With his teeth clenched and his disdain for politics at an all-time high, McEwen stomped down the corridor, avoiding the other attendees, as he made his way to the exit to try and grasp some sort of control on the situation.

  The drive through London had been punctuated by traffic, drawing out the journey and quashing the excitement of finding the locker key. As the four of them sat in the car, Corbin had done a search into the storage company, discovering that it had shut down within the last year. It didn’t completely rule out that they would find anything, but it would make their task a little harder without any records or staff to assist.

  Sam had kept an eye on Chavet, who had been sulking ever since Corbin denied him permission to smoke out of the back window. The young man was clearly dealing with the gravity of the mess he had made, and the fact that armed men in balaclavas had laid siege to his room.

  Twenty four hours before, he was toasting himself for appearing on a major, international news channel and getting his message out there. Now, he was in the custody of the French Secret Service, being hunted by the future president with very clear intentions to silence him. The one time his eyes did meet Sam’s, Sam offered him a reassuring nod which didn’t seem to register. Chavet just turned and stared out of the window. Corbin was flicking through her phone, offering the odd announcement on traffic or a theory on what they could do next.

  Beside her, with his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road ahead, was Agard, who seemed distracted. The evening before, while Corbin had laid out the situation, the man had struck Sam as efficient and quietly effective, allowing his partner to get them up to speed while he watched with interest. At times, the man looked like the one in charge through his powerful body language, but ever since they had been to Etheridge’s old flat, he had seemed hesitant.

  Like he didn’t trust the mission.

  Sam had asked him a couple of times if he was okay, and each time, Agard had batted away the concern. But even now, as Sam looked through into the front of the car, he could see the man’s mind was racing. Sam could understand – going up against the man likely to be in charge of the country was a big ask. Corbin seemed to revel in it, whereas perhaps the weight of their actions was beginning to take its toll.

  Either way, the man said nothing for the entire journey, and even when he pulled into the empty car park in front of the storage facility, he just grunted to announce their arrival. All four of them stepped out.

  The business park was pretty much abandoned, with the majority of the car park spaces vacant and the lack of movement jarring. It was as if the world had forgotten about it entirely, and as Sam and Corbin approached the front door to the storage unit, they could see it was closed.

  No lights.

  No sign of movement.

  ‘We’ll need to find a way in.’ Sam said out loud, his eyes scanning the long, metal walkway that connected to the next warehouse. His focus was snapped back to the door by the sound of glass shattering and Corbin retracting her elbow from where the pane had once been. She reached through the broken window, turned the handle and popped the door. She turned back to Sam, and the two other men who were looking at her with their eyebrows raised.

  ‘Oh come on. Breaking and entering is the least of our worries.’

  Sam smirked, looked to Chavet who approved and then to Agard who looked around with caution. A low buzzing sound rumbled from his jacket, and he pulled out his phone. He glanced at the screen for a few seconds, then returned it and shook his head.

  “Vivier.” He shrugged. “He can wait.”

  The reception had been cleared out, the wooden desk empty of any equipment, and there were square patches on the wall where photo frames once hung. A few sturdy slams and Sam was able to push open the door to the main storage facility, which was a vast, open space across two floors. There were over five hundred storage units in this warehouse alone, and a further one hundred larger ones in the smaller annex connected via the walkway.

  ‘We’ve got a number, right?’ Corbin asked dryly, looking into the gloom of the warehouse. The top of the walls were lined with murky windows, permitting a stingy amount of light. The place was like a derelict prison, with the tiny cells shrouded in darkness.

  ‘Maybe we should turn back?’ Agard suggested. ‘Have this place locked down and searched properly…’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Corbin snapped. ‘Hold it together, will you?’

  ‘Trust me, buddy. We’ve only got one shot at this.’ Sam said, patting Agard on the shoulder. He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key. On the back of the fob, Etheridge had marked it.

  Two lines. Followed underneath by another three, a two and a six.

  ‘Upstairs. Lot three two six.’

  Quickly, the four of the bound up the staircase that led to another seemingly endless number of gloomy, narrow corridor, lined with closed shutters. Each one was covered in a layer of dust, and as they walked single file, the space felt like it was shrinking. Finally, after meandering through the dark corridors, they found their shutter.

  ‘What if it’s been cleared out?’ Olivier asked anxiously.

  ‘Well, then we are up slack alley.’ Sam said as he slotted the key in the padlock and turned.

  It clicked open.

  The metal lock hit the floor and echoed loudly through the warehouse. He reached down and with two hands, lifted the shutter which rolled satisfyingly into its bracket. Corbin activated the torch on her phone and engulfed the room with light. The dust swarmed throughout the confined space like smoke, and she and Sam stepped tentatively in. Agard had illuminated his phone too, providing further light. There wasn’t much, beyond two suitcases and a filing cabinet. As Corbin fiddled with the zips on the suitcase, Sam tried the filing cabinet, but it was locked. He looked around until his eyes rested on a rusty, metal bracket affixed to the wall of the unit, and with one ferocious kick, he snapped some of it clean off. As he lifted it, he had a quick check in with Corbin.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nope. Just some clothes. Cash.’ Corbin sighed. ‘No stick.’

  ‘Check the lining.’ Sam suggested. He then lodged the thin strip of metal into the groove of the filing cabinet, and with a tug that flexed every single muscle in his body, he snapped the locking mechanism and the filing cabinet sprung open. Agard handed Olivier his phone and rushed to Sam, and the two of them began opening the manilla folders that lined the drawer. All of them were empty.

  All except one.

  ‘Bingo.’ Sam said, and Corbin rushed towards the two of them. Taped to the inside of the folder was a USB stick, and quickly, Corbin pulled a USB adapter from her pocket, connected it to the stick and then to her phone. As she tapped away on the screen, Sam’s ears picked up.

  He thought he heard the sound of a footstep.

  ‘This is it.’ Corbin said. ‘There are thousands of files on here.’

  ‘Search for Ducard.’ Agard said, running an anxious hand through his hair.

  ‘Guys…’ Olivier said from corridor.

  ‘Not now.’ Barked Corbin.

  ‘There’s someone here.’ Olivier’s words hit all of them light a lightning bolt, and the three of them rushed back to him. Holding up the phone, Olivier was casting the entire corridor in a bright, manufactured glow.

  Footsteps.

  ‘You need to get him out of here.’ Sam said firmly.

  They grew louder.

  Then, round the corner, stepped a man in a resplendent suit, the jacket open and beneath it, a black t-shirt clung to his impressive physique. His dark skin was smooth, and his strong jaw was coated in a trimmed, silver beard.

  Corbin raised her gun.

  ‘Stay where you are, Laurent!’ She commanded, her voice betraying her confidence.

  ‘You know him?’ Sam asked, as the man casually walked forward, roughly fifty yards away.

  ‘Laurent Cissé. He’s head of Ducard’s security.’

  ‘Then you need to go.’ Sam ordered. Corbin ignored him.

  ‘One more step. I swear.’

  ‘Your bullets are allocated to your weapon. You shoot him, then they will trace it back to you, the reason you’re here and everything will be lost.’ Sam spoke with conviction. ‘So go, get out of here, and get Olivier to safety.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Sam turned and looked straight at the approaching man, whose eyes were locked on him. Something told Sam it was personal.

  ‘I’ll buy you some time.’

  Corbin grit her teeth and then reluctantly lowered her weapon. She turned to Agard and a terrified-looking Olivier, and signalled for them to move, and they scarpered towards the darkness and the labyrinth of the warehouse, with no idea of how many men Ducard had sent.

  Sam watched them dart up the corridor and disappear into the darkness, and then turned back to the approaching Cissé, who dipped his hand to his spine and pulled out a handgun. Sam felt his muscles tighten. There was no way of avoiding a shot in the tightness of the walkway, and the storage unit would make him a sitting duck.

  He’d just have to stand his ground.

  Cissé lifted his hand that clutched the weapon, and then to Sam’s shock, he slid the magazine from the grip, and tucked it into his pocket, along with the gun. Then, he pulled off his jacket, revealing his powerful arms that burst from the sleeves of his t-shirt. Calmly, he folded the jacket and placed it on the floor. He then cracked his knuckles, loosened his shoulders, and continued walking, eating up the distance between himself and Sam.

  Sam clenched his fists, ready for the incoming fight.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the calmness of the early afternoon breeze, Eva had found her way to the edge of the opposing building and opened up her case. Quickly, she assembled her SPR300 and checked the bolt to ensure that one of .300 calibre bullets was ready and waiting. The golden instrument, with its piercing tip, had sent many a man to the afterlife, and as she snapped the bolt shut, she knew that today would be no different. She’d chosen the weapon due to its easy mobility, meaning she didn’t need to lock it in one place, and potentially give away her position to anyone with a trained eye.

  No barrel peeking over the edge.

  The car journey over had been pleasant enough, despite the fact that Cissé hadn’t been best pleased with her involvement. But Ducard had made assurances to him regarding a personal matter and that had seemed to have placated the man. He was familiar to her.

  Not personally.

  But for what he represented.

  During her time in the Ejército de Bolivia, she was subjected to many men who lived and breathed conflict. The type of men who spoke better with their fists than their mouths, and would measure their self-worth by the fear they could strike in others. They treated her with contempt, rationalising that a pretty girl such as herself shouldn’t be messing in their world.

  But they hadn’t known what she had been through, or the pain that she channelled to make her name.

  There were jealous eyes as she was promoted to the sniper division, using her mathematical brain to accompany her steady hand and her keen eye. She became a killing machine.

  She became a legend.

  When she finally deserted the army, it wasn’t for her own self-gain. That would come later. It was because she was tired of being a pawn in a political game that saw many of her comrades, the ones who had come to respect her, killed. If she was going to put people in the ground, it would be on her terms, and so she carved out her name as one of the deadliest contract killers in existence.

  She became a weapon to everyone, and her clientele was made up of world leaders and army generals. There had been regime changes and revolutions that had begun with her finger squeezing a trigger, and she was certain there was more to come. She hadn’t particularly questioned Ducard any further, and in truth, she didn’t care. The man was about to become the leader of one of the most powerful countries in the world, and having him as a paying customer would certainly be fruitful for her and her home village. Although she lived a life of luxury, she still took time to ensure most of her money was invested back into the village of Coroico, where she had been brought up by her doting father after the untimely death of her mother.

  As she sat, thinking of them both, her hand clasped the wedding ring that hung around her neck, like it had her father’s for the years between their deaths.

  Somewhere below, she heard the low rumble of an engine, and she peeked over the edge of the building to see a blue Mercedes turn into the vast parking area of the industrial estate. It slowed to a stop near the door to the facility, and four people stepped out. The woman looked like she was in charge, followed by a man that she found vaguely familiar.

  Sam Pope.

  Without warning, her brain sent her memories spiralling back to that moment on the cliff face may years ago, and the pain of having her shoulder ripped apart by a bullet and the terrifying fall into the Teles Pires below.

  He’d aged well, and still had the build and stance of a soldier despite the reports of his crimes. There was a temptation to pull her rifle to her eye, place his skull in the crosshairs and eradicate that memory forever, but that wasn’t the deal. Pope would be left to Cissé.

  She identified the two agents pretty readily, which meant the anxious civilian was the target. She could have eliminated him then and there, as the three men watched the woman smash the window and enter the premises, but it would have given away her position. The remit was to let them enter the building, find what they were looking for, and then let Cissé confront them. The man was bloodthirsty, but a patriot, and it seemed unlikely he would hurt agents working for the government he served so diligently.

  They’d have to smoke them out, and put Chavet in a place where the shot would come as a surprise.

  The walkway.

  Eva lifted her phone and sent a message to Cissé, telling him that they needed to direct the man to the walkway, where she would eliminate him.

  A few moments later, Cissé confirmed that it was in motion.

  Then, she heard a car door slam shut, and watched as Cissé strode across the concrete with purpose, followed by the man who had sat beside her the entire journey. They hadn’t spoken a word, but he carried a FAMAS Assault Rifle, which had been the French Military standard for nearly half a century. Cissé pulled the door open and stepped in, while the gunman stood, rifle at the ready, covering the entrance and ready to fire.

  Now all she had to do was wait.

  It was something she was accustomed to, and she lifted her SPR300 with the care and adulation a mother would give to a new-born, and slipped it perfectly into her grip. At that moment, with her gun tucked into her shoulder and her laser focused through the sight, there was nobody more dangerous on the planet. She adjusted her foot, so she was steady and she drew the rifle up, locked onto the metal walkway, and waited for the door to open, and her next kill to rush unknowingly to his death.

  Kovalenko. Bowker. Edinson. Kovac. Defoe. Mendoza. Hudson.

  The list of men who had fought Sam one on one was endless, and as his mind rushed through those battles, reminding Sam of the echoes of pain that he had experienced, none of them had the same bloodlust in their eyes as the man that was walking towards him. Most of them were just hired guns, men looking to make some money, or those who were paid to keep others safe. To keep Sam away.

  But Cissé’s eyes betrayed the composure of his body, and Sam could see the anger within them. The man was clearly military bred, with a physique and stance that screamed special ops, and judging by the fear that had clearly rattled Corbin before she left, the man’s reputation preceded him. Less than ten feet from Sam, Cissé stopped, the two of them shrouded in the dim light that tried to burst through the grime of the windows. With his piercing white eyes, Cissé pointed a finger at Sam.

  ‘This is for my fallen brother.’

  Whatever he had said, the words were laced with venom, and Sam removed his jacket and tossed it into the open storage unit. Like Cissé, his arms pulled the sleeves of his t-shirt to breaking point, and he raised his fists, adjusted his feet and set himself.

  ‘I don’t speak French.’ Sam said curtly. ‘So let’s just get this over with shall we?’

  Cissé didn’t need a second invitation. For a man of his age, he shocked Sam with the pace with which he moved, letting out a roar of anger as he charged towards Sam, swinging his brutal fist down like a hammer. Sam got his arms up to absorb the first few blows in his biceps, but then Cissé snuck a left jab through, catching him on the side of the jaw. With no time to shake the blow, Sam felt Cissé’s hands wrap around the back of his head, and then he drove forward, lifting vicious knees up into Sam’s body. Sam held his arms across his chest, absorbing the impact that shook the bones of his forearms, before Cissé drew back and threw a violent right hook.

  Sam ducked, threw a hard right of his own into the man’s solid stomach, then rocked him with a snapping left. Cissé stumbled back a few steps, and then slowly lifted his hand to his lip. He tapped the blood with his fingers, smiled, and then he and Sam raised their fists again and slowly edged towards each other.

  Throughout his years as a soldier, Sam had been a handy boxer, but it wasn’t until he had joined Project Hailstorm that he became as deadly with his fists as he did with a rifle. Weeks of training, mandated by General Wallace, saw Sam suffer and inflict more pain than he thought imaginable, but it now made him a unique fighting machine. Krav Maga, Muay Thai – styles of fighting that had all amalgamated into a repertoire that had kept him alive for so long.

  As Cissé edged closer, Sam knew he was going to need it.

  Cissé unloaded with another barrage of blows, which Sam was able to deflect, before the man rocked Sam with an uppercut to his broken rib. As Sam arched in agony, Cissé swept his legs from the side, and at the same time, clubbed Sam in the face with a devastating elbow. Sam hit the ground hard, a cloud of dust erupting behind him, and instantly, Cissé dropped on top of him, his hands wrapping around Sam’s throat. With murderous intent, Cissé loomed over Sam, pushing his entire body weight onto Sam’s jugular. Gasping for air, Sam rocked his hips and then drove a knee into the man’s spine, shunting him forward and Sam shoved him away. Cissé hit the metal shutter of a storage unit hard, but scampered back to his feet just as Sam was getting to his, and he charged, driving his shoulder into Sam’s stomach and both of them slammed into another shutter, denting it and rocking it on its hinges. Sam drove hard elbows down into the man’s back and skull, and then loosened Cissé’s grip with a knee to the chest. Cissé stumbled back, and Sam drove his boot into his chest, lifting the Frenchman off his feet and he collapsed on his back with an impactful thud. The dust rose, illuminated by the smoke and Sam stretched his spine. The collision with the shutter had amplified the damage done by his trip through the door the day before, and he took a moment to block the pain from his mind. Cissé took advantage, lifting himself from the floor before unleashing a hurricane of blows, which Sam tried to evade before one of them caught him flush on the nose. The pain was instant and as his vision blurred, he was able to make out the fist as it cracked against his jaw and sent him spiralling into the open storage unit. He fell over one of the open suitcases and hit the floor, and as he struggled to his feet, he could hear the joy in the man’s voice as he approached the open shutter.

 

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