He shrugged.

  It was just business.

  The world needed people like him. Someone who was willing to do the dirty work to ensure the rich stayed rich. They were willing to pay obscene money and he was more than happy to cash the cheques to give himself and his crew a comfortable life.

  As for the young man who he’d left to his crew, he just wasn’t important in the grand scheme of things.

  Expendable.

  With such little regard for human life, Bowker had often wondered how his mental state would be classified. He was certain he was a sociopath, but his violent past and tendencies would probably give the top psychiatrists a hard day’s work. As far as he was concerned, he was saner than most.

  He didn’t chase materialistic trophies to try to gain some sense of self appreciation.

  Nor did he splatter himself across social media, pushing a fake life to the world in the quest for popularity.

  Bowker saw the world for what it was, played the shit hand he was dealt, and used it to become a successful businessman. But unlike those who worked in boardrooms and dealt in money or paperwork, he dealt in blood.

  Unfortunately, for people like Lynsey Beckett’s boyfriend, the world was a shit place, and men like Bowker had just cottoned on to that fact quicker than most.

  Bowker moved to his bedroom and opened the wardrobe, his eyes gazing across the simple and fairly priced clothing that he had amassed over the years. Despite the small fortune he had made off the desperation of the rich and powerful, his simple approach to life meant his clothes reflected his mindset. He quickly changed into jeans and a dark T-shirt, before moving to his kitchen to make a coffee. As his Nespresso machine rumbled into action, Bowker checked his phone.

  Still no word from Hicks.

  Bowker wasn’t concerned for his friend, but the lack of contact was odd. Hicks had taken the janitor’s attack personally and although he had argued about returning to the youth centre on the pretence of retrieving his gun, Bowker knew it was a matter of pride.

  Hicks had been bested.

  And the man’s ego couldn’t take it.

  As far as causing any further mess was concerned, Bowker saw the janitor as a loose end. The older man, who had taken his beating like a champ, would stay quiet, especially once Hicks had gutted his janitor.

  But there was no word yet.

  As the milk came to a frothy conclusion, Bowker lifted the mug and took a sip.

  He wasn’t concerned, but something didn’t feel right.

  There was something about the janitor that he couldn’t quite place. The man was certainly familiar, and Bowker was certain he’d seen his face somewhere before. Maybe not with the beard and long hair, but those eyes were recognisable.

  They were also focused, which meant Hicks’s task may be a little trickier than they predicted, especially if Hicks lost his temper and gave up the element of surprise.

  Taking another sip of coffee, Bowker decided to give Hicks until the afternoon to touch base, otherwise he would assume the worst and make the necessary steps.

  Something told him he may just have to.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Adam Bridges woke with a thumping headache.

  Whether it was the excessive booze from the night before, or the sickening feeling of guilt that encased his brain, he stumbled from his bed to the medicine cabinet that was nailed to his bathroom wall. As he threw two tablets back and dipped his head to the tap, he hoped the gushing water would wash away the horrendous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  After receiving the confirmation from Bowker and subsequently emptying his guts, Bridges had drunk his way through the rest of the evening’s festivities. While London’s richest gushed at his spiel and fawned over the excellent work that Nicola Weaver and Head Space were doing, Bridges had to keep his mind right. With no information of how or what Bowker had done, Bridges tried to turn that into a positive. The less he knew, the less he had to feel guilty for.

  But Bowker wasn’t a tactful man, not in the same way Bridges was.

  Bowker was a man of action and having failed to intimidate Lynsey Beckett away from her story, it was only logical to assume the next step was physical.

  But the lack of any Twitter news pertaining to her told Bridges that she was safe, which meant someone else had been brought into the situation.

  Someone unconnected.

  The thought made Bridges woozy, and he dipped down to the tap once more, lapping at the water like a thirsty hound. He scooped up some of the water with his hand and splashed it across his face before staring at himself in the mirror.

  The reflection disgusted him.

  The usual handsome, well-groomed face was replaced with bloodshot eyes, messy hair, and a five o’clock shadow that ruined his chiselled jaw. Despite his cracking mindset, Bridges had spent the evening doing his best to distract himself, knocking back the drinks in an effort to hide his disgust at what he and Weaver had put into action.

  It hadn’t worked.

  As the night went on, he had seduced one of the young waiters into joining him in a storage room, trying to let his thoughts dissipate as the young man fellated him.

  It didn’t work and after an awkward exchange, Bridges left the young man to deal with his shame as he dealt with his own. Now, as he tried to ignite his usual morning routine, Bridges couldn’t think of anything else.

  He needed something to bring it all to an end.

  It had gone too far now for him to just walk away. The things he knew and had initiated meant his hands were just as dirty as Weavers. For a time, the vast sums of money were enough to wipe them clean, but now all he could see when he looked at his pristine hands was the blood of so many people.

  Young teenagers hooked on drugs.

  Innocent people who had been set upon by Bowker and his dogs.

  Somewhere within his bedroom, he heard the irritating chime of his work phone and, as he rummaged through his clothes, he managed to retrieve it from his blazer.

  It was the office.

  One thing about being the face of a company was that whenever you were needed, you had to be available.

  With a sigh, he answered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, good morning to you, too,’ Janice barked. ‘Too many drinks last night?’

  ‘Sorry, Janice.’ Bridges turned on the charm as easy as the tap in his bathroom. ‘Just a few too many.’

  ‘I heard it was a blast. The biggest fundraiser ever. Go you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Bridges shook his head in disgust. If only she knew. ‘What can I do for you, Janice? It’s a Saturday.’

  ‘I know, but as you always say, we are never off the clock. I have a call waiting for you. It’s a journalist…’

  ‘Tell them to fuck off.’ Bridges snapped.

  ‘Oh… I think you might want to take this call.’

  ‘Look, I’m hungover, and the last thing I want to do today is sing and dance for the press. Can’t you schedule it for Monday?’

  ‘It’s Lynsey Beckett.’

  Bridges stopped pacing his bedroom and stood upright. The mere mention of her name brought the guilt flooding back, but through the darkness of his self-loathing, it also offered a glimmer of light.

  ‘Put her through.’ Bridges needlessly ran a hand through his hair, as if readying himself for an interview. After a few moments, the call connected. The unmistakable Northern Irish accent crackled through his phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Miss Beckett,’ Bridges said with his usual bravado. ‘To what do I owe this displeasure?’

  ‘We need to meet.’ Her voice was stern, unmoving. Bridges felt slightly uneasy.

  ‘I don’t have anything to say to you or your company. Not after the smear campaign you ran…’

  ‘It’s about the assault of my boyfriend, Sean Wiseman. An assault you ordered through Daniel Bowker.’ Silence, as Bridges stood, mouth agape. ‘How am I doing here?’

  ‘How… what…’ Bridges stammered.

  ‘This has gone too far, and it needs to end.’

  ‘I agree.’ Bridges finally wrestled back some composure. ‘I will need any and all evidence you think you have on us.’

  ‘Deal.’ There was a steely determination in Lynsey’s voice that Bridges found discerning.

  ‘When and where?’

  Lynsey gave him the location and he let out a relieved sigh. It was secluded, away from the public eye. It meant not only would it escape the clutches of the press but also that she had relented. Despite the horrific nature of Bowker’s actions, the message had finally got through.

  ‘Meet me there at three.’

  Before Bridges could respond, Lynsey killed the call. He cursed her under his breath and then looked up at the mirror before him. The same bedraggled man looked feebly back, but this time, there was a sense of relief in his eyes.

  Soon, this would be over.

  And once it was, Bridges would begin the tricky process of trying to sever all ties with the horrendous journey he’d ventured down.

  Not having a car was never a problem for Sam, especially as he’d tried to keep his name off as many systems as possible. Plus, living in London gave him ample options for transportation, as well as saving on the eye watering costs of running one within the country’s capital.

  But with time very much of the essence, he found himself becoming frustrated as he hopped on the train at Neasden and rode the Jubilee Line towards North Greenwich Station. It was a long, dull journey, made all the more tedious by being almost exclusively within the confines of a tunnel, but Sam’s patience was tested more by the task at hand.

  Before he’d embarked on his final fight in America, he and Etheridge had collected the final remnants of Sam’s arsenal, pulling together the remaining weapons that the Met hadn’t seized from the stashes they didn’t know about. Together, the two men had boxed them up and shipped them away, a gesture that Sam’s fight was over and that he had put that part of his life behind him.

  If he returned from America, it would be to a life of peace.

  But there was a glint in Etheridge’s eye that day, especially when Sam asked for confirmation that every weapon had been packed.

  Now, as he exited the train and began his ascent through the glass structure of North Greenwich Station, he hoped that Etheridge’s nonchalance equalled a genuine betrayal of Sam’s wishes.

  He was about to go to war with a group of violent mercenaries and all he had was the Glock 17 he’d taken from the recently deceased.

  As Sam exited through the humongous opening to the station, he saw the O2 Arena in the distance, the sharp, yellow masts jutting into the sky like giant candles on a birthday cake. Tourists were flocking from the station behind him, and Sam made his way onto the main road, looking out to cable cars that offered transport across the Thames.

  Having only lived in North Greenwich for a week while lying low with Etheridge, Sam wasn’t familiar with the area, but by sticking to the main road he soon came across a small retail estate he recognised.

  A large Odeon Cinema loomed over the restaurants and Sam followed the road to a metal flyover walkway that transported him across the large dual carriageway that sliced through the residential area.

  Greenwich itself was a wealthy part of London, the small town offering a selection of quirky shops, a marketplace, and some popular drinking destinations surrounding the famous Cutty Sark. North Greenwich, however, was an overly crammed plethora of residential streets, with rows upon rows of thin, cramped houses available at eye-watering prices.

  Etheridge had bought one during his excessive days, where money and property equalled fulfilment, but he had abandoned it once he had joined Sam’s cause. The derelict flat was on the ground floor of an old house on Fingal Street, and as Sam approached the door, he looked around to ensure he wasn’t being watched. Satisfied that the coast was clear, Sam drove his elbow into the small pane of glass above the door handle, reached in, and unlatched the door.

  A year and a half’s worth of stale air greeted Sam with a grim slap to the face, and he quickly lifted his T-shirt to cover his nose. The neglection had covered the entire flat in a thick layer of dust and the various piles of vermin droppings didn’t help the aroma. As Sam ventured through the rooms, his hand instinctively reached to the base of his spine, his fingers clasping the handle of the gun.

  Just in case.

  As Sam cleared the flat in seconds, he slowly began checking the few storage cupboards, hoping Etheridge had lied to him.

  Nothing.

  Sam sighed.

  Although he’d been committed to his new life, the current change in circumstances meant he needed to be right.

  He needed a weapon and with Etheridge gone and the police swarming the second he rose from the dead; Sam was holding on to a hunch for dear life.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he lifted it.

  Pearce.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sam. Are you okay?’

  ‘Just dandy,’ Sam said dryly, carefully stepping over the rotten carcass of a long-deceased mouse.

  ‘Lynsey called. The meet is set. Three at the Old Mill car park in Balham. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I’ll find it,’ Sam said, lodging the address in his mind. ‘One last thing, you don’t remember the name of the warehouse that Amara raided, do you? The one run by Harry Chapman.’

  Pearce blew air out from his lips, challenging his brain to recall a memory.

  ‘Wow. Not off the top of my head. Why?’

  ‘Do you think you could find out?’

  ‘I can look it up. Am pretty sure there will be enough about it online. Why?’

  ‘I have a plan. But I’m going to need your help. This one final run and then it’s over.’

  Before Pearce could object, Sam explained the idea to him. Sam knew he was asking a lot. Despite being retired, Pearce had spent his entire adult life as a well-respected man of the law. By pushing him further across the line into pure criminality, Sam knew how conflicted Pearce was.

  But this wasn’t for Sam.

  This was for Sean.

  And despite every fibre of his being telling him to turn away, Pearce agreed and told Sam to call him when he was ready. As Sam hung up the phone, he turned to leave, stepping carefully over another pile of waste. As his foot hit the floor, he stopped and looked down.

  He lifted his boot and stomped, confirming that the floor beneath the spoilt rug was hollow. Sam dropped to his knees, flipped the rug over, and, with the handle of the gun, bashed through the floorboards with haste. As the wood crumbled beneath his blows, he sat back on his haunches and shook his head.

  ‘You bastard,’ Sam uttered to himself, chuckling at Etheridge’s insolence.

  Although wrapped in several sheets to protect it, Sam immediately recognised the unmistakable shape of the assault rifle. He reached into the crawl space and lifted the weapon out, carefully unwrapping the covering to reveal a pristine SA80 Assault Rifle.

  Sam held the weapon like a long-lost lover, cradling it in his hands with care and attention.

  With his new life stripped away, Sam could feel the elite level marksman bubbling beneath him and, as he glided his hand up the body of the gun, he felt a new sense of clarity and purpose.

  His plan was still a dangerous one, but thanks to Etheridge being a pain in the arse, he had a much better chance of seeing it through.

  Sam ducked his head beneath the boards to scope the rest of the clearing and he noticed the wooden shoe box and removed it. He placed it on the floor and opened it, revealing several magazines of bullets, enough to arm Sam for a full-on assault.

  Sam pocketed them and just as he was about to leave, he noticed the single sheet of paper, with Etheridge’s handwriting scrawled across it. Before he left, Sam read the note and smiled, hating the fact that Etheridge was right.

  Wherever the man was, Sam knew he owed him more than he could ever repay.

  With the time ticking before someone noticed the shattered glass on the door, Sam dumped the assault rifle into a sports bag and headed for the exit, leaving the note on the ground to eventually perish in time.

  The note read:

  We are who we are, Sam. Keep fighting. PE.

  Sam agreed with what was written on it and was ready to prove Etheridge right. Closing the door behind him and basking in the freshness of the brisk, wet Saturday afternoon, Sam headed to the nearest car rental outlet, ready to go to war.

  Chapter Twenty

  The roof of the Old Mill parking garage offered a stunning view of Balham and further afield into the city of London. Usually a tremendous visual of large, shiny buildings and a cacophony of noise, the grim spring shower engulfed the city in a damp gloom.

  As Lynsey stood, arms rested on the stone barrier of the parking lot, she felt the view was apt.

  Somehow, just doing her job and beginning to fall for a young man had sent her life down a path she had never intended.

  Most Saturdays were spent out with her friends, other thirty-year-old women who were too busy enjoying the freedom of London and decent salaries to want to be tied down to the responsibilities and repetition of relationships and parenthood. Afternoons usually consisted of trips to the Westfield Shopping Centre near her work, or bottomless brunches leading to a boozy afternoon that bled into a drunken evening out.

  Random guys would come and go, and despite her semi-celebrity status as a TV reporter, Lynsey was never in any trouble of her private life impacting her professional.

  Until now.

  Sean was a good guy; someone she had built an instant connection with and now he clung desperately to his life all because he had the unfortunate reality of being the closest person to her at that point in time.

  Ever since she sniffed the corruption behind Head Space, it had become her life’s work to expose them, knowing that pulling together a damning and comprehensive report would make her career. As she looked around the depressing, empty car park where she stood, she realised now how naïve she’d been.

 

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