The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1)

by Robert Enright

  The huge body went limp, the knife ramming all the way through to the brain, and he collapsed backwards on the floor. A fraction of the handle poked through the ravaged eye socket and Sam stared down at his fallen foe.

  The man had killed Theo.

  Now he had been added to Sam’s ever-growing list of bodies.

  Mark had come close to killing him, but had failed. And whilst his final words may have been hauntingly true, Sam knew it wasn’t his fight. It belonged to two people who would never have been able to fight it themselves. He had a duty.

  He was a soldier.

  He had sworn to protect.

  And as he stumbled out of the demolished apartment into the corridor, he headed back towards the stairwell. With blood trickling from his shoulder and a face that looked like it had been ten rounds with Tyson, he retrieved his pistol from the floor and set off for the penthouse.

  The top of the High-Rise.

  He slipped the clip from the bottom of the gun, checked the ammo, and slapped it shut.

  Sam headed up the stairs, intent on adding a final few to his list.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Pearce cursed at himself as he navigated the corner, the back of his car swinging out, and he quickly realigned the wheel, pulling the car straight. The rain hurtled down, seemingly on a relentless mission to obstruct his vision. The windscreen wipers were on full power, swinging back and forth as if on fast forward, and Pearce pushed his foot down until it hit the floor.

  His car roared forward, weaving in and out of the few cars that were navigating their way around the slippery M25. Water sprayed from the tyres like an ethereal mist and Pearce recalled his driving training. He cut through the sparse traffic as fast as he could, his eyes focused as his mind raced.

  He had effectively sent Sam on a suicide mission.

  Pearce knew what Sam was capable of. He had read the files, as well as watched the man willingly leap from the third floor of a building into the Thames. The body count was racking up, and regardless of the number, the High-Rise would be filled with dead men walking. Pearce knew he had given a silent order when he spoke of Amy’s safety, especially as Sam was already seeking vengeance for his best friend.

  But once he had finished the phone call and lit another cigarette with shaking hands, Amy had informed him of the tragedy that had dragged Sam to the edge.

  The death of his son.

  The failure of the justice system.

  Sam may have been the most deadly soldier the UK had produced in a long time, but he had become a man with nothing to lose.

  Which meant he wouldn’t stop, even if death was the only outcome.

  As the lights of an articulated lorry washed over his car as he rounded a corner, they reflected off the metal of the pistol he had checked out of the armoury. It had been a long time since he had broken down doors and fired on a target—back in the days when he wasn’t treated like an unscratchable itch by his colleagues. Pearce had booked it out for protection, to keep the Devereux’s safe whilst they figured out their next move.

  Amy had begged Pearce to go, adamant that she could look after herself and her injured husband.

  Pearce flashed a quick glance at the weapon, a knot tightening in his stomach at the thought of having to fire it.

  Would he be able to?

  With the searing doubt niggling in his mind and the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he turned off of the motorway, splashing up the slip road as the bright lights of London rushed to greet him, and he prayed, to a god he had long since given up on, that he wouldn’t be too late.

  Sam pressed back against the wall of the stairwell as he reached out for the handle. The hallway was quiet, the drips from the wet bannisters after the sprinkler deluge echoing up to him. Gently, he pulled open the door a few inches, enough to lodge the top of his boot in. He could hear the low hum of the emergency lights, the smell of damp filtering from the drenched walls.

  Wet footsteps echoed towards him; the final few guards were treading a slow, careful perimeter of the top floor. Sam deduced that there were two men in the corridor—one of them soon approaching, the other at the far end, presumably guarding the door like a bouncer. Sam slowly slid the gun into the back of his jeans, freeing his hands as the footsteps drew closer. Taking a deep breath to fight off the pain from his ascent, he waited until he caught a glimpse of the handgun the nameless man held nervously ahead. As soon as Sam saw a wrist, he shunted his foot, flinging the door open and he lunging forward, clutching the man’s wrist and dragging him through the doorway. The man looked shocked, trying to free himself, but Sam dug his thumb into the wrist, digging into the pressure point that caused the man to drop his gun. With a lean build and piercing eyes, the man looked like he would have been a worthy opponent in a boxing ring.

  But in combat, where strategy and training counted more, Sam had the upper hand. He spun the man around, locking his arm behind his back, and then drove him downwards, slamming his face into the metal guardrail. The impact shattered the man’s nose, the cartilage exploding like a party popper, and both of his cheekbones cracked.

  At that moment the door flew open behind them, the final henchman throwing it open and unloading two shots which amplified loudly in the enclosed stairwell.

  Sam had already dropped to the floor, and the bullets ripped into the man’s back, bursting out his chest in two crimson sprays and embedding in the far wall. The man slumped over the railing before gravity greedily pulled at him, and eventually he slid into the dark chasm between the staircases.

  A moment later, a sickening thud echoed up.

  In the split second that the gunman had fired, Sam had dropped to a squat and then propelled himself upwards, driving his battered shoulder into the man’s stomach. They stumbled back into the opulent hallway, the wooden floor still slippery from the protective downpour. The man tried to recompose, but Sam charged at him again, driving him into the hallway wall before drilling a vicious right into the man’s ribs.

  In a final act of desperation he swung a sloppy punch at Sam, who ducked and slid behind him, wrenching his arm over his head and tightening it as it wrapped around the man’s throat. The man struggled, his hands flapping, and he tried to ram Sam back into the wall. The sudden survival instinct had kicked in, but Sam would negotiate it. He tightened his grip, the throat closing, and soon the man’s face turned a horrid shade of purple.

  The man went limp, flopping forward, and Sam felt the strain in his shoulders, the dead weight pulling the gash on his shoulder wider. With gritted teeth he headed towards the door at the end of the corridor, dragging the dead body with him.

  The entire High-Rise had been cleared.

  There was just one room left.

  Soaked through, beaten and bloodied, Sam approached the door, a trail of death left behind him.

  Howell and Jackson had heard the commotion in the hallway and looked at each other with resignation. From the rumbling of the grenade that had shook the very foundations of the High-Rise to the endless echoing of bullets rattling from various points of the building, they had known what was coming.

  Pope would make his way to them.

  Fifteen men would have stood in his way, including Mark, who had excitedly headed to cut him off.

  They were all dead.

  Howell had berated Jackson for not being able to control the situation, for not being the imposing threat that he had portrayed himself to be. The Gent had defied his nickname in response, striking the inspector with the back of his hand and reminding him of the depth of the shit he found himself in. Howell had shrunk into himself, standing pathetically in the corner of the room, paralysed by fear. Jackson had massaged the pain from his hand and poured himself a drink, refusing to be intimidated in his own building.

  He was one of the most powerful men in the city.

  He had bought everyone from police inspectors to high-ranking politicians.

  An ex-squaddie with a hero complex would have a price. Sa
dly, Jackson wasn’t prepared to make an offer. Pope had destroyed his building and killed his two best men. There was no deal to be struck with this man. Sometimes there was no other way.

  Some things just couldn’t be pieced back together.

  As they heard the collision of two men in the hallway outside, Howell had feebly asked Jackson to do something.

  He did.

  Jackson took a sip of his drink and then opened the drawer to his desk, pulling a Kimber Classic Carry Elite handgun from inside. The metal, embossed with a smooth, wooden finish, was light, despite being full with a twelve-bullet clip, with another already in the chamber.

  At that moment, the corridor went silent.

  The only noise was Howell’s heavy breathing and the ice colliding in Jackson’s drink.

  The door burst open and Sam launched into the room.

  Jackson unloaded the gun, four bullets colliding into the body as it hit the ground. He squeezed again, two more bullets bedding into the motionless body that was pumping blood onto the expensive white rug.

  As Jackson realised it was one of his own men, a shot rang out, the bullet hurtling into the room and shattering his shin bone as it passed through. He fell to the floor instantly, blood erupting from his calf like a broken pipe, and he cursed loudly, dropping his own gun and clasping both hands around his destroyed leg.

  Howell stood frozen in fear.

  Slowly, with a slight limp, a swollen eye, broken nose, heavily bleeding shoulder, and soaked with sprinkler water and blood, Sam Pope stepped into the penthouse of the High-Rise, pistol in hand.

  Howell locked eyes with him, the same man who, two weeks before, was just the quiet introvert who worked in the archive office.

  Now there he was, an angel of death bringing an entire criminal empire to its knees.

  Howell could have applauded the man, but was rooted to the spot.

  Sam walked past the dead body of the man he had choked to the death, the rug beneath him staining red. Jackson sat up, hand pressed on the shattered bone in his shin and a look of terror etched across his face. All the power he had once commanded had been taken. Sam had destroyed his entire operation, killing his men, and now, as he cowered on the floor, exposing him as just another man.

  A man afraid of his own mortality.

  Sam raised the gun, aiming it squarely at Jackson’s head.

  ‘Sam, stop.’

  Pearce’s voice boomed behind him as the detective made careful steps into the room, his gun drawn and aimed at the rogue soldier. It was only a few weeks before that he had been sat opposite him in an interview room, trying his best to get a confession that he was a vigilante, a dangerous man who had taken the law into his own hands.

  As he had made his way through the blood-splattered remains of the lobby, the dead bodies that littered the stairwell, and the corridors painted with death, he had all the confession he needed.

  ‘This needs to end,’ Sam stated, not looking back as the detective slowly circled him in the room, heading towards the inspector. Howell watched in shock, but then quickly recomposed.

  ‘Pearce, thank God you are here,’ Howell began, his lip slightly swollen from Jackson’s strike. ‘Call for backup and have these men arrested.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Pearce demanded, sending a look of pure disdain towards the inspector. ‘You don’t have the right to give orders anymore.’

  ‘How dare you?’ Howell snapped, the attack on his power bruising his ego. ‘I am your superior and I demand…’

  Another gunshot rang out, smoke trailing slowly from the barrel of Sam’s pistol, and Howell hit the floor, his leg in tatters. He wailed in pain, tears falling from his eyes as he joined the Gent on the floor.

  ‘Drop it,’ Pearce demanded, his gun still fixed on Sam.

  Sam turned, a look of understanding across his beaten face. Behind him, the two men responsible for the attack on London and deaths of Officer Howell and Officer Harding, Derek Earnshaw and his wife, and countless others, lay powerless and beaten.

  ‘Pearce. Like you said, Amy will never be safe.’

  ‘I can keep her safe,’ Pearce assured. ‘With this blown wide open, people will understand exactly what happened. She’ll be safe.’

  Sam drew his lips into a thin, frustrated line. Outside, the rain clattered against the large windows. The city would be a little safer, but both Sam and Pearce knew the reality of the situation: by removing a powerful criminal and corrupt senior officer, two more would just move into their place.

  They would sprout up like weeds.

  Sam didn’t believe Pearce. Jackson quickly confirmed it.

  ‘How safe do you think you can keep her? I’ll go to prison, make one phone call, and I’ll be back out in no time.’ He chuckled, the colour drained from his face through the shock of his bullet wound.

  ‘Stop talking,’ Pearce barked. It was ignored.

  Sam turned slowly, locking eyes with an irate Jackson who had long since lost any semblance of his manners.

  ‘I’ll get out, I’ll find her, and I’ll make sure she is passed around from whorehouse to whorehouse until she is nothing more than a…’

  Sam unloaded the pistol. The final three rounds hammered into Jackson’s chest, ripping through his major organs and sending a wave of blood shooting from his mouth. He fell back, eyes wide open and his entire front bathed in blood.

  Sam dropped the gun, dropping to his knees. Pearce watched in confusion as Sam lifted his hands, interlocking his fingers, and placed them on his head.

  Pearce stepped forward, pulling the handcuffs from his belt.

  He stepped past Sam and wrenched Howell over onto his front, the man whimpering in pain as Pearce pulled his wrists together, snapping the cuffs around them and securing them tight.

  Sam stood slowly, wincing in pain. Pearce approached, looking at him sternly.

  ‘I need to call this in. This place will be crawling with people who want to put you away for a long time.’ Pearce looked like he was struggling. ‘I’ve been fighting corruption in this city for a long time. It never ends, and it will only get worse. I know it, the criminals know it, and the cycle will continue. We need someone like you, Sam. This city—hell, this country needs you. So why don’t you get out of here while you still can?’

  ‘Pearce, I…’

  ‘Just go, Sam. I can give you one or two days’ head-start. But they will hunt you and I can’t stop that.’

  Pearce extended his hand to Sam, who reached forward and took it.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked, his other hand pressed on the stab wound that had bloodied his shoulder.

  ‘It’s the right thing to do.’

  Sam grinned, his own reason recounted to him, and then frowned at the sudden surge of pain through his body. They shook and Sam turned and limped towards the door, back into the warzone that was decorated with his handiwork. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, Pearce called after him.

  ‘Hey Sam.’

  Sam turned, witnessing the detective hunched over the captive inspector, applying pressure to the bullet wound in his leg. ‘A hell of a night shift, huh?’

  Sam smirked once more, raising his eyebrows in agreement before shuffling out into the corridor.

  Pearce removed his blazer, wrapping it around the inspector’s wound. Howell had passed out, the shock of his injury and the impending future behind bars proving too much.

  Pearce surveyed the scene, shaking his head in awe at the carnage and destruction Sam had brought down upon one of the most feared locations in the city. An entire operation, one deemed too dangerous for the police to approach, had been completely dismantled by one man. Pearce raised his phone to his ear, preparing to call for backup.

  Sam trundled back down the stairs, past the blood splatters and bullet holes. He stepped over the crumpled, broken bodies at the bottom and slowly shuffled through the dilapidated lobby.

  He stepped out into the rain, raising his face to the onslaught, and let t
he cooling water wash over him.

  As the sirens began to wail in the distance, Sam turned towards the alleyway opposite and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Adrian Pearce pulled his car to a stop, flicked his indicator, and reversed it in one movement, guiding it between the two stationary vehicles. As he killed the engine he took a moment, reaching up with his fingers and massaging the bridge of his nose. The summer sun was still out, the evening heavy with heat, and he could already feel his shirt sticking to his back despite the air-conditioning.

  It had been three months since the fall of the High-Rise.

  Pearce thought back to the chaos of that evening, of watching Samuel Pope leave the building, beaten and bloodied, with an entire criminal empire reduced to rubble. The following week had been a whirlwind, as Pearce was brought before every committee and senior officer, all of them demanding to know how the hell things had gotten so bad.

  Pearce told them everything, from his suspicions of Pope all the way to helping him escape the police station. Despite Pearce’s protestations for his heroism, Sam Pope was made public enemy number one, responsible for the deaths of over twenty men, including one of the most notorious gangsters in London.

  It was easier for the Metropolitan Police to lay the majority of it at Sam Pope’s door. He fit the profile: an angry ex-soldier with a dead child. Whilst that was what the narrative became and was fed to the press, the powers that be had worked with Pearce to identify the corrupt strains within their own ranks.

  Howell was put front and centre, tried and sent away for eight years for his corruption. After two months of regular beatings, Howell was found hanging from his cell bunk, his eyes bloodshot and his life over.

  Not many would weep for him.

  Officer Khambay and his crew were all identified, but were given golden handshakes, much to Pearce’s furious protests.

  It was easier to sweep it under the rug than to air it in public.

  No one had heard from Mayer, with the prevailing theory being that he had been killed by Pope on his murderous rampage. The reality was he had gone into hiding, a cowardly act from a weak man.