‘It’s big,’ Burrows eventually stammered. ‘The club holds probably a hundred, maybe two hundred people. There are rooms upstairs where customers take the women. That’s all I know, I swear.’
Sam tutted, shaking his head as he unzipped the black bag, pulling it open. He turned back to Burrows and slowly reached into the bag. With their eyes locked, Sam pulled a Glock 20 from the bag, theatrically discharging the clip and checking it was loaded. Burrows gasped with fear.
Sam turned to him, menace emanating from his glare.
‘You’re going to have to give me more than that.’
‘That’s all I know, I swear,’ Burrows pleaded, straining against the ropes. His eyes were watering, and his cheek was already red from Sam’s strike. Sam shook his head and slapped the clip back into place.
‘How many guards? Exits? Guns?’
‘I don’t know,’ Burrows begged. ‘I can’t remember.’
Sam lifted the gun and pointed it straight at the man’s sweat covered forehead. Burrows froze, stiffening like a statue.
‘Remember. Now.’
Burrows took a deep breath and his head dropped. Sweat and tears dripped, joining the puddle of urine on the cracked, laminate floor.
‘Sergei revamped the place about a year ago. It went from being a run-of-the-mill night club, filled with drunk fuelled idiots, to an elite members club. Nowadays, you had to have money or power to get in. Preferably both. But by making the guest list exclusive, he upped security.’
Sam relaxed his arm, tucking the handgun into the waist band of his jeans and pulling the black T-shirt over it.
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. He usually has a few on the door. Mean bastards. Then another four or five inside, patrolling the main rooms.’
‘Armed?’ Sam asked, as he casually pulled a bulletproof vest from the bag and slid his arms in.
‘As far as I know. Most of them are ex-Berkut who needed a new career after the Crimea crisis and Sergei pays them well. The kind of people who will kill now and not bother with any questions later. Hell, even the bartenders could be armed.’
Sam nodded firmly as he clasped the vest together, locking it over his imposing frame. He held back a smile, enjoying the avalanche of information pouring from Burrows. The man had cracked, knowing his survival was unlikely. When faced with one’s mortality, the majority forfeit loyalty for a faint hope of mercy. It was what separated Sam from most men.
He was a soldier.
He lived and died for a cause.
Burrows sniffed back a few more tears, his breath catching in the cold air and gliding from him in white clouds. Despite the freezing conditions of Kiev, the man was soaked through with sweat. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes widening in horror as Sam lifted a L85IW assault rifle from the bag, his hands caressing the body with worrying familiarity. It had been the same rifle he’d taken the High Rise with over six months ago, along with the raid of the Kovalenko’s operation in Tilbury.
He knew every detail of the weapon.
The ferocity of the kick back.
How quickly the bullets filtered through the barrel.
That gut-wrenching moment when it had jammed during a hellacious gun fight in Kirkuk, under the unrelenting Iraqi sun.
Everything.
Burrows pulled him away from his reunion.
‘How the hell did you get that stuff through customs?’
It was a good question and Sam knew he owed Paul Etheridge a beer or two if he made it home. Etheridge had served with him on a few tours, with Sam even saving his life on a mission in the hills of Sudan. The man was a genius, was willing to fight for the cause but he wasn’t a soldier. After he was honourably discharged following a horrendous break to his leg, Etheridge started contracting for the government, his knowledge of coding and databases had increased their security from cyber threats tenfold. It was all alien to Sam.
His skills led to him being able to hack most online security infrastructures, so he developed specialist software to keep people out. He’d made millions selling this to a select few governments and now lived a life of luxury in a big house with an unhappy trophy wife.
But he still fought for a good cause.
And he was more than willing to help Sam.
Not only had he issued Sam a whole new identity and tracked Burrows for him, he’d manipulated the cargo manifests for Sam’s bag to arrive in Ukraine undetected.
In theory, the two of them were just doing what was needed to bring an end to a vile criminal organization.
In reality, they were smuggling guns into a country that had seen its fair share of war.
After Sam had incapacitated a SWAT team in Etheridge’s house a few weeks ago, they knew the police would soon be sniffing around Etheridge and digging into his history. Sam thought of his friend now, hoping the wolves he’d led to Etheridge’s door hadn’t eaten him alive. He turned back to Burrows, a glint of excitement in his eye.
‘You’re not the only person who knows powerful people.’ Sam draped the strap of the gun over his head and let the rifle swing back and rest against his spine. ‘What about Sergei’s private security?’
‘Two men. Vlad and Artem. Where he goes, they go.’
‘Nasty bastards?’
Burrows fixed Sam with a look that told him his answer. To finish this, he was going to have to go to war. And unlike Tilbury, there would be no planning. No preparation. The driver Sam had introduced to the passenger window would no doubt have reported back, putting an already irate Sergei on red alert. His nightclub would be locked down. Extra fire power would be called in.
All orders will be to kill him, and most likely Burrows, on sight.
The odds were against him, but Sam didn’t believe in no-win situations, nor would he walkaway. He thought back to the night he confronted Jamie’s killer, the agony of facing the man who had taken away his boy.
Miles Hillock.
Sam had wanted nothing more than to end the man’s life, but after giving him a severe beating, Sam had spared Miles. A clarity had washed over him like a wave, telling him to put his skills to use stopping other innocent people feeling the same pain he did.
Since then, he’d killed dozens of criminals to save hundreds of lives.
The police had painted him as a dangerous vigilante, with their task force no doubt upping the ante to bring him in. He would deal with that if he made it back.
It was a long road home from here.
Sam walked to the window and watched the derelict streets around the old, decrepit building, waiting until darkness fell over the city, ushering with it a chilling wind that cut through to his bones.
It was time.
Sam marched across the room, removing his rifle, slipping on his leather jacket, and re-arming. He swung a booted foot out and rattled the chair, startling the dozing Burrows with a panic.
‘W-w-what?’ Burrows flashed a worried glance.
‘It’s time,’ Sam replied coldly, flicking his pen knife open and going to work on the ropes. ‘You try anything, I’ll put this in your throat.’
Burrows obediently nodded, slowly rising from the soaked chair and stretching his back, his spine cracking with glee. Sam slipped the knife back into his jeans and headed for the door.
‘Please let me go,’ Burrows begged.
‘Let’s move.’
Accepting his fate, Burrows pathetically trudged towards the door. From sitting in Number 10 Downing Street to marching to an inevitable death in a seedy, Ukrainian night club. The irony was, it was he who had most likely sanctioned the same thing for a number of those young girls, snatched from their families and thrown into a horrible oblivion.
Karma had certainly come knocking for him.
The message delivered by Sam Pope.
As he stepped out into the dark, ill-smelling corridor, he turned back to his captor.
‘What’s your plan? Do you expect to reason with this man?’
‘No,’ Sam
said sternly, filling the doorway and the lone light behind casting him in shadow.
‘Then what?’
‘I’m going to burn it all to the ground.’
Sam slammed the door shut and the entire hallway went black before the brightness of the moon crept in through the thin window, they marched to the street.
One man accepting his fate.
The other ready for war.
CHAPTER THREE
Sam pulled his car up in front of the night club and cast a murderous eye over it. He’d driven through the rougher parts of Kiev until he’d arrived at the more affluent streets, each one lined with nice houses and expensive eateries. The gentrification of the city, shimmering under the light drizzle of freezing rain gave it a beautiful shine.
It was a shame a place so beautiful could hold such evil within.
‘That the place?’ Sam barked. Burrows, sat in the passenger seat beside him, sighed deeply.
‘That’s the one.’
Sam glared at the man before returning his focus to the building, appreciating the gothic aesthetic. Large windows burrowed into the side of the brickwork, each one shielded by a metal barrier and hidden by thick, red curtains. A large, bright sign crudely hung in the middle, the word Ешелон proudly displayed. Burrows had told him the word translated as ‘Echelon’, with Sergei Kovalenko optimistically rebranding the seedy night club into something grander.
Sam rolled down the window, the ice-cold wind squeezing through the opening and coiling round them both like a snake. Sam felt the chill through the layers of his jacket, T-shirt, and bulletproof vest.
He didn’t care about Burrows.
Both of them knew Sergei was unlikely to let him live.
And that Sam was unlikely to save him.
Through the light downpour, Sam could hear the loud music within the gentlemen’s club, the thumping base was undoubtedly accompanying one of Sergei’s women as she paraded on stage. Burrows had told him how it all played out. The women were ushered out one at a time, each one forced to dance for the leering eyes of the rich. They performed until a bid came in, enticing the raised hands by removing their clothes and debasing themselves under the spotlight.
When one of the customers saw what he liked, he was able to purchase that woman for hour-long sessions in the private rooms upstairs, where the only rule was, he paid in full.
It turned Sam’s stomach and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel.
A black car slowly approached the door, stopping out front and putting the two security guards on alert. As the door opened, both men reached to the inside of their dark suits, only to relent when three middle-aged businessmen stepped out, clearly inebriated.
Drunk and rich.
The perfect customers.
The men were patted down and then ushered inside, and Sam watched as the two intimidating doormen shook their heads in disgust. Sam felt the same and knowing the recent arrivals were there to do ‘business’, he’d seen enough.
‘Let’s go.’’
Sam stepped out of the car and Burrows dejectedly followed suit. The night nipped at them with frosted teeth and Sam walked slightly behind Burrows as he meandered to the door. One of the doormen approached, his large frame blocking the door, but his crooked smile was welcoming.
‘The politician.’ He chuckled. ‘Welcome back. You here for Alegra? She tells me she misses your small cock.’
The man’s English was broken, but the message was clear, and Sam felt his blood boil in the freezing temperature.
Burrows didn’t just help send these girls to their fate.
He actively joined in.
The other doormen stepped up, towering over Sam by several inches. He stank of coffee and his lips snarled. A small scar ran across his cheek and his dark eyes locked onto his.
‘Who this?’
‘A friend of mine,’ Burrows said meekly. ‘I’m bringing him to see Sergei.’
‘He police?’ The man responded. ‘He stand like policeman.’
‘I have news about what happened to Andrei and Oleg,’ Sam said calmly, refusing to break the stare. ‘Now you can leave me out in the cold and go and tell Sergei that the only chance of finding the man who killed his family fucked off. Or you can let us in.’
The gruff doorman took a step closer, sizing Sam up, who clenched his fists, ready for combat. Before anything escalated, the more welcoming of the two stepped between them.
‘Denys, relax.’ He patted his colleague on the back. ‘The politician is good friend of Sergei. Has been for many years. Come, but we must search.’
‘Really guys?’ Burrows questioned. He looked up at the security camera above the door. ‘Sergei is watching right now and when he sees you treating me and my guest this way…’
‘Okay, okay.’ The man relented, holding his hands up. The other doorman, Denys, kept his eyes firmly locked on Sam. ‘Go in. Have fun, eh?’
Burrows marched straight through the door and into the warmth and Sam smiled at both men as he passed.
‘Oh, I plan to.’
Sam stepped into the hallway, welcoming the warmth that hummed from the long radiators. The lighting was dim, the red carpet just about visible, and the grey walls were permutated with the odd, light fittings designed to look like a candle. There was a small sink, with towels and wet wipes just before the grand door into the club itself.
‘Classy,’ Sam uttered, his skin crawling at the perverse nature of the entire place. Burrows reached for the large, metal handle to the door but paused. He took a few deep breaths, his eyes watering. On the other side of the door, the bass of the music thumped through causing him to shake.
‘Please, Sam. I’m begging you.’ Burrows wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve. ‘Let me leave. You can do what you came to do, and I promise you, I’ll disappear.’
Sam folded his arms and adjusted his back, the rifle pressed between his jacket and vest was digging into his spine, but he’d snuck it in. He eyed Burrows with disgust.
‘How many girls have disappeared because of you? Huh? How many parents have never seen their daughters all so you could watch your bank account grow? No, you’re going to be held accountable for the pain you’ve caused.’
‘I don’t want to die,’ Burrows wept.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ Sam stated coldly. ‘But I’m not going to stop whatever you have coming to you. Now open the damn door.’
Burrows composed himself and yanked the door open and both men collided with a mixture of dance music, cigar smoke, and sweat. Sam shoved Burrows in and followed behind, his eyes quickly scouting the room. Two suited men stood at the far end, their hands clasped and their eyes scanning the punters. At the bar, two scantily clad women served drinks while a young guy cleaned glasses. Two more suited men stood in front of a door marked ‘private’, which Burrows turned and headed towards. On the stage, a young woman, no older than twenty, writhed on the floor. Completely naked, her soulless eye conveyed nothing but the yearning for drugs as the grotesque men leered over her supple body. A large man in his mid-fifties raised his hands, and a well-dressed man rushed over to take his money. A few of the other customers gently applauded the man, who jokingly bowed before awaiting his prize.
Sam shook his head, watching as the young woman lazily got to her feet and approached the man who immediately placed his hands on her back and ushered her towards the guarded stairs. He knew he couldn’t save her from the drugs they had her hooked on, but he could save her from what he could only imagine would be a horrendous encounter.
They approached the guarded door and the two men nodded to Burrows, who shrunk shamefully into himself. Sam marched through with him, noting there were six men including the doormen. Another two guaranteed with Sergei and then the man himself.
The head of the snake.
Burrows trudged up the staircase, followed by Sam, each step another resignation to the fate he’d built for himself. They stopped on the landing, met by another
henchman in a dark suit. Sergei certainly wanted his men to look the part. The man eyed Sam suspiciously, but nodded and opened the door for them.
Ten men, Sam noted.
They stepped into the office. Clouds of cigar smoke circled the ceiling like a storm cloud and Sam surveyed the room. The floor was covered with the same cheap carpet as the entrance way, with rows of bookshelves propped against each wall for the vague illusion of culture. Large paintings were dotted between them and to the left was a small, private bar, being tended to by another scantily clad woman in just a thong.
Sam could see the needle marks on her arm and her vacant stare passed through him like a ghost. He shuddered, the anger tempting him to reach for the pistol in the back of his jeans.
Stood by the bar was Vlad, one of Sergei’s enforcers, his war weathered hand around a half full pint of beer. His tattoo-covered arms were visible under the rolled-up shirt sleeves and he glared at both men like a dog eyeing its dinner. Burrows kept his head down as he approached the desk, walking past Artem, who rose from a comfortable looking sofa to the side of the room, folding his large arms across his chest and resting them on the slight paunch that over hung his trousers. His head was shaved, with a tattoo of a skull being swarmed by spiders covering half his scalp.
Sam laid his eyes on Sergei.
The man was in his late fifties but was as fit as he’d been two decades earlier. Dressed in an expensive grey suit with a maroon shirt, he eyed up his new guest with suspicion, running a ring covered hand through his slick, silver hair.
‘Welcome back.’ Sergei smirked at Burrows. His English was fluent, if not a little stunted. ‘What name did we give you? Greg…’
‘Baker,’ Burrows stammered; his brow covered in sweat. ‘Gregory Baker.’
‘Ah, yes. Gregory Baker. It suits you, eh?’ He extended a hand to Burrows, who took it sheepishly. Sergei wiped the clamminess away, his suspicion growing. Burrows took a seat and he turned to Sam. ‘And you, what is your name?’
Sam said nothing. Sergei ran his tongue on the inside of his lip and then smiled.
‘Few words. I admire that.’ Sergei chuckled, smiling at Artem who raised an eyebrow. Sergei strode back behind his desk. ‘Tell me, Gregory, why does your friend seem to hate me?’
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 2
