The damage done to his right hand was potentially permanent. The impact of the bullet on his knee definitely was. Etheridge wouldn’t walk properly again, that much was clear but after a few hours of surgery, the doctor had assured him that he would pull through. Etheridge had lost a lot of blood, but they had him hooked up to a steady supply and had reset his hand as best they could. The operation on his knee was a success but would require a painful rehabilitation.
All because he’d helped Sam Pope.
It hadn’t escaped his mind that a similar fate could befall him. What concerned him more, was the fate that could soon be coming for Singh.
She’d clearly riled the wrong people, her digging into Sam’s past had drawn the attention of one of the British Military’s most powerful men. Along with that, the Assistant Commissioner was strong arming him into digging up enough dirt to bury her under. A promising career, a true asset to the Metropolitan Police, was heading down a dead end.
Pearce sipped the coffee, grimacing as the sour taste slid down his throat. The hospital was on its last legs, the continuous struggle of the NHS evident by the rickety chairs in the waiting room and the over worked staff scuttling through the corridors. Pearce found one of the rickety chairs and sat down, his body aching.
Was this getting too dangerous?
It had crossed his mind a few times.
What had started out as a routine investigation into an employee had taken him on a path of aiding and abetting a wanted vigilante. He had enough leverage with the Inspector Howell fiasco in the High Rise, but even then, that wouldn’t last forever. It was unlikely he would betray Singh, which meant by the end of the week, Ashton would want his badge.
But would that be the end of it?
It wasn’t beyond those in power to fabricate evidence to link him to Sam, and then they would set their lap dogs on him as they had Etheridge.
They would most likely do the same to Singh.
Pearce reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He had three missed calls.
Two from Singh.
One from Sean Wiseman.
Pearce smiled. Sean had been at the youth centre every day, working tirelessly with the kids to push them away from a life on the streets. As someone who had been forced into a gang at a young age and had been hospitalized after a brutal attack, the man was committed to turning his life around. It was a true reminder that sometimes, what they did at the centre, actually made a difference.
Pearce had only taken on the role of organizing the youth club after Theo had tragically given his life to save Amy Devereux, Sam’s psychiatrist, and since then, Sean had stepped up to alleviate some of the responsibility.
But again, all the stories were tinged with violence.
All towards people who were helping Sam.
Pearce rubbed his chin, his fingers combing the well-groomed, grey beard and he contemplated his next move. A woman had barged in, her mascara smudged through tears and she spoke to the doctor about Etheridge’s condition. She claimed to be his wife, but Pearce hadn’t noticed much of a woman’s touch in the house. But what went on behind closed doors was not his concern and while there wasn’t anything more he could do to help Etheridge for now, he made a silent promise to ensure he would be there when Etheridge was ready to talk.
The man had been put through hell, all because he thought he was doing the right thing.
The line between right and wrong was blurring for a lot of people.
Blurred by Sam Pope.
As Pearce headed for the exit, he knew he was too far gone in his quest to help Sam.
But he wouldn’t let anything happen to Singh. He couldn’t live with himself if he did.
As he approached the front door of the hospital, the rain awaited him. A thunderstorm had begun to rattle in the sky above.
It was a little on the nose, but he saw the meaning.
As he headed for his car, he found Ashton’s office number on his phone and clicked dial.
As the metal door slammed shut with a mighty thud, Marsden’s brain shook. The beating he’d taken from Sims’s men had left his head rattling and every loud noise hit it like a clap of thunder.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the room and Marsden waited patiently as the stocky frame of Ervin Wallace passed him and made himself comfortable on the small chair on the other side of the table. Wallace refused to look at his former colleague, instead looking at the pistol he held in his hand. Behind him, Sims followed, his shoulders slumped like a naughty child who had been caught cheating on his homework. The cocky swagger of a man in charge of his own personal army had gone, replaced by a man who had recently been reacquainted with where he existed on the food chain.
After a few moments, Wallace placed the gun on the table, turning it so Marsden could see there was no clip. The light bounced off Wallace’s bald head and the mountainous man flashed his well-rehearsed grin.
‘It’s good to see you, Carl,’ he spoke, his words almost sincere. ‘It’s a shame it has come to this. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?’
Marsden just stared at the man he’d served with for decades, a look of disgust on his beaten face. Wallace clicked his fingers at Sims, treating him like a waiter.
‘Take his cuffs off, for Christ’s sake.’
Sims obliged, reaching down behind Marsden and unlocked the bloodstained cuffs. He recoiled at the sight of his severed finger on the floor but tried his best to hide it from the two men sat at the table.
He couldn’t and they both shook their head at him.
Neither of them saw him as a soldier and all the power he’d once held in this mission had completely dissipated, like a tyre with a slow puncture.
Marsden gingerly lifted his mangled hand onto the table, allowing it to rest on the cold metal. Wallace looked at the wound as if he was inspecting an antique and tutted.
‘Barbaric.’ He flashed a glare at Sims who looked away. ‘You goddamn Yanks and your torture.’
‘What are you doing here, Ervin?’ Marsden asked calmly. Despite the pain and the situation he was in, Marsden did not shake. He’d made his decisions and both he and Wallace knew he was a man of complete conviction.
‘Carl, we’ve known each other a long time. You have no idea how angry or shocked I was when news came through that you were being hunted for acts of espionage and potential terrorism.’ Wallace shook his head in disbelief. ‘I mean, you? You’re a fucking boy scout. Word came through that you were on a train to Rome due to the, how should we say, heavy handed way these Blackridge punks went about their business?’
Sims stepped forward, hoping to wrestle back some respect from the room.
‘Sir, we acted with complete tact and sensitivity so as not arouse public panic.’
‘Bollocks,’ Wallace snapped back, slamming his hand on the metal and causing another striking pain to slither through Marsden’s skull. ‘You boys are the equivalent to using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut.’
‘Then why the fuck did you hire us?’
Marsden suddenly jolted up right, his eyes fixed on Wallace who ran his tongue on the inside of his lip, contemplating his next move. Sims, realizing the tension raise in the room, stepped back towards the room again.
Marsden spoke with clarity.
‘So, it’s true. Everything on those files. It’s true.’
‘Carl, let me explain…’ Wallace began.
‘No need. Soon, everyone will know, and then you can explain to the whole world that the biggest terrorist in the world is the guy at the forefront of stopping it.’
‘You think I’m a terrorist?’ Wallace chuckled. ‘You have no fucking clue what I am. Do you think we really keep the world safe by popping on the camo and walking through some shit-hole country decimated by bombs? That’s for the cameras, Carl. Even you know that.’
‘We fight and protect those that need it,’ Marsden began, his voice cracking with anger.
‘That’s what I have been fu
cking doing. How do you think this all works? What, you don’t think these Yank bastards were plying the fucking ragheads with enough gear to start the Taliban? Or that the higher ups didn’t know a plane was going to be slammed into a fucking building? It’s all known, the thing is, Carl, what people don’t understand is we need things like that to happen for the good of the world.’
‘You’re insane,’ Marsden said defiantly. ‘Listen to yourself. You’re saying the world needs terrorists?’
‘You’re damn right it does. It needs the boogeymen. Because ninety-nine per cent of this planet need to know they’re safe. They need to know that we are on the edge of a fucking war because it gives them meaning to their lives. The idea of things ending like that—’ Wallace clicked his fingers ‘—it keeps the world ticking and it’s men like me who keep it all in check. So, I need you to tell me where the fuck those files are.’
Marsden chuckled quietly and shook his head.
‘You know, for years, Erv, I thought you were a good guy. A bit of a prick. A bit rough around the edges, but ultimately, a good guy. But this is beyond delusion. You’re a monster.’
Wallace leant forward; his lips pulled back as he snarled.
‘The true monsters are those who want to disturb the peace. Those who want to scare and derail society and the very fine threads that hold our countries together. Terrorists.’ Wallace jabbed a finger at Marsden. ‘Which is what you will be if you release those files.’
‘What, and let the world know the truth?’ Marsden yelled in exasperation.
‘The world doesn’t need the truth. It needs a fucking roll of cotton wool to be wrapped up in. So, I’m only going to ask you one more time, where are the fucking files?’
‘I don’t have them. Sam does,’ Marsden said triumphantly. ‘And he’s in the wind.’
‘Really?’ Wallace smirked. ‘See, we got word about half an hour ago that he was picked up by Sims’s men and they’re on their way back here. Now despite this little crusade he’s been on, Sam is still a soldier. He will see sense.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ Marsden barked, a hint of nervousness in his voice. It was like blood in the water for Wallace.
‘You’re fond of Sam, aren’t you, Carl?’ Wallace said, reaching for the empty gun. ‘This is his, by the way. We picked it up in Kiev. So, he’s unarmed. Now, do I try him for treason the same way you will be tried, or will you do the right thing by him and tell him to give me the files?’
Marsden could see the chess pieces moving and despite everything he’d tried to do he knew Wallace almost had him at check mate. But Marsden knew Sam.
Sam wasn’t just a soldier.
He was a good man.
Despite walking on a darker side of the law, Sam would always do the right thing.
‘Fuck you,’ Marsden said. ‘You’ll put a bullet in us both the second you have those files.’
‘On the contrary, I intend to keep Sam very much alive,’ Wallace said cheerily, sitting back in his chair. ‘I’ve got the Met Police in my pocket and delivering Sam to them is a good favour to have in the bank. Especially after all those people he killed.’
‘Those people were criminals,’ Marsden responded defensively.
‘What about the senior member of the US Military he murdered in cold blood?’
Marsden frowned, trying to place the proof against Wallace’s allegation. Before he could connect the dots, Wallace slammed a clip into the pistol, span on his chair, and pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through Sims’s forehead and exploded out the back of his skull, painting the walls behind him in an upward splash of blood, bone, and brain matter.
Sims fell to the floor dead.
Marsden sat still, taking a few deep breaths and remembering the incredible job he’d been honoured to have, the differences he’d made, and lives he’d saved.
Like Sam’s.
Wallace turned back to Marsden; his eyes heavy with regret.
‘And when his crimes became too much, the broken Sam Pope tragically turned the gun on the man who made him.’
Before Marsden could speak, Wallace pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Marsden just below the rib cage, burrowing into his intestines. Instantly, blood pumped out over his hands and he pressed them against the wound in a helpless attempt for survival.
Another gunshot exploded into the room.
This bullet ripped through his right lung, knocking him back off the chair and onto the bloodstained concrete behind. The air immediately began to filter from the wound and blood slowly began to fill the cavity. With his own life force drowning him, Marsden reached under his shirt with a shaky hand and clasped his dog tags.
He would die in this room, painted as a terrorist.
But he was a soldier. And he would die as one.
As he struggled for breath and the blood pooled over his stomach, Marsden heard the footsteps of Wallace moving towards the door. To his right, he glimpsed the motionless body of Sims, who had died instantly.
The metal door creaked loudly and just before he left, Wallace turned back to his dying comrade.
‘Goodbye, old friend.’
The door closed, and Marsden rested his head back against the concrete, awaiting death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The passport check at Rome airport was surprisingly busy for the evening flight that the man in black had arrived on. Underestimating the number of tourists wanting to flock to the historic city during the horrible winter season, the airport had only scheduled one put-upon guard to process those crossing over into the country.
Patiently, he waited, taking a few marginal steps forward every few minutes. Behind him, a young French couple were discussing their plans for the week ahead. Although his French wasn’t as strong as some of his other languages, they were running through the list of tourist attractions with relative excitement. In front, an English couple were bickering, just another by product of a mundane, middle-aged existence. Their two kids stood agitated, continuously glancing back and staring up at him.
He was used to it.
The mother had turned around once, startled at the disfiguring burns that covered the left side of his face and apologized for her kids’ manners. He’d offered an accepting smile, but the mum kept yanking her kids forward whenever they glanced back.
People always stared.
Just stood in the queue, he could feel the eyes of several people locked on him, all of them speculating how he’d ended up with his horrific injuries.
Sam Pope.
With another step, he came closer to the booth and ready to pass through and meet his maker. It was what had driven him to this moment. That unrelenting need for revenge.
The family were called forward and the dad fumbled with the passports, drawing the ire of his wife and a frustrated frown from the portly man sat in the booth. The kids looked back, sniggering at the monstrous man behind them.
He didn’t mind.
He was a monster.
The brutal torture of a man associated with Pope was a testament to that.
But it was all he knew.
After a few more frustrating minutes, the man waved the family through and they stormed off towards the baggage claim, the parents bickering like the children they were supposed to be parenting. The kids looked back one last time, the little girl pulling a face at him.
He smiled.
‘Come,’ The man in the booth called out in a thick, Italian accent, not looking up from his desk.
He approached.
The man in black slid his passport under the glass, the picture as horrifying as the real thing. The man lazily looked at it and recoiled, before slowly looking up with an apologetic smile.
The burns ran from the left side of his head, cutting through his hair line and wrapping around his left eye. There was no eyebrow, the hair follicles obliterated. The smooth, white skin ran across his cheek to his nose, his left nostril a distant memory. The top part of his lip was also mutilated, and the scarr
ing ran down the left side of his neck and disappeared under the crew neck jumper he wore.
The man cautiously looked back and forth at the hideous man before him and his shocking photo. While the burns were a cause for concern, he knew he couldn’t be discriminated against for being a burns victim.
Or for the other painful, abhorrent trials he’d been put through for years.
If only they knew.
The man coughed nervously and then handed him back the passport with a patronizing nod. He took it, reciprocated, and then marched towards the exit. He was travelling light, only his passport, phone, and a wad of euros in his pockets.
He didn’t need anything else. The rest would be taken care of when he arrived. With the eyes of the airport on him, he strode purposefully towards the exit, ignoring the sickened expressions of the general public.
He had the location.
A gun would be waiting for him on arrival.
With the excitement of finally being able to come face to face with Sam Pope building, he headed for the nearest Eurocar, knowing the roll of fifties in his pocket would put a key in his hand in no time.
Alex had switched the lights off and brought the car to a crawl as they approached the chain-link fence that surrounded the building. They’d turned off the quiet, derelict roads onto a gravel track twenty minutes after disposing of the bodies. As the car rolled to a stop, Sam scanned the facility. It was an abandoned textile factory, which had long been out of commission.
The brick work was crumbling, with many of the iron supporting beams visible through the cracks. The windows, once clear and bright, had been replaced with iron grates. All the exterior lights had been smashed, probably by a group of young vandals with keen throwing arms.
The place was derelict.
It was the perfect safehouse.
Sam was aware that a number of powerful organisations had dedicated facilities around the world for occasions such as this. He’d been in one once before, in a reinforced flat in an unremarkable block in the middle of Budapest. He’d been part of an extraction operation of a Persian drug lord who had fled to Hungary. After a violent shoot-out in a spa, they’d taken the man to the safe house where Wallace had organized for his transfer to the states.
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 18
