The man had been racked by guilt ever since his son had been taken from him, and while he found redemption in every criminal he took off the street, there was no way back from the truth.
Sam had been an assassin for a secretive terrorist movement.
The deaths by his hands had helped set in motion a rise to power of a man who had lied to him. The files made for horrifying reading.
A man known as Yohan Henri, a French diplomat had been killed by Sam seven months before the fateful night on the outskirts of Kabul. Henri had been extradited back to the country under the pretence of arrest in China, but the truth was far uglier. The man had discovered a viable link between the French, UK, and Chinese governments regarding questionable payments to an Afghanistan corporation.
Further digging unearthed potential ties to the Taliban.
While he sought safety and protection from his own government, the Maréchal de France, Pierre Ducard, had sanctioned his assassination with Wallace.
Sam had been given the job and as a convoy, transporting the prisoner through Strasbourg, turned through an enclosed road through the scenic countryside, Sam had sent a bullet through the windscreen, eliminating the driver and causing the Range Rover to spiral off the road, clipping a rock and flipping onto its side.
Henri had crawled from the wreckage, only to receive another pinpoint shot through the centre of his cranium, sending him crashing against the wreckage, his brains splattering the picturesque surroundings.
Sam had been congratulated at the time, another war monger eliminated before he could set off his reported plans to attack the centre of Paris.
What Sam had actually done was murder an innocent man who had turned over the wrong stone.
Etheridge waited patiently as Sam heaved into the toilet bowl, the vomit splattering the porcelain among anguished cries of fury.
The list of Wallace’s accomplices and partners was petrifying, although Sam had helped his ‘boss’ to eliminate a couple, those who had been deemed as threats to his position.
Abdullah Bin Akbar was nothing more than a man trying to keep his family safe, after discovering a joint venture between Blackridge and the Taliban which would see a number of car bombs detonated within the city of Kabul, giving Blackridge the authority to interject and eventually hand the keys to the kingdom to the oppressive terrorist regime.
Ahmad Farukh had been one of the Taliban’s top generals and a trusted enforcer for Wallace on that side of the world.
Abdullah Bin Akbar and his family’s bodies were never found, the stone structure where Sam had been left for dead was burnt to the ground, their bodies nothing but ash. It was only at the behest of two of the other soldiers within Project Hailstorm that Sam made it out alive, the American soldiers refusing to leave a man behind.
The story was concocted that Sam had been shot by Bin Akbar, who then turned the gun on his family and them himself.
The world wouldn’t look any further.
The man was painted as a terrorist by the man they trusted most, and Sam received a heroic send off from the army and the matter was closed.
People didn’t truly understand war until they lived in it, Etheridge knew that. It was a world he’d been unsuited for which is why his career in the Armed Forces had finished.
His skills were behind a desk, planted in front of a computer.
But Sam was a soldier.
The war was as much a part of him as breathing.
But as Sam flushed the toilet, washing away the bile and pain, he was symbolically washing away the past. The life he believed he’d lived, the honour for which he’d fought.
All of it gone.
Flushed down the drain by the sickening truth.
General Ervin Wallace’s Blackridge was the largest terrorist cell in the world and Sam had been one of his chief weapons. Project Hailstorm had stripped the world back, spread fear through them all and laid the foundations for which Wallace would build his throne.
‘You okay, Sam?’ Etheridge spoke softly. With a slight discomfort, he hauled himself up via the bannister and shuffled through the hallway to the bathroom door. Sam was sat opposite the toilet, his back against the wall and his head back. His face was wet with tears, his hair damp with sweat. Taking long, deep breaths, Sam’s eyes were closed and after a few minutes, he responded.
‘I’m a murderer.’ His words were racked with guilt.
‘No, Sam,’ Etheridge responded sternly. ‘You’re a soldier. One of the best. You were just following orders.’
Sam scoffed.
‘Orders? I killed people, Paul. Innocent people who were actually doing what I believed I was. They were trying to save the world and I sent them to their graves because of it.’ Sam slammed his fist down against the immaculate, marble tiles of Etheridge’s plush bathroom. ‘I should have done something.’
‘Like what? How could you have known? I’ve read the files, Sam; they covered their tracks. Hell, they did a better job than even I could do. You are not a murderer, mate. You were just a guy who had the rug pulled like everyone else.’
Sam opened his eyes and turned to Etheridge. The broken stare caused Etheridge to shake, the pain in his friend’s eyes was heartbreaking.
‘My son died thinking that his dad was a hero,’ Sam began, the words choking in his throat. ‘He would draw pictures of me fighting bad guys and tell Lucy that I was saving the world.’
‘You were his hero.’
‘But I wasn’t, was I?’ Sam wiped his tears. ‘I was murdering people. I was letting men like Wallace cover the world in fear and my son celebrated it. Lucy proudly displayed my medals in the home. They both thought so highly of what I did. But it was all a fucking lie.’
Etheridge ambled into the bathroom and theatrically lowered himself down, drawing a small smile from Sam.
‘It wasn’t a lie, Sam. Everything you have ever done, you did for the right reason. Everything you are doing, this fight you’re raging, you need to see it through to the end. Marsden died for this information to get this far. Many others have died too, trying their best to show the world what the fuck is going on. So, you need to forgive the sins of your past, because they were never yours to make. You need to stand up, you need to fight, and you need to be the hero that your boy knew you were.’
Sam raised his eyebrows slightly, impressed with the pep talk. Etheridge pulled himself to a standing position via the towel rail and then extended a hand to Sam. There were no quips or jokes, the man’s face was as serious as Sam had ever seen.
‘Now are you going to fight or what?’
Sam took a few more breaths and looked up at his friend. Thinking about how broken his life was, he mourned for everything he’d lost.
His mentor.
His best friend.
His wife.
His son.
Now his career. Everything had been taken from him, but there were still a few things left. A few people, like Etheridge and Singh who believed in.
He had lost so much, but not the one thing that would keep him going.
The fight.
With one final exhale, Sam swung his arm up, clamping his hand around Etheridge’s wrist and allowed his friend to haul him up. The room wobbled slightly, the dehydration kicking in and he offered his friend a smile.
‘Thank you, Paul.’ He gently patted his friend’s shoulder. ‘For everything.’
Etheridge nodded; their friendship had been forged when Sam had saved his life all those years ago. He was happy to return the favour.
‘So…what now?’
‘Right now, I need a beer,’ Sam said dryly. ‘And then we’re going to burn Blackridge to the ground.’
The article had practically written itself.
Helal Miah had been watching the news all evening, open-mouthed at the chaos that had transpired at Liverpool Street Station. A day after his article had seen an avalanche of traffic hit The Pulse website, it was a vindication that something strange was a foot.
&
nbsp; Sam Pope was at the scene, clearly in the midst of a brutal battle with an unknown man who had tried to end his life. Discovered among the carnage were three operatives, all of them with links to Blackridge.
They had been beaten badly. Undoubtedly by Sam and Helal had thrown open his laptop and let the words flow. It was a sensational story and one that he knew he was walking dangerously on the cusp of.
Further footage had emerged as the night went on of Amara Singh blasting a handgun into the air moments after Sam had fallen from the balcony. It had caused a mass panic, allowing Sam and Singh to disappear into the crowds and evade whoever the hell was after them.
Blackridge?
The Met Police?
Were they in it together?
The beauty of Helal’s journalistic mind was nothing was out of reach. Speculative as it may be, he was beginning to piece together a very dangerous jigsaw, one which he hoped would shake the country almost as much as Sam’s crusade. After everything Singh had told him, there were too many coincidences, too many of the same names linking together for there not to be an element of truth to it all.
As the evening turned into night, Helal was strapped to his chair, adding the final touches of drama to the most explosive article he’d ever written, a couple of empty energy drink cans littering his desk.
The article had everything in it.
A detailed look back over Sam’s crusade, emphasising the links between the Met Police, Howell, and Frank Jackson. The disappearance of Sgt Colin Meyer not long after. The fall of the Kovalenko trafficking empire and the subsequent withdrawal of Mark Harris from the mayoral race. The emergence of Wallace and his increasing presence within the Met Police, his ties to Blackridge who had been present in Kiev, where Sam had burnt the final embers of the Kovalenkos.
The Blackridge bodies found outside of Naples a week ago while Italy had been the last known location of Sam.
It was all piecing together.
Wallace was hiding something. Blackridge was his shield.
Sam Pope was doing his level best to bust it wide open.
With a satisfying flick of his fingers, Helal signed his name to the article and sent it through to Nigel, knowing his boss would most likely have an aneurism at the wild claims he was making.
They would be liable for a lawsuit.
He could very well lose his job.
But with the same conviction Sam had when he faced the barrel of a gun, Helal believed in his words. He believed in the truth and was damn sure it was being hidden.
Just as he clicked send, there was a knock at his door. He sat upright, a gentle panic vibrating through his body. Hesitantly, he lifted himself from the chair and marched across his apartment, stopping to fetch a cricket bat which had only ever seen a batting cage once in their five-year relationship.
‘Who is it?’ he called out. There was no answer and slowly, he lifted his eye to the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
Shrugging his shoulders, he turned away from the door, only for the knock to return, this time with added venom.
Quickly, Helal reached for the handle, bat in hand and threw it open, hoping to terrify the young hoodlums clearly playing games.
He was welcomed by a hammer like fist to the face, the impact shattering his nose and breaking his glasses. As the shards of glass and stream of blood fell to the floor, he fell back into the room, tripping over his table, and collapsing to the floor, his head ringing and his eyes watering.
Ahmad Farukh stepped in, taking one final look into the hallway of the apartment block, happy that the coast was clear.
Helal rolled onto his front, helplessly trying to crawl back towards his office to reach for his phone.
It was an empty gesture of survival.
With his face as emotionless as his soul, Farukh shut the door and made his way towards his target.
Chapter Twenty-One
Singh took a large sip of her gin and let the alcohol work its calming magic.
Since leaving the station amidst the panic she’d caused, the rest of her day had become a blur. Whether it was fear or adrenaline, or maybe a mixture of both, she’d managed to slip away from Liverpool Street Station and the carnage of the situation. She’d made her way on foot back down towards Farringdon, the trainlines all brought to a grinding halt by the police as they locked down one of the UK’s busiest stations.
The public would be furious, their afternoon out in the sunny captal ruined by her actions, but she did what was necessary. Whoever that man was that confronted them by the lift, he was certainly dangerous, evidenced by the state in which she’d seen Sam.
He had been bloodied and beaten and the man had no qualms at all in hurling Sam to his potential death. While the collision with the confectionary stand must have hurt like hell, it was a damn sight better than a full-on drop to the concrete.
Sam was lucky to be alive.
And, as her hand trembled as she lifted her glass, she realised so was she.
As she’d meandered through the backstreets of London, she’d stopped to withdraw three hundred pounds from her account, maxing out the withdrawal limit, but made sure she ventured further. In all likelihood, her peers would link her to the scene of the chaos and would be looking for her.
Ashton would make it a priority.
If she needed an excuse to finally shove Singh through the exit door, she now had one. In fact, she probably had enough to build a case to put Singh behind bars.
Knowing she couldn’t go home, Singh continued through the sunshine until it began to descend, walking through the beauty of Russell Square, amazed at the greenery smack bang in the centre of the city. Kids ran gleefully through the fountains, as parents gathered on the grass, joking with each other as they sipped Pimm’s and shared snacks.
Normal lives lived by normal people.
For the first time in her own life, Singh envied them. She envied her sister; the tranquil family life she’d settled into was a world away from her own.
Once a promising detective, she was now a wanted woman. Not only had she bitten the hand that fed her, but she’d also enraged an entirely different beast.
Wallace had sent Blackridge to the station to catch Sam and judging by the gun pointed at her face by the agent at the lift, she was now expendable. They would be watching her home like a hawk.
Things could never go back.
Not while Sam’s war waged on.
She finished her drink and motioned to the barman for another; the young man offering her a sorrowful smile as he obliged. The Lord John Russell was a small pub just off the Bloomsbury shopping arcade near Euston and afforded her enough of a hiding place for now. The narrow alleyway that ran alongside the pub was packed with locals, all of them enjoying the humid evening and filling the tunnel with drunken banter and cigarette smoke.
As she sat against the old, wooden bar, she’d already rebuffed the lecherous advances of two separate men, both of them offering her a good time but unlikely to follow through.
As she paid for her drink, she felt anger at having to pay in cash.
It was a reminder of her situation, that she had to stay off the radar and it filled her with rage. Sam had used her as bait. He explained to her why, trapped in the small, metal lift with her, but it still hurt.
While Sam may have been a good man, he’d still put her in harm’s way.
A means to an end.
As she furiously knocked back her drink, she wondered if that was really what had angered her. That, or the kiss they’d shared. That among all the mayhem, the violence, and the fight that had ruined her life, there was a glimpse of a life she could have had.
What annoyed her most was that she cared about him.
That after everything, from the humiliation he put her through at Etheridge’s house, to the beating and near death she suffered in the port, she still cared for a man that her entire life’s work had told her she should despise.
With the alcohol now taking f
ull effect, she stumbled from her bar stool and weaved her way through the pokey establishment, sliding past a group of guys who offered her a crass night with all four of them.
She responded with a middle finger, before buckling over the small step and stumbling out onto the pavement outside. The groups of friends, penned in on the benches that framed the doorway, cheered in the sarcastic way all British pub goers did.
She was too drunk to care.
Too angry to feel embarrassed.
As she stumbled back to the cheap bed-and-breakfast she’d already paid for, she stopped in at the off-licence, buying another litre bottle of gin and some tonic water, letting the shop keeper keep the generous change she got from her twenty.
She didn’t care.
All she wanted was to get back to her room, drink away the myriad of confusing thoughts swarming in her head and blackout, hoping the next morning would bring about change.
It was unlikely, but it was better than wallowing in the ashes of her life.
As she kicked open the door to her grotty room, she dumped her jacket on the rickety chair opposite the vanity mirror and dropped onto the uncomfortable bed. The room spun, the alcohol playing havoc with her sense of balance and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. In the room next door, she could hear the TV, the occupant watching an action movie. The sound of gunfire and explosions wasn’t welcoming, given the current circumstances, so Singh reached for a glass from the tray, ignoring the meagre offering of coffee and tea. She unscrewed the gin and poured in a generous helping, before pulling out the tonic. Just as she unscrewed the cap, her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Despite her drunken state, curiosity took over and she pulled up the message.
We need to talk. Privately. Come alone.
It was Helal Miah.
Singh sat upright, her interest piqued, and she slammed the tonic down, spilling it slightly.
Another message followed.
It was his address.
Considering everything she’d told him, his article that had already spread across social media like wildfire and the day’s events, she imagined he’d connected some dots.
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 16
