk and leant forward, a whiff of her perfume snaring Pearce’s attention for a split second.

  ‘I’m going to take down Sam Pope. The man is a vigilante and belongs in a cell.’ She leant in further, doing her best to intimidate. ‘And if I find a shred of evidence that you have helped him in any way, I’ll make damn sure they throw you in one too.’

  With that, Singh turned and wrenched open the door, the frame rattling against the file cabinet and echoing loudly around the measly office. She slid through the gap, slamming the door shut behind her as Pearce heard her boots stomp away and back to the real office. He sighed, annoyed that his likeness for her was outweighed by his disdain for her blinded ambition. Pearce may have rattled a number of cages over the years but he always did it with respect.

  As he contemplated exactly how Singh’s attitude would eventually be her undoing, he leant back in his chair and thought of Sam Pope. Despite being shunted to the outskirts of the force, Pearce still had his ear to the ground and through hearsay and the reports in the press, he knew Pope was still fighting the good fight. Then, as a smile crept across his face, he wondered just how Singh would react if she ever did meet Pope.

  Especially when she realised what he already knew. That she, nor anyone in the Metropolitan Police Service, have a hope in hell of catching him.

  As she marched down the staircase, her boots echoing loudly in the bright corridor, Singh did her best to compose herself. She had heard stories about Pearce being a tough nut to crack, but she found her fists clenching in frustration. The man was one of the most highly regarded detectives in the Met, but he had pulled at too many threads and was now being punished. Whether or not that was fair, Singh had hoped that the chance to redeem himself by helping her would have appealed to what she had quickly discovered was a non-existent ego.