Lucy had always said he was handsome, but he had never been vain. He had a strong jaw and deep, brown eyes that burrowed into people. His hair was neat, with the temples slowly starting to grey as he approached his thirty-eighth birthday. As he was approaching middle age, he knew he was in great shape.
It was the military regime.
You could take the boy out the army but couldn’t take the army out of the boy.
He scowled. He had been taken out of the army.
The two bullet holes at the top of each pectoral muscle had scarred to two white eyes. He remembered little.
The stone room.
A sudden hesitation.
The barrel of the gun pressed against his back before the burning sensation, followed by darkness.
That was years ago—when he was a soldier, ready to come home to his family. Now, he walked robotically through life, his empty apartment, and his repetitive job.
He dressed, a black T-shirt and jeans, and then made his way to the kitchen for his breakfast.
He had booked the day off from his job, his boss laughing at the idea of him finally taking some holiday. His ID badge loomed at him from the kitchen counter where he sat, the Metropolitan Police logo proudly in the corner.
As he shovelled the porridge into his mouth, he wondered what it would have been like to have finished the training and become a police officer. After serving for ten years in the army, it would have been great to have a sense of purpose once again, with orders to follow and a well-adhered-to chain of command.
Life didn’t always work out the way you planned it.
The silence of his flat, the absence of his family, would attest to that.
As he marched to the front door, he stopped for one moment to scan an eye across his front room. There was a sofa, which had been left by the previous occupant, the leather torn and beaten. A wooden desk was pressed against the far wall, with a lamp and a number of files neatly placed to one side. Opposite was his bookshelf, which was slowly filling up as he kept one of the two promises he had made to his son.
Again he scowled, refusing to allow himself to be drawn back into the misery, where he struggled so badly to find the light switch.
His eyes landed on the small table near the door.
A row of medals stood neatly, all of them earnt in the heat of battle. Each one was in a decorative case, handed to him by a senior-ranked officer with the utmost gratitude. A number of them were for saving the lives of his squadron, watching over them from the scope of his rifle. One of them was for placing a bullet between the eyes of a man that was on the FBI’s ten most wanted list.
All of the relics to a life that had long since slipped away.
Today was a day when he was reminded of who he used to be.
Of who he had promised he wouldn’t be again.
With his head lowered almost in shame, Sam opened his front door and slammed it shut behind him, heading off into a city that hadn’t woken up yet.
He spent the day sat in a coffee shop just to the right of Southwark Underground Station, a small business doing its best to battle the continuous wave of chain coffee shops. The journey into central London wasn’t too bad; his small flat just outside of Maidenhead was near to the train station. With the new generation unable to afford the astronomical prices of London properties, the rail companies saw extreme profit margins in the neighbouring counties.
The UK economy.
Where the rich get richer by providing even less.
As he ploughed through the book, surprisingly finding he enjoyed some parts, he slowly saw the deep morning fade, the incredible rush of London bursting into life wafting through the door like a continuous conga line. Young professionals bought extraordinary flavours of coffee, the mark-ups painting a wide smile on the proprietor’s face.
The UK economy.
Where the rich get richer by providing even less.
As the day rolled into the afternoon, he finally settled up, paying for his coffee and breakfast roll before strolling through the cultured streets of Southwark, daring himself to take in a museum.
Willing himself to find a new hobby.
Whilst today wasn’t what he would call a hobby, he knew he couldn’t get distracted.
This was a duty.
His life of orders and fighting for the flag was out of sight in his rear view, but today was a reminder of what he used to be.
Of what he would always be.
As the trial resumed at Southwark Crown Court, he watched as the disgusting Chris Morton sat in his chair, his gut pressed against the desk and a look of pleasure on his face. In the rows between him and the vile rapist, he saw the victim, a shivering woman who had been through hell and was about to be dragged back through by her ankles. Her family were protectively around her, trying their best to hold together the pieces before she shattered.
Because of Chris Morton.
Sam had seen the file as he placed the case files into the selected evidence boxes, his role as a senior archivist in the police headquarters in Victoria giving him access to plenty of information. Usually he tagged and bagged, or shipped boxes into the vast corridors that sat one level below ground, a labyrinth of crimes.
A tapestry of the horrors of London.
Although his wife leaving three years previous had ended his desire to be a police officer, he had eventually found solace in the darkness of the archive rooms, still finding a place to serve but away from the public eye.
Away from all eyes.
As he watched the foreman of the jury stand, anxiously twiddling his fingers as he gave the judge a ‘not guilty’ verdict, his jaw tightened with anger. Once again a technicality had been weaselled out of a nightmare, and that justified a rapist walking free.
The young woman, Catriona, burst into tears. Her mother was sick on the floor. As the room emptied amidst a symphony of moans, murmurs, and slams of the gavel, Sam sat still, his hands rested on his knees. With his back straight, he locked his eyes onto Morton with the same precision as he had moved a sniper scope.
He watched.
The vile man looked unclean; his hygiene, like his suit, was ill fitting. He watched as Morton ignored his lawyer, who scurried down the aisle with his hand covering his face in shame. Sam watched as Morton caught a glimpse of a large, muscular man in a leather jacket, and he made a mental note that he wasn’t the only one who was there for business.
For Morton.
The judge retired to her chambers and Morton, with less swagger than before, eventually wandered towards the door, heading in Sam’s direction. With every step, Sam could feel his knuckles whitening. He had read the file, the terrifying account of how Morton had held Catriona by the throat, threatening to cut her open as he had violated her.
Sam turned and stared directly into Morton’s eyes.
As Morton, with his image to protect, tried to return the look with venom. But Sam knew his unblinking stare would win out. There was nothing about Morton that scared him. When he cast his mind back to Iraq, watching as two jeeps full of Taliban soldiers headed in his direction, armed to the teeth with nothing but death for company, none of the London underbelly scared him.
Morton scrambled through the doors and into the foyer, and after a few moments Sam followed, stuffing his hands into his bomber jacket and strolling unnoticed as just another civilian. Hands stuffed into his pockets, he was just a curious citizen.
No one knew what he really was.
As he watched Morton enter the Range Rover, driven by what he assumed was Right Said Fred on steroids, he hailed a taxi and followed, handing the man two fifty-pound notes to follow them, four cars back and without questions. The driver obliged, only speaking when he tried to strike up a conversation.
Sam ignored him until he gave up, gently thumbing the vacant slot on his wedding-ring finger and sending a painful jolt through his heart. The skin had long since healed from the indent caused by the years it proudly wore that silver band.
&n
bsp; ‘Hey, fella,’ the cabbie eventually said, snapping him back from his pleasant memories. ‘They’re stopping.’
‘Just keep going.’
They rolled past, the flow of traffic giving Sam enough time to memorise the building and the street name. He caught a glimpse of a nervous Morton shuffling out of the car, wincing in pain and pressing a hand to his stomach. Sam afforded himself a smile at what he assumed wasn’t a pleasant journey.
When he returned later that night, he carefully scouted the road from the alley on the road opposite. London shot to the sky, every building racing its neighbour to the moon, which was slowly beginning to invade the pink dusk sky. He had changed, now wearing black jeans, boots, and his black bomber jacket. Stuffed in the pocket was the balaclava; just holding it reminded him of the ‘need-to-know’ missions from years before.
The ones that were nowhere near the books.
In his right hand he gripped the taped handle of the metal baseball bat. In his left he held up a single-lensed binocular, scouting the front of the building and watching as the security guard stuck regimentally to his rounds.
Sam was aware that this building belonged to Frank Jackson, one of his rumoured High-Rises that were strictly off limits according to the police briefings he had ducked into or the cigarette smokers who congregated near the windows of the archive rooms. He gathered that there were a lot of greased palms willing to look the other way.
Well not tonight.
A black car pulled up out front and left just as quickly, a scantily clad brunette stepping out and dropping a cigarette butt on the floor as the guard trotted out to greet her. They spoke for a moment before she headed in, her high heels clicking on the pavement as he sparked a cigarette to life and slowly headed to the alleyway that framed part of the building.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he thought about the two other times he had done this. He thought of the sense of right and wrong, the line between them slowly vanishing as the world fell further into the darkness.
He thought of the moments he had held his breath, closed one eye, and pulled the trigger.
Now was that moment.
Sam shot forward.
He crossed the road silently, a black blur as he hiked up the balaclava to conceal his identity. The bat made a sickening clang as it connected with the back of the guard’s thick skull. He watched the man collapse forward with zero compassion, doubting the security guard of a criminal hideout was a good Samaritan.
He slid through the double doors silently, the blond receptionist and escort locked in discussion in an Eastern European language. Before they could scream, Sam lifted a finger to his lips and pointed the baseball bat at them. Frozen on the spot, he kept the bat held up as he approached them.
‘Morton. Room number.’
His words were laced with venom, but the eagerness with which she gave up the information told him that she didn’t exactly approve of the clientele. The prostitute told him that she was there for Morton, which caused Sam to smile.
Morton would be expecting a knock on the door.
Saving the woman from an undoubtedly horrible experience, he demanded both of them go into the back room and wait five minutes before calling for help. The hooker waved him off, lighting another cigarette and obliging him as she would be used to. The receptionist seemed almost grateful, nodding as a tear dragged a line of mascara down her pretty face.
He ascended the lift to the fourth floor and slowly and silently moved down the hall, keeping his knees bent and his back against one of the walls. Behind one of the doors he passed, he heard a woman moan loudly—undoubtedly a hooker indulging some scumbag in whatever debauched fantasy he had.
He approached Morton’s door.
He tapped gently.
Angry stomps raced towards the door, and as it swung open, he swung upwards.
The bat connected directly with the bridge of Morton’s nose, shattering it and then exploding down his pasty, naked chest. The cartilage ruptured, blood gushing downwards like an opened dam. Morton squealed as he stumbled back into the room, hands clasping his face as he howled in pain. Sam darted into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. Morton lunged forward in sheer anger, his eyes wild and his face a crimson mask.
Sam jabbed the bat sharply into the flabby gut, driving the air out of the rapist and watching him double over. Then, as if going for a home run, he swung the bat upwards, connecting fully with the sweaty, bloodstained skull.
The noise was sickening.
Morton—all seventeen stone of him—left the floor, flopping backwards and crashing through the oak cabinet and rolling onto the floor, his back covered in splinters. With his brain rattling around his head, Morton woozily tried to get up, only for a firm boot to catch him in the chest, sending him falling backwards into the side of the bed.
After a few more moments of dazed movement, he gave up.
Sam stood in silence, watching as Morton tried to process what had happened, his face a car crash of blood, broken bones, and missing teeth. As he breathed, his nose gasped for air like a dog’s chew toy.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Morton’s words slurred together. Sam squatted down in front of the beaten criminal and pulled off the balaclava, locking on the same scowl he had in the courtroom. He watched as Morton searched his mind before realisation set in.
‘You,’ he said accusingly. ‘You were there today.’
‘Yup.’
‘Do you know who the fuck I am?’ His words were followed by sprays of spit and blood.
‘You’re Chris Morton,’ Sam said calmly, standing up again and gently handling the bat. ‘And you raped that young girl.’
Morton started chuckling. ‘I was found not guilty.’ He watched nervously as his attacker lifted the bat. Suddenly, before he even knew it, the bat crashed down on top of his foot, shattering his ankle and snapping the foot forwards and shooting a bone through the skin. He roared in agony.
‘You ruined her life.’
Another swing and Morton felt the bones in his left hand fall to dust. Suddenly, the pain began to fade as his rotund, battered body began to slowly relinquish itself to shock. As tears streamed down his face, he slowly spat a few more words out.
‘I did it. Okay. I did it.’ He lifted his hand, a pathetic final glance of hope. ‘Please have mercy?’
Sam lifted the bloodstained bat once more, looking from the metal to the man at his feet. He thought of the young woman whose life would never be the same again.
Of the injustice of the system set up to protect her.
How much mercy was she shown?
Morton’s head dropped forward as he slowly began to lose consciousness.
Sam lifted the bat once more and coldly responded.
‘No.’
Morton felt the bat crush into his testicles before he blacked out from the pain. Sam Pope hung around for a few more moments, ensuring he handed the rapist exactly the sort of sentence he deserved.
By the time the receptionist had called for help, the security guard had returned to the front desk, staggering like a drunk with blood caking the back of his suit. A few more henchmen turned up, with the hooker screaming at them in her native tongue and them all rushing to Morton.
They found him on the floor.
Both ankles and knee caps shattered.
Both hands crushed, with the elbows shattered inwards, the bones jutting out of the skin like crooked teeth.
His testicles were smashed to a bloody pulp and his face was crooked, the jaw hanging loosely and exposing bloody gums where his teeth used to live.
He had been brutalised.
As they stared in horror, Sam dumped the bat in a recycling bin in the car park of a large Sainsbury’s before turning his black bomber jacket inside out to a maroon colour, then heading down the steps of the nearest Tube station and into the depths below, leaving behind another night of blood and chaos.
Another night of justice.
CHAPTER THREE
The Metropolitan Police Headquarters was alive with activity the following day. The hub, sat on the side of the Thames, a stone’s throw from Westminster station, had long since been a tourist hotspot. Despite the pleas of the government and officers themselves, tourists loved to get a snap in front of the triangular ‘New Scotland Yard’ sign which sat proudly outside.
Behind that, the glass pavilion led into the building where dozens of specialist teams worked in unison to protect the city of London as well as the country itself. With the Ministry of Defence occupying one of the neighbouring buildings, it was one of the safest places to find yourself. It was where Samuel Pope found himself passing through that morning, head down for the usual silent trip to the archive facility.
A few of the regular officers regarded him with a look of confusion; this impressively built man had shut off all social conventions and was seen as a bit of an oddball.
One to stay away from.
It was just how he wanted it.
As he wandered through the offices, nodding a few curt hellos to those who did offer a greeting, a sudden twinge of jealousy ricocheted through his muscular body. He had wanted to serve, ever since he had been honourably discharged on the grounds of his injuries. But after everything that had happened, he now found himself walking a different path instead.
His handiwork was the talk of the office, with a few officers discussing the rumours of Morton ‘getting exactly what he had coming.’ Sam afforded himself a smile as he passed through the corridor and into the archive waiting room, where officers stood impatiently, waiting for one of his co-workers to retrieve their necessary files.
‘Morning,’ Sam muttered, weaving between the small collective of uniforms.
One of them stepped back, his shoulder ramming into Sam’s and knocking him off balance.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 2