‘This seat taken?’
Singh’s attention was snapped back into the room and she looked up, startled by the warm grin of Adrian Pearce. His beaming white smile a contrast with his dark skin, a grey beard framing his welcoming grin. Pearce had been a Detective Chief Inspector for the Department of Professional Standards, forging a long and fruitful career as a man tackling internal corruption. Although it had made him few friends, he’d been known as a man of relentless tenacity and ill-wavering integrity. In the six months since he’d started investigating Sam Pope, he’d seen his career dwindle, the higher ups not appreciating the vigilante’s success in exposing the links between the Met and the organized crime they were fighting.
They especially didn’t like his rumoured corroboration with Pope, although they could never prove it.
Singh had been suspicious of Pearce too, even clashing with him a few weeks back when she had Sam in her cross hairs. But since the fall of the Kovalenko empire and her brush with death, she’d found they had more in common than she thought.
She returned the smile, her sharp cheekbones the main highlight of her striking face.
‘Of course, not.’ She gestured for him to sit. ‘I don’t seem to have a lot of people wanting to sit next to me.’
‘Ah, I know that feeling.’ Pearce chuckled, easing himself into the chair, his fifty-year-old body creaking slightly. ‘How you holding up?’
He pointed towards the bruising on her face and the bandages around her hand.
‘I’m fine. Few weeks and I’ll be right as rain.’
‘You know, I remember a long time ago, I was on Armed Response when I came this close to death.’ He gestured with his thumb and finger. ‘Some mean bastard had us pinned down, a mate of mine took a bullet to the shin. I thought for sure that was it. I wouldn’t be making it home. All I could think about was what I’d never said to Denise when I had the chance.’
‘Denise?’ Singh sat up, annoyed that she knew so little about Pearce. ‘Your wife?’
‘Ex.’ Pearce shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. She isn’t,’ Pearce said grimly. ‘Anyway, I remember someone else took the guy out and we made it home. For the first few days I was fine. Pumped up on adrenaline and feeling like I was invincible, you know? But after a week or so, when the world returned to normal, I started shaking and for the first time in my life, I questioned my own mortality. Knowing I could die trying to do the right thing really shook me.’
Pearce looked warmly at Singh, who stared at her cup with a solemn look etched across her face.
‘I was on my knees, beaten, and with a gun pointed at my head,’ she began quietly, her hand shaking slightly. ‘I accepted I was going to die, and you know what? I was okay with that. I would have died trying to save that young girl’s life. But now, I feel sick knowing how close I actually came to the edge and…’
Singh shook her head and sighed deeply.
‘Now you don’t know if what Sam Pope is doing is wrong.’
Singh sat up, glaring at Pearce before quickly shooting her eyes around the coffee house, ensuring there were no colleagues nearby.
‘No, I’m clear that what Sam Pope does is wrong. Despite why he is doing it and who he’s doing it to, there is a clear line that he has crossed.’ She shook her head. ‘But if he hadn’t have crossed it, I’d be dead and so would them girls.’
‘It’s a thinker, isn’t it?’ Pearce said, taking a sip of his latte.
‘It’s a pain in the arse, is what it is,’ Singh said, drawing a smile from her senior colleague. ‘Anyway, it won’t be long now until I’m shipped off to a cupboard, too.’
‘It’s not all bad,’ Pearce replied. Ever since he and Sam Pope had exposed Inspector Howell for orchestrating a bombing during the London Marathon, Pearce had been ushered to a small office and given cold cases to work. They couldn’t fire him, but they were damn sure trying to make him quit. But Pearce didn’t believe in the notion and he sensed the same in Singh. ‘I mean, I still managed to derail that Mark Harris’s mayoral campaign. That was fun.’
‘God, that man was a dick,’ Singh said bluntly, causing Pearce to nearly spit out his coffee.
‘That he was.’ Pearce’s expression dropped. ‘Again, none of that was possible without Sam.’
Singh looked guiltily towards the Metropolitan Police logo on the building opposite and composed herself. Knowing she’d spent her life dedicated to what the badge stood for, it burned in her stomach that she felt this way about Sam.
That maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the bad guy.
A criminal, yes.
But a bad guy?
She took the final sip of her coffee and turned to Pearce whose wizened face offered something she hadn’t felt since she’d been shunted from the Sam Pope task force.
Friendship.
‘I was given a job to do. To bring Sam Pope in. Now, I don’t know if this country is better off with him out there, doing whatever he is doing for whatever reason he has. But what I do know, is there has to be something we can do. Because the path he’s on, there is only one way it ends.’
Pearce nodded sadly.
‘I know.’
‘So, while I may not be in there, hunting him down and trying to bring him in, I’m going to do my best to make sure it doesn’t end that way. Whatever I can do to save him, I’m going to do it.’ Singh was surprised at the fury bubbling within her. ‘He saved my life. The least I can do is try to return the favour.’
Singh reached out and rubbed Pearce on the shoulder before pushing herself up from the stool. Her body ached from the brutal fight she’d been involved in, but her new sense of purpose shut the discomfort down. Pearce swiveled on the chair.
‘You remember a few weeks ago, when you barged into my cupboard and gave me all that shit?’
Singh stopped, turning with an apologetic shrug.
‘I didn’t know you then.’
‘Oh, believe me, I’ve been called a lot worse. Do you remember what I said? The advice I was given?’ Singh looked at him blankly. ‘I told you to leave Sam Pope alone. You didn’t listen.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m pretty sure, if I relayed that advice again now, it would go the same way, right?’ Singh nodded. ‘Then just be careful.’
‘Thanks, Adrian.’
Pearce gave a small wave and Singh marched back through the freezing rain and into head office. As she walked through the corridors and past her colleagues’ desks, she felt the eyes of the force on her. Whereas before, they were longing looks of envy or respect, they now oozed suspicion. The story of the Port had become office news, with theories of her alliance to Sam rife though the building. One rumour was she was sleeping with him, a notion she found hysterical but surprisingly, not all that unappealing.
She made her way to her desk, the photo on her locked computer screen of the Canadian woodlands bathing in the glow of the sun mocking the current weather.
Singh glanced up over her desk, her eyes scanning the other people in the room, watching as they all went about their business, working diligently on helping the public. In an office upstairs, Ashton was barking orders to the Sam Pope task force, the pressure ramping up on finding the man who was singlehandedly waging war on crime.
And winning.
Singh cracked her knuckles and logged in, praying her access to the Sam Pope files was still active. While rumours of her trysts with Pope were running rampant, official orders and the necessary paperwork to remove her access wasn’t.
She entered her credentials.
Success.
With a muted shriek of delight, she started back at the beginning, irritated at the heavily redacted files pertaining to Sam’s military career. It told the tale of a war hero, his expertise and accomplishments were increasingly impressive and she realized that despite living and breathing him for past few weeks, she’d been so focused on what he was doing that she’d never take
n the time to find out who he was.
His military career had come to an abrupt end and he was honourably discharged after miraculously surviving two gunshots to the chest.
The report was almost non-existent, the scanned copy showing nothing but thick, black pen covering any useful information.
With a sigh, she moved the mouse to the ‘x’ in the corner, only to stop with a jolt. The faintest ink could be seen at the bottom of the page, the handwriting almost unreadable. Singh zoomed in.
It said three words.
Wallace – Project Hailstorm.
Singh scribbled it down on the pad of Post-it Notes she kept by her keyboard, exited out of the document and did one further glance around the office. With her heart thudding with excitement, she typed ‘Project Hailstorm’ into the search bar of the encrypted folders.
No results found.
Singh clenched her fist in anger, her search futile. Little did she know, that upon hitting search, a flag was sent to a database far away and she’d unwittingly placed herself on a very exclusive, very dangerous list.
CHAPTER FIVE
Having been in a number of life-threatening situations, high pressure combat scenarios and most recently, been in several fights to the death, Sam was surprised by the nerves he had as he stood at the passport control at Kiev airport. It didn’t help that his face had acquired a few cuts from his recent endeavours, and a small bruise had formed just under his left eye. Behind the glass booth, a skeptical looking Ukrainian official stared intently at the passport, his eyes flashing up now and then, scrutinizing the beaten man before him.
‘I was mugged,’ Sam said, immediately cursing his lack of composure. Staring down the scope of a rifle with the intent to kill was easy. Passport control, not so much.
A few more agonizing moments passed before the man slowly closed the passport and slid it back under the glass partition. Sam noticed his pristine uniform which the man clearly wore with pride and felt a twinge of respect.
‘I am sorry for your experience in our country, Mr Cooper.’ The man smiled, stating the fake name that Etheridge had provided on his flawless documents. ‘Have a safe journey back and please visit us again.’
Sam pressed his beaten hands on the leather booklet and slid his passport from the counter and tucked it into the inside of his jacket pocket. Wearing a casual shirt, jeans, and boots, Sam wanted to look like just another passenger making his way home. He doubted any of the other passengers had left a trail of bodies in their wake.
‘Thanks.’ He nodded to the control officer and continued on, his shoulders relaxing now he’d cleared security and the passport check. Security at Kiev airport had massively increased since the Crimea Crisis and Sam was glad to be in the final stages of his journey home. Although it had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d eliminated Sergei Kovalenko, it felt like a lifetime ago. Limping through the pain that screamed from his wounded leg, he found an empty seat in the waiting area, offering a view of the dark, dull skyline and the few aeroplanes going through their stages of take-off.
The rain clattered against the window and Sam sympathized with the crew members, wrapped up in as many high-vis layers as possible, battling the freezing elements as they refuelled a plane. Having spent days motionless, wrapped in shrubbery and cooking under the hot, Sudan sun, Sam knew about working through tough conditions.
He groaned, his back was aching and every swallow caused his throat to burn, the souvenir Denys had left when he’d tried to strangle him. Ironically, as Sam had tried to save the girls forced to perform whatever the Kovalenko’s customers wanted, it was one of them who had saved him. She would have nightmares about pulling the trigger. Ending a person’s life was never easy, even with the training and experience Sam had. But it would be a far cry from the horrors of her life had he not intervened.
It was why he’d done it.
It was the right thing to do.
Sam knew the pain in his chest wasn’t from the war he’d just raged, but the guilt. The same, numbing guilt that accompanied every kill since he’d embarked on his mission of justice.
He’d broken his promise to his son.
‘I’m sorry, Jamie,’ he uttered, shaking his head with a bitter realization that he would undoubtedly break it again. But having been helpless to save his boy, he knew he’d been built and trained by the army to do good in the world. That ended with two bullets to the chest and a foggy memory. Now, after the injustice that followed his son’s death had led him to breaking point, Sam had decided to turn his grief onto those who did nothing but damage.
To fight back for those who couldn’t.
When the time came where he would be reunited with his son, and Sam was well aware that day could come soon, he knew he would have some explaining to do.
With a serious ache dancing up his spine, he reached into his carry-on bag and pulled out his book, determined to keep his other promise to his son. Jamie had been a bookworm, his thirst for the written word had surprised and enchanted him in equal measure. Sam had never been the studious type, so seeing his little boy take to reading so quickly was almost magical. Lucy encouraged it and Sam had spent many evenings quietly watching as his family huddled together, sharing the wonders of Roald Dahl together.
His perfect life.
Knowing he would never relive it, he flicked open the first page of Moby Dick and tried his best to get lost in the story. He’d promised Jamie he would read more.
It was one promise he would keep.
A few moments after his introduction to Ishmael, Sam heard some commotion from the passport control where he’d ventured, and he fought through the discomfort to twist his neck to investigate.
The Ukrainian control officers were yelling loudly, as a squad of eight, heavily armed men in black polo shirts and bulletproof vests walked through, their eyes fixed on Sam. With his weapons being safely transported back through customs through Etheridge’s genius, Sam knew he was in no position to fight.
He had no weapon.
His body was battered.
Time to face the music.
The other passengers shuffled away quickly, the panic of a terrorist attack rising like a crescendo through the crowd. Armed security guards were ascending in the group’s direction and Sam knew that resistance wouldn’t only be futile, but potentially life threatening to the innocent people nearby.
Carefully, he placed his book back into his bag and pushed himself from the stool, raising his hands in a show of surrender. The eight strong crew, consisting of men and women with various military tattoos and cropped hair, spread out, blocking any potential getaway. Behind them, he heard an American voice sternly telling the airport security that he had jurisdiction given to him by their government to retrieve a valuable asset.
It was a voice Sam recognized but couldn’t place.
The recognition was soon confirmed when the man stepped through the barrier and strode towards him, decked out in the same, expensive attire as his crew only he didn’t have an assault rifle strapped to his chest. On his waist, which strained against the gut his mid-fifties had created, was a Beretta M9. On his chest was a bulletproof vest, with the words ‘Blackridge’ written in slick, futuristic letters.
The light bounced off his balding head.
On his chubby face was a shit-eating grin.
Trevor Sims.
Sam tried, but clearly failed to mask the confusion on his face. Arrogantly chewing gum, Trevor strode towards him, looked him up and down and smirked again.
‘Christ, Sam. You look like shit.’ He scoffed and then quickly waved his hand.
Sam turned in the direction and was met head on with a clubbing blow from one of the squadron’s rifles.
Everything went black.
With his coat pulled up over his head, Aaron Hill ran from the driver’s side of his car and up the front path to his front door. The weather had taken a horrible turn for the worst, the early December bringing with it a little festive cheer,
but a freezing, death like quality. Wedged under his arm was a brown paper bag, the waft of KFC dancing through the rain and ushering him into the house quickly.
It was a treat for his daughter.
Jasmine.
It had been a little over a week since she’d been returned to him, having spent a number of days locked in a shipping container, ready to be deported into a world of unspeakable horrors. Having been snatched by a street gang and sold to a terrifying sex trafficking business, Aaron sometimes had to stop and take a moment to realise what he went through to get her back.
He’d gone to the police, but they’d dismissed him due to the fact he’d doused his fears in alcohol. That drunken haze had sent him spiraling into the under belly of West London, purchasing a gun and laying siege to the last place her phone had been located. It was a drug den, filled with street thugs who were ready to put a bullet in his head.
That was when fate intervened.
Well, Sam Pope did.
Aaron had heard about Sam Pope on the news, the man responsible for a brutal slaying of an organized crime gang earlier that year. After the sad passing of his wife, Aaron had lost all faith in the world. His grief had collided with his daughter’s and had pushed her to make bad choices. One of them had led her to that party, which could have led her to a life he dared not think about.
A world where people could take a young girl and sell her to the highest bidder was not one he believed in.
But Sam Pope had changed that.
Burning a relentless, ruthless hole through the criminal underworld to find her, Sam had shown Aaron how far some people are willing to go to do the right thing. Despite giving information to the police, Aaron could never repay Sam for risking everything for his daughter and seen as how he’d disappeared, he hadn’t had the chance to thank him.
In the follow-up interviews with the police, the young detective, Singh, had told him they hadn’t caught Sam or found his body, so they assumed him to be alive. Aaron had thanked her, her own bravery in the pursuit of his daughter had seen her applauded by her colleagues but shelved by her superiors. He didn’t know a thing about the internal politics of the Metropolitan Police but in his mind, she deserved a goddamn medal.
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 4
