The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  A man in a suit leant over and whispered in her ear, no doubt congratulating her. She nodded her head and diverted her gaze.

  Sam saw Singh. Her eyes were red, the sadness of his situation hanging over her like a rain cloud and he offered her a gentle nod of the head. A reassurance that he was fine.

  Then Sam saw Pearce. The retired detective offered him a respectful nod and Sam felt the corners of his mouth twitch as he fought against the smile. Throughout his entire fight, Sam had come to view the ex-detective as a friend, and his show of support meant more to him than Pearce would ever know.

  As the circus of his sentencing began, the judge demanded order, declaring that he is control of the courtroom and despite the heightened interest in the case, he wouldn’t tolerate it becoming a sideshow. Sam was impressed by the commanding tone of his voice, despite it being undercut slightly by the man’s puny frame and ridiculous attire.

  Without delay, the judge opened the sentencing by explaining to his audience that as Sam had already pleaded guilty to numerous crimes, there was no jury nor trial taking place. Sam wouldn’t be represented by a defence team, as he’d waived his right to council. Once the formalities of the understanding were agreed by the prosecution, the judge began to run through the crime sheet.

  Despite his wishes for the session to be treated as a normal sentencing, it didn’t take Judge Barnes long to realise opportunity. With the cameras rolling and the press at the ready, the judge dramatically walked the courtroom with Sam Pope’s story. The two men killed in Amy Devereux’s flat. Another killed within the archive office of the New Scotland Yard building, a place where Sam had once served the city of London.

  The criminals found dead at the late, disgraced Inspector Howell’s home. His daring raid of the High Rise, which claimed the lives of multiple criminals, along with Frank Jackson.

  The death of Detective Sergeant Colin Mayer.

  The continued fight against the High Rise operation leading to the death of Elmore Riggs and his crew, along with the brutal torture and disfigurement of the leader of the notorious ‘Acid Gang’.

  Multiple deaths at the Port of Tilbury, where despite Sam’s brave efforts in saving Jasmine Hill and three other young girls from sex slavery, had claimed the lives of Andrei Kovalenko and his brother, Oleg.

  While there were multiple incidents in Ukraine, Berlin, and Rome which had been linked to Sam, they were not being brought against him today.

  With each stage of the story, Sam could feel the anger emanating from the police presence in the room. It wasn’t due to his laundry list of crimes.

  It was because he’d been more effective than they had. His methods, while illegal, had brought down two of the most dangerous criminal empires in the country and having it laid out, eagerly lapped up by journalists, only exacerbated their resentment.

  The judge continued.

  Sam’s re-emergence at Liverpool Street Station less than two weeks ago which had seen three people taken to hospital as well as the shutting of one of the city’s busiest transport networks.

  An attack on a government issued motorcade, where he’d killed several men in his abduction of General Wallace.

  Sam flicked a glance towards Ashton, whose lip tightened and fists clenched.

  The judge finally brought his grand story to a close, wrapping it up with the death of a known terrorist, Farukh Ahmad, along with the death of Wallace, which the judge made a point of stating that Sam had not pleaded guilty for.

  That, nor the death of Sergeant Carl Marsden or the hideous murder of Helal Miah.

  The mention of Miah’s name seemed to cause a chill in the room, as his fellow journalists mourned a peer who had died in the name of unravelling a conspiracy. Since his unfortunate murder, The Pulse had honoured his memory by printing the story Miah had given his life for, the proof coming in the form of an anonymous recording of Wallace confessing to his crimes.

  While Miah may have died, and Wallace may not be around to face the music, the world knew what he truly was.

  A monster.

  It was the end of the fight, and Sam knew his freedom was a small price to pay to avenge the death of his mentor and expose the man who had left him for dead all those years ago.

  Judge Barnes took a moment, sipping from a glass of water, and allowing his articulate story to resonate in the room. While the journalists furiously scribbled on pads, and a number of people stared at Sam in disbelief, the gravity of Sam’s actions seemed to have shaken the room.

  ‘Samuel William Pope, please stand.’

  The judge’s voice echoed through the courtroom and a hush of excitement followed. Sam obliged, standing at once, his shoulders straight, his chin up.

  Like a soldier.

  ‘You have pled guilty to the crimes I have just relayed to the courtroom. Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, your Honour.’

  Another murmuring of excitement followed at Sam speaking, as if this mythical figure had been made flesh and blood. Sam kept his eyes locked on the judge, who seemed to respect the dignity of the man he was sentencing.

  ‘Before I make the sentence final, do you have anything you would like to say?’

  This was it. The moment the entire courtroom had been waiting for and the silence swept across the room like a crashing wave. All heads turned to the box where Sam stood.

  ‘Yes, your Honour.’ Sam replied, before readjusting his stance. ‘I’m under no illusion that what I did carries a severe penalty. My actions were against the law and I accept that fact and the sentence you’re about to give me. I have forfeited my freedom for what I believe was necessity. The criminals responsible for bombing this city, the police officers who helped them. They are gone because of me. Four young girls, and no doubt, countless more have been saved from a life of sex slavery. General Wallace, a man who is wrongly revered by a number of people in this room, had been exposed as one of the most dangerous men this country has ever known.’

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Ashton shuffle uncomfortably in her seat. He ignored it and continued.

  ‘While I regret that my actions broke the law, I regret even more that they were needed. So I apologise to those who I’ve hurt, to those whose lives I changed. To my ex-wife, an incredible woman who fought for me when I wouldn’t. And to my son, who I wish every single day I could see and who would have asked me not to do it.’

  Sam paused, taking a deep breath as the thought of his broken promise threatened to crack his voice. He recomposed.

  ‘I apologise to everyone in this room that we live in a world where what I’ve done was necessary. But I do not regret, for one second, that I did.’

  Sam’s words were met with an uneasy silence, as everyone returned their gaze to the judge who surprisingly, offered a warm smile.

  ‘Mr Pope, while your actions were indefensible, I do admit that your intentions were indeed noble. Before this, I also note that you served your country with dignity and valour. But as you said, you have pled guilty to a number of serious crimes and a lot of blood has been shed by your hand. It is with a modicum of regret, that I hereby sentence you to sixty-eight years at Her Majesty’s Prison Pentonville, with no chance of parole.’

  Judge Barnes emphasised his point with a stern nod of his head.

  ‘This court is adjourned.’

  The court officer demanded everyone rise as the judge exited through the door to his chamber, and all eyes turned to Sam as he was led towards the door. As he approached it, he stopped, as did the officers, as a peculiar sound filled the air.

  Clapping.

  Sam turned back to see Adrian Pearce on his feet, applauding. Despite the furious gaze of the Assistant Commissioner, another member of the public joined in, followed by another, and within moments, nearly the entire courtroom, along with a multitude of journalists, were clapping.

  Sam felt a lump in his throat but refused to let himself break. The recognition of the public hit him like a hammer and he offered Pearce a final no
d, threw one final, regrettable glance at Singh and ventured through the door where the thunderous sound of applause echoed down the corridors of the Crown Court.

  Taken aback by the approval of the public, Sam blindly followed the officers through the building, ignoring the jibes of one of them and they stepped out into the spring sunshine at the back of the building.

  The respectful sound of applause could still be faintly heard from the street and the thick, windowless, metal doors of the armoured van were thrown open. Two armed officers were sat in the back, ready to accompany Sam to his future residence.

  Taking one final look at the city of London, Sam took a deep breath and stepped in.

  With his sentencing complete and his freedom taken, Sam sat on the metal bench that ran the length of the van, pressed his head back against the metal, and shut his eyes, ready to face his impending incarceration.

  The van pulled away in the opposite direction to Pentonville Prison.

  Chapter Six

  Ten Years Ago…

  ‘Fuckin, eh. Would you look at that?’

  Mac stood, hands on his hips, letting out an impressed huff. Sam chuckled at his friend’s foul language, but he couldn’t help but agree. The sight of Big Ben, the historic clock that stood over three hundred feet tall, had been a landmark for the capital for over a hundred and fifty years. After six months on tour in Afghanistan, both Sam and Mac had been given a month to return to their families, before they would be required to return.

  In those six months, their bond had grown.

  Mac had matured into a hell of a spotter before Sam’s very eyes, fastidiously making notes on everything Sam said, hanging on his every word. While there were still improvements to be made, Sam knew that he’d found his perfect spotter.

  In Sam, Mac had found the mentor he’d always yearned for, a man who was not only approachable and fun to be around, but whom had a wealth of knowledge and skill to back it up.

  They had only had to fire once in those six months, with Sam almost causing Mac a mini-panic attack by refusing to pull the trigger on a high-profile target until Mac gave him the correct wind readings.

  Sam had already calculated and lined up the perfect shot, but he harried the young man to make an assessment.

  Sadly for Mac, it had been incorrect and once Sam had eliminated the target with a well-placed bullet to his temporal lobe, he made sure Mac was aware of it.

  All the promise in the world, but Sam wouldn’t accept him as a sniper until he could spot.

  Mac had beaten himself up about it for a while, but Sam was quick enough to rebuild his confidence and when Mac almost beat Sam in a friendly competition at target practice, he’d felt he’d re-established himself in Sam’s eyes.

  Sam patted him on the back but told him to stay focused and to keep calm.

  Panic will kill him before any bullet does.

  When they were on the plane home, Sam was saddened to hear of Mac’s lack of plans. Estranged from his family and without a secure group of friends, Mac was planning on renting a room for a month back in Manchester and catching up on some TV. Sam knew all about Mac’s rough past, his brushes with the law, but he never held it against him. Everyone is born into a different situation and the fact Mac had risen to one of the most promising soldiers Sam had ever met was a testament to the man he was.

  Sam had insisted he spend a week in London.

  See the city.

  Meet Lucy.

  When Mac had seen Sam’s house, he’d let out a long whistle. A modest three-bedroomed house in Ruislip, but with Lucy’s keen eye for detail, along with their healthy combined income, she’d certainly added value to it. Mac was excited to meet Lucy, having heard Sam wax lyrical about her for six months.

  She certainly was worth every word of praise.

  Not only was she as kind and personable as Sam had described, she was absolutely stunning.

  Another part of Sam’s life that Mac aspired for and the three of them had spent the evening sat out on the patio, with Lucy enthralling Mac with embarrassing stories of his mentor over drinks. Under the patio lights, they’d laughed until the early hours.

  Lucy had been up early to go to work, her job as a high school deputy head teacher kept her extremely busy and fulfilled. Sam had suggested taking a trip into the city once Mac had admitted he’d never been and as they rode the Metropolitan Line from Ruislip Manor all the way to Euston Square, Mac had stared out of the window in a trance.

  Although part of the London Underground, the Met Line didn’t actual head beneath the surface until it had passed Finchley Road, giving Mac a wonderful view of Wembley Stadium as they approached Wembley Park Station. As a big Manchester United fan, he’d seen his team win multiple trophies at the storied ground but seeing the famous arch soaring proudly into the sky took his breath away.

  But now, stood on Parliament Street, surrounded by an army of gawping tourists, Big Ben had much the same effect. The magnificent clock face was shimmering in the sunlight, the rays bouncing off the glass. Sam looked at his friend and smiled. It was nice to see him relaxed as he was always so intense while on tour. Sam understood.

  Mac wanted to be the best.

  Sam was more than willing to help him get there.

  As they stood for a few moments, allowing a group of young tourists by, Mac eventually turned to his mentor.

  ‘Thanks, Sam. For everything.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ He slapped Mac on his solid arm.

  ‘Seriously. When I joined the army, I kind of did it as a last resort. I was out of options and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could make something of myself. But the last six months, you’ve shown me I can go beyond that. Have the life I never thought I could.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Sam replied sheepishly.

  ‘No, you have. When I walked into that tent with you and Sarge, I was bricking it. But since then, all I think about is being a soldier. Being the best damn sniper I can be and now, seeing your life, it’s shown me what I want my life to be. Thank you.’

  Out of nowhere, Sam swiped his arm over Mac’s head, locking him in a headlock to the alarm of a few passers-by. After a few moments, they dismissed it for the tomfoolery it was and Sam let go, both men chuckling.

  ‘Enough of this mushy shit,’ Sam said jokingly. He glanced at his watch, assessing whether their hangover from the night before would still be lingering. ‘Pint?’

  ‘Good shout.’

  They turned and headed back towards the parade of shops that lined the streets as they headed towards Holborn, and they soon found a pub. Before they went in, Mac lit a cigarette with a hint of embarrassment, knowing Sam didn’t approve but wouldn’t judge. After a few puffs, Sam thrusted a thumb towards the door, indicating he was going to get the drinks. Through a cloud of smoke, Mac spoke one final time.

  ‘In all seriousness, thank you, Sam. You changed my life.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, buddy,’ Sam said sternly. ‘As we always say, we never leave a man behind.’

  Sam disappeared into the pub, leaving Mac to beam with pride as he finished his cigarette. With all the carelessness in the world, he stubbed it out and followed his mentor in, with no clue that in a years’ time he would be subjected to more pain than he thought humanly possible.

  * * *

  Sam’s words had stuck with Mac through all of it.

  The betrayal.

  The tortures.

  The rapes.

  ‘We never leave a man behind.’

  It was bullshit. Empty words from a man who had left him to die in the hot sun. Mac could feel the anger pulsing through him, and his fists clenched, but he took a deep breath. He needed to maintain his calm.

  To keep control.

  The road back to the UK had been relatively easy. After stealing a car from a used car showroom in Austria, he’d driven through the beautiful country, evading the German border patrol easily enough before once again helping himself to a car. The sleek, effici
ent German car made for a smooth drive as he navigated his way through the country, driving up through the wonderous city of Munich, before heading north towards Stuttgart. It had taken him three days to venture to the German border, stopping only to sleep in his car in secluded spots off the motorway, or to eat.

  With his finances dwindling, it occurred to Mac that he was truly on his own.

  Wallace was dead.

  Blackridge had been decommissioned and from the protected message boards that the operatives occasionally visited online, those in the field were now wanted by several international governments for questioning. Mac included.

  As Mac approached Stuttgart, he recalled another one of Wallace’s ‘Ghosts’, Brandt, was originally from the city and he wondered if he was lying low back home? It was unlikely. From the messages he’d read, Brandt had been unsuccessful on a Sam Pope operation in London the same weekend Wallace had died.

  Idiot.

  Mac cursed Wallace out loud, slamming the palms of his hands against the solid, leather steering wheel as he drove. If Wallace had given him another shot at Sam, he would still be alive.

  Mac would have killed him.

  This time, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  In the months since Sam had evaded him in Rome, not an hour went by when Mac wished he’d taken a different shot. Instead of shooting to wound and allowing him the chance to kill Sam up close and personal, he would have put the bullet through the back of his treacherous skull.

  That time would come.

  A few days later, after once again evading the necessary border checks upon entering the country, Mac had made his way across France. He had been caught off guard by the serene beauty of the land as he drove through, passing vast open fields and quaint, pictureesque towns. As he approached Calais, he was running on empty.

  Physically and fiscally.

  Getting back to his homeland would be trickier, as traversing the English Channel would require a willing transporter. With the stringent checks at either end of the Channel Tunnel, the option of driving was eliminated.