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

by Robert Enright

  As she spun the car expertly around the corner, Sam collided gently with the window, bringing him back from his black out.

  ‘I told you to leave,’ he murmured, still concerned for others.

  ‘Yeah, well, lucky for you, I have a listening problem.’

  Alex spun the wheel again, slipping into a side street and cutting back through towards the main road. The cars sped past, missing their turning and she shot down the alleyway, the car slicing through the rain. As she turned onto the main street, she saw the signs leading her back towards the motorway.

  Away from the city.

  Anywhere but there.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ Sam asked feebly, before closing his eyes and resting his head against the window. She looked at him, knowing full well he needed medical assistance and quickly.

  ‘It was the right thing to do.’

  She smiled as she spoke, knowing full well they were in a bad situation but as she turned off onto the motorway, she pressed her foot down, a renewed purpose coursing through her.

  Sam would be okay.

  Sam Pope was built to survive.

  The car crash and shooting was headline news the following morning, with many press offices authorizing a second print run to get the scoop. A number of the locals who had been in the vicinity came forward, with varying levels of accuracy on what happened. After giving their statements to the Polizia, they were all too happy to speak to the press.

  Social media was rife with it, with the story trending on Twitter and a number of the witnesses quickly gathering followers on Instagram. Some of them used their new-found exposure wisely, drip feeding photos of the incident to their new-found enthusiasts.

  It was these pictures that caused the Polizia the most trouble and was already sparking cries of a government conspiracy online.

  The main culprit was a picture taken by a foreign exchange student, who was watching the events unfold from the window of her flat from the street above. With a bird’s-eye view of the goings on, she’d taken a clear photo of a man, decked in black, holding a gun to another man’s head.

  The reports also claimed there were two men, one of whom was shot by the other and was only saved at the death by a speeding car, which subsequently drove the man to safety.

  While the Polizia had to report that they did indeed chase the vehicle and subsequently lost it, the embarrassment didn’t matter. What mattered was the biggest mystery.

  Not what had driven these two men to speed into the city, or why one of them tried to execute the other.

  The mystery was, where was the man in black.

  While the stories corroborated that he was indeed at the scene and was clipped by the car, there were no sightings of the man by any of the police officers.

  As they’d swarmed the area and others had raced past, not one officer had seen him.

  The man in black had disappeared.

  Like a ghost.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Assistant Commissioner Ruth Ashton sheepishly stared into her lukewarm tea. The thought of drinking it turned her stomach and she placed it onto her desk. After a few more moments, she looked up, offering a meek smile.

  General Ervin Wallace returned a harrowing glare.

  It had been nearly a week since he had returned from Italy and ever since then, he had been stepping into her office on a daily basis, demanding updates on the Sam Pope task force and berating her in front of her subordinates.

  It was a power play, reducing her authority in front of her team to show them the gravity of the situation.

  It didn’t feel great, but she couldn’t help but admire the man for it.

  Wallace sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other and he rested his fingers together.

  ‘So what?’ he asked sharply. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Ashton responded. ‘However, we are hoping to make a breakthrough soon. Apparently, we are tracing another safe house of Pope’s somewhere in the Kensal Green area.’

  ‘Whoopie-fucking-do.’ Wallace rolled his eyes. ‘Another locker with a bag of weapons in it. You can throw it in the cupboard with the rest of them.’

  He pushed himself out of the chair and began to pace the office slowly. Wallace peered out through the plastic slats that hung on Ashton’s window, his eyes scanning the task force as they tirelessly worked.

  All of them were useless in his eyes.

  While Sims was an arse-kissing creep, the man at least had the gumption to get things done. That being said, planting a bullet in the man’s head had given Wallace a deep sense of satisfaction. But that quickly eroded as the issue of Sam Pope had returned. Pope was missing and without him, Wallace didn’t know the location of the USB stick.

  He’d asked the task force to check in with Etheridge, although the man was still in hospital after being subjected to a brutal torture and beating.

  Wallace wanted them to search the house, but without a warrant, any infringement on Etheridge’s property was off limits. And a man with his resources, he could very feasibly take the Met to court.

  Ever since the marathon bombing and the subsequent revelation of corrupt officers, the public had been a baying mob, waiting with sharpened pitch forks for the Met to slip up.

  They would have to wait for Etheridge to make a speedy recovery and hope he cooperated.

  Wallace stepped towards the wall opposite the desk, a number of framed plaques were neatly lined across it. All of them were certifications, affirmations that Ashton was qualified for the high-ranking role she sat. Wallace appreciated the display, nothing said respect me better than proof of success.

  But they were not succeeding.

  Casually, he took one of Ashton’s commendations from its place and held the cheap frame in his hands. Ashton stood, slightly unnerved.

  ‘Please, Ervin. Be careful with that.’

  ‘You can address me as General Wallace,’ he said with a firm grin. ‘I think that’s more appropriate.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ashton startled. ‘I thought we were…’

  ‘Working together? So, did I, Assistant Commissioner, but it seems like this task force you have nailed your name to couldn’t find a fucking priest in a pre-school.’

  ‘Sir, I assure you, we are doing everything we can to find Sam. It’s our number one priority.’

  Ashton stepped forward, enamored with the hulking general who gently placed the frame back on its hook. Wallace had no intention of breaking off their arrangement. In fact, he enjoyed Ashton’s company and was planning on making an advance within the coming week.

  She would be a fine distraction from the failed mission.

  But he wanted her to know he was in charge, to tremble before him. Pope had defied him, undermined the power and control he had worked so hard and shed so much blood for.

  His future hung in the balance and Pope was the one holding the scales.

  With a tired frustration, Wallace squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Everything? You’ve tried everything?’

  ‘Yes, we are chasing all leads and we haven’t heard a thing from Singh since she began her suspension.’

  The mention of Singh’s name caused Wallace to look up. A figurative light bulb burst into light above his head.

  ‘That will be all. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ruth.’

  Ashton smiled as Wallace charmingly waved to her, striding through the door and among the officers, all of them stepping respectfully to the side. Asserting his dominance over the task force had felt good and it was a much-needed exercise in power and control.

  But it was on thin ice and Wallace knew he needed to track down Sam.

  Singh was the way to him. Detective Pearce, too.

  Wallace grinned deviously as he headed to the exit, his mind tempting him to think of just how difficult he was about to make things for them.

  Amara lifted herself up to a seated position, fingers interlocked behind her head and she breathed out. Her abdominal muscles were
burning due to the circuit session she was bringing to an end and as she sat up into another crunch, she called out ‘one hundred’ and then dropped back onto the mat.

  Her daily circuit had become a real highlight of her day, especially since all her access had been revoked.

  Suspended for over a week with the likelihood of a return as bleak as the weather outside.

  The British weather was doing its damndest to flush out the Christmas spirit, with the big day less than a week away and the only snow the UK had enjoyed was on Game of Thrones.

  Singh took a few deep breaths and then pushed herself up, reaching for her towel and dabbing the sweat that was running down the back of her neck. She checked her phone.

  No messages.

  Her parents had been surprisingly understanding of her suspension, telling her to take the two weeks to look after herself and spend some time on her. It only took a day before her mother began suggesting she join a few dating apps and try to find a nice man.

  That wasn’t going to fill the void.

  The only man she was trying to find was Sam Pope.

  She’d got word from a colleague she’d met for a drink that Sam had been in Italy and was in fact the man from the shooting near the Vatican. All photos of the incident had been removed from social media, but it was something. Singh wasn’t going to fly out to Italy and try to hunt the man herself, but his location coincided with Wallace’s trip to Rome.

  The General was clearly trying to keep something covered and her persistence had rattled his cage.

  Even an idiot knows you don’t provoke a cornered animal and Wallace struck her as a man who, although wielded a dangerous amount of power, always maintained that cornered mentality.

  It meant he could lash out at any second.

  She was under no illusion that he had given the directive to Ashton to remove her by any means necessary. She just couldn’t believe who had pulled the trigger.

  Despite a rocky start, she’d grown increasingly fond of DI Pearce, considering him more than just a colleague wrapped up in the same mess as she was. He’d become a friend and through all the slander, he had backed her. They were cut from the same cloth and although his assistance to Sam had been more blatant, they were both skirting with the idea that he was only trying to do the right thing.

  For him to hand her over to Ashton was unforgivable.

  He’d left her a few messages, telling her he had done it for her own safety after what had happened to Etheridge, but she’d deleted them straight away.

  Amara Singh didn’t need rescuing.

  She needed the truth.

  And she thought Adrian Pearce was one of the few people she could depend on to help her get there.

  With her workout complete, Singh left the gym promptly, preferring to shower in the privacy of her own flat. It was a short jog back through the rain to her flat and she used it as an opportunity to warm down and clear her thoughts. She entered through the front door, nodded to the concierge and boarded the lift. She thought she heard the receptionist call for her, but with her wireless ear phones drowning the world out with drum and bass, she decided to ignore her. The lift shot up, granting her a view of the incredible city of London. Singh had been proud to serve it and felt a twinge of sadness for the road her career had taken her down. With a deep sigh she looked out over the city, shrouded with dark clouds and wondered if that was a metaphor for what was ahead.

  Whatever awaited her, she would face.

  Only this time, alone.

  Singh stepped out onto her floor and saw a few of her neighbours stood in the hallway, the panic palpable. It only took her a few steps to realise they were looking to her apartment, the door hanging from the broken frame.

  A firm boot had caved in the side of the panel and whoever had entered had kept the same level of care.

  She could see her large TV on the floor, the glass screen covering the floor like a sadistic rug. Every photo from her mantlepiece had been broken. Her furniture was overturned, knife marks in each cushion. The back of the sofa had been ripped open.

  Every drawer had been yanked from its case and overturned.

  Singh stopped in the doorway, feeling her hand shaking in a mixture of fear and fury.

  Wallace.

  Whatever she had downloaded, whatever locked files she had in her possession, were clearly a cause for concern.

  The furniture and the possessions didn’t matter. They could be replaced.

  But pinned to her front door, with a knife shunted straight through her photo, was a copy of her police badge.

  The message was clear.

  Singh was in deep trouble.

  And this time, she didn’t have anyone to pull her out of it.

  ‘Easy does it, fella.’

  Pearce held out his hand for Etheridge, who gingerly took it. Slowly, he eased himself out of the passenger seat of Pearce’s car and gently placed the weight down on his cast. After the surgery to his knee, the hospital had wrapped the leg in a cast which Etheridge would need for the following month.

  His hand also bore the thick, white, solid plaster after the brutal attack of the man in black.

  Pearce offered him a warm smile as Etheridge eased himself to his feet, grimacing as the cold rain hit him. Pearce reached into the backseat of the car and pulled out Etheridge’s crutches. Etheridge accepted them with a grunt and then slid them under his arms, before clawing his way towards his front door.

  Pearce walked slowly behind him, watching the poor man struggle with his current situation. It was unlikely he would ever walk unaided again, but with a solid rehab program, he should at least retain an acceptable amount of mobility.

  Acceptable.

  None of it was acceptable.

  The man had been brutally tortured and the chances of them even identifying the man responsible were less than zero.

  Etheridge knew it, but whenever Pearce breached the subject of what happened, Etheridge calmly told him he didn’t want to discuss it. Pearce understood. A lot of people don’t want to recount a traumatic experience, the fear and pain it could conjure up was too big of a risk.

  But something about Etheridge’s tone said something else. The man had withdrawn slightly, more than Pearce would have expected and now seemed determined to return home.

  Etheridge seemed to have had a renewed purpose and Pearce felt a little uneasy at what it could be.

  With a slight struggle, Etheridge pulled the keys from his jeans pocket and pushed open the door. The frame was still busted from where his intruder had slammed his boot into it. His mind retraced back to that night, the vomit inducing pain of having his fingers snapped.

  Etheridge shuddered and stepped into the house.

  ‘Thank you, detective,’ he said, reaching for the door.

  ‘Paul, wait…’

  Etheridge closed the door, and Pearce rested his hand on the door, dropping his head in defeat. The bonds that had been forged by their faith in Sam had been broken and now the support network that Sam might one day return to was no more. Pearce knew Etheridge was an innocent man caught in the crossfire, but to lock himself away and hide was disappointing.

  With his hands stuffed in his pockets and the weight of the situation hanging from him like a lead chain, Pearce marched back to his car.

  Inside the house, Etheridge struggled to the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. He pulled a cold beer from the top shelf, twisted the lid and downed half of it one go.

  The icy alcohol tickled his taste buds and the refreshing feeling washed through him.

  With considerable difficulty, he lowered himself onto one of the chairs that surrounded the oak dining table and he took another sip.

  He thought he would breakdown the moment he got home. As if returning to the scene of his torture would be too much. But all it had done was reinforce his decision.

  He would take the rest of the evening, probably to get hammered, and then the next day, he would call the meeting.

 
; It was time for a change.

  As he sipped his beer, he turned his attention to the pile of mail that was neatly stacked on the table. Cecilia cleaned the house three times a week and had kindly collected his post for him.

  The weeks’ worth of mail was mainly junk, a combination of off-brand pizza menus and letters addressed ‘To the Home Owner’. As Etheridge was about to mark the pile as trash, a final envelope felt different.

  There was something solid inside and as he inspected the envelope, he noticed the Italian postage stamp.

  With a curious frenzy, he ripped open the envelope, only for a USB stick to fall onto his table.

  Sam slowly opened his eyes and winced at the brightness. The sun was shining wherever he was, and the rays had infiltrated his room, cutting across his pillow. He tried to push himself up, but the searing pain in his abdomen sent him crashing back against the lumpy mattress.

  He groaned in pain and inspected his stomach.

  The bullet wound that had almost killed him had been sewn shut, a bloodstained bandage taped against his solid stomach. The surrounding area was a bright red and Sam knew the operation had to have been recent.

  Likewise, with his shoulder, with a similar, bloody bandage hiding the recent stitching.

  By the feeling coursing through his body, he had received little anaesthetic, the loss of blood keeping him unconscious for the duration of the procedure. But now, with his eyes open, the agony was almost unbearable.

  ‘You’re awake.’

  Alex stepped into the room with a smile on her face. She looked tired, and her usually vibrant eyes were dark and encompassed by dark circles. Her hair was frizzy and in need of a good wash.

  Sam tried to speak, but his throat croaked like a bull frog. Alex stepped forward and lifted his glass of water, tipping it to his lips and letting him slowly drink. The refreshing water felt amazing and Sam cleared his throat.

  ‘Where am I?’ he eventually asked, trying his hardest to open his right eye.

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere near Genoa.’ Alex said vaguely. ‘I just drove, like you said. But you needed some help and I found a veterinarian student who spoke English and…’