His little Jamie had been killed.
And he should have stopped it.
A few months after the funeral, he and Lucy attended the trial of the young man—a twenty-year-old named Miles Willock, who pleaded guilty, crying in the courtroom as his expensive lawyer spun a yarn of the horrors the young man faced, having to live with the guilt of killing a child.
Sam couldn’t believe it.
At least Miles got to live.
It worked, and although Miles was found guilty, due to his age, regret, and the pity of the jury, he receive a reduced sentence of eighteen months.
Sam knew the boy would be out in less than a year.
A year.
For killing his son.
After that, Sam rejected the chance to pass out, handing back the police badge he had earnt and telling them he couldn’t represent a justice system that couldn’t deliver it.
The drinking stopped.
The ideas of having another family.
Everything stopped.
Lucy tried to connect with him, telling Sam that he didn’t need to forgive Miles; he needed to forgive himself.
It fell on deaf ears.
Sam spent every evening sat in his son’s empty bedroom, remembering the promises he had made to his boy.
That he wouldn’t kill people anymore.
That he would read more books.
As the evenings passed, Sam sat on his son’s bed, flicking through every book that Jamie had enjoyed, tears streaming down his face and his heart breaking further.
Eventually Lucy left, telling him that she couldn’t watch him willingly spiral further into his grief. She thought he was a fighter.
But he had given up.
She left, finding happiness a year later.
Sam found his own method for dealing with his grief and guilt, and every criminal that felt his wrath was another step towards acceptance.
But whenever he returned to his empty flat, his knuckles split and the blood of a criminal spilt, he felt nothing.
Just a cold emptiness.
Nothing would bring his Jamie back.
Nothing.
Sam stood in the wreckage of Theo’s house. The walls had been ashened black by the blast and ensuing fire, causing the surrounding houses to be evacuated until further notice. The rain lashed against the shattered shell of the house, his footsteps crunching over the charred remains of Theo’s life. Sam had followed the back alleyways to the street, hopping over the fence to elude the police car keeping vigil out front.
He trudged through the broken kitchen, spying where the trapdoor was that had saved Amy’s life.
The blood-splattered wood showed him where Theo lost his.
He looked away, the anger of losing another person close to him again threatening to overspill in an avalanche of rage.
Slowly, he stepped into the garden, the rain welcoming him with a series of wet slaps.
He reached into his pocket, flicked the screen a few times, and lifted the phone to his ear.
‘You have no new messages and one saved message. Saved message.’
Sam took a deep breath, the cold rain obscuring the entire garden.
The message played.
‘Hey, Dad. I miss you. Mum says you are going to be away for a while. I understand, but I wanted to see you. I have some new books to read with you. I’ll speak to you soon, Dad. I love you.’
Sam lowered the phone, the last message his son had sent him before he was snatched from the world causing his heart to break once more. Sam would never forgive himself for what had happened, for allowing a young man to drink drive.
It had ruptured everything he had fought for.
Everything he had killed for.
And whilst he couldn’t keep his promise to his son, he knew that the same system that let it go unpunished would erase Amy and her husband from the world and no one would be able to do anything.
The same people who had brutally murdered his best friend.
Pearce was right: they wouldn’t stop.
Gritting his teeth, Sam thrust his phone into his pocket and marched to the side shed, the wooden door heavy with rainwater. He wrenched it open and removed a shovel, laughing at the timing of the weather. It was pissing with rain and he was there to collect his ‘rainy-day fund’.
Everyone brings a bit of war back with them. Theo had the safety bunker.
Sam had his fund.
He dug into the wet earth of Theo’s garden, ripping it from the ground and piling it sloppily behind him. Soaked through, he dug for five minutes until he reached down and hauled up a thick metal suitcase. Without a moment’s hesitation, with a huge clap of thunder roaring behind him, Sam entered the security code and flicked it open.
The array of automatic weapons, explosives, and body armour greeted him.
Everyone brought a bit of the war back with them.
Now, as he slammed the case shut and marched off through the rain, Sam was ready to bring the war to them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The floor-to-ceiling glass panes framed the outside of the room, offering a lovely view of the city. Despite the torrential downpour, London was awash with the bright lights of its booming nightlife, the masses braving the elements for another night on the tiles. Howell stood authoritatively, hands on hips, staring out at the city that looked to him for protection.
The sixth floor of the High-Rise was the penthouse; the rooms on this level were beyond anything he had ever seen before. Sure, he had partaken in a few wild nights on Frank Jackson’s tab—a group sex session with three Thai women and a gram of cocaine was a particular highlight—but even then, the apartment he had been afforded paled in comparison to the room he currently occupied.
Three leather sofas sat opposite each other around an oval glass table. Expensive art framed the wall above the roaring fireplace on the far wall. A TV the size of a small cinema screen was hoisted on the opposite wall. Below, a small oak cabinet filled with the finest spirits and luxurious mixers.
Beyond was an open-plan kitchen, fitted with black marble countertops that Howell wanted for his own kitchen.
His kitchen.
Where Sam Pope was most likely dead.
‘Jesus, what a mess.’ His own voice rattled in his brain, copying the ice cubes that shifted in the crystal glass he held in his hand.
‘It’s over now.’ Frank Jackson entered the room, speaking as if he had just read Howell’s mind.
Howell snorted, shaking his head and sipping the expensive scotch he had indulged in. The High-Rise was built for that—pure indulgence—and Frank was proud of what he had built. Highly respected government officials, top-ranked members of the police service—hell, even well-known actors and musicians had passed through the doors, living out their fantasies or just basking in the opulence of the venue, women, and product he provided.
The more they came, the further they climbed into his pocket.
Frank knew Howell was aware of how much shit he was in. The entire plan had blown up in their faces, and Mark was in the basement as they spoke, ensuring Mayer paid the price for his failures. Frank wouldn’t take the same approach with Howell. He had his reputation as the Gent to think of, but he needed to let Howell know he was taking over the operation and that any opposition would result in the end of Howell’s career.
By the look on the man’s face, he had already realised it.
‘What’s over?’ Howell barked, staring out at the drenched city. He threw back the last of his drink and held out his glass. Frank smiled politely before pushing the offer away.
‘I’m not a servant, Michael.’ Jackson spoke clearly. ‘In fact, considering the complete failure of your operation, I think it’s time we made it quite clear the reporting line here.’
‘I don’t fucking report to you.’
‘Language,’ Frank warned, the menace of his words as clear and precise as his expensive three-piece suit. ‘Let me make something very clear to you, Insp
ector. You came to me, wanting a cut and access to the services my High-Rise can provide for you. You bargained for that with your offer of being able to meet particular requests. Now, why on earth you entrusted that blithering idiot Mayer with this operation, only you will know. But right now, I have one of my closest allies lying in the morgue and a trail of bodies that, unless you intervene, could lead people all the way to my front door. And if they do knock on that door, Howell, I will string you up as their welcoming gift. Understood?’
Howell felt the power seep from his body, knowing he was too far gone to argue. The Gent was right. He had promised him he would handle the situation, but he couldn’t orchestrate the murder of his own nephew. He had given Mayer the go-ahead, vividly remembering accepting the plan before emptying his guts in a toilet stall. Jake had been a good kid, hardworking, and had idolised his brave policeman uncle.
An uncle who was no better than a criminal.
Now, as he stood staring at the city he had betrayed, he wondered how easy it would be to hurl himself to the ground below. Frank stood next to him, absorbing his misery like a sponge.
At that moment, the door flew open and Mark stormed in, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his meaty, ink-covered forearms.
The entire front of his shirt was stained with blood.
Two other men entered, both of them holding handguns.
‘Mark,’ Frank greeted sternly. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I haven’t heard from the boys over at his place’ He jabbed a finger at Howell. ‘Which means they’re dead.’
‘You sure?’ Frank said, stepping forward with concern.
‘Possibly. If Pope knows what’s good for him, he’ll flee, but I’ve called the boys in. I’ve told them to tool up and we’re going to go hunting.’
‘How many?’
‘About fifteen or so. They’re doing a quick sweep of the building as we speak.’
‘What about Mayer?’ Frank asked, arms crossed.
‘Mayer? He’s here,’ Howell spoke up.
Mark smirked and tossed something across the room to him.
A human finger.
Howell dropped it in disgust.
‘Jesus!’ Realisation began to creep in. ‘Wait…is that…?’
‘Mayer. He effectively gave us the finger with his botched operation. So I decided to take it from him.’ Mark spoke with no compassion. ‘I’ll be back later to finish him off.’
‘Jesus,’ Howell muttered, the colour draining from his face. Mark motioned for the two men to follow him as he headed back to the door. The men were nondescript, nobody that Frank would ever get to know on a first-name basis. They would do whatever Mark ordered, knowing that they would be rewarded and protected by the police. Frank trusted Mark to get the job done. They would head off into the downpour, scouring every street until they overturned whatever rock Pope was trying to hide under.
He would be dead by dawn.
Frank quickly scanned his watch. It was almost two in the morning.
Time for a nightcap.
Frank nodded his approval to Mark as he crossed the threshold into the hallway and closed the door. He dropped two ice cubes into a glass and poured his expensive scotch over them, letting the liquid crackle in the cold.
Howell stood like a disobedient child outside the headmaster’s office.
‘See, Howell? That’s a man who gets a job done.’ He lifted his glass in a cheers. ‘Consider this situation closed.’
At that exact moment, the building rocked as the booming sound of grenade echoed through like a roar of thunder.
Sam had parked the stolen car two streets away.
At two in the morning, Dulwich was a ghost town, and he walked through the streets carefully, the bulletproof vest strapped across his muscular torso. Two pistols were tucked into the back of his jeans, each one perfectly placed for a quick retrieval. On a Velcro strip across his armour he held two grenades, both of them primed and ready to cause serious damage.
Over his shoulder, tucked under his arm, was an M16A2, a light support assault rifle with a full magazine slammed into it. The rain lashed against him, providing him with even more cover as he walked through the streets.
Not one car passed by.
As he came to the corner, he saw the front gazebo of the High-Rise, the impression of class as tasteless as the heinous acts that were encouraged within. Squinting his eyes to focus, he could see that the front desk of the lobby was unattended, the girls clearly not needed to work nights. Most likely they were being strapped to beds upstairs so the rich and powerful could violate them even further.
Two silhouettes were moving in the lobby area, the very one Sam had stormed through a few weeks previously to get to Morton. Back then, he was armed with just a baseball bat. Now he was walking in as if he were walking through the gates of hell themselves.
He was about to go to war.
A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the street for a split second before a roll of thunder roared like an angry god. Sam cast his mind back to his time serving, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as it did back then. He was trained for these situations; the very notion of kill or be killed had kept him alive in the face of death more times than he could remember.
Alive, to live a life that had been empty since the death of his son.
Since his wife had left him.
Now, as he stood in the pouring rain, his hands expertly clasped around an assault rifle, he realised why he had been doing it all. The attacks on the petty criminals who had beaten the system.
‘The Night Shifts’.
The reason he had begun to investigate Harding’s death. Why he had killed those two men to save Amy, and why he had been fighting the endless stream of corruption he had uncovered since then.
He was looking for redemption.
A redemption for not stopping the man who had killed his son. For not dealing with his guilt and losing the only woman he had ever loved.
Redemption for breaking the promise to his son.
Redemption for the death of his best friend.
Sam gritted his teeth and pulled a grenade from his vest, taking measured steps across the road to ensure he wasn’t visible to any curtain-twitcher inside. He had heard the third man who had arrived at the house inform Howell that they were heading to the High-Rise.
This was where he would be.
Howell. The Gent. The other man who had killed Theo.
The men who had trodden over the justice system to line their own pockets.
They were about to experience war.
As the next bolt of lightning cast the street in a wild glow, Sam pulled the metal pin from the grenade and waited a few seconds. Sure enough, the thunder slowly built before it exploded loudly across the street.
He hurled the grenade.
It shattered the window, and instantly he heard two voices begin to question the intrusion. Just as one of them yelled out his realisation, the grenade detonated, the entire lobby area blasted clean open in a cocktail of noise and fire. The building rattled like a maraca. The glass windows shattered, the shards twinkling in the glow of the streetlight like fireflies. The alarm wailed in panic and the sprinklers burst to life, mimicking the outside downpour, trying their best to wash away the devastation.
The two men were scattered in various-sized pieces, the proximity ripping them apart and turning the majority of their bodies to paint.
Sam hopped over one of the broken window ledges and into the High-Rise, his shoes crunching on the broken, bloodstained glass. He whipped the rifle up, the stock wedged expertly into his shoulder, one eye closed, the other peering down the sight along the top of the rifle. Taped to the underside of the barrel was a torch, which Sam clicked on. The smoke slowly began to clear and Sam ventured in, passing the lifts which had automatically shut down upon the alarm.
There was no stealth mode now.
They knew they were under attack, and
he had no idea how many people were waiting within darkened building. The electricity had cut out with the blast, just the thin emergency lights giving each corridor a haunting glow.
Sam approached the door to the stairwell when he heard the frantic patter of footsteps approaching the bottom. He quickly stepped to the other side of the door, watching it almost thrown off its hinges as two men burst in.
They stopped dead, shocked at the devastation of the lobby, littered with glass and body parts.
Sam lifted the rifle and sent a bullet through the back of one man’s head.
The other man turned, gun in hand, but Sam planted two bullets in his side, sending the man tumbling to the ground, wheezing in pain as the air whistled out of the exit wounds. Sam stepped over him, raised the rifle, and planted another bullet between his eyes.
He entered the stairwell.
A few emergency lights gave a dim view above and he carefully pressed against the wall, gun aimed up at all times, scanning the darkness of the stairwells. As he slowly ascended the first staircase, the door to the first floor flew open and a man decked in a black polo shirt and trousers lunged at him, knife in hand. Sam spun to the side, allowing the blade to swipe past his chest before raising a knee into the man’s gut, drilling the air from his lungs. His attacker stumbled back, coughing, before sloppily slashing at him again with the blade. Sam, allowing his rifle to swing from the strap over his shoulder, reached up, snatching the wrist in his hand before twisting the man’s arm. The man yelped in pain before Sam swung him round, slamming his head off of the thick metal banister and then redirecting the blade and plunging it into the man’s chest.
The man gargled blood instantly, his eyes wide with realisation that he was on the verge of death.
Sam tipped him over the edge of the balcony, watching him drop ten feet into the darkness, the noise of his collision with the concrete below confirmation of his death. A gunshot echoed through the stairwell as a bullet drilled into the wall behind Sam. He instinctively dropped to his knee, whipping up his rifle in one fluid motion and squeezing the trigger. A burst of light lit up the corridor and he could see the stream of bullets strike the oncoming henchmen, a red mist spraying into the air as they fell to the floor.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 21
