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

by Robert Enright

  His dying wish was for the truth to come out.

  But he, like Sam, was a good man.

  And good men don’t let the innocent die.

  ‘Fine…’ Sam began. Out of nowhere, Alex’s voice filled the room.

  ‘Sam,’ she yelled, pulling her hands from behind her back. ‘Don’t look.’

  In her hand, she grasped a flashbang grenade which she’d lifted from one of the guard’s belts. In the other hand, she had the pin.

  Before anyone could move, Sam covered his eyes and twisted downwards away from the blast. With a loud bang, the entire room was bathed in a blinding white light. Alex had tossed the grenade and as it exploded into the air, Wallace pulled the trigger.

  A gunshot echoed through the abandoned factory.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  With a high pitch ringing in his ears, Sam looked up and immediately launched himself at the first guard, who had raised a hand to his eyes just a split second too late. As he tried to adjust, Sam reached forward, grabbed the rifle and lifted it upwards, the spray of bullets sending debris falling from the ceiling. The noise was close to deafening. Sam caught the man with a swift right into the stomach, doubling him over, before he rammed the man headfirst into the wall.

  The man stumbled back, blood pouring from the top of his skull and Sam slapped both hands on either side of his head and snapped with all his might.

  The neck broke instantly, and the man dropped limp to the bloody floor below. Sam reached for the rifle, hoisting it expertly to his shoulder and swivelling on his heel, aiming it at the door.

  Wallace had fled.

  As Sam realized he had left with the other soldier, he turned too late to see Buck charging at him, the brutish guard catching him with a vicious elbow to the side of the head that sent Sam sprawling across the metal table, off the other side, and crashing onto the unforgiving concrete. The pistol he’d left on the table also clattered into the scarlet puddle. With his hands covered in the blood of his friend, Sam looked up momentarily, noticing Alex laying by the door in considerable pain. As Sam shook the hard blow, trying to regather his thoughts, Buck loosened his shoulders, kicking the rifle to the side of the room.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to fucking enjoy this,’ Buck boasted, his hulking frame moving quickly around the table. As Sam tried to get to his feet, Buck clubbed down on him with vicious rights, which Sam managed to block with his forearm. Buck swung another, then followed it up with a swinging left that slammed into Sam’s ribs like a sledgehammer. Sam hunched forward, only for Buck to thrust his knee upwards, catching Sam on the bridge of the nose.

  The pain was instant, and his vision blurred with tears and Buck lunged forward, wrapping his arm around Sam’s chest and heaving him across the metal table once more. Sam hit the metal hard, bounced and crumpled onto the floor below. Buck chuckled, cracking his neck as if he was just getting warmed up. Sam was beginning to regret embarrassing the man over the duration of their mission, as despite his short comings, Buck was Blackridge’s best.

  Which meant he was good.

  Fatally good.

  Sam tried to get to his feet, but a rib cracking boot collided with his side, flipping him over and across the room, the air driven from his body. Buck swung another boot, but Sam caught it, twisting it and dragging Buck to the floor. Both men scurried to their feet, the blue glow of the halogen bulb illuminating their final fight.

  Both of them were battered, bruised, and covered in the blood of dead men.

  Their eyes met across the table and they accepted that this was to the death.

  As they approached each other, Buck weaved and swung a right, which Sam ducked, shooting two hard jabs into Buck’s solid abdomen. Slightly rocked, Buck swung again. Sam dodged, let the arm move over his shoulder and he grabbed it. In one fell swoop, he launched Buck over his shoulder, the American’s spine slamming off the edge of the table and he roared with pain.

  Sam took a step back, his leg buckling under his damaged thigh and he pulled his fists up, ready to go again. Buck gingerly got to his feet; his eyes wide with murderous rage. As he planted his feet, he pulled a knife from his belt, the blade as sharp and serrated as the one Sam had used to disembowel Colin Mayer on a small boat on the British coast.

  It had one purpose. To kill.

  Buck lunged forward erratically, slashing wildly at Sam, who expertly dodged a few swings until one of them caught his forearm, ripping the flesh open and drawing blood. Sam grimaced, stepping back, while Buck smiled like a hungry shark. As he lunged again, Sam stepped to the side, clutched the knife wielding wrist and drove his other elbow into the forearm, snapping the bone. Buck howled in pain, relinquished his grip, but before Sam could move, Buck drove his forehead into Sam’s cheek.

  Sam stumbled back into the wall, the back of his head hitting the brick and both men collapsed to the floor.

  Buck pushed himself to his feet, allowing his useless arm to flop loosely by the wayside and he bent down, his gloved hand sliding around the handle of the knife.

  ‘You piece of shit,’ he spat, gripping the blade which was now coated in the blood of dead men. As he took staggered, beaten steps towards him, Sam scanned the room. Among the three dead men, he noticed Alex moving, her hand clasping at her leg. To the right of the table, next to the lifeless Marsden, was the handgun.

  Buck launched forward, pinning Sam down with his superior body weight, with the knife firmly in his grip.

  Sam got his forearm up, locking it under Buck’s wrist and trapping it in mid plunge. The blade was a few inches from Sam’s chest, and with his eyes filled with a maniacal pleasure, Buck pushed down with all his might.

  The blade began to edge closer and closer to Sam’s heart and despite his best efforts, Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on.

  This was it.

  The fight was over.

  This time, there was no Marsden to pull him out from his dark, desolate crypt.

  Buck pushed harder, the veins in his powerful neck straining. His face began to turn a dark shade of red and saliva dribbled from his mouth. The thrill of killing Sam had turned him into a rabid dog and Sam could feel his arm beginning to buckle.

  This journey that had started with the death of his son, would end with him dying alone in a dark underground bunker. His body, likely to be paraded in a historic triumph by Wallace, who would position it in a way to gain more power.

  The war would continue.

  Sam would have altered nothing.

  Just as he felt the last of his energy eb towards his forearm, he closed his eyes.

  He thought of Jamie.

  His beautiful son crouching by the flower beds of the garden that Lucy took such pride in. The glaring sun, shimmering off his thick, blonde hair. The young boy was curious, poking at a worm with a stick when suddenly, his head snapped to the side and he looked straight at Sam.

  ‘Not yet, Daddy.’

  With that, Sam felt a sudden jolt of adrenaline, his fight not yet done. A flicker of doubt filled Buck’s eyes and Sam reached out with his other hand, latching onto Buck’s shattered forearm and twisting as hard as he could. The pain was unbearable, and Buck sat up, screaming in anguish as he dropped the knife.

  Sam caught it mid-air and drove it into Buck’s side, the blade slicing through the skin like a birthday cake. Warm blood oozed out over Sam’s hand as Buck fell back, Sam lifted his foot and drove it into the blade. With the blade cutting into his major organs, Buck scrambled towards the table, his life leaving him as quickly as the blood flow, and he reached up with a shaking hand towards the table, his other arm hanging loosely by his side.

  As he pushed himself up, he hunched over. Sam, now to his feet, ran. As he approached Buck, he leapt over him, grabbing his broken arm and rolling across the table. The arm separated from the shoulder and Buck slammed into the hard metal and crumpled to the floor once more. Sam rolled off the other side, dropped to one knee, and swiftly picked up the gun.

  Sam stood, arm o
utstretched, the gun aimed squarely at the dying Buck, whose mouth was now filled with his own blood. The knife was still embedded deeply into his side and his arm was loose bag of skin and assorted bone.

  Buck spat blood at Sam.

  Sam pulled the trigger.

  The bullet ripped through the centre of Buck’s forehead and he fell back, dead.

  Sam’s arm dropped and he took a deep breath, his head, body, and mind all aching with pain.

  A groan from the corner attracted his attention and as fast as his limp would carry him, he rushed towards Alex. Her bloodstained hands were clutching her thigh, where that rogue bullet had caught her. Sam dropped down to his knees and offered her a smile. The beating he had taken was clearly evident, judging by her reaction.

  ‘You all right?’ Sam asked, checking her leg.

  ‘I’ve been better.’ She joked, then regretted it immediately, wincing with pain. Sam checked the bullet wound.

  ‘In and out. Good.’ He flashed her a bloody grin. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘This fucking sucks,’ she howled and Sam pulled off his jacket and ripped the sleeve from the seam. As tightly as he could, he knotted it around the wound, cutting off the blood flow and temporarily halting the bleeding. It was crude, but it would do.

  Theo would certainly had done a better job, but he was just another good person who had met his end trying to help Sam.

  Alex would not be another.

  ‘We need to go,’ Sam said softly, offering her his shoulder which she draped an arm over. Despite his own battered body, Sam pushed to his feet, hauling Alex up with him. The last time they’d been this close, they’d been making passionate love.

  This was nowhere near as fun.

  Sam glanced back towards Marsden one last time, offering him a final goodbye. It was unlikely that Wallace wouldn’t cover his tracks, but Sam promised he wouldn’t leave Marsden to rot in the dark. With Alex hobbling, they left the room.

  As they’d slowly made their way back up the stairs, Alex told Sam how they’d been lying in wait for them and as she’d turned the car around, she’d been met by a barrage of gunfire and was forcibly taken from the car by Wallace’s men. As the head of Blackridge, Wallace commanded their respect and fear, even more so after executing Sims, which he had taken great pride in. As they’d forced her back towards the building, they’d waited by the side entrance until Sam had gone underground, knowing there was no way of escape.

  It was there that she’d found his weapons, and she’d managed to snatch a flash-bang grenade.

  Sam would be eternally grateful.

  As they reached the top of the stairs, Sam could hear the low, distant thud of a helicopter.

  Wallace was still there. His ride was on its way, but Sam could still catch up with him. He turned back to Alex and judging from the expression on her face, she knew what he was thinking.

  ‘Sam, just come with me. We can both go,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Do you remember the way back to the side entrance?’

  ‘Sam, please?’

  ‘Do you?’ Sam regretfully raised his voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need you to go back that way, get your car and drive.’ Sam gently stroked her face. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’

  Alex leant into Sam’s touch and closed her eyes, fighting to hold back a tear. The darkness of the corridor enveloped them, and she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Then, with a significant amount of discomfort, she turned and began to hobble down the corridor. As she did, Sam watched her go, angry that another good person’s life was in tatters because of him.

  After a few steps, she stopped and turned back, locking eyes with him one more time.

  ‘What about you?’

  With the volume of the chopper growing, Sam looked back towards the front door and the thunderous rain that awaited him.

  ‘I’m going to finish this.’

  With his pistol firmly in his hand, Sam shuffled towards the exit of the building, ready to confront Wallace for the final time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  After returning home to dry off, Singh had put on another white shirt and navy suit and made her way back to New Scotland Yard. The day had felt longer than usual, the horror they’d found at Etheridge’s house was hanging heavy on her mind. She’d met the man before, in some of the preliminary follow-ups after Sam had taken out her Armed Response team on his landing.

  The story checked out.

  Sam had forced him at gun point to help him.

  It was apparent now that it was a lie and as angry as Singh was that she’d been duped, it gave her an odd reassurance.

  She wasn’t the only one drawn to helping Sam.

  As she sat her new desk, ostracized from her task force, she tried to figure out exactly what she was trying to do.

  Did she want to help Sam because she no longer believed in the thin blue line she’d dedicated her life to?

  Or did she want to help him by stopping him, by uncovering whatever dark truths she was on the verge of discovering and in turn, rendering his mission moot?

  It was something she knew she had to figure out, as there was nothing worse than making decisions without clarity. One of her biggest strengths had been her clear thinking, the ability to make a decision then stand by it. A lack of conviction was a trait she deemed unforgivable, and it was a reason why her love life had never ventured beyond a few nights of passion.

  Men were just not capable of making decisions and Singh refused to allow a man’s indecision to waste her own time.

  The afternoon soon slipped seamlessly into the evening, the early sunsets of the bitter winter making tracking the time even more difficult. Singh was used to the long hours, her career had been built on the back of seeing jobs through to the end, no matter what impact it had on her life.

  Another reason for her non-existent love life.

  She looked at a picture of Sam and chuckled, finding herself thinking and talking about the man so much, she could probably introduce him to her parents as the man in her life.

  As droll as that might be, the only life Sam was facing was in prison. Without parole.

  The man had taken the law into his own hands, regardless of the targets he had taken down and the success he had achieved. And while her nagging doubts of her own conscience were fluttering around her head like fireflies, she knew that if Sam was to stand any chance, she needed to find out what happened at Project Hailstorm.

  Something was being hidden.

  As a high-ranking detective within the Metropolitan Police, having evidence withheld, and subsequently followed up with thinly veiled threats, did not sit well with her. For all she knew, Sam was part of something bigger and piecing it all together would help him.

  Would bring an end to his mission and save him from prison or a fate much worse.

  Singh knew she had to spend some time to struggle with her reasons and feelings for Sam, but now was not that moment. As Pearce had said, Ashton was pushing for her removal and her resources would soon be limited. After what happened to Etheridge, maybe even her safety was in short supply.

  Staring at her computer screen, Singh hadn’t even realized the shadow that had darkened her desk.

  ‘Singh. A word.’

  Singh looked up, into the stern face of Assistant Commissioner Ashton. Singh slowly pushed herself from her chair, locking her computer and sliding the USB stick she’d carefully hidden under a notepad, from the side of the computer. Ashton walked purposefully through the office, slamming her heels down to attract the attention of the rest of the task force.

  She wanted all heads to turn, to see her marching Singh towards her office.

  Singh had a bad feeling.

  As she stepped into the office, Ashton asked her to close the door and take a seat.

  ‘I’d prefer to stand, ma’am,’ Singh said curtly, her hands behind her back, her shoulders straight.

  ‘Not very good at taking orders, are you, S
ingh?’ Ashton said spitefully, taking her own seat and propping her glasses onto her nose. With her short, greying hair tied back tight, she looked like a librarian. ‘Very well. I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘After a thorough investigation, DPS has collated sufficient evidence to flag you as a risk to our task force.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Singh exclaimed, gripping the back of the chair in frustration. The Depart of Professional Standards was Pearce’s gig.

  He had betrayed her.

  ‘I’m afraid I had my suspicions and DI Pearce has provided me with enough evidence to not only open a case against you, but to have you removed from all duty immediately. You will be suspended without pay, effective immediately. Richards.’

  On cue, PC Richards stepped into the doorway, a resigned look on his face. Singh scowled at him, before returning her gaze to her superior. Sat back in her plush, leather chair, Ashton antagonized her with a smile.

  ‘This is bullshit.’

  ‘If so, then you have nothing to worry about. But before you start pointing fingers, Singh. Perhaps you should look inwards. As you are not the only person this affects.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Singh snapped, her survival instincts kicking in.

  ‘Yes.’ Ashton responded coldly. ‘Jake Manning, who works in IT, has been fired for essentially hacking sensitive military files.’

  Singh felt sick. Jake was a nice guy who was doing her a favour.

  ‘I asked him to.’

  ‘Very noble of you, Singh.’ Ashton responded. ‘He already told us that. We were quite clear that Mr Manning would be spared a prison sentence if he told us the truth. General Wallace had made it clear that those files were off limits…’

  ‘Wallace? I should have known.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ashton spat.

  ‘Let me ask you, ma’am. Is Wallace’s whole hand up this organisations arse, or just yours?’

  Singh regretted the comment immediately and she saw a flicker of rage in her superior’s eyes. But, after a brief moment, Ashton recomposed. It was her job to be calm and assured and she knew she was good at it. Despite the truth of Singh’s comment, she still felt in control of her organisation.