Alex had witnessed Sam risk his freedom and his life to try to save a man who he had cared for. He’d willingly run into a firefight, outnumbered and outgunned, to try to save his friend.
Sam had tragically been too late.
But at least he had fought.
Had tried.
An angry tear slid down Alex’s cheek and she swatted it away like an inconvenient fly.
At least Sam had tried to save someone he cared about.
As she sped past the next sign, she took a deep breath and as the junction approached, she pulled hard on the steering wheel, her car veering off the motorway at top speed, before heading off into the dark, unfamiliar streets ahead.
She was tired of running.
It was time to start trying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It hadn’t taken long for Wallace’s helicopter to make it back to the airport, the chopper slicing through the torrential rain at breakneck speed. As it landed, he had checked his phone, agitated that he was yet to receive an update from his assassin.
He’d gift wrapped Sam to him and now he expected his end of the bargain to be delivered.
Stepping off the helicopter, he was met by one of the faceless suits who ran the logistical side of Blackridge, none of whom were important enough to remember by name. One of them held a large black umbrella over him, sheltering him as they marched across the tarmac towards the private jet which was waiting his arrival and delaying all commuter flights from leaving the country. It was less than a few weeks until Christmas, and people were making plans to spend the festive period with loved ones or on holidays.
Wallace didn’t care.
While Pope may have had enough help to sneak guns through airports, he had the ability to ground all flights whenever the hell he wanted.
The power he wielded was vast.
But it was under threat, by the very soldier he had helped to create.
As he strode across the tarmac, another suit handed him a dossier, filled with paperwork he had no interest in reading. There were no fine details he needed to know. The only fact he needed confirming was that Sam Pope had been neutralized and the location of the files had been recovered. As he approached the steps to the jet, the rain began to lighten up, the gods offering up a small mercy after the relentless downpour. Wallace boarded the plane, not even offering so much as a courteous nod to his chaperones.
Once inside, he marched through to the plush seating area, walking past the leather chairs to the bar and poured himself a Scotch.
He swallowed it in one gulp.
Another large one followed and with the glass in his hand, Wallace collapsed into one of the chairs. He felt tired, his years of being out in the field, hunting down targets were long behind him and it infuriated him that what should have been a simple extraction had turned into a cluster fuck.
There would be inquisitions from the Ukrainian, German, and Italian governments, all of them wanting to know why blood was shed and guns were fired in their back yards. It would be easy to sweep under the rug, but Wallace could do without the inconvenience.
What angered him most was the death of his old friend.
Carl Marsden had been a good man and a damn fine soldier. The world was a worse place without him, and Wallace felt sick that it was at his hand that the man had died. But like any true soldier, Marsden would understand that sacrifices needed to be made for the greater good. Somewhere along the way, the man had lost sight of that, instead wanting to derail years of hard, blood-soaked work that Wallace had carefully put together.
All for the supposed notion of what is right.
Wallace silently toasted his friend’s memory and took a sip of the expensive Scotch, allowing the liquid to burn at the back of his throat before swallowing.
The pilot’s voice piped through the overhead speakers, assuring Wallace of a safe journey back to the UK. Wallace ignored it, staring out of the window as the plane slowly moved towards the runway. He downed his drink and gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles whitening as the plane shot through the airport and up into the thick, dark clouds that were hiding the moon.
As the plane gradually straightened out after climbing thousands of feet into the air, Wallace pulled out his phone.
Still no update.
He cursed, unlocking the phone and selecting Ashton’s number from his contacts. He knew that when his name embellished someone’s screen, the answer was immediate and always laced with a little concern.
It was the power he held.
It made him smile.
‘General Wallace. What a lovely surprise.’ Ashton’s voice was calm and collected. The consummate professional.
‘Ruth, I told you, please call me Ervin.’ He gestured to the on-flight attendant that he wanted another drink, rudely shaking his glass at her. She obliged him with no fuss.
‘Of course, sorry, Ervin.’ She sounded like a teenager on the phone with her crush. ‘I trust everything went well?’
‘Never better.’ Wallace snatched the glass and took a sip. ‘I just wanted to check in regarding my request. I trust all is in hand.’
‘You will be happy to know, that as of this evening, Amara Singh is no longer a factor. I won’t bore you with the details, but I have suspen—’
‘Good,’ Wallace rudely interrupted, finishing his drink in another long swig.
‘And, if it’s not too rude of me to ask, how are we getting on with my end of the bargain?’
Wallace grinned. He didn’t have any strong feelings towards the woman, but he found her craving of power and authority attractive. It reminded him of himself and his mind was already racing for when he would be able to have his way with her.
‘All in good time, Ruth. All in good time.’
Wallace cancelled the call, checked again for an update on Sam, and then tossed the phone onto the table before him. He stared out of the window, the bright lights of civilization below him and he looked down on them all with disdain. They had no idea what he did to keep this world safe. The decisions and sacrifices he had to make. One of them had been that evening, when he had shot and killed a good man who had stepped beyond his boundaries.
Up here, he was a god to them.
But behind it all, he felt an irritating nervousness creeping in. He needed his man to take care of Sam and find those files. The only problem was, he knew Sam better than most.
The man was built to survive.
The Renault Clio handled surprisingly well, especially as Sam had no idea how long it had sat idle at the facility. The rain had let up, with just the odd splattering crashing onto his windscreen which the wipers took care of immediately.
Sam had not taken his foot off the accelerator, partly due to the need to get back to civilization. Partly due to the pain emanating from his leg.
His shoulder had begun to numb, making even the slightest turn of the wheel a painful task.
He’d followed the gravel path back the way he and Alex had come in, before turning in the opposite direction and heading back towards the bright lights of Rome. He’d been driving for over twenty minutes, averaging a speed of ninety miles per hours.
In the distance, he could see the city skyline.
Like a moth drawn towards the light, he thundered on, knowing that once he got to Rome, he would be able to pull himself together. Appropriating cash wouldn’t be a problem, and although he didn’t like stealing, mugging a drug dealer didn’t rank too highly on the list of awful things he had done.
When he had the money, he would find a doctor who would patch him up for a few hundred euros. Maybe even let him use their phone. He needed make contact with Etheridge.
He needed to get out of Italy and back to the UK.
Sam needed to finish it, once and for all.
As he approached the city, a few more cars littered the motorway, most likely taxis, shepherding the night life to their next hot spot. It was the festive season and Sam was sure there were more than enough parties happening throughout
the Italian capital to keep the bar tabs piling up and taxi drivers in work.
Weaving in and out of the traffic, Sam noticed a pair of headlights fast approaching. Checking his speed dial, he was clocking over ninety, but the headlights behind him were slowly, but surely gaining on him.
As they approached closer, he could make out the outline of the large truck, not dissimilar to the one in the facility car park.
The man in black.
‘Shit,’ Sam uttered, turning sharply, cutting across the middle lane of traffic and receiving a barrage of horns from the angry drivers. The truck followed suit, dangerously sliding in between two cars and following Sam as he raced to the slow lane. With excruciating discomfort, Sam turned the wheel as hard as he could, taking the exit at ninety miles an hour, the back of the car sliding out slightly on the wet tarmac. It clipped the stone barrier, shaking the car and Sam, yelling in agony, wrestled back control of the car.
His makeshift tourniquet had fallen, and blood slowly began to seep down his chest.
The bright lights of the truck followed, taking the corner slightly slower, before rapidly racing down the off ramp towards the city. Sam took the next corner as quickly as he could, hauling up the handbrake and skidding around the car which had slammed on the breaks.
The Clio skimmed its bumper, but Sam slammed down the handbrake, and burst forward up the street, the wide streets of Rome welcoming him with open arms.
Behind him, the truck ploughed through the parked car, sending it spinning into a nearby phone box and causing a horrifying crash.
The man in black did not stop.
With a potential death left behind, he slammed his foot down, eager to catch Sam at all costs.
Their dangerous arrival in the city had been reported and somewhere in the city, Sam could hear the wailing of sirens.
The last thing Sam needed was to be taken in by the Polizia. They would hand him over, gift wrapped to Wallace who would make sure Sam never saw the light of day again.
The truck gained speed and as it roared forward, it collided with the back of Sam’s car. The entire vehicle shunted forward and Sam once again had to steady the car, straining his torn shoulder.
The truck sped forward again, but this time Sam turned the wheel, engaged the hand brake once more and slid off down a narrow side street, clipping two parked Vespas which he sent colliding into the wall of the nearby club. The patrons, huddled under the smoking gazebo screamed in terror and Sam whizzed past them, doing his best to maintain control of the car.
He flicked a glance to the rear-view mirror.
The truck was gone.
His hunter had missed the turning.
Relief poured over Sam like a hot shower and he slowed the car down considerably, wanting to blend in with the other night-time drivers. As he turned onto the next road, he could see the entrance towards the Vatican lit up, the stunning, religious epicentre was magnificent to behold. Despite the time and the horrific weather, a number of tourists and locals were still gathered near it, drawn to the residence of the Pope and storied history of the famous structure.
Sam could see the large pillars that circled the forecourt, along with the towers behind the walls, all awash with the glow of thousands of lights.
The display was majestic, and Sam continued down the street, knowing if he could get beyond the tourist hot spot, he could slide into a side street, abandon the car, and disappear into the shadows of Rome.
He was nearly home.
The truck slammed into the side of Sam’s car, launching from a side road and colliding with Sam at full speed. The impact rocked Sam in his seat, pulling his hands from the wheel and whipping his neck back violently into the head rest. The car spun out of control, careening wildly to the left among a downpour of glass and horrified screams.
The collision with the lamppost brought the car to an abrupt stop, shooting Sam forward, and his head collided with the leather steering wheel, splitting his eyebrow open.
He slumped back into his chair, the horn of the car constantly blasting into the air.
The truck killed its engine and the door opened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sam had clambered from the wreckage of his car, pain wrapped around him like a straightjacket. As he had crawled through the shattered glass, he could feel the shards slicing at his hands. Blood gushed from the gash above his right eye, scuppering his vision. His right arm was completely numb, the bullet wound sustained to the shoulder needed treating.
Sam had been to war.
This time, it didn’t look like he was coming back.
As he stumbled down the road, he tried earnestly to tell the terrified public to run, the danger in the truck behind was something they could never fathom.
Whoever was behind the wheel, they’d made it their personal mission to end Sam.
Wallace had said it was a reunion, but Sam had racked his brain the entire drive back to Rome, trying to decipher who was under the balaclava. Now, his brain was still rattling from the head on collision with the steering wheel.
The rain had begun to fall again, the icy water once again washing the blood from Sam’s face.
From his hands.
Sam had killed again, his war with Blackridge had claimed a few lives, most regrettably, the man he had tried to save. Carl Marsden had been his mentor, but more importantly, his friend, and as Sam trudged slowly through the middle of the street, he felt a sense of failure.
Marsden was dead.
Sam couldn’t save him.
Just like he couldn’t save Jamie.
Beyond the festively decorated buildings that lined the streets, Sam could hear the wailing of sirens, the calling card of the law. The threat of jail didn’t worry him now.
He wouldn’t be handed over to Wallace.
A gunshot echoed on the street, causing the final few watchers to scurry in a blind panic.
The burning sensation was immediate as the bullet entered through Sam’s lower back, channelling through his insides and burst out of his abdomen in a glorious spray. Sam fell to his knees, the pain finally overwhelming him to the point of finality.
There was no going on.
With holes in his shoulder and stomach, Sam slumped back on his heels, taking a moment to feel the rain against his face, allowing it to wash over him with a calming clarity.
He was about to die.
To be with Jamie.
That was okay.
As the footsteps behind him grew louder, he tried to take a deep breath and straighten up, but the searing pain in his spine stopped him. His body was broken, he was losing blood and the fight had all but left him.
Sam had lived his entire life as a soldier, fighting for the freedom of others, and for what was right. He accepted death as a risk of the profession, but never had he wanted to go out on his knees.
He would not beg.
Whoever the man was, whoever he had wronged in such a way that it required his execution as payment, he would never know.
The footsteps behind him stopped. Sam could feel the presence of the man behind him, knowing the final shot was being lined up. Sam let the images of his son and ex-wife flow through his mind, jumping from wonderful memory to wonderful memory. Flickers of those he cared about filtered through, like a projector slideshow, and Sam finally rested on an image of his son, looking up at him from a book, with a smile across his innocent face.
He wanted to reach out and run his fingers through his hair.
Hold his boy just one, last time.
Sam’s executioner disengaged the safety and Sam visualized him lifting the gun, aiming the barrel at the back of Sam’s skull.
‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this.’
The Manchurian accent hit Sam’s ears and his eyebrows lifted in shock. The voice, it belonged to a distant memory, one that still manifested as nightmares on a regular basis.
It couldn’t be?
Before Sam could turn and confront his suspicion,
both of them were cast in a sudden, bright glow. A car sped up, switching the lights on at the last second before swerving towards them. Behind the wheel, Alex Stone tried desperately to only hit one of them.
As she collided with the man in black, his finger squeezed the trigger. The split second between the impact and the trigger had shifted the bullet just slightly, the bullet whizzing past Sam’s ear and into the ground in front. The loud explosion perforated Sam’s ear drum and he dropped to the side, clutching at his ear with his working hand.
It was a small price to pay to survive.
The man in black took the impact of the skidding car in the side of the legs, rolling up the back window before momentum carried him back down and he collapsed on the concrete, motionless.
Alex threw open the passenger door, staring out with disbelief at the state Sam was in. His face was covered in cuts, his right eye swollen and scarred. His right arm and his lower abdomen were pumping blood. The trail of blood trickling from his ears seemed the least of his problems.
‘Get in,’ she yelled. At the end of the street, she saw the flashing lights of the police cars, the cavalry on its way. Just ahead of her, she saw the wreck of the car that Sam had escaped from.
The man had been through hell.
Sam slumped forward, crawling with one arm to the car and reaching up onto the seat.
‘Hurry the fuck up,’ Alex yelled, leaning over and wrapping both hands around Sam’s arm. She hauled with all her might, causing Sam to cry out in agony as she lifted him over the frame of the door and into the car. He was bleeding heavily, and he slumped towards her, losing consciousness.
The police were closing in quickly.
With Sam’s dead weight against her, she pushed forward and with strained fingers, managed to claw the door closed. Fluidly, she slipped the car into first and pulled away, gathering speed at a rapid rate as she raced away from the collision. A few police cars stopped at the decimated vehicle. A few of them continued to follow her.
She was okay with that, as it would only take her a few minutes to give them the slip. While she wasn’t a soldier, put behind the wheel of a car, and she was deadly.
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 22
