Mac would need to stowaway, but he was hardly the friendliest face. With the burns that lacerated the right side of his face, along with his wiry frame, he was hardly inundated with offers. But now, as he stood in the rickety, wooden office of the Maxwell Logistics Company, he knew he had a chance of getting home.
Although it had been branded as a logistics company, the office was a front for two East London brothers who were importing and exporting as much as they possibly could. While they clearly had ties to the underworld on both sides of the Channel, Mac wondered how many brain cells they actually had between them.
Josh Maxwell was the eldest brother, his thinning brown hair and pale skin gave him the complexion of a librarian, but he spoke with the authority of a man in charge. Beside him, his brother, Eric, was once a power lifter. Now, while the bulk still remained, the extra layers of flab that filled out his shirt told Mac he’d succumbed to the temptations of a life of crime.
As Mac lied about paying them once they’d reached the docks in Southampton, Eric slid a card through the small pile of cocaine on the edge of the messy desk, straightened it into a thin line, and then hoovered it up like an anteater on steroids.
Mac shook his head. Reliance on drugs was a weakness and he already knew how the situation would go.
They would act tough. Already, Josh had started his speech about being a dangerous person. Not the type of people you want to piss off and so forth. Eric would eyeball him, hoping for him to make a move so he could explode in a cocaine fuelled rage and beat him into submission. It seemed rehearsed, and Mac wondered how pathetic people must be to fall for it.
Eric stood up, loudly exhaling his enjoyment before dabbing his finger in the cocaine and rubbing it across his gums. Josh sighed.
‘Fuckin’ hell, mate. You wanna keep it down?’
‘That feels good,’ Eric said to nobody, shaking away the cobwebs and returning his gaze to Mac, seemingly offended by Mac’s lack of interest. ‘You got a problem, son?’
‘Calm down,’ Josh interrupted, a clear act to underline his authority. He turned to Mac and pointed to his face. ‘Ugly fucker, aint ya?’
Mac smiled politely. Considering the pain and horror he went through in the Taliban camp being told the scars he wore made him unattractive was child’s play. He ignored it and folded his arms.
‘So, are you able to take me across tonight, or not?’ He demanded, catching both brothers off guard. Eric shuffled on his feet as if to go for him, but Mac just raised his only eyebrow. Josh chuckled.
‘I like you. You got some serious bollocks talking to us like that. But we don’t do things for free, so why don’t you fuck off and find some kind of burns victim charity to take you home.’
‘Yeah, fuck off.’ Eric chimed in, more for his own self esteem than anything else. Mac stood stoic, staring at them both.
He needed to get back to the UK.
Sam Pope had been sentenced earlier that day. It had been on the radio, which meant he would be in prison by the time Mac arrived in London, but that wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Blackridge had their roots in pretty much every part of the government and Mac could call in his final favours to be put in a locked room with Sam. The government would probably thank him once he’d beaten Sam to death, using his death in prison as a political tool for some agenda he didn’t care about.
But he needed to get back.
With both sets of eyes glaring at him, and their patience wearing thin, Mac looked at Josh and spoke calmly.
‘How about you take me across tonight and at least you can survive?’
Both men furrowed their brow in confusion, and Josh glanced at his brother, then back at Mac.
‘What the fuck are you tal…’
The gunshot echoed like a clap of thunder and the back of Eric’s head exploded, covering the wall behind in a splatter of blood, brain, and bone. In one swift movement, Mac had slipped his hand to the gun that was tucked in the waistband of his jeans and smoothly brought it up. He had done it a thousand times and the precision was now ingrained in him. Within a second, he’d the gun up, both hands wrapped around it, perfectly in line with his eye, and his finger expertly on the trigger.
Eric crashed to the floor and Josh howled in terror as he gazed into the obliterated skull of his younger brother. As he dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks, he wept in fear as Mac took a step forward, careful not to leave a print in the thick, dark blood that was pooling around the large corpse.
‘I’ll ask you again.’ He spoke coldly. ‘Can you take me tonight?’
As Josh offered a pathetic nod of his head, Mac slid the gun back into his waistband and headed to the door. He was greeted by a cold slap of wind across his charred face. Any feelings or emotions brought on from killing a man in cold blood had long since eroded.
Mac had killed before.
Men.
Women.
Children.
When Wallace had ordered, Mac had obediently pulled the trigger. Whatever hell was awaiting Mac in the afterlife was going to be a holiday in paradise compared to the living hell Wallace had pulled him from.
But now Wallace was dead.
Killed by the same man who had left Mac to rot.
Giving Josh a few moments to grieve for his recently deceased brother, Mac looked out at the port, at the rough sea that was thrashing angrily in the spring night. By morning, he would be back home.
Back to finish Sam once and for all.
Chapter Seven
‘What a day.’
Assistant Commissioner Ashton hung her hat on the free-standing coat rack in the corner of her plush office, before dropping into her comfortable leather chair. She could feel the untrusting glare of DI Singh following her the entire way, but ignored it. The Sam Pope chapter had been brought to a satisfactory close.
While Ashton had wanted Sam locked away in the darkest hole for his crimes, a lifetime spent in HMP Pentonville would suffice. With her ascendency to the top of the Metropolitan Police all but guaranteed, she now needed to ensure that DI Singh was on her side. While she didn’t know it herself, Singh was a valuable commodity and her loyalty would be one of Ashton’s most valuable assets.
‘Singh, please sit.’
Reluctantly, Singh obliged. It had annoyed Ashton that Singh had decided against wearing her tunic. Was it a statement that she didn’t believe in the badge anymore? A pathetic show of unity with Sam? As Singh sat down, Ashton spun on her chair and opened the bottom of the oak cabinet that lined the back wall of the office. The clinking of glass accompanied her retrieving two crystal glasses, along with a decanter of brown liquid. Singh imagined it would taste disgusting, but she knew better than to bite the hand that intended to feed her.
Pearce was right.
Singh had it made. Any connections the Met thought existed between her and Sam would magically be erased and she could now look forward to a blossoming career. But she could feel her skin crawling at the thought, especially as Ashton poured out two half glasses of the pungent alcohol with a smug grin across her stern face. On the walls either side of the cabinet, a number of commendations and certificates were proudly displayed and Singh remembered how in awe of them she was when she first stepped into the office.
Her career had been prodigious, rising through the ranks of the Met swiftly and with merit. While a number of her peers sneered at the ‘quota filling’, Singh pressed on, leaving them in her rear-view as she climbed the organisation. Her time in the Armed Response Unit had only solidified her reputation and when Ashton had requested she run the Sam Pope task force, she’d jumped at the chance.
Ashton was the most senior female officer in the Met, and to have her holding the ladder as she climbed had meant the world to Singh.
Now, she knew that Ashton was only holding it for her own gain.
‘To a job well done.’
Ashton lifted her glass and reluctantly, Singh wrapped her fingers around hers and lifted it. Ashton
forced a smile, before raising it to her lips and taking a sip. Judging by the following expression, it clearly burnt, and Singh apprehensively looked at her own drink.
‘What’s the matter, Singh?’ Ashton asked. ‘I thought you liked a drink?’
The sly dig was petty, but not unfounded. Ever since being booted off the task force, Singh had found herself turning to the bottle more and while Ashton herself had begun proceedings to hound her out, Singh had wavered dangerously on the line of sobriety for too long. It’s what drove Singh to dig deeper, to put herself in Wallace’s crosshairs.
It had almost gotten her killed.
Sadly, it had led to the death of an innocent journalist.
It had cost Sam his freedom.
As she stared at the glass, the weight of the guilt hung too heavy for her to drink it. She slowly placed the glass on the table, making a silent vow to never drink again.
The sneer on Ashton’s face told its own story.
‘Look, Singh. I know we may have had our differences in the past, but that’s where they belong. In the past.’ Ashton held Singh’s stare. ‘Things are going to change here very soon, and I need to know whether you’re in or not.’
‘In?’ Singh said, raising her thin eyebrow.
‘Where your loyalties lie.’ Ashton finished her drink and then plucked the lid from the decanter once more. ‘Let’s not pussy foot around the allegations that you helped Sam Pope. I know there are many people, officers within this very organisation included, who believed his actions were noble. I mean, saving abducted kids from sex slavery is as noble as it gets. But that doesn’t give anyone the power to go above the law. So while I’m willing to let those notions of collusion disappear, I need to know that your loyalty is to this badge and to serving this city.’
Ashton poured herself another Scotch, slamming the lid back on the container before dropping back into her seat. As she glared at Singh, the young DI took a breath. She’d fought too hard to get to her position to throw it all away, but the thought of pledging allegiance to this woman was a hard decision to stomach.
‘Ma’am, all I ever wanted to be was a detective. And I’m a damn good one. Whatever you believe, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, it matters,’ Ashton barked back, immediately scolding herself. Commissioner Stout had made it clear: Singh had to be on her side. She changed tact, offering a warm smile that almost hurt. ‘But what truly matters is what you believe.’
‘I believe in the justice system.’
‘So, you believe Sam Pope is a criminal?’
Singh could feel the accusing eyes boring into her like a pneumatic drill and she clenched her fist. Every fibre of her being wanted to drive it into her superior’s jaw, but she knew that was career suicide.
A career Sam had handed back to her with his sacrifice.
She unclenched her fist, relaxed her shoulders, and looked Ashton directly in the eye.
‘I believe he is a good man who broke the law.’
‘Good enough.’ Ashton raised her glass again, this time on her own and took a sip. ‘As long as we know where our priorities lie.’
‘Is that all, ma’am?’
‘Yes. Dismissed.’ Ashton waved her hand and Singh rose from her chair. ‘Oh, and Singh. Next time you’re offered a glass of expensive Scotch, I would advise you at least appreciate the offer.’
Singh nodded curtly and turned to the door, pulling it open with a little extra force to convey her anger. Ashton smirked, pleased at her own power play and by executing it exactly as instructed by the Commissioner. While she never expected things to improve, she’d at least made it clear that Singh’s success is now linked to her own.
Mission accomplished.
Before the door closed and she could finish her drink, a young administrator politely knocked on the door, poking her head through.
‘What is it, Emma?’
‘It’s Gemma, ma’am.’ The young lady corrected sheepishly, nervously tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. Ashton regarded her with annoyance, even though the young lady had exceptional manners. Gemma had been working within the Met for over two years and was a firm favourite with the officers. While her peers commended the young lady’s efficiency and cadence, Ashton put her popularity down to her pretty face, full chest, and tight shirts.
Ashton chuckled into her glass. She could be a real bitch sometimes.
‘What is it?’ she eventually asked, not looking up.
‘I have the paperwork pertaining to Sam Pope’s prison transfer you asked for?’ Gemma stepped in nervously. Ashton waved her in, slamming her glass down.
‘Thank you,’ Ashton said, snatching the folder and immediately flicking it open. ‘Oh, and book me in for a visit to Pentonville tomorrow. I want to look that bastard in the eye.’
‘Ma’am,’ Gemma said, her voice shaking with nerves and confusion. ‘He hasn’t been taken to Pentonville?’
Before Ashton could respond to the young woman’s query, her eyes lit up with joy. Although it had originally been dismissed, it appeared Commissioner Stout had finally granted her wish. One final act of kindness from a man whose boots she doubted she’d be able to fill. There would be no chance of visiting Sam, not anymore.
With glee, she slapped the file down on the table and shot a smile towards a clearly uncomfortable Gemma.
‘Never mind,’ she said firmly, basking in the glory of the dark hole that Sam Pope had been sent.
* * *
Ashcroft Maximum Security Prison was located in the woodlands of Salters Green. A few miles out from the Sussex town of Mayfield, the vast woods provided the perfect location for the notorious building known by those in power as ‘The Grid’.
The large, concrete wall that spanned the perimeter of the facility was three feet thick, topped with electrified barbed wire that would fry anything it touched. A dirt path off Argos Hill Road was stopped abruptly by the first of three metal gates, each one needing a security pass and an ever-changing access code for entry. The code was scrambled every twenty-four hours and delivered within an encrypted message that required a thumb print to open.
There was no breaking in.
No getting out.
Beyond the third gate, which also included a physical inspection by three, armed security officers, the fortress loomed, encased in the shadows of the surrounding trees. A grey, concrete block made up of four floors, two of which had been built into the earth itself. Beneath the ground, it housed a maximum of three hundred and forty-six of the UK’s most dangerous criminals.
Criminals who not only required incarceration, but those who could never hope for a look at the outside world again. Each one serving a life sentence, the idea of parole a disgusting joke that was banded about by those on both sides of the law. A twenty-two-hour lockdown was implemented, with prisoners kept in their six square metre cells, segregated by thick walls and iron doors. The only daylight afforded was for the hour of ‘exercise’, regardless of the elements, with no protection offered beyond the trained snipers overlooking the courtyard.
To those inside, the idea of being placed at HMP Wakefield was a holiday.
To those who knew of Ashcroft, it was the hole you buried the worst criminals in, knowing they would die either at the hands of each other, the guards, or from their hourglass running out.
To the public, Ashcroft didn’t exist.
Sam knew he wasn’t headed to Pentonville the moment he’d set foot in the security van. The short glimpse of a pistol strapped under the jacket of the officers who pushed him in told him that.
The blackout doors of the van permitted him no sunlight, as he travelled in the dark, well aware that the van was bulletproof. After twenty minutes, when he wasn’t being greeted by the Pentonville Prison guards, Sam was resigned to his fate. While he didn’t swim in the ‘need to know’ circles, he knew of Ashcroft’s existence. His investigations into the organised crime had uncovered rumours of The Grid, a place that even the most hardened criminals we
re afraid of.
A place where people disappeared.
There were no stops on the hour and a half journey, with Sam not afforded a glimpse of sunshine, a smidgen of fresh air, nor a comfort break. As a prisoner, being carted off to a deep, dark hole, he no longer held any claim to those benefits.
Sam Pope had nothing.
Eventually, he felt the traction under the tyres change from the smooth tarmac of a main road to a gravelley, bumpy terrain, and the vehicle came to a stop. One of the men stepped from the front and after a few moments, the loud clunk of a metal gate echoed, and the van crept forward. Another two minutes and the same process was repeated.
Impenetrable.
As they came to a third stop, Sam was treated to a brief glimpse of the outside world, the gloomy day still held an unnatural brightness as the doors to the back of the van were thrown open. He held a hand up to protect himself from the glare, making a note of the two men who were quickly inspecting the cargo.
They were both well built.
One of them was left-handed, his fingers curled around his pen.
Both carried firearms.
Sam committed every detail to memory. It was a gift he had, which was only enhanced by his training. The smallest detail can sometimes make the greatest impact and his ability to absorb them like a sponge had saved his life countless times, and had ended many others.
The doors slammed shut and he was enclosed in the darkness once more. A voice called for them to proceed and the engine purred into life and the van moved forward. A large clap echoed out as the gate slammed shut, locking Sam inside the grounds of the most terrifying location in the United Kingdom.
Sam sat patiently in the darkness, thinking of his son. Jamie had always been so happy, his mood a default positive despite any problem he faced. Sam had watched him struggle with books, but eventually, his son’s keen love of the written word soon saw him reading at a level way beyond his age.
Jamie would have been fast approaching his ninth birthday had he not been taken by the cruel hands of fate.
The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Page 6
