The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  Sam nodded meekly; the thought of Mac’s death still too fresh to expand on. The door behind them closed and Singh swivelled. A well-built, middle-aged man stepped in, dressed in a resplendent suit. His dark hair, tinged with grey flecks, was combed neatly to the side and his strong jaw was clean shaven.

  Whoever he was, he screamed money, and he walked confidently to the commissioner and shook his hand.

  ‘Director Blake.’ Stout introduced him to the room. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Blake’s words were clear and concise. Singh immediately ascertained that confidence wasn’t a hard attribute for him to find.

  ‘Sir, what’s going on?’ Singh asked, shuffling in her seat. Sam watched on with interest. Blake clasped his hands together and walked to the front of the desk, casually leaning against it.

  ‘Detective Inspector, have you ever heard of Directive One?’

  Singh looked towards Stout in confusion and then shook her head. Blake smiled warmly and continued.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. We operate in pockets that the government do not want a presence, ensuring we stay out of the public and professional eye.’

  ‘You’re a spook?’ Sam chimed in, drawing a wry smile.

  ‘That’s a pretty crude word, but you’re not far off.’ Blake spoke confidently. ‘We operate as a small yet essential operation to ensure matters of national and international security do not escalate. There are a lot of situations that do not reach the public surface and we are the ones who make sure of it.’

  Again, Singh looked to her commissioner.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Just listen, Singh,’ Stout said, sat back in his chair with his fingers clasped together. Blake continued.

  ‘In light of today’s events, and the events of the last six months, we would like to extend the invitation to you both to join Directive One. Lord knows we could use people like you.’

  ‘People like us?’ Sam asked wearily.

  ‘Those who put the right thing above all else. We abide by the law, but we are given a certain leeway shall we say? Your fight against crime, Sam, is something we’ve followed since you outed Inspector Howell. Singh, ever since you worked diligently to help take down Wallace, you’ve been on our radar.’

  ‘Are you offering me a job, sir?’ Singh asked excitedly.

  ‘Haven’t you wanted to do more, Singh? There is only so much you can do with all the red tape in the force.’ Blake smiled. ‘Commissioner Stout is in agreement with me.’

  Singh looked to the commissioner who nodded.

  ‘You’re tailor-made for it, Singh.’ Stout confirmed. ‘You’d be a hell of a loss for us, though.’

  Blake turned back to them both and shrugged.

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I’m in.’ Singh’s response was immediate.

  ‘Hard pass.’

  All eyes fell on Sam, who casually sipped his tea. Singh looked confused, Stout shocked. Judging by the look on Blake’s face, he wasn’t used to being turned down.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Let me guess. This will require us giving up all forms of identity, residence, the works. Then we would be assigned undercover missions, where the only directive is to ensure it’s completed. How am I doing?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Blake said, patting down his immaculate blazer in frustration. ‘Directive One operates off the radar so to speak.’

  ‘No offence, but I’ve already been part of a shady elite government group and it’s not a road I want to travel again.’

  Singh turned on her chair, resting a hand on Sam’s arm.

  ‘Sam, this is a way out.’ Her eyes were wide with hope. ‘You’re still facing life in prison.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Blake said cockily. Sam shrugged.

  ‘My fight is over.’ Sam put his empty mug on the desk and turned to Singh. ‘Good luck, Amara. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’

  Speechless, Blake stood, adjusting his tie. He nodded a thank you to the commissioner and turned to Singh.

  ‘We will be in touch.’

  Blake shot a glare at Sam before striding out of the office. Singh turned to Sam in dismay, but Sam winked at her, catching her off guard. Stout let out an audible yawn and leant forward on the table.

  ‘It’s late. Singh, why don’t you head home. And keep this to yourself. Those guys don’t exactly like gossip.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Singh stood, before resting her hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Goodbye, Sam.’

  He reached up and squeezed her hand.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Singh marched to the door, wiping a tear from her eye, before stepping out of Sam’s life. Sam felt a small twinge in his chest, knowing he would miss her. But she needed to break away from him. His fight would only bring her down and now she had the opportunity to do more than she ever imagined. Singh was a tremendous fit for the role, but Sam hoped that she was smart enough to see when the agenda wasn’t about the freedom of others.

  Every government had an agenda.

  Sam’s fight was for the people.

  For justice.

  With a resounding sigh, Stout reached into the cabinet beneath his desk and returned with two glass tumblers. He followed it up with an expensive Scotch.

  He shot Sam a smile.

  ‘We can sort out your transfer tomorrow.’ Stout unscrewed the cap on the bottle. ‘You look like you could use a drink?’

  ‘Very astute, sir.’

  Stout chuckled, poured out two generous helpings and then slid one across to Sam. As surreal as it was to be toasting with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sam took a sip of the warm liquor and looked out over the city.

  He thought of Mac and mourned his passing.

  He thought of all the criminals he’d taken out and the lives he’d saved.

  He thought of Jamie, and how the public and police had treated him like a hero.

  Ignoring the conversation that Stout was trying to initiate, Sam looked at the skyline and for the first time that evening, he felt a smile creep across his face.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was a surreal experience waking up unemployed.

  Ruth Ashton had followed Stout’s advice and sent her letter of resignation through to his office the moment she’d returned home. In less than twenty-four hours, her career had fallen from an unprecedented high to rock bottom. It seemed an age ago that she was stood in front of the media, waxing lyrical about the effectiveness of the Met under her careful management and the incredible bust of Chapman’s drug empire was compelling evidence.

  But Ashton hadn’t seen the full picture and although Stout had given her the dignified option of jumping before she was pushed, it had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  There was no applause as her career ended.

  No nods of respect.

  No thanks.

  Those had been reserved for Sam Pope, a convicted killer who had broken out of prison.

  As she’d watched the public applaud him for his bravery, she’d decided they didn’t deserve her sweat and tears, the lifetime dedicated to making their city a safer place.

  When Stout had overruled her, offering Sam his thanks, she decided that he no longer deserved her loyalty.

  With sleep out of the question, she’d returned to her isolated life and poured numerous glasses of the strongest alcohol she could find. There was no loving husband to wrap herself in during her crisis. Nor were there any kids to band around her, to thank her for doing all she could.

  The closest she’d come to love was with a deceased general who had been outed as a global terrorist.

  Brought to his end by Sam Pope.

  As she fell further into a drunken stupor, Ashton began to angrily connect the dots.

  The common thread that ran through her miserable life was Sam Pope. He had been the architect of her downfall and had stripped every modicum of happiness from her life. Drunkenly vowing her revenge, she’d fallen a
sleep across her dining room table, waking the following morning with a stiff neck and a thumping headache.

  Somehow mustering the energy to head for the shower, Ashton allowed the warm water to run over her body for nearly forty-five minutes. It allowed her to cry without facing the reality of actually doing it, the water crashing against her face and wiping the tears away.

  It took her a while to realise she was mourning.

  Wallace.

  Her career.

  Her life.

  An hour later, surrounded by glasses of orange juice and enough paracetamol to start a small pharmacy, she began to scribble notes down on a notepad, drawing connecting to lines as her brainstorm began to take shape.

  Her career with the Metropolitan Police may have finished but she would, if it took her the rest of her life, find a way to get her revenge on Sam.

  She just had to find it and without the pressures of the Met on her shoulders, she had all the time in the world to do so.

  * * *

  ‘Are you okay, dear?’

  Anna stopped a few paces ahead of Harris, looking back with concern. The spring morning had offered a wonderful sunshine, which basked the beautiful lake with a blinding shimmer. For years, Harris and his wife had enjoyed strolls around it, often leading to hikes up the hilly terrain. But with his health in decline, Harris could only manage one lap around the lake. Two at a push.

  Harris offered her his best smile.

  ‘All good, here.’

  Anna beamed at her husband. They had been married for over thirty years and she felt as much affection for him that day as she did the moment she’d met him. Back then, he was a hunky soldier and was the talk of her friends, who all paired off with office men. But as the years went by and Harris returned to the UK, he impressed her even more by his diligent work in rehabilitating convicts.

  But the Ashcroft assignment had changed their lives.

  Sworn to secrecy, they’d become guarded around friends and she’d been adamant that it was the stress and pressure of running such a facility that had exacerbated his MS.

  But they didn’t need to worry about that anymore.

  Harris’s retirement had been confirmed that morning, a day after the entire prison was decommissioned. Anna had wept in his arms when he’d returned, her husband shaking from the bullet with which he’d ended Sharp’s life.

  There would be an investigation, one which Harris had demanded himself and as a man of the utmost integrity, Anna was sure he would be cleared of any wrongdoing. But until then, she was just pleased to have her husband back.

  She waited until he shuffled beside her and then slid her hand into his, smiling warmly as he gently rubbed his finger against her wedding ring.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Anna said, looking out over the water.

  ‘It’s good to be home.’

  Anna tilted her head against his shoulder and then the two of them continued their stroll around the lake.

  Eight guards had died during the riot, and a further seven of them had been critically injured. Along with over ten prisoners found dead, including Chapman and his crew, Harris knew that the investigation would be a long and arduous experience.

  The government would sweep it under the rug and the rest of the guards who had operated under Sharp’s misguided regime were also facing the full strength of the law. They would be sent down, and along with the other inmates, they would be scattered UK wide across numerous prisons.

  No one would ever know the truth.

  The thought of that did eat away at him, but Harris knew his priorities needed to be elsewhere. His treatment plan for his multiple sclerosis had been enhanced, with stronger medicine being recommended to keep him mobile.

  They couldn’t cure it.

  All he wanted was to move on, spend the rest of his years with his wife, and try to live as comfortably as possible.

  With the warmth of the sun covering everything with a joyous glow, he held Anna’s hand tightly and they shuffled around the lake, happy to be spending another day together.

  * * *

  After a few drinks with the commissioner, Sam had thanked him for his hospitality. Stout had been surprisingly understanding of Sam’s mission, acknowledging that at times he even envied the freedom with which Sam operated. But having dedicated his life to the letter of the law to such an extent that he ended up leading it, he would never condone the actions Sam had taken.

  There was a justice system for a reason and despite Sam’s selflessness and bravery, there could be no walking away from the path he’d gone down.

  Both of them accepted that, but Stout did imply he had a few favours to call in before he stepped down. Due to Sam’s courageous actions that night, Stout would push for him to see out his sentence in a minimum security facility, offering him more freedom and a real chance of rehabilitation.

  Perhaps even the chance for parole.

  Stout escorted Sam through the New Scotland Yard building to the holding cells and told him that the next day he would be transferred to HMP Huntercombe near Nuffield, on the outskirts of Oxfordshire. A category C prison, which would afford Sam more freedom than Ashcroft ever did, along with a safer environment. Stout promised him he would talk to Judge Barnes personally, to push for a transfer to a category D prison, where Sam would be offered the freedom of the prison, along with the chance to keep his head down and maybe see the other side of a cell again.

  Sam shook his hand and with the horror of Mac’s death heavy on his mind, settled down for a rough night’s sleep.

  The following morning, Sam was woken by two officers who allowed him the opportunity of a shower before his transfer. They bundled him out through the back of the building, out of the public eye, and signed him over to the transport guards who seemed in awe of their prisoner.

  ‘This isn’t another switcheroo, is it?’ Sam joked, although his audience were clueless as to his ordeal at Ashcroft.

  As part of the Met’s ‘Green Initiative’ the secure van was electric powered, and Sam stepped into the back and settled down for the near fifty-mile journey. Despite the heavy traffic, it only took them an hour to make it through to the M40 at Denham, which they stayed on for a few junctions, passing through Beaconsfield, Handy Cross, and Lane End until they turned off at junction five.

  As they entered Nuffield, Sam felt the smoothness of the road change, the narrow country lanes causing a number of stops as the large van pulled into the predetermined gaps to allow cars through.

  On the home stretch, one of the guards rattled his knuckles against the metal partition, yelling to Sam that they were twenty minutes out.

  Before Sam could respond, he felt the engine of the van die and the vehicle roll to a stop.

  It wasn’t unexpected.

  Sam had enemies and he’d wondered if an irate officer or an Ashton sympathiser would tip someone off to his route. Luckily, the officers in charge of the journey had allowed him to sit in the back uncuffed, realising that he wasn’t a threat.

  Sam could hear them bickering in the front seat, with little confidence that either of them would survive an attack.

  As one of them got out of the van, Sam heard the sickening thud of a blow to the head, and then the officer colliding with the side of the van. More shouting, as the attacker demanded the other officer get out of the car and Sam knew it was at gunpoint.

  Protecting Sam wasn’t worth the officer’s life, which Sam agreed with and he stood in the back of the van, ready to try his best to whatever onslaught was awaiting on the other side of the door.

  Two sets of footsteps crunched on the ground around to the back of the van and with the electric system fried, the officer shook as he put the key in the door.

  Another sickening thud, and Sam heard the man crumble to the ground.

  Sam steadied himself, fists clenched.

  He was born to survive.

  The door swung open, and Etheridge, holding an assault rifle in one hand, pulled off the bal
aclava that had shielded his identity.

  ‘Hello, handsome.’ Etheridge smiled. ‘If you could see the look on your face.’

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘I’ll explain on the way. Chop chop.’

  Hesitantly, Sam stepped out the back of the van, looking around at the two unconscious officers. Etheridge shrugged, told Sam he felt bad about them both, and asked Sam to help him move them from harm’s way. After lining both men on the grassy hillock that ran alongside the road, Etheridge set off through the woodlands, followed by a guilt-ridden Sam.

  He had made peace with going to prison.

  To finally pay the price for his war on crime.

  Etheridge’s response was simple.

  ‘The world needs you to keep fighting, Sam.’

  After five minutes of jogging, Etheridge slowed the pace, his busted knee stiffening and he walked through the trees. Sam caught up to him, baffled by the rescue mission.

  ‘How the hell did you do all this?’

  ‘With this.’ Etheridge held up a small, black remote. ‘It’s like an EMP. Pretty good.’

  Sam looked at him blankly, carefully stepping over a fallen branch.

  ‘An electro-magnetic pulse. Essentially, this button fried their electrical system. There’s no nuclear or radiation damage and it can only emit the pulse within a few feet. Worked though.’

  Etheridge carried on walking, stepping through a large bush and onto a quaint village road, with no path for pedestrians and numerous cottages lining the road. His car was parked on a patch of grass and he tossed Sam the rifle.

  ‘It’s not loaded,’ Sam said, knowing from the weight.

  ‘Correct,’ Etheridge said, hopping into the driver’s seat.

  ‘What if they’d been armed?’

  ‘Then I’d have been up shit creek. Now get in.’

  Sam cast one final glance back to the woods, tossing the idea of turning himself in over in his mind like a pancake. With a deep sigh, he pulled open the door and dropped into the passenger’s seat. As Etheridge started the engine, Sam turned and looked at his friend who had crossed too many lines to make his way back.