Dead.
All of them dead.
As the dim lights of the stairwell struggled behind the smoke from his gun, Sam stepped through the door to the corridor of the first floor, sweeping his torch around from side to side.
Clear.
Spinning on his heel, he returned to the stairwell, slowly creeping up the staircase, taking extra care to plant his feet as silently as possible. The sprinklers were still firing on all cylinders, the water relentlessly coating the entire staircase, carrying the blood of the dead with it.
Sam pressed on.
The fire alarm died sharply, the inhabitants obviously keen to keep the authorities at bay.
Sam approached the door to the second floor and carefully pulled it open. The instant the door creaked on its hinge, two bullets erupted into the frame, causing him to spin back for cover, crouching beside the wall of the corridor. The door slowly swung shut and he drew his rifle up, waiting just a moment for the door to almost slot into place.
He slid his fingers into the frame, catching it before it closed, but only just. He could hear the approaching footsteps as he locked the rifle in place against his broad chest, steadying it.
He threw the door open.
A burst of ammo exploded from his gun with pinpoint accuracy.
The approaching assailant fell backwards, bullet-riddled, and he collapsed across the floor, wheezing as the life quickly escaped his body. The faded emergency lights barely reflected off the blood that pooled around the body, and Sam slowly stepped into the corridor. Like before, he drew his gun from left to right, scanning the corridor and making sure it was clear. Just as he cleared the left-hand side of the corridor, a large man, dark-skinned and at least twenty pounds heavier, leapt from a doorway, pushing his gun upwards and directing the fired bullets into the ceiling. The attacker, who Sam could see was missing an eye, the socket slammed shut and sealed by a brutal scar and prison tattoos, roared with anger as he clasped onto Sam’s shoulder and shoved him hard into the wall.
Sam hit the bricks, feeling the air try to escape his body, but he shifted his body weight and caught the attacker with a brutal shoulder to the midriff before rocking him with a few hard rights. Sam reached for a pistol from the back of his jeans, but the large man caught him with a clubbing blow to the kidneys before charging at Sam, lifting him off his feet before both men dropped into the darkness of the corridor. Sam’s ribs crushed against the assault rifle and he rolled over in agony just as his behemoth of an attacker lunged forward, a sharp, serrated blade in his hand.
Sam reached up, both hands wrapping around the man’s forearm as he lay on top of him, using his extraordinary body weight to press the knife down.
Slowly, it began its descent towards Sam’s neck.
Despite his best efforts, Sam knew the man would overpower him. Taking a deep breath, he shunted his body to the side and released one hand from the man’s forearm.
The blade plunged into his shoulder, ripping through the Kevlar vest and pushing two inches of metal into his shoulder. As he grunted with agony he focused on his movements, lifting his hip and sliding his hand beneath his back, returning with his hand clasped around a Glock 17. He placed the barrel against the man’s temple.
He pulled the trigger.
An explosion of blood, bone, and brain matter sprayed the wall and the attacker slumped to the side, a hole burrowed through his skull like the Channel Tunnel. Sam shoved the rest of his dead attacker to the side, slowly sitting up and pressing a hand to the wound on his shoulder. The blade had pushed a few inches in, but he’d survive. With a hefty groan he pushed himself up, taking a quick glance at the dead body on the ground. The attacker’s eye was wide open, his hand still clutching the blade that was stained with Sam Pope’s blood.
The man’s brain was splattered against the wall like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Sam reached down to collect his semi-automatic rifle, when the door to the corridor flew open again and another man stepped through, peering intently into the darkness. He noticed the dead body on the ground, gasped in horror, and then rested his eyes on Sam.
The man drew his gun, but Sam whipped the rifle up, swinging the butt into the man’s wrist, shattering the bone and causing his gun to drop from his hands. The man yelped in pain, but Sam grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him close, ramming the barrel of the rifle into the man’s gut.
He pulled the trigger, unloading several bullets into the man’s stomach. Sam felt the warm blood pour out of the man, coating his legs as he pushed the man back through the door. The panic in the man’s eyes soon gave way to acceptance and Sam shoved his bullet-riddled body over the banister.
He fell into the darkness, dead before his bone-crunching collision with the basement.
With his shoulder slowly pumping out blood, Sam gritted his teeth, ignored the pain, and slipped the empty magazine from his rifle. He tossed it into the dark, the plastic cartridge colliding with the wall. He pulled his final cartridge from his vest, slammed it into the rifle and, taking careful and considered steps, ascended the stairs once more, making his way to level three.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The room stank of vomit and urine, intermittently disgusting Mayer as he swung from the hook in the middle of the room. The blood loss had caused him to lose consciousness, his vision frequently blurring as the blood weighed heavy on his brain. The plastic that strapped his ankles together had cut into the skin, a trickle of blood cascading down his leg. A large meat hook swung between them, suspending him upside down in the plastic-covered room.
The sheets were stained with his blood.
Mayer could feel how sticky his naked body was, an amalgamation of his sweat, blood, and piss.
That animal Mark had rocked him like a punching bag, the skin darkening with oncoming bruises. Then the man had gone for his fingers, removing the middle and index finger of his left hand. As he had cried in agony, Mark had grasped his genitals, wrenching them in a circular motion and causing him to projectile vomit.
Laughing, Mark had then taken a pair of pliers and wrenched his front tooth from his gum, ripping it clean from the root.
Mayer had prayed for death.
Mark became distracted, radioing two men who had been left behind at Howell’s house. Mayer, despite the pain, registered that his superior had been on the take as well, the man who gave the go-ahead for his own nephew to be murdered. He couldn’t believe it, and it seemed like the only person who wasn’t corruptible was the man everyone was trying to kill.
Pope.
Mayer shut his eyes and waited for his life to be ended, but Mark stormed out of the room, promising he would return to slowly end Mayer’s life. The door slammed shut and Mayer swung, naked and alone in the dark.
He sobbed, regretting every step he had taken down the wrong path. He was head of the Counterterrorist Squad and had forged a wonderful career within the Metropolitan Police. He would have gone further, probably finally found a wife and settled down.
But greed had reared its ugly head and guided him on a journey that was to end with him being sliced apart in a basement.
Then he heard it: a loud roar that echoed through the building. The ceiling began to shake, the hook rattling as the entire building quivered at the mighty force of an explosion. Emergency lights flickered and then burst to life in the corners of the room, the power dropping.
As did Mayer.
The hook hadn’t held, the vibration from the explosion shaking it loose of its bracket, and Mayer’s body weight wrenched it free. He hit the sheeted floor hard but managed to get to his feet, woozily making his way to the bundle of clothes by the trolley.
His tooth lay on the metal, blood still clinging to it.
Mayer felt sick.
He picked up his bundle of clothes, and just as he was slipping his legs into his trousers he heard the unmistakable rattle of gunfire. Panicked, he pulled them up, hurrying to the door. He poked his head into the stairwell
before leaping back with fear as the gunshots echoed loudly in the narrow walkways. Gazing up through the dimly lit corridor, he saw more flashes of gunfire before he saw the barrel of a rifle peeking over the banister, heading upwards.
The fresh smell of burning dominated the air, the recently fired gun still red hot.
Now was his chance.
Quietly, with his shirt balled around his fingerless hand, he tiptoed up the stairs, listening in horror at the gunfire above, the bloodcurdling gasps of pain as metal ripped into flesh. Mayer stepped into the lobby and took a second. The entire ground floor had been demolished by a grenade; the fixtures and walls were charred and crumbling. Large clumps of human were scattered around the room like a horrific jigsaw puzzle.
Another blast of gunfire from above snapped Mayer out of it and he raced through the devastated doorway, into the torrential downpour and to freedom.
The sprinklers had stopped, the entire corridor smelling of damp. Smoke drifted from the end of Sam’s rifle, the final bullet gliding through the air and catching the henchman in the throat. He had fallen to the ground, hand clasped around the hole as blood trickled through his fingers. Two feet to the left of him was his partner, his life escaping from the three bullet holes that riddled his body.
Sam eased the rifle over his head, the blood trickling from the gash on his shoulder. After taking four floors and killing eleven men, his other shoulder ached too. The makeshift bandage Pearce had applied had long since spoilt.
Sam had been through the wars once again.
And like before, he was walking on, a trail of death behind him.
Dropping the rifle in the empty corridor, his hand slid to the base of his spine, retrieving the Glock 17 pistol, and he instinctively flicked the safety. The other pistol had been lost on floor three in a brief struggle with another attacker. Sam had ended up snapping the man’s neck.
Now, as he stepped slowly into the stairwell again, he imagined word was spreading and most of them would now barricade the penthouse until backup arrived. Although he was sure the reports of his entrance and subsequent gunfire would have been reported to the police, he knew they wouldn’t be a problem.
The police didn’t go to the High-Rise.
Sam made it up to the fifth floor and pushed open the door of the stairwell, creeping in, gun pointed out right as he stepped into the corridor. The higher up he had gone, the more pristine the interior. The fifth floor was painted a brilliant white, with a deep grey carpet that squelched underfoot. The walls were decorated with tacky art, paintings and canvases of little meaning but of extreme pomposity. The previous floors had provided a number of rooms, seedy areas for the depraved to indulge in whatever they wanted. A number of Jackson’s loyalists even took residence in the High-Rise; the only price was their unflinching obedience.
They had run headfirst into a loaded gun for him.
Sam held the pistol with both hands, his left supporting the right, the index finger resting ready on the trigger.
He passed one of the luxury apartments. The door flew open and a half naked woman stumbled out.
She screamed as Sam swung round, the gun aimed directly between her eyes. Her top missing, she held one hand across her exposed chest, but before Sam could even bark an instruction, a right hook shot from the doorway with the accuracy of prize-fighting boxer.
He caught him clean on the jaw, rocking him off balance, and he stumbled back into the wall, the gun swinging loosely in his hand. As he tried to steady himself, he heard a gruff voice bark from the broad figure that stepped into the hallway.
‘Get the fuck out of here.’
The woman nodded, her cheeks stained with mascara-heavy tears, and she scarpered towards the stairwell, unaware of the display of death she would soon witness. The cockney accent belonged to Mark, who slowly removed his black jacket. The tight-fitting T-shirt he wore was more than enough evidence he was a fighter, although age had turned the clear muscle into bulk. His chest was threatening to rip the shirt in twain whilst his forearms, complete with incoherent tattoos, were as solid as tree trunks.
The fists attached to them were like sledgehammers, and Sam was soon reminded as another crashed into his side, drilling the air from him like a deflated balloon. Sam fell to his knees and quickly tried to regather his composure.
‘You killed my oldest friend. I killed your oldest friend. You’d think that would make us even,’ Mark said, sizing Sam up as he pushed himself to his feet.
‘You killed Theo?’ Sam spat, taking in a deep breath and feeling his body correct itself.
Mark waited, clearly wanting it to be a fair fight. Sam could tell he was a fighter, and the way he hit told him he didn’t lose.
‘Yup. Sorry, fella.’ Mark smiled, pointing a meaty finger at Sam. ‘But this…I’m going to enjoy this.’
A mere few yards separated the two of them, the walls of corridor feeling closer, and Sam remembered the fight with the bald man in the police station. Something told him this guy wouldn’t be any easier. Mark grinned and then exploded forward, hammering at Sam with a series of thunderous hooks. Sam threw his arms up, deflecting each blow with his forearm, and then managed to lift a knee into Mark’s gut. The solid muscle absorbed most of the impact, but it took a little wind out and Sam took the opening. He caught Mark with a dig in the ribs and then a few hard rights, drawing blood from his lip.
Mark stumbled back and Sam launched into a hard left hook. However, Mark caught his arm, locking it in, and then slammed his head fully into Sam’s face. The impact was instant, blood shooting from his nose and all the sense knocked clean from his mind. As he swung woozily, Mark grabbed him by the scruff of his bulletproof vest and slammed him against the wall. The side of his head crashed against the plaster, leaving a deep dent and a trail of dust. Then, with the entirety of his weight, Mark turned and swung Sam, heaving him into the door to one of the apartments.
Sam’s spine collided with the solid door, the velocity taking it clean off its hinges, and he landed on the hard wood as it crashed to the floor.
A woman screamed, stumbling off the sofa and doing her best to cover herself. An overweight man tried to button up his trousers, stumbling slightly and knocking a tray full of cocaine off of the small table.
‘Get out,’ Mark commanded, watching as they ran past him out into the war zone, and he stalked Sam as he rolled onto his front, crawling towards the coffee table.
His head was spinning, and blood trickled down from his nose. With every drag across the carpet, he felt his shoulders scream with agony.
‘No one likes a fucking hero, mate,’ Mark said, stepping forward and stamping down as hard as he could on Sam’s spine.
Sam yelled in pain as he hit the floor, his back spasming in pain.
‘And for all the good it’s done, it got your mate killed, it’s going to get that bitch killed, and it’s going to get you killed. Worth it?’
Another boot cracked down on Sam’s spine, the pain ricocheting off each vertebra on its way up to his brain. One more and his spine would snap. Mark smirked, watching the supposed killing machine writhing in pain.
The man responsible for killing his best friend.
The one who had caused all these problems.
Sam pushed himself onto all fours, defiant to the end.
Mark nodded in approval. ‘I’ll give you some credit though, son. You ain’t half got some fight in you.’ Mark lifted his boot once more. He drove it down, but Sam twisted his body, catching the boot with his hands. Caught off balance, Mark wobbled, and Sam yanked the foot to the left. Mark crashed through the coffee table, the paraphernalia exploding into the air like a class A firework. Sam quickly rolled on top of his brutish opponent and rained down three hard rights, each one crunching against the solid skull and cracking the bones in his knuckles. He pushed himself off and into the middle of the room again and began to pull himself to his feet. Mark stumbled out of the wreckage, the entire bottom half of his face caked in blood. His eye
s were wild, the fury of being bested in a fight rising to the surface, and he drew a handle from his pocket and sure enough a knife flicked out of it.
‘Come on, then,’ he challenged, lunging forward and swiping at Sam’s throat.
Sam stepped to the side, blocking the lunge and redirecting Mark’s body weight and sending him stomach-first into the glass dining table. He grunted in pain before spinning back sloppily, slashing wildly in Sam’s direction. Sam caught his arm by the wrist and wrenched it inwards, bending the arm at the elbow and then ramming Mark’s own hand into his hip.
The knife plunged into his side and Mark roared with pain, cut off quickly as Sam spun him round and slammed him face-first into the thick glass table. Teeth shot across the glass, leaving a trail of blood in streaks. Sam hauled him up and spun him back into the centre of the room, blocking another lazy right and upper cutting him in the centre of the throat, crushing his windpipe and drilling the air clean from him.
Mark gasped frantically, patting at his throat as he struggled for air. The knife still stuck in his side, draining the life from him. With the final beads of sand descending in his hourglass, Mark stumbled to Sam, collapsing forward, and Sam caught him. Blood dribbled from his mouth, and with the light fading from his eyes, he gargled his final words.
‘This was never your fight.’
Sam looked him dead in the eye; the only sound was the blood gurgling in the back of his throat. Mark smiled, a bloody, gap-filled grin, and Sam felt his body weight shift. Mark wrenched the knife from his own body, and in one final act of defiance tried to plunge it into Sam’s chest. Sam caught it, pulling it from his hand, spinning it in one fluid motion before plunging the blade directly into Mark’s eye.
As the blood squirted forward, Sam grasped Mark’s collar and spun him round, ramming him face-first into the wall.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 22
