Howell shook his head again, taking a large sip. ‘All he had to do was get her to write the goddamn report.’
Sam sat back, turning quickly with raised eyebrows. As he struggled to process what he had just heard, Howell finished the last of his drink and slammed the glass down on the sideboard. The creaking of his gate echoed through the rain and a large beam of light flooded through the window to the study as a black SUV pulled into the driveway. Howell walked towards the hallways, headed for the front door. Sam shot to his feet, adrenaline already seeping into his veins.
‘Sir?’ he asked curtly, his fists clenched.
‘You don’t understand, Pope. This world, it’s not what you think. We don’t just play cops and robbers, we can’t just chase the bad guys down and slap them in cuffs. Not anymore. The world has changed. The only way to police these streets effectively is to co-exist.’
‘You son of a bitch,’ Sam said through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white. ‘You’re not drinking through grief. You’re drinking through guilt.’
‘You’re damn right I am.’ Howell turned back, his aged face rife with pain. ‘I sanctioned the killing of my own goddamn nephew to keep the fucking peace.’
Sam stepped forward into the doorway of the study as Howell took another two steps backwards, a few feet from the front door. A number of footsteps crunched across the wet gravel outside and Sam counted three figures through the frosted glass.
‘You did it to line your pockets,’ Sam stated. ‘You’re just as bad as they are.’
‘I don’t expect you to go quietly, Pope. Your friend didn’t.’
‘What?’ Sam stuttered, Howell’s words catching him off guard.
‘Your friend. Theo Walker.’ Howell spoke with little regard. The respectable senior figure had long disappeared. ‘Jackson had his men fill his house with bullets before blowing it to kingdom come.’
‘No,’ Sam uttered in disbelief.
‘Yup. Mayer has some of his men collecting Amy as we speak. So that clears up one mess. So now, we clean up one more.’
Howell reached for the door as three men, top-to-toe in black, burst in, each one holding his pistol at eye height.
The first one in, with a shaved head and a chubby face littered with acne scars, pulled the trigger as Sam dashed from the hallway to the kitchen, the bullet whipping past him and clattering into the doorframe, wooden splinters spraying out like dust. The man headed straight for the kitchen, quickly followed by another man with brown skin and a thick brown beard. Howell recognised them as two of Jackson’s most efficient killers and almost felt a twinge of sympathy for Sam Pope, who would be killed within seconds. The third man placed a gloved hand on Howell's shoulder, reclaiming his focus.
‘Sir, the boss has insisted I accompany you to the High-Rise until this passes. He will meet you there.’
‘Good,’ Howell barked, reaching for his raincoat, which hung lazily from the coatrack by the door. ‘I could use something stronger to drink.’
The treacherous inspector stormed out into the rain, swiftly followed by his protector. They leapt into the car and reversed instantly, spinning out onto the quiet, pleasant street and speeding off into the raining night towards safety. In the house, the first man stepped into the kitchen, instantly checking around the door, pistol ready to fire. He walked carefully; the large island sat in the middle of the floor, a few leather stools positioned opposite. A large light hung above it, bathing the sink and chopping area in a bright white glow. The other henchman turned into the study, checking the nooks and crannies of the inspector’s office as they hunted their prey.
Neither man noticed the large carving knife missing from the knife set atop the marble.
Neither man noticed Sam slowly etch his way around the island, listening to the wet, squishy footsteps of his assailant. The man, pistol at the ready, slowly reached the edge of the island and then burst forward, leaping out like a jack-in-the-box.
There was no one there.
Sam silently approached behind, crouched down, and in one swift movement, he sliced the blade across the attacker’s Achilles, carving the tendon in two. The man buckled forward instantly, but before he could howl in pain or crash to the floor, Sam caught him with a hand across his mouth.
In another swift movement, he drew the blade across the man’s throat, the skin opening like a packet of crisps as a spray of blood shot forward, followed swiftly by the man’s mortality.
Sam let him slump forward, choking on his own blood as his movements slowed and he finally let go.
Another broken promise.
Footsteps boomed in the hallway and Sam scurried forward, collecting the handgun and ducking behind the large dining table that led out to the conservatory. The other hitman, gun held out front, whispered into the room.
‘Mike.’ He entered, scanning with his gun. ‘Mike. Where are you?’
At that moment, he saw the blood slowly creeping around the side of the island.
That one split-second of distraction.
It was enough. A bullet shot through the kitchen and burrowed into the man’s temple, crashing through the other side of his skull and embedding into the fridge. A splatter of blood and brain matter accompanied it as the man fell to the floor to join the recently deceased.
Sam stepped over both men, collecting the other gun and tucking them both into the back of his uncomfortable jeans. He sprinted to the front door, hauling it open, and rushed to his car, hoping beyond hope that Theo was okay.
As he sped away into the night, he made a silent vow that the two dead bodies he had left in the house were not the last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The heat was unbearable, with the sun relentlessly beating down upon the rocky, barren wasteland of Mes Aynak. The mountainous part of the Logar Province was roughly forty kilometres southeast of Kabul, the war-torn capital of Afghanistan. With George W Bush declaring war a few years earlier, the fight against terrorism had become blurred, the political and financial implications weighing down upon every politician, the balancing act of saving the world and lining the pockets of the rich almost impossible.
But as the world discussed and argued over the morality of the war itself, Sam sat on a round boulder, his boots off and his shirt undone. A lukewarm bottle of water rested next to him and he squinted into the distance.
Somewhere out there, amongst the darkness of the caves, were a rogue terrorist cell. The initiation to Project Hailstorm was almost a week old and he, along with the other highly trained operatives selected, was beginning to feel the strain. Endless trekking into the treacherous mountains, the weight of the equipment strapped to him like a carrier mule.
The ferocious heat.
The very real threat that the next step would be into a sniper’s scope.
Now, at one of the highest points, he looked out, wondering which direction their targets were and when he would need to retrieve his rifle and pick them off before they even knew what was happening.
He thought of home.
The constant disappointment of the British summer, where a nice day turned to a thunderstorm like the flick of a switch. Wandering around a garden centre with Lucy, watching as she sniffed flowers and pointed at the ones she would buy if they had a bigger garden.
Sat outside in a beer garden, enjoying a cold Moretti as groups of his friends and their partners chatted endlessly about television and future plans.
He longed for home. To start that family he and Lucy had spoken of ever since they got married.
He longed for home. But he lived for war.
The medals that adorned shelves in his study back in London were evidence that he was highly regarded. The list of kills were the basis of his legend.
That was why Project Hailstorm had recruited him. It was why he was sat on a rock in the middle of nowhere, hunting a terrorist cell in the midst of a war he was no longer sure about.
Sam Pope was a killer.
One of the most efficient
the United Kingdom had ever produced.
He was there to wipe out the cell and join the most prestigious black ops team the UK and US governments had put together. It was a chance of a lifetime, and as he watched the overbearing sun begin its descent beyond the furthest mountain, he realised his life would always consist of him wishing he were in two places at the same time.
The arms of his wife and looking down the scope of his sniper rifle.
‘You working on that tan?’
Theo’s voice broke Sam’s train of thought and he snapped back into his surroundings, his unshaven face cracking into a smile.
‘Very funny. Just because you don’t have to.’
‘You racist bastard,’ Theo joked, plonking himself down on the rock next to Sam. He was shirtless, his black skin tight over his defined muscles. ‘Plus, as you well know, black don’t crack.’
‘Is that right?’ Sam chuckled, appreciative that his best friend had joined him. He cast his eye over Theo, whose easy-going aura had been replaced with a worried frown. ‘What’s up, mate?’
‘I think I’m done.’ Theo sighed, looking out over the impressive terrain.
‘Done?’
‘Yeah.’
‘With what?’
‘This. All of this.’ He gestured around with his hands. ‘I’m so far from home, Sam. I want to get back, meet a woman, and settle down. Have some kids. Be a good person.’
‘You are a good person,’ Sam stated with authority. ‘Just because we have to deal with the shit doesn’t mean we aren’t good people.’
‘Really?’ Theo asked cynically. ‘How many good people do you know who have killed as many people as we have?’
‘It’s our duty.’
‘Our orders, you mean.’ Theo shook his head once more before running a hand through his short black hair. ‘I’m tired of killing, Sam. I know I’m here to put people back together again, but I’ve got more than just their blood on my hands. For what? A war we never started? To get into this crack team that is so far off the fucking book it’s still in the inkpot?’
Theo hunched forward and raised a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.
Sam knew how proud Theo was and he reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Then you should go.’
Theo wiped away a tear, embarrassed by the sudden break in his psyche. They both knew what war could do to people; they had seen enough of their friends and comrades break at much less.
They were beyond the line now. Project Hailstorm would chew all of them up and spit them out. They all knew that, and only those who could accept it would survive.
Theo wasn’t a killer. Which meant, in this environment, he wouldn’t be a survivor either.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them watching the impressive emergence of shadows as the sun set, long dark fingers reaching out between the mountains and bathing every stone in a dark shade.
Sam took a swig of his bottle.
Theo eventually broke the natural silence between them. ‘Thanks, Sam.’
‘No need to, mate. Just promise me, even when you get back home, you never stop fighting.’
Sam held out his hand and Theo took it, shaking it firmly.
‘You got it, brother.’ Theo flashed a white grin. ‘You got it.’
He pushed himself up and headed back to the camp to begin packing and the long process to return home.
Sam turned his attention back to the phenomenal view before him, knowing his own journey into the dark, secretive centre of the war was only just beginning.
That had all seemed so long ago.
Now, as Sam stood outside the Intensive Care Unit where Theo was lying, he could feel the tears escaping from his eyes. He had driven through the pouring rain, the bars and restaurants kicking out the stragglers, who were either too drunk to care or too coked up to go quietly. A number of clubs boomed loudly on the roadsides, queues of scantily dressed women and overly groomed men all braving the rain for the chance to listen to terrible music and buy expensive drinks. As soon as he had gotten to the hospital, Sam had screeched to a halt, abandoning the stolen vehicle to be towed away. As he burst through the doors of the hospital, he gazed over the map, locating the ICU and walking briskly to the elevators, each step leaving a wet footprint on the white floor. Two police officers stood by the coffee machine and Sam ducked quickly into the stairwell before taking them two at a time.
The whole situation had escalated. Inspector Howell had given the greenlight to the hit on his own nephew and now his best friend clung to life by the thinnest of threads.
Sam watched through the window, the rainwater dripping from his clothes as he stared at the motionless body of his friend.
His right leg was missing, a thick, white bandage over the stump. His right hand was missing three fingers. The entire right side of his body was charred, the skin glazed as if he had been recently polished. The third-degree burns had scorched his skin, destroying the tissue completely.
His lungs had been devastated by the blast and his breathing was laboured, the plastic tube placed in his throat doing its best to pump oxygen into his lungs.
‘Fight it,’ Sam whispered angrily, his fists clenched.
A lifetime of war had showcased to him the horrors of man. But seeing his best friend fighting for his life had hit him like a freight train.
He had seen these injuries before.
Had watched Theo himself tend to them.
But he knew the outcome.
‘Never stop fighting,’ he spat again, through gritted teeth, the tears rolling down his cheeks as his friend took slow, assisted breaths. ‘You promised me, Theo.’
Suddenly, the machine next to Theo’s bed lit up and a horrifying high-pitched beeping wailed from the room like an air-raid siren. Instantly, two nurses raced into the room. A doctor barged past Sam and he watched, hands pressed to the glass, as the team tried to save his friend’s life.
Sam felt sick, watching as the doctor began CPR on Theo, pressing down on the chest with regimented precision as the machine mockingly flatlined. The doctor kept going, counting out each press as the nurses watched on with a resigned look of defeat.
Sam’s fists clenched with fury.
The doctor stopped his compressions.
Theo was declared dead a moment later.
Sam looked away, horrified, as they pulled the sheet over Theo’s corpse, hiding him away from the living. The doctor walked out, deflated and seemingly moved, and he patted Sam on the shoulder as he passed. The two nurses followed, one of them dabbing at her eyes with a tissue whilst the other, a world-weary Irish woman, stopped and rested a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she offered, looking back over her shoulder. ‘Were you close?’
‘He was my best friend,’ Sam spoke, his words slathered in pain.
‘Jesus,’ she uttered under her breath. ‘Well if you need a moment, go ahead. The police will be up in a minute.’
She squeezed his wet shoulder and walked off down the ward, fighting the good fight for a healthcare provider that was fighting a losing battle.
Sam watched as she went before he turned and slowly entered the room.
An eerie silence had taken over. The machines had been shut down and all that echoed were his footsteps and his breathing. He wiped away the final tear from his face and then looked at the bed. His best friend was underneath it, ripped apart by a fight that wasn’t his.
He had died fighting, Sam was sure of that. But doing the right thing scarcely provided anything other than a slap in the face. This time it had wiped a good man from the world.
All for what? The greed of the corrupt.
Suddenly, a surge of rage shot through Sam like a bolt of lightning.
‘I’m sorry, Theo.’
Sam turned to leave, eager to disappear before the police arrived, when suddenly he realised Theo’s possessions were in the corner of the room. His clothes, bloodstained and bul
let-ridden, were balled up next to a leather wallet and two mobile phones.
One of them was Sam’s.
Quickly, Sam snatched the mobile phone from the pile and turned to the door just as a large middle-aged police officer walked in with a scowl on his face.
‘Stay where you are,’ the officer demanded, a hand outstretched whilst his other reached for the pepper spray attached to the belt that sat under his rotund stomach. Instantly Sam grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards him and crashing his forehead into the man’s nose. The loud crack and subsequent burst of blood told him it was broken, and the man fell to the floor, wailing in agony.
Sam gave one final glance back to his deceased friend, vowing to make those responsible pay for everything they had done.
Sam stepped over the fallen officer and hurried to the exit, willing the torrential downpour to swallow him whole.
Pearce stood by the window, looking out at the drenched car park of the Premier Inn. The hotel was in a derelict part of Hertfordshire, beyond the M25, and hopefully, he assumed, the last place they would look for them.
He had booked two rooms, flashing his badge and feeding the young, gullible receptionist a story of espionage and national safety.
The young man had devoured the story with an innocent enthusiasm, handing over two room keys and watching in awe as the detective had ushered in a beautiful woman and a wounded man. Pearce had insisted on the man’s secrecy, laying it on thick with a ‘can I trust you, son?’ Now, as he stood by the window, he watched every car headlight with apprehension. After what had happened at Theo Walker’s residence, there was no doubt that they would do whatever necessary to tie off the loose ends.
They would kill him.
They would kill Amy and her husband.
And they would sweep it all under the rug like it never happened.
Slowly, he lifted a cigarette to his lips, taking a hard drag of nicotine before silently cursing himself for slipping back into the habit. It had been six years since he had last tasted a cigarette, and whilst the taste made him want to vomit, the soothing relaxation that the nicotine poured into him was most welcome.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 19
