Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3)

by Robert Enright

  Behind him, Sam heard Buck shuffle uncomfortably, clearly angered by his comment. Sims’s snarl turned into a menacing smile, his chin wobbling as he leant forward.

  ‘Imagine how awful it would be, if your ex-wife got caught in the crossfire of your war on crime?’ Sims shook his head slowly. ‘It would be tragic.’

  ‘Don’t say her name.’

  ‘Lucy, wasn’t it?’ Sims said cockily, puffing on his cigar. ‘Join the fucking mission, Sam, and I’ll make sure nothing happens to her.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Well, I can’t make any promises.’ Sims took a proud puff of his cigar. Sam gritted his teeth, the idea of working with this man against one of the people dearest to him was heartbreaking. But the idea of being responsible for any more of Lucy’s pain held a heavier price tag and Sam drilled a fist into the table in frustration. Behind him, Buck chuckled, eager to antagonise Sam. Sims leant forward, the smug look on his face making Sam’s blood boil.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Fine,’ Sam strained to say. ‘I’ll do it. But you leave her out of it.’

  ‘Consider it done.’ Sims stood, extending a meaty hand towards Sam, who slowly stood as well. ‘Put it there.’

  Sam looked at the man’s clammy palm and then swung over it, his fist colliding with Sims’s jaw and knocking him backwards. The cigar spun into the air, dropping onto the table which shook as Sims collapsed backwards. Behind him, Sam heard Buck lunge forward and he stepped to the side, shifting his weight and latching onto Buck’s arm. Similar to how he eliminated one of Kovalenko’s guards, Sam wrenched the arm and drove Buck face down into the unforgiving wood of the table. The spray of blood told him that Buck’s nose had broken.

  The panicked wrenching on the door handle behind told him he was out of time.

  With Buck pinned down to the table, Sam wrenched his arm further, causing him to submit completely. With his other hand, Sam reached for the holster strapped to Buck’s hip and pulled out the handgun, flicking off the safety and aiming it squarely at Sims. The colour drained from his face as he clambered to his feet, and he stared at Sam with a mixture of awe and horror.

  Behind Sam, two more men burst in, their tattoo covered arms aiming their weapons squarely at the back of his head.

  ‘Jesus,’ Sims called out. ‘Everyone … lower your weapons. What the fuck, Sam? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’

  ‘I want to make something perfectly clear.’ Sam’s words were eerily calm. ‘If you ever threaten someone I care about again, I’ll put a bullet through your skull. Do you understand?’

  Sims nodded.

  ‘Everyone, lower your weapons.’ Begrudgingly, his men followed his orders and Sims felt his jaw start to ache from the hammer-like blow he’d received. He looked at Sam nervously, the gun still pointed squarely at his head. ‘How about it, Sam?’

  Sam looked at him for a further few seconds, his bruised and beaten face motionless. Eventually, he lowered the gun and released his hold on Buck, who staggered backwards. Desperate not to lose face, he tried to lunge for Sam, knowing full well his comrades would hold him back. It didn’t matter, really. Sam knew that at any given moment Buck would try to even the score. In fact, there was nothing about the whole mission he trusted. Sims was a slimy, corrupt desk man who had a personal agenda against the man he’d been tasked with catching.

  All Sam knew was that something was happening.

  Whatever it was, Marsden was involved and needed Sam’s help.

  Sam turned back to Sims, who had relit his cigar.

  ‘Where is he? Marsden?’

  Two large puffs of smoke shot forward, encapsulating Sims’s round head. As his face began to disappear behind the smoke, his mouth contorted into a cruel smile.

  ‘Berlin.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Jamie, be careful.’

  Sam called out lovingly from the park bench, watching with pride as his son climbed the rope ladder that hung from the side of the metal climbing frame. The sun was beating down on another glorious summer’s day and Sam took a long, deep breath. The last time he’d been under such heat he was out in the desert, his arms wrapped around his Accuracy International Arctic Warfare bolt action sniper rifle. He opened his eyes, peering through the visors of his Ray-Ban sunglasses and all that was resting in his arms was Jamie’s rucksack. It contained his juice bottle, a toy fire truck, and another one of his books. Sam wasn’t sure which one, he was struggling with his son’s love of reading, but Lucy was adamant they encouraged it.

  But for a five-year-old, Jamie was reading at a very high level and his teachers were already talking about making special plans for him. The kid was smart, and Sam felt a warmth inside his chest, his heart aching with pride for his boy.

  Sam had promised him he would read more too, and he picked up the book sat next to him on the bench.

  ‘Hey, Dad. Look!’ Jamie called out from the top of the frame, waving wildly in excitement. He’d made it up and now was facing the exciting descent down the metal slide.

  For such a glorious day, Sam realised they were alone. The park was empty, and the only noise was the excited yell that accompanied his son down the slide. Sam looked out across the fields, expecting numerous groups of kids or families to be huddled together, a spontaneous game of football being played out in the sun. Elderly couples enjoying a stroll with their dog, while young, fitness enthusiasts dipped in between the mayhem as they continued their run.

  Nothing.

  Just the clear, empty fields baking under the glorious sun. Sam shuffled uncomfortably on the bench, a feeling of guilt spreading through him. Confused, he pulled his phone from his jean pocket and flicked his thumb to Lucy’s number. Keeping an eye on his son, who was once again carefully ascending the rope ladder, he waited for the first few dials.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, lovely,’ Sam said with a smile. ‘When are you getting here?’

  ‘What?’ The response was cold and curt, and Sam raised his eyebrows.

  ‘We’re at the park. You should see Jamie climb, he’s like a little monkey.’

  ‘Jesus, Sam.’ He could hear her voice crack with tears. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘Babe?’

  ‘I told you not to call me. It’s not fair.’

  Before Sam could respond, the line went dead and he slowly pulled it from his ear. Sam felt like he’d been hit in the gut, the love of his life snapping at him with such vitriol he wondered what he could have done to deserve it? Like a wood worm burrowing through the back of his skull, he had a nagging suspicion they’d had the same conversation before.

  But when?

  Why?

  As he watched Jamie disappear down the slide again, a plume of cigarette smoke wafted around him.

  ‘Women, eh?’ The voice was instantly recognisable. The south London accent was brimming with a mixture of manners and menace and Sam turned his head to the left to see Frank Jackson sat next to him. Despite there being no sound or movement throughout the entire playground, Sam hadn’t seen the man approach, nor felt him sit down.

  He didn’t question it though. The gangster, once responsible for running one of the most lucrative ‘High Rises’ in London, was sat in one of his impeccable suits. Known as ‘The Gent’ for his devotion to good manners, a trait he’d learnt from his put-upon mother, who in the face of extreme poverty, never lost her sense of dignity. Living up to his reputation, Jackson offered Sam a cigarette and he politely waved it away. Jackson took another puff before gesturing to Jamie, who was climbing the ladder again.

  Sam noticed his movements were the same, like a video stuck on a loop.

  Just a lovely day in the park.

  ‘That your boy?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘Yup. Jamie.’

  ‘Looks like a nice kid.’ Jackson smiled. ‘Nothing better in this world than looking after those you care about.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sam said, feeling an uneasy glare from Jacks
on.

  ‘Is that why you do it?’ Jackson asked, taking another puff.

  ‘Do what?’ Sam asked, turning with irritation.

  ‘Break your promise to your son,’ Jackson said calmly. Sam opened his mouth to respond but Jackson cut him off. ‘You promised your boy that you wouldn’t kill again, but look at you, Sam? You’re a natural born killer. Hell, you probably killed more people than I have.’

  ‘I’m not a murderer,’ Sam tried to reason, with himself more than Jackson. ‘I killed those people for a reason.’

  ‘Like him?’

  Jackson pointed to Sam’s right, and as he followed, a body of an Iraqi soldier was laid out, his arms lying unnaturally, his back resting against a jagged rock that wasn’t there moments before. The centre of the man’s forehead was blown through, the stone of the rock visible through the bloody gap between his open, lifeless eyes.

  ‘Or him?’

  With another point of Jackson’s cigarette, Sam’s vision was sent to the climbing frame his son was stood on, once again proudly waving to his dad for the umpteenth time that day. On the platform where he stood, Jamie was heading to the slide. In the other direction were the monkey bars, where the large body of Oleg Kovalenko swung, a metal chain wrapped around his meaty neck and the rusty hook ripping through the flesh of his neck and into his mouth. Blood dripped rapidly to the wood chip below, turning the brown cuts red. Sam had fought the man to the death to save a group of young girls from a life of sex slavery.

  The brutality was necessary.

  ‘And me?’

  Sam turned to Jackson, who was now sprawled on the bench, his white shirt littered with several bullet holes, each of them staining the shirt red. Jackson’s eyes were closed, the cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth.

  It was a vision Sam had seen before, when he’d emptied a clip into the gangster’s chest after storming the High Rise.

  It wasn’t murder.

  It was justice.

  ‘Hey, Dad. Look!’

  Sam looked up again, as Jamie once again began to climb the ropes, the familiarity of his movements felt like echoes from a previous moment. Sam was sure of it and as he stood, he walked across the woodchip, which was now strewn with the bodies of all the men he’d killed. Soldiers, criminals, anyone who had been unfortunate enough to be in his crosshairs.

  The path back to his son had been painted with blood and he felt that guilt again.

  The guilt that he was still killing. Breaking that promise to the thing he cared for most in the world.

  Despite doing bad things for the right reason, Sam knew he walked the wrong side of the line and when the day came for him to face his crimes, his punishment would be swift. It would be deserved, and it would keep him away from his boy.

  Jamie.

  Suddenly, Jamie screamed with terror and Sam heard him collapse from the frame. Jumping to action, Sam hurdled the dead bodies that blocked his pathway and as he rounded the slide, he dropped to his knees. Moments later, he vomited.

  Jamie was lying, his body broken, his arm trapped beneath him. A trickle of blood cascaded from his ear.

  Sam felt the tears running down his face, his throat burning. Beyond Jamie, he could see Lucy crying hysterically into the shoulder of a policeman, beating his arm with a blind rage at losing her son.

  Jamie was dead and Sam knew that this moment had been a long time ago. That this pain had existed since the moment he laid eyes on his son’s motionless body.

  The need to put things right.

  For some reason, as he watched his life disintegrate before his eyes, he thought of Carl Marsden, a man who Sam trusted implicitly. Marsden had risked his life for Sam, gone to bat for him on several occasions and had reached out to him when all was lost. As the body of Jamie disappeared, so did the rest of the bodies, the long list of men who Sam had sent to the afterlife.

  All of them gone.

  Sam knelt among the bloody woodchip, the park empty, the sun beating down.

  He was surrounded by death. It was in him. While he couldn’t run from it, he knew it would claim him one day. But for now, he needed to find Marsden and try to save him.

  Somehow.

  Before Sam could get up, a dark, charred hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. The fingers were clammy with blood. Sam turned and came face to face with the dismantled, burnt remains of Theo Walker, who had given his own life to protect Amy Devereux from a grenade. He’d ensured she was locked away, while his bullet riddled body had absorbed most of the blast. His face was singed almost to the bone and one of his eyes was gone, a charred, hollow gap in its place. His left arm was missing, blood pouring from the wound and a large portion of his stomach was blown apart, exposing his decimated internal organs.

  Shaking, Sam tried to reach out to his friend.

  Theo swallowed, trying to speak through his fried throat.

  ‘You can’t… save… everyone.’

  With that, Sam shot upright in his bed, the darkness of the room blurring his vision. With quick, sharp breaths, he tried to regain his composure, retrace his steps to arrive at his current panic.

  He was on a train, the motion accompanied by the noise relocated him and he remembered his conversation with Sims and his Blackridge team. They were headed to Berlin, with Sims booking him and three members of his crew onto an overnight train from Kiev to the German capital. The train would take just over twenty-five hours and Sam had slept before his head had hit the pillow.

  With the prospect of sleep as appealing as a sandpaper suppository, Sam slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed his feet to the cold, tiled floor of his cabin. He reached for a T-shirt, sliding it over his bruised, battle-worn body and then stuffed his feet into his boots. If he wasn’t going to sleep, then finding out whether the direct line between Germany and Ukraine had a bar or not, seemed like the next best thing.

  Amara Singh sat upright with a jolt, the loud thudding from her front door startling her awake. Her eyes were blurry, the sheets of paper laid before her on the table were melting into each other, the words indecipherable. She took a few deep breaths, pushing the hair stuck to her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. The room slowly started to familiarize, the furniture finding its edges and the writing on the page sharpening.

  The files were all on Sam Pope.

  Singh had found herself tumbling down a rabbit hole of information as she dug deeper into the past of the man she’d been obsessed with catching. Now, she was hunting the truth. Sam saving her life in that shipping yard had shaken her through to her core, all the way to her belief in the justice system.

  She had to know what put him on this path.

  What made him this way?

  Next to the papers, which were fanned out across her breakfast bar, was a mug of stone-cold coffee. Singh sighed, knowing she should get some sleep but the wave of excitement, the thrill of detecting rushed through her, shaking her awake harder than any dose of caffeine would.

  She was a great detective.

  And Amara Singh didn’t fail.

  Singh raised an eyebrow and looked across the living room to the front door of her flat. She glanced back up at the clock, the time was a little past one in the morning.

  She was off duty.

  Who the hell was calling for her at this time?

  She stretched out her neck, the muscles sore from the awkward sleeping spot and lifted herself from her seat. Her back ached, cursing her for sleeping hunched over her files as opposed to the comfort of her bed. Singh straightened her spine, feeling a gentle click and then straightened out her work shirt. Tentatively, she made her way from the table across the living room, past the pristine leather sofa, opposite the flat screen TV. Both of them were as good as new and barely featured in her life. They’d been bought with every intention of snuggling down on the sofa and binge-watching Netflix.

  Sadly, with the avalanche of work that came with being a detective, the time for that never arrived. If she wanted thr
ills, she would chase her own.

  Singh slowly reached for the chain of the door and pressed her other hand to the handle. She gently lifted herself on her tiptoes and peered through the eyehole, getting a concaved view of the hall.

  A large figure stood in the dark shadows, its back straight, its feet together.

  A powerful stance.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called out, hoping her nerves didn’t stowaway on her words.

  ‘Detective Singh, please open the door. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Not without some identification,’ she barked, relinquishing her grip and want to open the door.

  ‘It’s about Sam Pope.’

  Singh felt her stomach turn and despite every part of her telling her to walk away, she allowed her curiosity to take the wheel. She reached out and released the chain and then quickly pulled the door open. Emerging from the shadows was a stocky, bald man, standing just under six foot. His world-weary face was wrinkled with time and his dark, black eyes carried wisdom and menace with equal measure. He wore a smart suit with an open collar, the blazer fitting snugly around his burly arms, the shirt sagging slightly under a protruding gut. His shoes gleamed under the light from Singh’s living room and he extended a large, leathery hand.

  ‘Detective Amara Singh?’ he asked. She nodded.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘General Ervin Wallace.’ He offered a large smile to go with his handshake. Singh cautiously reached out her hand and slid it into his grip. The fingers squeezed her hand like a vice, and she racked her brain for a link to that name.

  The man was a General, but had his name appeared in any of the files?

  ‘I know and please accept my humble apologies for calling on you so late.’ Wallace smiled, the friendly tone unsettling. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘What for?’ Singh said sternly, attaching her small, powerful frame to the doorway.

  ‘It would be best to speak inside.’ He gestured again, a little firmer in tone.