CCTV had confirmed that Sam Pope had also made it onto the same train headed out of Berlin train station.
That very train would be arriving into Rome within the next few hours and with Sims’s vast funding, there was no doubt he and his men would be waiting at the gate.
Marsden would be taken in at gun point.
Sam, too.
While bridges may have been burned, Wallace knew he had to be there. Whatever Marsden was doing, Wallace needed to know. He couldn’t believe Marsden would betray his country, but there was no smoke without fire.
As had been the case, for so many years, Wallace was the man you called to put those fires out.
As the plane rattled on towards the Italian capital, Wallace sat back in his chair, took a deep breath and once again cursed the world for always bringing out the worst in people.
Rome Termini had come to a complete standstill.
After the news of a gunshot had done the rounds on the radios, the security and Polizia di Stato immediately shut down all platforms. Commuters were slowly being asked to make their way towards the exits, a task proving more difficult than it needed to be.
With armed men in black shirts surrounding the recent arrival from Berlin, the gossip hungry public had converged towards the platform, phones ready to try to share their experience with the world through any means necessary. The local authorities had cordoned off the platform, with two young officers sternly yet pointlessly telling the public to evacuate the building.
On the platform itself, a number of armed men in black polo shirts stood, their black bomber jackets concealing automatic weapons which had caused a stir of excitement. The initial fear of a potential gunman had subsided with the arrival of Blackridge, with four men and a woman marching onto the platform the second the train began its slow crawl alongside the concrete. As it had come to a stop, the team had begun to spread out, but the bellowing gunshot had changed their plans.
Now, with their hands at the ready, they waited for the police officers who had embarked the train to return with their gunman. A search of the other carriages by the other officers had discovered two brutally beaten passengers, both of whom were wearing the same uniform. Sims, stood at the front, his brown trench coat shielding him from the cold, was furious.
Marsden was good, but he wasn’t that good.
This was clearly the work of Sam Pope.
Rocky and Ray had both been incapacitated. There was no sign of Evans, which lead Sims to believe there was probably a job of scraping up some remains somewhere between here and Berlin.
It didn’t matter. Not really.
These soldiers knew the drill. They got paid handsomely and were given the freedom to do whatever they liked, within reason.
What mattered was they had Marsden and sure enough, to a new wave of excited murmuring from the crowd behind, Sims watched with a smug grin as Marsden was roughly led from the train to the platform.
Sam watched from the crowd.
Knowing he was skating very close to the edge; Sam just couldn’t leave. As soon as he’d beeped through the barrier and saw the large, glass exit to the station, he felt his legs lock in place. Yes, Marsden had been very clear on his instructions. Whatever was on the USB, whatever dark secrets it held and whatever world changes it would enforce, Sam just couldn’t leave him behind.
They didn’t leave men behind.
While his mentor had been right in creating the diversion to allow him to escape, it had also given Sam the opportunity to begin to formulate his plan. Ever since he’d stormed the High Rise six months previously Sam had realized his recklessness would soon catch up with him. It almost happened when he rescued Aaron Hill from the second High Rise.
It very nearly did at the docks. He still had the bullet wound in the leg and the battle scars from his brutal fight with Oleg Kovalenko to show for it.
But now, he needed to act quickly but with restraint.
Ensuring he was hidden by a large, concrete pillar that held up the second floor of the grand central station, Sam peered over the crowd at the situation unfolding before him.
With an almost limitless bank behind him, Sims had chartered a private jet to Rome the second their train left. They were lying in wait and the smug look on Sims’s face told Sam that Blackridge thought the battle had been won.
That the fight was over.
Sam would be more than happy to disappoint them.
As the officers led Marsden towards Sims, Buck stepped in, removing their prisoner and shunting Marsden roughly towards his boss. Buck’s face wore the dark, purple bruises of a man who had overstepped his boundaries. Sam smiled at his handiwork. Although he was too far away to hear the conversation, Sam knew Sims was gloating, most likely threatening Marsden with the similar threats he’d made to him in a Ukrainian airport a few days earlier.
The man was a parasite, but one who had manoeuvred himself into a position of untouchable power.
Again, Sam would be happy to disappoint.
With a curious eye, Sam scanned the rest of the platform, noting the two new members of the team, both as unrecognizable as the others. Buzz cuts, bulging, tattoo-covered arms, and the steely gaze of someone who would shoot first and ask never.
The prime Blackridge candidate.
Standing nearer the crowd was Alex, her hands on her hips and a look of pained regret on her pretty face. Her taut, muscular frame was covered by her own bomber jacket, but alongside the armed and dangerous soldiers, she looked every bit the prisoner she was.
Sam needed to take a risk.
He began to squeeze through the crowd, careful not to draw any attention from the surveilling police officers. As he moved, a young lady swung her bag backwards, the thick leather crashing into Sam’s leg and causing him to wince. She spun around, her worried face framed by dark, wavy hair and she offered an apology in Italian. Sam nodded his acceptance and then slid past, making his way to the front of the row. Luckily for him, about five people to his right, an elderly man was barking at the officer with a rising agitation.
Sam called out Alex’s name as hushed as he could.
A confused frown burrowed across her brow and Alex turned, unsure of whether she’d been summoned. She scanned the crowd and then stopped, her jaw opening slightly with shock.
It was Sam.
Peering back at her crew, she knew she had a small window. Sims was still gloating, and the others were now chaperoning the medics as they carried the battered body of Rocky from the train. She stepped backwards four times and then quickly turned on her heel, coming face to face with Sam. While there was no future for them, a fact they both knew, they smiled as their eyes met, both flashing back to the night of passion they’d shared.
‘Sam,’ she spoke quietly, shaking her head at the audacity. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Where are they taking him?’
‘You need to go,’ Alex demanded, glancing back, her face wild with worry.
‘Trevi Fountain. Four o’clock.’ Sam stated. ‘Bring the guys. Make it look legit.’
Alex went to challenge him but stopped herself. For the first time since meeting him, she saw the cold, ruthless killer that Sims had described him as. They had someone he cared deeply about and she could see, through whatever means it took, Sam would get him out. With a deep sigh, she nodded, agreeing to the terms.
‘What are you going to do?’ she eventually asked, peering once more over her shoulder. The crowd collectively gasped as the beaten body of Ray was pulled out by the medics.
‘What I do.’
With that, Sam turned and forced his way back through the crowd, his hand reaching into his pocket and his fingers wrapped around the USB stick. It was what had brought all of this together, this small, thin implement that Marsden was willing to lay his life down for.
Well, Sam wasn’t willing to let him.
He would take care of the USB, ensure that the mission, regardless of its ending, would never be in vain.
With a few hours until his rendezvous, Sam felt his stomach rumble, the sheer intensity of the last twenty-four hours threatening to derail him with hunger. As he strode through the exit and out into the busy, freezing streets of Rome, he stuffed his hand into his other pocket where he had his passport and the money he’d liberated from Ray. Behind him, the large ‘Roma Termini’ stood proudly above the large, automatic door.
His stomach rumbled again, and Sam headed for the first sign that was marked Pizza.
Well, when in Rome.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The journey to Farnham had been uncomfortable.
While getting the train back to his was always a nightmare due to the inhumane commuter crush, Pearce and Singh had realized that a tension had arisen between them. It was nothing sexual, Pearce was twice her age and felt more paternal than anything else towards her.
No, the tension was due to what they’d decided.
While it may have been slightly jovial when Pearce had agreed to help, they had both decided to cross that line. They were both acting against the wishes of their senior officer.
The wishes of the Metropolitan Police.
With sterling careers behind them, their commitment to the law and the justice system had never been in doubt. Pearce had even directed his career to the corrupt behind the badge such was his belief in it.
Now, it had changed.
And as they’d driven the forty miles out of London and to Farnham, the gravity of their situation dawned on them. The silence between them was a white elephant, with neither of them able to talk the other out of it. While Pearce was on the wind down of his career, he’d been offered a reprieve that involved tarnishing Singh.
He would not and could not do it.
Singh knew she was being ushered towards the door, her perceived failures in charge of the Sam Pope Task Force had seen her loyalty, quite rightly, questioned. They were hoping she would hand over her badge and walk away from it all.
She would not and could not do that.
As they’d sped down the M4, the rain had lashed down upon the motorway with a vengeance. The torrential downpour reduced the visibility and the traffic gave in to the elements. Cars slowed down and Pearce found himself frustratingly doing forty, ensuring the correct distance was maintained. The added time wasn’t welcome, as the longer they drove, the harder it was to break the silence.
The hour-long journey took a little over ninety minutes and both were relieved as they pulled up outside Etheridge’s gate. The large, iron gate stood in their way and Pearce huddled under his jacket as he reached up for the intercom.
It buzzed but there was no response.
Peering through the rain, Pearce could see Etheridge’s Porsche 911 Carrera GTS parked up the drive, along with a state-of-the-art Range Rover, the rain shimmering off the fresh, black paint job. The man was a self-made millionaire, but when Pearce had met him a few weeks back, he’d found him rather affable.
He buzzed again and again no answer.
Strange.
Pearce turned back to the car and shook his head, alerting Singh to the situation. She pushed open the passenger door and was greeted by the freezing rain, grimacing as it seeped through her thin blazer. Within seconds, her jet-black hair was pinned to her head and she rushed towards the gate.
‘No answer?’ she yelled, the crashing water on the pavement echoing like white noise behind them.
‘Nope.’ Pearce nodded to the car. ‘Both cars still here.’
Singh didn’t need a second look and within moments, she was scaling the slick, wet iron gate, carefully skipping over the points that ran along the top. She dropped down to the other side, a slight ache shot up her spine.
No doubt her body reminding her of the beating she took among those shipping crates.
Sighing deeply, Pearce followed, his older joints refusing to allow his ascent to be as straight forward. As he tried to clamber off the top, his loafers slipped on the metal bar, sending him crashing the six feet to the cold, hard concrete,
‘Shitbags,’ he cursed loudly, drawing a chuckle from Singh who offered him a hand up. He quickly saw the funny side and gladly clasped her wrist and she hauled him to her feet. The tension had been washed away, the rain slathering both of them and they realized why they were there.
To help Sam and find the truth.
It didn’t matter about how they’d arrived at this point.
Singh rushed towards the door and just as she went to thump her fist against it, she stopped herself. Pearce turned to her in confusion before following her eye line.
Singh was staring at the side of the door.
It was slightly ajar.
Carefully, Singh pushed it open, revealing the plush, well-decorated hallway. The rain followed quickly, splattering the floor as Singh and Pearce carefully stepped over the threshold.
The specks of blood across the floor instantly put them on high alert.
‘Paul!’ Pearce shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. ‘Paul, it’s Detective Pearce.’
They ventured further into the house, past the expensively furnished living room which housed a glorious ninety-two-inch flat screen TV. It adorned the wall like a trophy.
Pearce headed for the stairs, his mind returning to the visit he’d paid Etheridge after Sam had taken down the Kovalenko’s. Someone had helped Sam, the technical work it took to track the bank accounts of the Acid Gang required certain skills that he knew Sam didn’t possess.
But Etheridge did and between the two of them, they’d shared an unspoken moment of confirmation.
Singh had also been to the mansion as well, although her memories were clouded with failure.
She’d sent an Armed Response team into the house to take down Sam, yet all of them were removed with bullet wounds. He’d shot to wound, aiming for the centre of the shin bones, but still, she had more than enough on her mind to be reminded of the pain and anger that hung heavy on her conscience.
That was when she’d first met Sam, as he incapacitated and then restrained her.
Life had taken a strange path since then, but the idea of walking across the landing where a number of her friends were shot still made her stomach turn.
Sam was still a criminal. She had to remind herself that. But the line between right and wrong had blurred so much, it resembled a smudge.
As she thought about that regrettable night, she collided with Pearce, who had stopped on the landing before the next staircase which led to what she believed would be a sizeable loft extension.
‘Paul!’ Pearce yelled again. There was no answer, although the ping of a computer could be heard. The light from the office crept over the landing, beckoning them up. The signs of life were not accompanied with any sounds of movement and Pearce purposefully stood in front of Singh, much to her amusement. She was one of the toughest officers on the force, with an extensive background in martial arts and Armed Response.
She could handle herself.
Pearce crept up the first few steps, his hand clutching the bannister, his eyes locked on the landing ahead. He called out again, edging up step by step. Again, he was met with silence and with Singh close behind him, he stepped uneasily onto the landing.
The door to the office was slightly ajar, the low hum of several computers eking out through the gap. Pearce took a breath and pushed the door open.
Both of them froze in shock.
Strapped to a chair, was an unconscious Paul Etheridge. His entire head and upper body were soaked, with two empty bottles and a towel surrounding the puddle of water beneath him. Pearce stepped in quickly, shaking his head at what clearly looked like a torture scene. More worrying was the blood pooling around the base of the chair, the trail leading back up Etheridge’s leg to the shattered knee cap. One of his hands had been maimed, the fingers snapped and sticking in different directions.
He wore bruises and cuts on his motionless face.
Etheridge had been beaten, tortured, and then left for dead.
Pearce felt sick, having met the man a few weeks before and finding him rather charming. As if snapping back into the room, he dashed forward, past the computer screens and straight to the prone Etheridge, immediately reaching out pressing his fingers against his wet neck.
‘He’s alive,’ Pearce confirmed, looking back at Singh who was carefully walking into the room, her hands in her pockets so as not to tamper with any evidence.
‘Who the hell did this?’ Singh asked, her eyes darting around the lavish office. Something on the screen caught her eye.
‘I don’t know,’ Pearce began, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket and hitting the screen three times. ‘You need to leave, Singh.’
‘Adrian. Look,’ Singh said, ignoring Pearce as she leant in towards the screen.
‘Singh. You need to go now,’ Pearce began before his call connected. ‘Hello, this is Detective Inspector Adrian Pearce. I need an ambulance and police assistance at 15 Collington Close. Male, early forties, alive but unresponsive. Potential gunshot wound to the leg.’
As Pearce finished his distress call, Singh yelled for him again.
‘It’s Sam.’
‘We can’t jump to conclusions, Singh. Etheridge owns a private online security company. He might have enemies.’
Singh beckoned him over then pointed to the screen, her face alive with excitement.
‘It’s Sam. Look.’
‘Well slap my sausage,’ Pearce said in exasperation. ‘You don’t think he did this, do you?’
‘No. But I think he’s the reason for this. Whoever it was, they wanted Sam and that poor guy was helping the wrong guy at the wrong time.’
‘Fuck. He’s in Rome,’ Pearce said, to nobody in particular. ‘Anyway, Singh, you have to go.’
‘I’m not leaving. We need to get him to a hospital.’
‘The ambulance is on its way and what the hell do you think Ashton will say if she finds out you were here searching for more Sam Pope clues?’
‘But what about…’
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 15
