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

by Robert Enright

  ‘Just one,’ the other female member spoke up. ‘How do we identify him?’

  ‘I’ve circulated his photo to the Federal Police, who will be walking the concourses and platforms for us. We’ll take up our position on the main gates on this level. Sir, yourself, Buck, and dick-head over there are on the top tier.’

  Evans shoved a thumb in Sam’s direction, getting a few chortles from the rest of the team. Sam smiled, knowing all of them would turn on him in a heartbeat.

  ‘One last thing,’ Evans said. ‘During our surveillance, Marsden has been in a red and grey ski coat. He hasn’t been alerted to our presence, so we expect him to still have it. Eyes open people.’

  Sims stepped forward, asserting his dominance over the group of mercenaries who held him in such esteem. Despite Sam’s objections to their cause, he was impressed with the devotion Sims had garnered.

  ‘You heard the man, folks. Let’s bring this bastard down.’

  Sims handed everyone an earpiece, and Sam slid his into his left ear. The teams split, with Evans leading himself, Alex, Ray, and the other lady towards the main concourse, while Sims marched towards the escalators, ready to ascend to the next floor up and then take a private stairwell up to the top tier. Buck followed closely, but Sam scurried up next to the man in charge.

  ‘Sims, I think it would be best if I was down here. If we find him, I may be able to speak with him and see what’s actually going on.’

  ‘We’ve been over this, Sam,’ Sims said without breaking his stride. ‘You’re not here to have a conversation, you’re here to instruct me on how Marsden will approach his departure.’

  ‘If he is in any danger, or you do anything to put him in danger, I’ll…’

  Buck stepped between Sims and Sam; his battered eyes wide with fury.

  ‘You’ll what?’ Buck demanded, chest puffed out, clearly ready to try to wrestle back his pride.

  ‘Really?’ Sam shrugged. ‘Don’t make a tit of yourself again.’

  Buck stepped forward but Sims put an arm across his chest, dragging him back. Irate, Sims stepped up to Sam.

  ‘You better start fucking listening, Sam. You’re not out on one of your little missions, taking on drug dealers or fucking pimps. Like it or not, Marsden is currently being hunted for terrorism. Now put aside your loyalty and look at the bigger fucking picture. If he needs help, then we’ll help him, but right now, our intel says he stole pertinent information and is now running from both our governments.’

  ‘There has to be a reason,’ Sam said defiantly.

  ‘And I will find it. But right now, I need you to shut up, fall in line, and for the love of God, stop humiliating my fucking men.’

  Buck’s shoulders slumped slightly as he followed his leader onto the escalator. Sam accepted the back-handed compliment but took a moment to scan the platform and the entrance to the concourse. It was a blissfully hopeful attempt to locate Marsden, which he knew was futile. As he stepped onto the escalator and began his ascent, he felt the noose tightening around his mentor’s neck, as well as the rope uncomfortably rubbing against his own throat.

  As they made their way to the top tier, Sam was beginning to hope that Marsden had rethought his plans.

  The police were patrolling.

  Blackridge were spread out, ready to pounce.

  As they reached the top walkway, Sam stood, looking out over the entire station, the German public no wiser to the mission that was being played out around them. Up high, the cold rose, lashing against the thin layers of Sam’s clothing and chilling him to the core. To his left, Buck and Sims stood vigilante.

  Two hours passed.

  Just as an irritated Sims was about to call for a regroup, the excited voice of Evans crackled through every earpiece.

  ‘I have eyes on Marsden.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It had been six days since Sam had been shipped back from Afghanistan. Usually, it was to the fanfare of the Army, a number of high-ranking officials waiting to shake his hand and place another medal to his chest.

  A pat on the back by his commander.

  A kiss from his patient, adoring wife.

  This time, he’d come back on a stretcher, his life in the balance and his career in the army finished. Six days, and Sam hadn’t moved.

  Nurses came and went.

  Doctors cast their eyes over him.

  Lucy sat vigil by his side, refusing to leave her husband. Marsden assumed she’d arranged for her parents to look after their infant son. Jamie.

  It broke Marsden’s heart the first time he’d walked into the room.

  While he’d been tasked with recruiting the elite team, he himself was not part of the mission. After a long, decorated career, Marsden was now able to command a safer role, one which prepared the best of the best for the next level. The covert work that the government didn’t want to know about.

  Project Hailstorm.

  The entire mission had been shrouded in secrecy since day one, with General Ervin Wallace tasking Marsden with pulling together an elite extraction team that would be capable of infiltrating and disbanding multiple terrorist cells. A team capable of over throwing governments, liberating oppressed cities and fighting the wars that would never be won.

  That’s what he’d believed.

  Now, as he walked into the hospital room for the sixth, straight day, all he felt was guilt. Guilt that he’d promised Sam Pope a glittering end to his formidable career, but instead had sent him into the bowels of hell.

  From the vague reports, the mission went as smoothly as intended, with the Alpha Team infiltrating an Al-Qaeda hideout based on intelligence of a potential chemical weapon. After eradicating the enemy, Sam had been found in a room near the back of the run-down building, two bullet holes in his chest and grasping onto life by his fingertips.

  He should have died, then and there.

  In the dark in the middle of nowhere.

  But he didn’t. He fought, and Corporal Murray had carried him to safety, ignoring the apparent orders to leave him behind as collateral damage.

  Sam Pope deserved better than that.

  From the British Military Service.

  From Marsden.

  As he entered the room, he noted Lucy curled up on a nearby chair, her coat draped over her like a quilt. Her usual, radiant smile had dissipated long ago, her skin a ghostly pale and her cheek bones more prominent than usual. She needed a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep. But Marsden knew she wouldn’t. He’d never met Lucy before, but had heard loving stories from Sam under the star-spangled skies of the desert. They were clearly in love, and Sam’s resolve to return to her from every mission had seen him beat the odds when a lesser man would have been killed.

  Marsden could understand why.

  Not only was Lucy a stunningly beautiful woman, but she doted on Sam. Her horror at seeing him strapped to a table, his chest a bullet-riddled mess, had almost brought her to her knees, but she’d refused, she was strong like her husband and she demanded he fight it and come back to her and their son.

  She was a good woman.

  A wonderful wife.

  He just hoped they would be together again.

  To her right was a small side table, where her handbag, mobile phone, and an empty glass of water sat. Next to that, was Sam’s motionless body. With heavy, guilt-ridden steps, Marsden approached the metal bar that ran around the side of the mattress, careful not to make a sound. Although he hadn’t pulled the hangman’s switch, he felt like he’d led Sam to the trapdoor.

  Sam’s eyes were closed, they had been since he’d been discovered, and his shirtless body was covered in bloodstained bandages. The man had been through six hours of life saving surgery, the two gunshots wreaking havoc through his lungs, ripping through them with murderous intent. A few millimeters to the left and the superior vena cava would have been severed, stopping the blood flow to his head and causing serious brain damage, if not killed him.

  With the blood lo
ss, damage to his lungs, and lack of oxygen he experienced, there was still a chance Sam would have further complications beyond the mental scarring of being left to die in the dark.

  ‘Awful,’ the voice boomed behind him. ‘Just awful.’

  Marsden felt a chill dance down his spine, turning on his heel to be greeted by a solemn looking General Ervin Wallace. Wearing smart shirt and trousers, Wallace’s well-polished shoes clicked loudly against the tiled floor of UCHL in Euston, one of the leading medical training hospitals in the world. Marsden took a deep breath, feeling himself instantly fire up, sweat threatening to pool through his light blue shirt.

  The hangman had just walked in.

  Wallace shot a glance at Sam’s sleeping wife and dismissed her with a raised eyebrow. He approached the bed, standing next to Marsden, his wide, powerful frame in complete contrast to Marsden’s slim, lean physique. The two of them had served their country proudly for over two-and-a-half decades, with a begrudging respect formed between them. Since Wallace had gone ‘off the books’, Marsden had seen a darker side to the man.

  It was as if Wallace preferred fighting the war beneath the war.

  Wallace looked over Sam and shook his head with a deep sigh. Marsden felt his temper threaten once again.

  ‘Hello, Ervin,’ Marsden offered, almost through gritted teeth.

  ‘It’s a terrible shame,’ Wallace continued. ‘Such a good man.’

  ‘He is a good man.’

  Marsden angrily turned to Wallace, their dark eyes locking and daring the other to blink.

  ‘What the fuck happened out there?’ Marsden’s anger surprised them both and Wallace frowned.

  ‘We did our goddamn jobs. We stopped the bad guys and we kept the innocent people safe.’

  ‘Why were there orders to leave Sam, huh? Who gave that order? You?’ Marsden could feel his rage taking control, and his raised voice had alerted Lucy who slowly blinked herself awake. Wallace noticed too, smiling as she would act as a deterrent.

  ‘Look, Carl. You and I both know what this life is like. Sam has lived and breathed being a soldier for over a decade and we all know there are no guarantees in this war.’ Wallace stepped in closely. ‘And believe me, Carl, this is a war. Terrorism isn’t curable. It needs to be killed.’

  Marsden offered Lucy a comforting smile, trying to placate her confusion. The last thing she needed was to come face to face with the man who had led her husband into the slaughterhouse. Gently, Marsden leant in and lowered his voice.

  ‘Whatever Project Hailstorm is setting out to achieve, it’s not worth the lives of our men.’

  ‘Oh, I agree,’ Wallace said firmly. ‘But the war rages on, Carl. And I intend to fight it.’

  With the command of a high-ranking official, Wallace turned on his heel and headed back to the door, offering a warm smile to Lucy on his way out. As the clicking of his shoes disappeared down the corridor, Marsden turned back to Sam, his heart aching at the condition of his friend. Slowly, Lucy’s frail frame appeared next to him. She yawned, still trying to launch herself into the new day.

  ‘Hey,’ she said sleepily. ‘Who was that?’

  Marsden shot a concerned look over his shoulder towards the door, ensuring Wallace had completely gone.

  ‘No one,’ he replied, cursing himself for lying. Both of them stood and watched, as Sam, lay motionless, not knowing when or if he would return to them.

  New Scotland Yard was a beehive of activity the following morning, with the news of Sam Pope’s assault on the Ukrainian gangster, Sergei Kovalenko and his establishment sending Ashton and the Sam Pope task force into overdrive. The press had also cottoned on, with images of the night club hitting all the news outlets, along with interviews with the girls Sam had liberated.

  They were calling him a hero.

  As she burst into the office, she felt a number of suspicious eyes latch onto her, the rumours of collusion would surely heighten. Sam had killed another seven people. Among the dead was a British politician, Carl Burrows, whose throat had been slit.

  The murderer was pinned as Sam, but Singh didn’t believe it.

  He killed criminals. Not dodgy politicians.

  As she walked through the office, she could see Ashton in the incident room, stood in front of a group of eager detectives, gesticulating wildly at the Sam Pope board. A fresh push had seen his place of residence found, with a large map of London, colour coded with stickers now front and centre of the room. Singh tried to peer through the blinds, keen to see the latest piece of evidence.

  ‘They busted his house,’ Pearce’s voice startled her, and he held up a hand in apology. In his other, a warm cup of coffee, which Singh was immediately envious of. After her late-night visit from Sam’s past, she hadn’t been able to sleep, and her body craved a caffeine boost. It was if Pearce could read her mind. ‘Coffee? It’s fresh.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Singh gratefully accepted, taking a long sip before nodding back to the glass. ‘What did they find?’

  ‘A treasure trove. They found a wardrobe full of guns. I’m talking assault rifles, shotguns, pistols. Quite the collection.’

  ‘Landlord?’

  ‘Some Greek guy who was none the wiser. Said Sam kept himself to himself, paid in cash, and most importantly, on time.’

  Singh took another sip.

  ‘And that?’

  ‘The coup de grâce. Crime spots, hideouts, safe houses, armouries. Sam had them mapped out. The High Rises were on there, which means he wasn’t just out huntin’ wabbits.’

  Singh raised her eyebrow at Pearce’s lame attempt at humour and found herself liking him more.

  ‘He’s smart,’ she eventually offered.

  ‘He’s trained,’ Pearce added. ‘The man is trained to fight, kill, and survive. Thing is, the media want to portray him as a hero while Ashton and the higher ups want to portray him as a dangerous killer.’

  Singh took a final long sip and looked thankfully at her senior colleague.

  ‘How would you portray him?’

  Pearce took a moment, rubbing his grey beard in thought.

  ‘As a human,’ he finally offered. ‘As a broken man doing whatever he can to help those who need it.’

  ‘You’d make a martyr out of him?’ Singh said, clearly trying to provoke him.

  ‘Nope. But I wouldn’t drag him over the coals either.’

  ‘Nor would I,’ Singh said with a sigh. ‘I think there’s more to Sam’s past than we’ve been allowed to see. Have you heard of Project Hailstorm?’

  Pearce stepped in closer, his eyes widening slightly.

  ‘Amy Devereaux mentioned it,’ Pearce said, his voice a mere whisper. ‘But Sam wouldn’t speak about it.’

  ‘Well, I found a form in Sam’s file with a note about it and I searched the files. Then in the middle of the night, I get a visit from Sam’s old commander. General Wallace.’

  ‘General Ervin Wallace?’ Pearce said, his voice an equal balance of regard and caution.

  ‘Yeah. Do you know him?’

  ‘I know he’s a very powerful man. He has helped CID with a few cases that needed, how should I put it, certain doors opening.’ Pearce shook his head. ‘Whatever it is you think you stumbled on, shelf it. I wouldn’t start digging in his garden.’

  Singh stared at the empty cup in her hand, annoyed that the cautious words of Pearce were correct. Although the man had tanked his own career helping Sam, she knew this was different. Pearce had helped Sam take down a crime syndicate within the police.

  She was potentially going up against a secret layer of the military.

  Pearce was right.

  Every sensible, logical fibre of her being was telling her to walk away.

  A vision of the shipping yard flashed into her brain, of her on her knees, bleeding after fighting two men who were now aiming a gun at her. She was about to die in the pouring rain.

  Sam saved her.

  He’d saved her life and the lives of those innocent girls.
r />   Because it was the right thing to do.

  Pearce stood, hands on hips, a wry smile on his face as if once again, he could read her mind.

  ‘I can’t walk away from this,’ she said firmly, before marching off towards the stairwell, a renewed sense of purpose pumping through her veins. Pearce sighed, feeling every day of his fifty-plus years. He chuckled, before following in Singh’s direction.

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ he said to himself, resigned to following Singh further down the rabbit hole.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sam felt every single one of his cold muscles tighten, his body tensing as he listened to the Blackridge team discuss moving in on Marsden. Trapped all the way up on the third tier, Sam felt useless. Sims was staring out, a pair of binoculars held up to his eyes, watching his elite team stalk their prey. Behind him, Buck watched vigilantly, his arms folded, his massive frame blocking Sam from the stairwell.

  To the other side of the walkway, three German officers stood, all of them watching with interest. All of them obstructing Sam’s path to the escalator.

  Sam needed to find the path of least resistance. And quick.

  *crackle* target is approaching Coffee Shop on east side… *crackle*… on the move… *crackle*

  Sims pressed his finger to his ear for more clarity and then gave the order.

  ‘Any force necessary. I repeat, use any force necessary.’

  The order to kill to his men was also an order to jump into action for Sam. Quickly, Sam stepped slightly behind Buck and gently placed his stolen mobile phone onto the ground. Silently, he stood back up, nudging the phone closer to Buck until the device was a few inches from his foot. With Sims peering out with his binoculars, not wanting to join the action, Sam knew he had one chance at incapacitating both of them if he stood any hope of reaching Marsden first.

  Sam took a deep breath.

  ‘Hey, Buck, is that your phone?’

  Buck turned, his eyebrows furrowing with irritation at the sight of his phone. With a grunt, he turned to his side, arching down and reaching out for it with his thick, muscular arm. Sam quickly shot his arm out to Buck’s waist, relieving his belt of its pair of handcuffs. Buck, off balance, shouted in dismay, but Sam used his balance to his advantage, Swiftly, he drew his right leg behind Buck’s standing leg and swept him clean off the floor. The hulking man twisted in the air, landing awkwardly on the metal floor with a thud, yelling in pain and alerting his boss.