A gunshot exploded from the car park, and both men snapped to attention. From the van ahead of them, Sinclair emerged, gun in hand, and keeping low to the ground, scurried across the street and into the darkness.

‘Shit.’ Alan threw the door open. ‘Stay here.’

Before Sam could remonstrate, Alan sprung from the car, slammed the door and ensured it was locked. With his own gun in hand, he jogged briskly down the street, keeping close to the buildings and the shadows they bathed the street in. Sam pulled at the door handle in frustration.

Alex was in the van, a sitting duck in the very real threat of a drug deal gone wrong.

As Sam pondered his next move, and Agent Alan approached the car park, another gunshot echoed loudly into the night.

Chapter Eighteen

The gunshot acted like the start of an Olympic race, the terrifying, unmistakable sound instinctively spurring Sam into action. Whatever was going down, Sam knew that he needed to get to Alex, and they both needed to get out of there. He watched as Alan approached the car park, his gun held still in a firm grip.

The man was a trained marine.

Despite the danger, Sam knew he could handle himself.

Swivelling on the plush leather seats of the car, Sam rolled onto his back and planted the base of his Chelsea boots on the window. He drew his legs back, and in one powerful thrust, he slammed his feet against the glass.

The glass cracked.

Another thunderous lunge and his feet smashed through the glass, the shards exploding across the road and clattering to the concrete. Quickly, he sat up, reached through the broken panel, and unlocked the door. As the door swung open, he saw Alan shoot a glance back at him. But they both knew that this was bigger than Sam’s incarceration.

Keeping low, and on the opposite side of the street, Sam scurried towards Sinclair’s van, dipping in and out of the lights that overhung the street and bathing patches in a yellow glow. As he moved, he could see a few curtains twitching, the terrified locals peeking out from their sanctuaries, hoping they were mistaken.

Marion was as peaceful as Dillon.

But just as dangerous.

There were no sirens filling the air, nor did Sam expect any. Towns like this left the Riders to their business, knowing that whatever mess they created they would likely clean up themselves. Whatever the hell Sykes was doing here, and whoever was in that van, Sam was sure the police would sit this one out.

He approached the back of the van, and looked over to Alan who was pressed against the railing of the fence, gun in hand, shielded by a parked Range Rover. Alan held his hand up to Sam, asking him to stop.