Pearce waited in the booking hall. Leila had been monitoring police communications and had been able to ascertain that Hill was being taken to Seattle Police Headquarters. She and Wollerton had managed to forge credentials from the public defender’s office that identified Pearce as Seth Allen, a court-appointed lawyer. The plan was simple; once Hill had been booked, Pearce would request five minutes with his client and would quiz the corrupt officer on possible locations Elroy Lang might use to store a large quantity of product.
After he’d been tested for coronavirus by the duty sergeant, Pearce had taken a seat and watched the comings and goings of central booking, grateful for the two hours’ sleep he’d managed to snatch once they’d put the plan in motion. Leila had discovered that many of the accounts they’d used to break the Black Thirteen story had been shut down, so she’d been forced to hack into a new batch of MI5 social media puppets to spread the allegations about Hill. The story had soon gone viral, before being picked up by a few fringe and alternative news sites, which had become sources for local Seattle media. The volume of coverage gave the claims credence and before long, news outlets were forced to choose whether to run the story or be one of the few networks that remained silent.
Once the allegations had got traction, Pearce had instructed the team to get some rest. Everyone had managed to find a spot in their base of operations to grab some shut-eye. Everyone apart from Leila, who was pushing herself beyond the limit. Pearce didn’t know how she did it, but he was learning not to try to stop her. She didn’t react well to being told what to do, especially if the instruction implied she might be weak in any way. And they still weren’t talking much. Their easy rapport had been strained by the revelation she’d concealed her role in Artem Vasylyk’s death.
Pearce saw a commotion outside the booking hall. A couple of police cars had pulled up in the loading bay directly opposite the entrance. They were soon followed by a police van that stopped and discharged its occupants. Four officers in tactical gear, and their suspect, Evan Hill.
It took a moment for Pearce to realize why the uniformed cop heading out of the building seemed out of place. It was the man’s face. He wasn’t a police officer; he was a criminal. It was Rasul Salamov, and his eyes were fixed on Evan Hill. Pearce could only guess that someone on the Salamovs’ payroll had let Rasul know where they were bringing Hill and had helped the mobster infiltrate the building.
‘No!’ Pearce yelled, getting to his feet.
But he was too late. As the tactical squad entered the building, Rasul Salamov drew his sidearm and shot Evan Hill in the stomach three times.
An alarm sounded and two of the tactical officers tended to Hill, who fell to the floor, shuddering violently as he bled out. The other two officers wrestled Rasul to the floor, but he didn’t put up any resistance and surrendered his weapon with the willingness of someone who had no other ambitions in life. Pearce felt sick. Hill was their last hope of reaching the mysterious Elroy Lang.
Pearce watched the two officers with Hill perform frantic CPR, but he was unresponsive and soon fell still.
The booking hall filled with cops who took statements from anyone who might have seen anything. Giving his name as Seth Allen, Pearce told the detective who questioned him that he hadn’t seen the shooting because he’d been checking his emails. While Pearce was being interviewed, Rasul was taken to the booking desk and charged with murder. He caught Pearce’s eye, but there was no recognition, just a dead stare as though he’d lost all reason. Once Rasul was processed, he was taken through a security door, and Pearce felt certain they would never see each other again.
Forty-five minutes after the shooting, Pearce was released from the building, and he stepped into a battleship-grey day. Standing in the relentless drizzle, with his best chance dead, Pearce wondered where he went from here.