‘A vet?’ Sam chuckled. ‘You took me to a vet?’
‘It was the best I could do.’ Alex shrugged, reciprocating Sam’s grin. ‘Then I just drove until we ran out of gas and I found this place. Paid for four nights and just prayed you wouldn’t die.’
‘Thank you,’ Sam spoke sincerely. ‘You saved my life.’
‘Well, someone has to keep you out of trouble.’ Alex reached out and gently ran the back of her fingers against Sam’s stubble covered cheek. He appreciated the gesture and she stood up and moved to the window, picking up the mug of coffee she’d left on the sill.
Two streets away, the coastline calmly lapped at the beach, the serenity of the ocean crashing against the rocks filled her with as much warmth as the coffee did. The weather was still appalling, but growing up in New York City, she didn’t get to see the beach an awful lot.
It was beautiful.
‘How’s the view?’ Sam asked, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Beautiful,’ Alex replied, taking a final sip of her coffee before placing it back down. She turned to Sam, her face as serious as he had ever seen it. ‘What’s the plan?’
Sam stretched his arm, gritting his teeth at the shooting pain that shot up from his shoulder.
He was in a bad way.
But he had survived.
Sam turned to Alex, returning her stare and his words were colder than the freezing rain that clattered their window.
‘I’m going to get better, then, it’s time to fight back.’
EPILOGUE
The television was white noise in the background, the language barrier a mere hindrance as the man in black watched the news cycle on repeat. The TV itself had to be over twenty years old, a cumbersome box with a curved screen that flickered with every heavy movement.
The man in black didn’t care.
He wasn’t one for materialistic living. As long as it showed what he needed to see, he couldn’t care about the aesthetics.
The news reel was running on repeat, images and videos of the night he almost executed Sam Pope.
Half an inch.
That was what had saved Sam’s life.
The man in black had managed to slither into the shadows as the unknown vehicle made its getaway with Sam in tow, and he watched from the alleyway as a few police cars darted past in a fruitless attempt to apprehend them. As the Polizia began to turn the street into a crime scene, the man had turned and stumbled down the alleyway, the collision with the car had severely bruised his leg and twisted his knee. Beyond that and a few scrapes, the collision with the vehicle itself hadn’t done too much damage. It was colliding with the asphalt that had cracked three ribs and separated his shoulder.
After putting enough distance between himself and the crime scene, the man in black assessed his arm, which was hanging loosely from its socket. Practically thinking, he pressed it up against the wall, twisted his body and with a sharp grunt of pain, he snapped it back into place.
He was used to pain.
He could handle it.
Eventually, he had made his way towards the more poverty-stricken part of Rome, finding a hostel where the owner, after taking one look at his disfigured face, allowed him the private room for a minimal price.
Now, he had removed his shirt and was looking at the bruising that was forming on the right-hand side of his toned chest. The cracked ribs were aching and the internal bleeding while not serious, would cause severe discomfort.
He would allow Wallace to send him to a medical facility when he made contact. For now, the protocol was to lie low for a week and remain completely off the radar.
As he inspected his injuries in the mirror, his eyes landed on the left-hand side of his body. While his face was hard to keep out of sight, he rarely studied the severity of his scars.
His entire left arm, shoulder, and pectoral was charred, covered in rough scar tissue from the severe burns he had received when the missile had collided with the mountain face.
The deep, thick scars that ran across his back were the result of the torturous Taliban squadron that had found his dying body. They’d nursed him back to health, a cruelty that would turn out to be a fate worse than death.
They used him as a statement of intent to their younger recruits, beating him in public. Lashing him with razor wire.
Burning him with cattle prods.
His fingertips were sliced off. Seven teeth were pulled from the gums. All his finger and toenails were removed with bamboo.
For five years he was at their mercy. Beaten daily. Raped monthly.
He’d begged for death but was eventually found by General Wallace, who had not only freed him from his prison but had captured the four leaders of that particular unit and left them in a room with him.
He’d slowly disembowelled them all, ensuring their deaths were slow, painful, and horrifying.
Just like his life had been. But since then, Wallace had given him all the treatment and medical help he had needed in return for his loyalty. As he continued to train, he soon became one of Wallace’s ghosts, eliminating high profile targets and doing the man’s bidding.
All in the name of loyalty.
The man in black walked away from the mirror towards the small dressing table beside his single mattress bed. On it, lay his phone and his wallet.
And a metal chain.
He chuckled at the notion of loyalty. That was what Sam Pope had spoken about during their time in the barracks together. Or when they were out on missions together.
Loyalty.
How they never left a man behind.
As he glared into the mirror at the mutilated figure that stared back, he slammed his charred fist into the centre of the glass, cracking it into several pieces.
The jagged reflection was much better. It suited him more.
He was a monster.
Because of Sam Pope.
Slowly, with the pain barely an afterthought, he opened his fist to look at the dog tags attached to the metal chain.
On one side, it read ‘Matthew McLaughlin.’
On the other, it read ‘Mac’.
THE END
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Copyright © Robert Enright, 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover by Phillip Griffiths
Edited by Emma Mitchell
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 24
