Another officer giggled.
‘Ooops.’ It was Officer Harding, a real ‘lad’ who had two more testicles than he had brain cells.
Sam ignored it, knowing the other officers knew about why he hadn’t continued his police training. His lack of judgment would haunt him forever, and just as he thought about turning back and showing Harding just how outmatched he would be, a cough echoed over his shoulder. He turned, seeing his boss, Des, stood behind the security glass with his hands on his hips.
The officers went quiet.
‘Sir,’ Sam offered, reaching for his pass that swung from his neck on a Met Police issue lanyard.
‘Pope. What are you doing here?’ His manager was a short, podgy man who pushed his glasses up his nose after every sentence. ‘You have an appointment.’
‘Sir, I’m fine,’ Sam protested.
‘If I recall, it wasn’t optional.’
The two of them stared at each other before Sam pushed his satchel through the glass for his manager to store and sighed. Turning back, he heard a few sniggers from the officers.
‘Off to see the shrink, eh?’ Harding muttered.
Sam stopped, smiling to himself. He would have loved to take Harding apart and expose him as the same old ‘big man’ that walked around wearing their badge like a sign of their toughness. Compared to the things Sam had seen overseas, the man was a fluffy kitten. Ignoring the goad, Sam headed back to the hive of activity, watching as uniformed and suited men and women buzzed around the office.
With a heavy sigh he made his way back up to the ground floor before heading into the lift to the second. Once there, he ventured down the corridors, his well-polished shoes clicking against the tiled floor. On the cork notice boards that framed the walls was a tapestry of leaflets, ranging from neighbourhood watch to how to deal with sexual assault.
An index of crime and how to handle it.
Eventually he came upon the door and stopped. He looked down at his neatly ironed white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a navy tie dangling like a clock pendulum.
It could have been a police uniform.
It should have been army camouflage.
Suddenly he felt an ache in his chest, the two bullet scars pulsing out a painful memory like ripples on a lake.
With a deep sigh he knocked on the door, waited for the friendly voice to welcome him in, and then entered.
Downstairs in the main briefing room, Inspector Michael Howell was watching, arms crossed, as the chairs before him slowly filled up with officers. It always struck him how eclectic the Metropolitan Police Service was and gave him a sense of pride for his years of service. There were large, world-weary veterans, their idea of justice being a slightly firmer hand and a slightly more discriminating eye. The new recruits, all trimmed beards and tattoos, optimistic that they could change the world for the better. Different cultures and ethnicities, gay, straight, men, women—all of them the same under the black and white brush of the Metropolitan Police.
Taking a seat four rows from the back was the one person who filled him with the most pride of all.
His nephew.
PC Jake Howell.
Inspector Howell cast his mind back to the moment his sister had told him of her son’s intentions, leaning on her brother to deflect the interest with horror stories. She had wanted him to become a lawyer, and with the grades he had accumulated, a life of further education was a real possibility. As he met his then fresh-faced nephew for a pint to dissuade him, he couldn’t help but share the thrilling stories of his career.
The years spent on the armed response unit, zipping through the city locked and loaded.
The cases he had cracked whilst working for CID, the five murders he had solved and the sex trafficking ring he had helped bring down.
With no kids of his own, he had always felt a special bond with Jake and, despite the occasional glare from his sister, watching him pass out as a police officer was the proudest day of his life. Watching him take his seat amongst his colleagues and the inappropriate banter, he realised how much he missed being out on the beat.
It had been over a six years since he was promoted to his highly respected ranking and over a decade and a half since he was out on the beat. Age had caught up with him; he could feel the slackness of his muscles now, his once tall, built figure a lot slimmer as Father Time slowly picked away at him.
His hair was thinner, like a soft blanket of snow on his head. His reading glasses sat on his nose, their necessity ever growing.
Inspector Howell, not long for retirement.
As he stood, arms folded, staring into nothingness whilst his mind wrestled with his stellar career and unfortunate aging, a voice brought him back to the room.
‘Sir?’
It belonged to Detective Sergeant Colin Mayer, a brutish man with forearms like slabs of meat, a temper as explosive as Vesuvius, and his nose so far up every authority figure’s arse he could list their lunch habits.
Mayer stepped to the side, revealing everyone stood to attention, arms straight by their sides, chins proudly lifted. Beside him was another man, younger, clean shaven, and clearly nervous.
Howell smiled before addressing the room.
‘At ease.’ Howell spoke calmly, a trait he was well liked for. ‘It’s great to see so many of you in here today. As you know, this Sunday is the London Marathon. It’s one of our busiest days of the year and we are required to provide a strict and visible presence. Now many of you may question whey someone wants to run twenty-six miles, and you know what? I don’t bloody blame you.’
A few chuckles bounced around the room like an echo as Howell continued.
‘But whilst their jobs will be to get from start to finish, our job will be to ensure that the runners, organisers, and of course the wonderful people of this great city who come out to support the event, are able to do so in complete safety. I know I don’t need to remind anyone in this room that we live in dangerous times. Our threat level remains high and we have reason to believe that there could be a terror attack this coming Sunday. As always, we pray for the best but prepare for the worst.’
All of the officers’ eyes were glued to him, watching as he commanded the room with the effortless authority that had evolved over many years of steady stewardship. The door to the conference opened slowly. A man slid in silently, dressed in a sharp grey suit with a yellow tie, which his trim frame filled nicely. His black skin showed no signs of age, but the grey hair that framed his head and chin caused Howell to place him in his fifties. He nodded a respectful apology for interrupting and took a seat.
Howell didn’t know who he was, but he certainly held the aura of a man of importance.
Clearing his throat, Howell returned his attention to his officers. ‘So before we go through the teams and shifts for this weekend, we have Detective Sergeant Mayer and Detective Constable Williams from the Counter Terrorist Team to go through the protocols for this Sunday’—audible groans rose throughout the room— ‘and I expect you all to show them the same courtesy and attention as you have shown me.’
Mayer stepped forward, his dark three-piece suit strapped to his body like a straitjacket. He shook the inspector’s hand and thanked him audibly. Addressing the room, he spoke with passion and conciseness, a man clearly in charge of the situation. Despite his weaselly penchant for cosying up to those in power, Howell had to admit that Mayer was good at his job. As the officers scribbled notes in their notepads, and DC Williams struggled with the laptop presentation, Howell snuck a glance to the back of the room.
The mystery man was sat casually, one leg flopped over the other, watching intently.
Who was he?
Howell also caught a glimpse of his nephew, studiously noting down every word. He smiled with pride, turning back to the front and allowing the rest of the presentation to filter into his mind. When it was finished, Mayer reiterated that he was their person to contact. Howell rolled his eyes at the power grab, quickl
y stepping up, thanking Mayer, and ushering him to the side. Howell thanked his team for their attention and wished them luck on Sunday.
‘Dismissed.’
As the officers slowly filtered out of the room like a clearing fog, Howell noticed the latecomer still sat in his chair. Howell thanked Mayer and Williams, who soon vacated, before striding purposefully through the chairs. As he approached, the man stood, buttoning the top button of his well-fitted blazer, and extended a hand.
‘Inspector Howell?’
Howell nodded as he accepted.
‘DCI Adrian Pearce. Department of Professional Standards.’
‘DPS?’ Howell exclaimed with raised eyebrows.
‘Yeah. We tend not to go by that as people think I’m delivering some pointless item they bought on Amazon.’
Howell chuckled. Already he liked Pearce and could see why he would be working in a unit that needed to gain trust quickly. After the humorous moment passed, Howell stood straight to impose his authority.
‘What is this about?’
‘I’m just doing some routing checks. There was another attack on a criminal last night—Chris Morton. You may have heard.’ Pearce scanned the room; Howell could see him making mental notes. ‘Was found beaten half to death last night just hours after his NG.’
‘I heard.’ Howell shook his head. ‘Nasty business.’
‘It certainly is.’ Pearce strolled across the room, closing the door to the meeting room. A few officers shot a curious glance in his direction, but his stare through the glass soon sent their eyes wandering.
‘Wait. You think it’s one of my men? A police officer knocking off rapists?’ Howell shook his head in disbelief.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Please do tell.’ Howell folded his arms, his go-to show of authority.
Pearce smiled politely, undeterred by the act and understanding of the man’s offence. ‘I’m not here to question the integrity of you or your team. However, I would like to speak to a few people who may have had access to the information that told them who, when, and where.’
‘This is preposterous. We have criminals out there and you’re here looking into my men…’
‘I’m here doing my damn job,’ Pearce snapped, catching Howell by surprise.
An awkward silence hung in the air before Howell unfolded his arms. He was a loyal man, but he knew that Pearce wouldn’t be bothering him if he didn’t have a lead.
‘Any people in particular?’ he eventually asked, his fingers sliding under his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose.
‘I have names. I’d like an interview room set up, no cameras, no recording. No peeking through the mirror.’ He flashed a grin. ‘This is just preliminary discussions. Not a witch hunt.’
Howell sighed, stepping forward and looking out over the rows of desks, his officers bounding about busily, all ready for the challenge of the London Marathon ahead. He didn’t like it one bit.
‘These people are good officers,’ he offered one more time. ‘Of that I have no doubt.’ Pearce joined him by the glass. ‘I’m not here to speak to them.’
Howell turned, his white eyebrows shooting upwards with surprise. ‘You’re not?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then who?’ Howell asked, his eyes searching for answers as Pearce turned with another warm, perfectly white smile.
‘Tell me, Inspector. How much do you know about Sam Pope?’
CHAPTER FOUR
All he could see was the sand. Miles and miles of it, frosting the entire landscape with its drab shading. The sun beat down, the horizon line wriggling restlessly in the heat. On the cliff faces that surrounded the large, open caverns of the Afghanistan landscape, Samuel Pope watched intently. Whilst the odd pocket of land sprouted a beautiful, close-knit group of trees, huddled together like a halftime team talk, the rest of the world looked as dry as his throat was.
It had been seven months since his deployment, his third term out in the deserts, but this time it was different.
This time, his orders had been to clear the path for Operation Hailstorm to pass through.
It wasn’t just off the books.
It wasn’t even acknowledged.
Crouched on the cliff face, he had hollowed out his surrounding area to allow for movement. Draped in a dust-covered sheet, he simply blended into the cliff face.
The long, powerful forty-six-inch nose of his Accuracy International Arctic Warfare rifle was shrouded in long, looping weeds that concealed its murderous intent. Attached to the high-power, bolt-action chamber that sat motionless across the rocks in front, Sam felt his hands naturally slide around the stock of the impressive killing machine, adjusting his body so his line of sight was brought up to the Smidt & Bendter PM II Telescopic sight.
He watched the sandy road that had been worn into the terrain, a wild rabbit hopping across the roasting stones, the image as clear as day from over eight hundred yards away.
He had sat there for over seventeen hours.
A small ditch to the side of his spot was filled with piss which had long since warmed up. The sweltering heat consumed his sheet, even though the inner lining was designed to keep him cool. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, underneath the camouflaged T-shirt, pooling with the rest that clung to his spine. Other droplets had slithered down his face, revealing a trail of his skin amongst the mud and face paint.
He waited.
The air was windless, the heat grabbing it with both hands and choking the oxygen around him. To the west, the city of Kabul rose proudly into the horizon line, the bricks skewed by the blur of heat. A city of innate, rustic beauty, constantly under the terror of ISIS. Unlike their American brothers, who constantly batted the word ‘freedom’ around like a ping-pong ball, he did believe they were there to help. He wasn’t naïve—there were certain agendas that were above his rank and grade—but he knew the ultimate outcome would be bringing an end to a reign of terror that the rest of the world was just turning its back on.
He had come across the sceptics many times—Lord knows that too many of Lucy’s friends were critical of his job. Whilst they thought he and the army were sticking their nose into situations that didn’t concern the UK, he saw it as being one of the few people to take the fight to those who prey on the helpless.
The people of Afghanistan couldn’t fight back.
That was why he were there. To fight on their behalf.
But as he sat in the continuously rising heat of his hideaway, staring down the barrel of his gun, he had begun to have his own doubts. Project Hailstorm was beyond a ‘need-to-know’ basis.
It was the most secretive protocol he had come across in over a decade as one of the military’s elite marksmen. All he knew was that ‘Alpha Unit’ would be passing through these co-ordinates within a two-hour timeframe.
Likely pursuit.
Lethal force necessary.
As he contemplated the integrity of such a mission being carried out in such secrecy, his radio crackled gently below his chin.
They were inbound.
Suddenly, the air roared with the sound of cracking, guns unleashing a flurry of bullets that ripped through the tranquil road. The jeep hurtled around the corner. He could see Corporal Murray at the wheel, his tanned forearms wrestling with the steering wheel as he tried to stay on course. Beyond him, in the back, he could see three men lying prone and a lot of blood.
Something had gone wrong.
Very wrong.
Before he could even contemplate the whooshing sound that echoed through the sky, the RPG rocket hit the back wheel of the jeep, sending it flipping into the air amongst an explosion of car parts and stones. As the jeep rolled twice over and came to a clunking stop on its side halfway down the embankment, Sam clicked the evacuation button on his radio, sending an immediate request for help. Following the trail of the crash with his scope, he saw an unidentified soldier, the body snapped in half and a streak of blood from where his leg had been se
parated from his body.
Another limb lay estranged from Private Griffin, who was screaming in agony as the blood pumped from the sleeve where his arm used to be.
Corporal Murray wriggled free from the driver’s seat, as if he had been dipped in a vat of red paint. Clearly shocked and dazed from the crash, his arms were shaking as he fumbled with the clip of an SA80 Assault Rifle, his fingers frantically snatching at the metal.
The roar of two more cars shook the road, the burnt stones shaking as the dusty pickup trucks raced into view, the ISIS soldiers stood proudly on the back, one of them with an empty rocket launcher resting over his shoulder.
‘Stand down, Pope,’ a voice crackled over his radio. ‘Evac in agreed location. ETA three hours.’
Without moving anything other than his left arm, he clicked the button to respond.
‘Negative, we still have men alive. Targets closing in. Permission to engage.’
‘Negative, Sergeant. Those men are KIA. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage.’
Sam recognised the voice. It was General Ervin Wallace, a portly gentleman who, despite being resigned to command due to shrapnel, was as vicious as they came.
He was in charge of Project Hailstorm, and Sam didn’t doubt one bit that it was his penchant for violent resolution that had gotten him the job.
Humans were expendable.
The enemies more than his own.
It wouldn’t be until twenty-four hours later, when the bomb that ‘Alpha Unit’ deployed had levelled seven streets and a children’s hospital, that he would realize just what was happening.
But then, as he watched ten men loading their weapons, ready to turn his friend into a game of target practice, the chain of command suddenly meant very little.
‘Fuck this’.
The blast of the gun echoed around the entire opening, bouncing off the hill faces and the surrounding broken cliffs. The bullet whipped through the man’s skull so fast he was flung backwards off the truck, his scalp spraying into a red nothingness. Before his comrades could react, Sam snapped the bolt back, the bullet casing clinking out onto the surrounding stones as he aimed, aligned, squeezed.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 3