The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  Her driver pulled the car up to a safe distance from the hospital, where she was immediately greeted by Sergeant Tom Reynolds, a fiercely loyal man who would have been her choice to manage the situation had it been hers to make.

  But it hadn’t.

  That became clear as Commissioner Stout marched across the mayhem of the police cordon, weaving between officers who were trying their best to comfort the evacuated patients, while their nurses attended to them in the cold, bitter evening. As he approached, Ashton could tell his mood hadn’t improved from earlier.

  It had clearly worsened.

  ‘We have a situation here, Ruth.’ Stout spoke quietly, ushering her away from the earshot of the surrounding officers and public. There was no press nearby, as they were all lined across the cordon line, all of them relaying the exact same story in their never-ending quest for ratings.

  ‘Do we know who he is?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ Stout said firmly, drawing his fleeced jacket tight to shield from the cold. ‘But we know what he wants.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Sam Pope.’

  Ashton burst out laughing, drawing a few interested looks from the nearby watchers and Stout scowled.

  ‘Deputy Commissioner, this is no time for laughter.’ He reprimanded her as quietly as he could. ‘He is threatening to kill dozens of innocent people.’

  ‘So what, he expects us to just march Sam Pope in there for him? Why does he want him?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Stout said, scanning the street in horror.

  ‘Possible collusion?’ Ashton offered, taking the chance to undermine Sam’s perceived hero status.

  ‘Doubtful. It doesn’t fit the brief.’

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, Sam Pope is a violent, dangerous criminal. Experience tells me that birds of a feather flock together.’

  ‘Your experience hasn’t helped so far,’ Stout spat, crushing Ashton beneath his words. ‘Is there any update on Sam’s location?’

  Ashton shook her head, the raindrops flicking from the small bowler hat she wore as part of her uniform.

  ‘No, sir. Nor do we have any contact with DI Singh.’

  Stout shook away the final comment due to its irrelevance, and as a car pulled up, his attention was stolen from Ashton, who fumed at her dismissal.

  ‘The negotiator has just arrived,’ Stout explained. ‘Hopefully, he can get through to this man and we can shut this down. In the meantime, Ruth, find Sam Pope. And do it now!’

  The emphasis on the final word may as well have been the final nail in her coffin. Ashton was furious that after everything she’d done to bring him to justice, Sam Pope would still cost her everything she’d worked so tirelessly for. She watched as Stout met the negotiator at the car, the man clearly overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation and the seniority with which he was welcomed. As Stout explained the situation and the negotiator, a middle-aged man with glasses and thinning hair, Ashton looked up at the hospital, expecting to see the third floor explode in a colossal display of fire and glass any second.

  It made her sick to her stomach and Ashton knew she had no cards left to play.

  * * *

  Singh hammered down the M3 as fast as she could, weaving in and out of the light traffic that was trundling towards the nation’s capital city. It was a drive she’d made a few times in the past few months and she knew this one would be for the final time.

  The silence in the car was unbearable.

  Singh didn’t regret having sex with Sam, and she knew he didn’t either. The tension was based on the truth that they knew it could go no further, that they’d sampled a life they yearned for but could never attain. Singh wanted to talk about it, to make peace with Sam before they walked away from the notion, but she knew it would do no good.

  Sam’s mind was elsewhere.

  Surprisingly, Singh felt no jealousy for Sam’s worry for his ex-wife. Knowing the trauma they’d both experienced, and the happiness they’d shared before, Singh admired Sam’s immediate response to her peril.

  Her only fear was that there was no way Sam would walk away from what they were heading into. Whoever the terrorist was who’d demanded his presence was unlikely to want a friendly handshake.

  But if Sam did what he did best, then he would be walking straight back to a cell.

  If he didn’t, he would be coming out in a body bag.

  This time there was no plan.

  There was no back-up.

  Singh drove silently, wondering how on earth Sam would survive this.

  She turned off the M3 and joined the M25, speeding around the concrete loop that surrounded the city and caused a relentless stream of traffic jams during rush hour. The road was clear and as Singh approached junction sixteen, she turned off, joining the A40 at Uxbridge and hammered her foot down. Soon, they were racing through Wembley, with the magnificent arch of the football stadium bathed in a bright, blue light. Singh had always found the building striking but had never attended a football match in her life. The tribalism she’d witnessed based on supposed loyalty had put her off the sport, but the stadium always filled her with a strange sense of national pride.

  Sam still hadn’t said a word.

  Singh had flashed him the odd, caring glance, but he stared silently ahead, his fists clenched. Sam had made numerous enemies on his rampage against the underworld, but this was something deeper.

  This was a premeditated personal attack.

  Judging by the fury in his eyes, Singh could tell he’d taken it as such.

  Singh passed Baker Street station and the police cordon was so vast, she could see the bright blue lights already. By the time she got to Great Portland Street station, she was stopped by two police officers, who demanded identification. She flashed her badge, which was enough to get them nearer to the hospital.

  The next time they might not be so lucky.

  With the colossal hospital ahead, surrounded by an army of police cars, interested press and terrified spectators, Singh brought the car to a stop on the side of the road. With no traffic due to the police barricades, she had no fears of stopping on what was usually a gridlocked street.

  The engine died and the only sound, besides the hustle of the standoff ahead, was the light patter of rain on the windscreen. Sam reached for his belt, but Singh shot her hand down and clasped his. Sam looked at her, saw the tear forming in her eye, and reached up to wipe it away.

  ‘I have to go.’ His words were calm, bristling with anger. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘I know,’ Singh said, patting his hand. ‘But just know that I could have.’

  Sam drew his lips together in a warm smile, nodding his agreement. They could have been something.

  Something worth fighting for.

  But Sam’s fight was elsewhere. They both knew that and as soon as they stepped out of the car, there would be no going back. Just another regret to add to a life full of them.

  Singh leant over, kissed Sam gently on the lips and then recomposed.

  ‘Right, let’s do this,’ she said, pushing open the car door. Sam soon followed, the rain crashing against his face as he locked eyes on the building that was holding his ex-wife, and then willingly walked towards the flashing blue lights that had hunted him for months.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After the initial shock of Mac’s arrival had subsided, a subdued boredom had kicked in. Enraged that his demand hadn’t been met straight away, Mac had yelled at a young teenage girl to stop crying, only adding to her fear. The following ten minutes were played out in deathly silence, until a senior nurse, a Jamaican woman with a kind smile, approached Mac, showing a steely bravery when threatened with a gun.

  She’d pleaded with Mac to let them go, but if he couldn’t, then she asked that the nurses and doctors be allowed to at least treat their patients.

  Remembering the horrendous conditions of his own capture, Mac agreed, but warned every one of the consequences if they stepped out of line.r />
  ‘This here…’ he began, lifting his right hand. ‘Is called a dead man’s switch. It has been activated, meaning that the bomb strapped to this lady is live. Should I remove my thumb from this button, then this entire hospital will be blown to the ground. Now, I’m more than willing to die tonight. Is anyone else?’

  Nothing but a terrified silence greeted his statement.

  ‘Good. Let’s all be sensible, and we may just see tomorrow.’

  The staff continued as if nothing was happening and Mac admired their ability to work under such pressure. It was a part of their everyday lives but being ready to act to save a life carried with it as much anguish as being ready to take one. For Mac, it was easy. The part of him that held any empathy for others died in the same room as the man responsible for his captivity.

  The rest of him would die alongside the man who had left him there in the first place.

  As he slowly paced the corridor, Lucy sat by the door, looking longingly at the locked exit. Mac had made it clear to the receptionist that if she touched the button to activate it, he would put a bullet through the centre of her skull.

  She wasn’t paid enough to challenge his threat and Lucy stared at the non-existent path to freedom. As Mac returned to her end of the corridor, she looked up at him with red eyes, her tear ducts dried out with fear. Below her chin, the row of C4 explosives sat, ready to blow them all to kingdom come.

  ‘Mac, you don’t need to do this.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Sam doesn’t even know you’re alive. He’ll be so happy to see you.’ Lucy tried to add an element of hope to her words.

  ‘He left me to die,’ Mac spat, shaking his head as if he was being attacked by a wasp.

  ‘Sam didn’t know. Wallace told him you had died.’

  Mac spun on his heel and lifted the gun, pointing it directly at her head. Lucy coiled back in fear.

  ‘I said shut up,’ Mac screamed, drawing the attention of the rest of the terrified hostages. ‘I don’t need you alive to carry that bomb, so shut your damn mouth.’

  Lucy nodded frantically, cowering away from the gun. Mac saw the terror in her eyes, looked at the gun, and then pressed the side of it to his head, as if wrestling with a horrible migraine. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.

  His mind was scattered, with different versions of his past washing over each other. It was as if his recollection of the truth had been stuffed into a washing machine and set to spin.

  Sam had abandoned him.

  Left him to die.

  He didn’t care. He saved himself.

  Sam needed to pay. To experience real pain.

  Like Mac had.

  With a few concerned nurses apprehensively walking to their patient’s rooms, Mac’s inner turmoil was interrupted by a shrill buzz. His eyes scanned around, as if looking for an irritating bug until the receptionist drew his attention.

  ‘It’s the door buzzer. A man is there.’

  Mac stormed over and looked at her screen. It wasn’t Sam and he slammed his fist onto the desk, startling the young woman.

  ‘I want to speak to him,’ he demanded, and the woman shifted a small, thin intercom towards him and pressed the button.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Mac said, watching the chubby man squirm.

  ‘My name is Sergeant Peter Whitlow. I just want to talk to you.’

  ‘Do you have Sam Pope?’ Mac asked, knowing the answer. He watched as the negotiator adjusted his glasses, trying to maintain his composure.

  ‘Not yet. But we are working on it.’

  ‘Fuck off then.’

  ‘Sir, we just want to talk. Also, I need to make sure the hostages and patients are okay. If you let me in, we can work on bringing this to an end. I’m unarmed.’

  The man held up his hands to the camera, showing Mac he wasn’t lying. Mac nodded to the receptionist, who flicked the door open. With a buzz, it automatically swung inwards and Whitlow walked in, scanning the corridors, trying to absorb as much information as possible. He offered Lucy a reassuring smile then stopped still as he laid eyes on the horrifying burns that consumed Mac’s face.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Why don’t we let these people go and we can discuss…’

  A gunshot rang out, sending the entire ward into a panic. Whitlow screamed in agony, dropping to the floor and pressing both hands to the knee that had been shattered by the bullet. As blood pumped through his trousers, the man’s face drained of colour and Mac squatted down beside him.

  ‘This is non-negotiable.’

  Mac tucked the gun into the back of his trousers and then grasped the back of Whitlow’s shirt, dragging the wounded man across the corridor. As Whitlow moaned in pain, Mac hauled him up, then in one swift movement, shoved him as hard as he could through the glass window.

  Whitlow hurtled down the three stories, followed by a rainfall of shattered glass. From the broken window, Mac could hear the screams of terror from outside, the sickening thud of Whitlow’s death, followed by the delightful sound of the glass shattering. With no remorse for the life he’d just taken, Mac stomped back to the reception desk and pointed the gun at the receptionist, who froze in fear.

  ‘Go downstairs and tell the police that if I don’t have Sam here in the next hour, I’ll start throwing a patient out every ten minutes. Do you understand?’

  The young girl nodded frantically, and Mac jerked his head to the door for her to go. He buzzed her out and watched as she ran. He shot a glance towards a mortified Lucy, who was staring at the smear of blood that lead to the window.

  Mac smirked, knowing his message had been heard loud and clear.

  The automatic door slammed shut and he waited for his revenge.

  * * *

  Stout watched from the crowded street; the rain illuminated in flashes of blue as the multiple cars blocked off the road. A sense of pride ran through him at the hard work of his team and he stood, agitated, waiting for Whitlock to emerge with an open dialogue to the man inside. Still waiting on the identity of the man to be discovered by his analytical team who were running facial recognition, he felt a sense of alarm rush through his body when he was told the name of the woman who had accompanied the terrorist into the building.

  Lucy Farmer.

  Sam Pope’s ex-wife.

  The pendulum had swung in the other direction.

  Despite Ashton’s theory of an accomplice, the fact the bomber had taken someone from Sam’s personal life as effective bait told him this wasn’t a plan to spring Sam from prison. Whoever this was, he wanted blood and Stout’s job now was the limit the amount shed.

  A large crash of glass was quickly accompanied by the sight of a bloodied Whitlock tumbling from the third floor of the hospital, the entire watching crowd holding their breath as the man crashed to the hard concrete below. Doctors and police officers rushed to the broken remains of the negotiator, as other officers did their best to quash the panic rising from the watching public.

  Stout drew his hand to his head, mortified at the death of one of his officers. The option of sending in the ARU, armed and ready to go, was tempting, but there was no guarantee it wouldn’t end in a massacre.

  With their guns trained on the front door, the armed team gave the signal that someone was approaching and Stout marched towards the door. A blonde lady, pale with fear, emerged, the terror of sixteen assault rifles pinned on her threatened to overwhelm her.

  ‘Lower your weapons,’ Stout commanded, jogging the final few steps to the woman, who was shaking with fear. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘He has a bomb. He has a bomb,’ she repeated, as an officer brought a foil blanket which Stout wrapped around the woman.

  ‘What happened up there?’ Stout asked, glaring over his shoulder as Ashton joined him.

  ‘He shot that man. He was only trying to help.’

  Ashton shook her head.

  ‘We need to send in the team, sir,’ she demanded impatiently. ‘Before this gets o
ut of hand.’

  ‘Thank you, Deputy. But I am in control of this situation.’

  Ashton gestured to the crumpled remains of Whitlock, which was already covered with a sheet as EMTs carefully loaded the dead officer onto a stretcher.

  ‘None of us are.’ Ashton’s cruel words were even more evidence that she was looking after herself. The last twelve hours had devastated her career, but she saw a clear opportunity to at least salvage her own reputation by attacking Stout’s. Before the irate Commissioner could respond, a voice cut in.

  ‘Let me go in.’

  The two most senior figures in the Met Police turned, their eyes wide with shock as Sam walked towards them, having been guided through the cordon by DI Singh. Behind them, a group of officers had followed, watching on in awe at Sam’s arrival.

  ‘Officers. Arrest this man,’ Ashton snapped, her face twisted in a bitter scowl.

  ‘Stop.’ Stout held his hand up to the officers and turned to Ashton. ‘Take a walk.’

  Sam met Ashton’s glare without emotion, and she marched off into the rain, her hands shaking with fury. Stout watched her for a few moments, shelving their issues for later, before he turned back to Sam. Stout was impressed.

  ‘Well, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sir, there are innocent people in there. He has my ex-wife. They have nothing to do with this.’ Sam looked up at the shattered window. ‘This is my fight. So, let me go in.’

  Stout took a deep breath, his hands firmly on his hips as he contemplated the next move. He looked at Singh, who nodded her approval, as if underlining that Stout could trust Sam. The commissioner didn’t doubt it. Although he was a huge advocate for removing Sam’s one-man war on crime from the streets of his city, he never doubted that Sam held the nobility of a soldier.

  He was fast running out of options and Stout knew it.

  The terrorist wanted Sam Pope.

  And here he was, willing to go in.

  ‘Fine. But I need you to get those children out of there, do you understand?’ Stout commanded. ‘We know he’s armed, and we know there is a bomb.’