The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1)

by Robert Enright

  Another roar from his gun.

  The bullet blew out the side of one of the men’s skulls before ripping straight through another’s chest.

  Both men dropped to the ground, dead instantly, as the rest of the men took cover behind the other vehicle. A few of them randomly shot into the cliff face, hoping to stop the invisible death that awaited them.

  After a few moments one of the ISIS soldiers, who appeared to be in his early twenties, bravely stood up to spray a sweeping round in Sam’s general direction.

  The bullet whistled neatly as it left his rifle before tunnelling a hole through the young man’s skull, spraying the surrounding stones with brain matter.

  As the group took cover, he knew it wouldn’t be long until they called it in and an Apache helicopter was levelling the entire cliff face with enough firepower to destroy a small country.

  In that moment he decided to flick his radio, hoping beyond hope that the upturned jeep, which was slowly being engulfed in flames, hadn’t been completely destroyed.

  ‘Murray. Murray, receiving?’ he uttered quickly, keeping his eyes firmly on the scope that had the insurgents pinned down. He hadn’t been able to watch as Murray, under the realisation that Sam had disobeyed command and was keeping him alive, had removed his fellow survivors from the wreckage.

  They now lay, in varying amounts of agony, down the side bank. Murray, drawn by the crackle of the radio, snuck his way back to the truck, his rifle in his hand.

  ‘Pope. You crazy bastard.’ He chuckled. ‘Not looking good here.’

  ‘Do you have any grenades?’ Sam asked, his eyes fixed on the car as a few of the men had heard the radio.

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Any ammunition?’ A bead of sweat dropped over his eyebrow, onto the scope. His body remained motionless.

  ‘I have one box with seventeen clips.’ Murray sighed. ‘Get your arse out of here, mate. Just promise me you will find Becky and tell her what happened.’

  Sam cut him off angrily, telling him they were leaving together. As he explained the idea to him, he fired a warning shot at the car, keeping the bloodthirsty ISIS crew behind it. Murray called him a madman at his suggestion, but he soon obliged, sliding to the side of the overturned jeep and lancing the petrol tank with his combat knife.

  The petrol drenched the row of bullets that sat in the box. Slowly, he crept to the side of the jeep and Sam let off another warning shot, causing the enemy to cover once more before screaming profanities in a language that only meant death to him.

  Murray then hauled the box back, and with all his might he hurled it towards the car. As it spun towards the group of them, the petrol leapt off it in wild, suicidal splashes.

  Sam sat up, pushing away the sheet and squinting in the unrelenting sunlight.

  He had one shot.

  He took it.

  The bullet hit the box with such a force, causing the ignition that detonated the gunpowder.

  The entire box exploded, taking the car and the seven men with it in a blaze of metal, rubber, and body parts. As the remains of the explosion rained down, Murray hijacked the other vehicle, loading his men into it slowly before hurtling back towards base.

  Sam had watched him go, his heart racing as he scanned the roadside. Blood and bodies littered everywhere.

  The road was a genuine highway to hell.

  Ignoring the furious voice on his radio, he took one last sweep of the area before packing away his rifle and making his way across the sun-drenched cliffs to his extraction point.

  ‘So how did disobeying those orders feel?’

  The soft voice of Amy Devereux, sat on the chair with one slim leg overlapping the other, her pencil skirt pulled tightly against her slender frame. Her blazer was hung on the hook behind her office door, allowing her slim arms to escape through the sides of her green sleeveless blouse. Resting on her lap was a notepad, a pen clasped in her well-manicured fingers. Her blond hair, cut into a neat bob, sat atop a strong face with prominent cheekbones.

  Amy was a certified therapist, but as he sat on her ‘sharing sofa’, Sam wondered if maybe a few of the guys faked their traumas just to try and catch a glimpse up her skirt. He had to admit, she was a very attractive woman, and he had spent more time with her than any other woman since Lucy had left him.

  When she had to leave him.

  ‘Sam?’

  He turned his head at her second prompt, scanning his immediate memory for her question.

  ‘It was the right thing to do.’

  ‘But it must have been hard—ignoring direct orders from a superior and willingly attracting gunfire.’

  ‘Not at the time.’ Sam shrugged, his well-rounded shoulders leaping upwards. ‘Look, I know you probably think that soldiers just follow their orders like robots. But in the heat of the battle, when I saw my friend facing the hard goodbye, I acted. I got reprimanded and I was soon off the team.’

  ‘Project Hailstorm?’ She arched a thinly tweezed eyebrow, knowing the question would fall flat. Samuel Pope didn’t speak of the alleged Project Hailstorm.

  ‘Look, Ms Devereux…’

  ‘Mrs,’ she corrected, noting Sam’s eye flick to her wedding ring, which shimmered alongside the jewel-encrusted engagement ring.

  ‘Apologies.’

  She lifted a hand in acceptance.

  ‘I know service in the military can cause serious problems for some people—the world not quite fitting when they return, like a photo that is constantly out of focus. But I am fine. I am proud of the work I did serving this country.’

  Amy smiled warmly, her brown eyes panning around her quaint office. Sam sat on a leather sofa, the black faded to a dark grey and signs of wear-and-tear in abundance. Between them was a coffee table, where a box of tissues sat alongside a bowl of sweet-smelling potpourri. Behind her was her desk, which was enough for her laptop and more pertinent files.

  The entire room was framed by shelving units, filled with either folders or books. On the walls, several certificates were framed and displayed proudly.

  ‘I have no doubt you were an impeccable soldier, Samuel. Your record speaks for itself.’ She placed her pen down and adjusted the small, frameless glasses that sat on her slightly curved nose. ‘But that isn’t why you are here, is it?’

  Instantly she could see him shudder, a horrible memory dancing down his spine.

  ‘We’ve already spoken about that.’

  ‘Yes, several sessions ago.’ She remembered the pain of the conversation. ‘We spoke, but didn’t deal with it.’

  ‘I have dealt with it.’

  ‘How?’ Her question slid through him like a knife through butter. Sam suddenly had flashbacks to swinging the metal baseball bat, the satisfying crunch as Morton’s shins shattered. He thought back to Jason Marlow, who he had hung over the bannister of a stairway until he was on the cusp of death before bringing him back from the dead.

  The brutal assault of these criminals.

  That was how he was dealing with it.

  After a few moments of silence, Amy adjusted on her seat, straightening her skirt before speaking. ‘How did Lucy deal with it?’

  ‘She left.’ Sam spoke quietly, eyes down. ‘I don’t blame her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I did too.’ Sam tapped the side of his head. ‘In here.’

  Amy nodded, making a note of the tear threatening to slide over Sam’s eyelid. This was the furthest she had gotten to him in seven months. She had read his file. She knew what she was taking on when she had agreed to the mandate that he needed to be monitored.

  He needed help to deal with the blame he had self-imposed.

  Sam took some deep breaths, regaining composure over a body he usually had regimented control of. He trained daily, was a picture of health, and was widely regarded as the top sniper the UK had seen for the past few decades. Despite the two scars that reminded him of how close he had been to death’s sweet release, he knew they would welcome him back. Ev
en just as a tutor, to help guide the next harbingers of the sightless death.

  But he had made a promise.

  ‘How’s the reading going?’ Amy asked, revisiting the previous notes regarding his newfound reading habits.

  ‘It’s going all right,’ he offered meekly with a forced smile.

  ‘Still on To Kill A Mockingbird?’

  His nod confirmed it.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s okay. Bit heavy.’ He chuckled. As did Amy.

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  Sam leant forward, his muscular arms pressed against his shirt, his hands clasped together. She noticed he no longer wore his wedding ring. That part of his life had long since gone. With a deep sigh he turned to her, a look a defeat in his eyes.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  With that, the big hand of the clock above the door fell upon the hour and Sam pushed himself to his feet. With purposeful strides he headed to the door, ignoring Amy as she called out that they would meet the following Thursday. Stepping out into the hallway, he closed the door behind him, leaning back against the cold, white wall. The pain clawed at him—the reason why he was expected to attend these sessions.

  He couldn’t deal with the fact that he couldn’t hold his wife anymore or see his son. That much he knew. What he was slowly starting to find out was…

  He didn’t want to.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was turning into a hell of a morning.

  No sooner had Sam returned to the archive office than Ash had told him that the inspector had summoned him. With raised eyebrows, Sam had once again left the archive room, navigating his way through the hyperactive headquarters to the inspector’s floor. As he walked, his mind raced to the assault of Morton, if he had left any clue or lead.

  He had been so careful.

  As he ascended the stairs, he drew a few sneers from some passing officers, his reputation as a silent loner clearly preceding him. As with all of them before, he ignored them completely, arriving at the correct doorway and entering. The blast of noise was surprising, clusters of officers gathered around flip charts and computer desks as they prepared for the London Marathon on Sunday. He drew a few unwelcoming glances, Officer Harding shooting him a look of disgust from across the room before the pounding footsteps of Inspector Howell approached.

  ‘Mr Pope?’ Howell offered, a friendly hand reaching forward.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sam took it, shaking it firmly.

  ‘Wow. Quite a grip. Sorry to interrupt your day, but I have a gentleman who has asked to speak with you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Sam asked, following Howell as he led him across the bullpen.

  ‘Pearce. DCI. From Department of Professional Standards?’

  Howell flashed a glance at Sam, who shrugged. ‘Internal Affairs, essentially.’

  ‘And he wants to speak to me?’ Sam asked. ‘What about?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him, son.’

  Howell led them through the office and out into the far corridor. The walls shimmered under the halogen lights that stretched across the ceiling, the walls covered in noticeboards and fliers. A few plain-clothed officers ventured down, both female, and both of them gave Howell a respectful greeting. One of them smiled coyly at Sam, who felt his cheeks flush as he looked away. Instinctively his thumb stroked his wedding-ring finger, the feel of only skin another reminder that he needed to move on.

  Eventually Howell came to a stop in front of a grey door before turning to Sam with a look of apprehension.

  ‘I don’t know what he wants, but these guys are the lowest of the low. They know the struggles we have to keep people safe and they are looking for any excuse to take down one of their own.’

  Sam shrugged again. The senior officer’s frustration was abundantly clear and he suspected, due to the concern he had, that maybe there were one or two corners being cut in the department. With a gentle raise of the eyebrows, Sam turned and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  The voice had a welcoming quality to it and Sam pushed open the door into a dimly lit interview room, complete with the tried-and-trusted two-way mirror. Under the main light was a wooden table with a seat situated either side. Rising from the one furthest from the door was DCI Adrian Pearce, with a pearly white grin and an exuberant handshake.

  ‘Mr Pope.’ He wrenched Sam’s arm with surprising gusto. ‘DCI Pearce. Please, take a seat.’

  He ushered Sam to the nearest chair before returning to his own. Sam obliged, smiling politely at the cup of water Pearce had placed for him. As Pearce sat, he lifted a mug, downing the remnants of the coffee. Both of them could feel the harrowing stare of Inspector Howell through the glass. Clearly a tactic, Pearce sat casually in his chair, lifting the manila folder and flicking through it as Sam watched patiently.

  ‘What’s this about?’ He eventually broke the silence.

  ‘Last night, a man named Chris Morton was brutally assaulted. He suffered several internal injuries, a severe head trauma, several broken bones, and completely destroyed genitalia. He is currently at Kings College on life support.’ Pearce stared Sam straight in the eye. ‘Morton had been on trial yesterday for an accused rape but was found not guilty by the jury. It seems someone didn’t agree with the decision.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous world out there,’ Sam said, shaking his head.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Pearce narrowed his dark eyes, small cracks folding in at the edges. ‘You of all people would know that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I have a clear idea.’ Sam spoke calmly, refusing to break the eye contact.

  Pearce smiled before dropping his eyes to the open file before him. ‘Your service record is extraordinary, I’ll give you that. Three tours in Afghanistan, two years off the radar—I’m assuming some sort of covert team—several medals, over sixty confirmed kills. Fuck me, it’s like sitting with Rambo.’

  Silence sat between them. Pearce was sure that Howell’s jaw had dropped open at the burst of information about the highly trained killer working in the archive room. After a few moments, Sam took a sip of water and then spoke.

  ‘I’m very proud of my record, sir.’

  ‘So you should be. You don’t talk about it though, huh?’

  ‘It’s nobody’s business but my own.’

  ‘But you were quite the asset, weren’t you. Highly trained in covert operations, moving undetected and striking cleanly and quickly.’

  ‘From hundreds of yards away. With a rifle.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Pearce pulled his lips tight. ‘Moving on, it seems that just over three years ago, you attended Hendon to become a police officer. Your file is even marked with the superiors’ comments about fast-tracking you to AR, put those firearms skills to good use. But then you dropped out?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why?’ Pearce slapped the file down on the table, clearly agitated by Sam’s lack of nerves. ‘I spent some time early in my career on Armed Response. Hell of a job. Right up your alley with your background. So why’d you quit?’

  ‘Personal reasons.’

  ‘Personal reasons?’ Pearce repeated sceptically.

  Sam nodded. ‘Enlighten me?’

  ‘Do you understand what “personal” means?’

  ‘I think so. It means you don’t want to tell me. Which is fine, we can approach this a different way. Tell me, what do you know about Chris Morton?’

  Pearce leant back in his chair, casually draping one leg over the other. Both men refused to fluster.

  ‘I know there was a substantial amount of evidence that he raped a young woman and that he got off on a technicality. And, from what you told me, he’s been banged up pretty badly.’

  ‘Why were you at the courthouse?’ Pearce asked, his tone suddenly hardening.

  ‘Is it a crime to attend a public courthouse?’

  ‘Pretty convenient, don’t you think? You being there, and then he is found beaten to a pulp later that evening?’<
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  ‘Are you accusing me?’ Sam asked, returning the tone. ‘Do I need a lawyer present?’

  ‘Merely speculating.’ Pearce flashed an unfriendly smile. ‘Do you want to know what I think?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Sam’s response was ignored.

  ‘I think someone knew exactly what they were doing. Someone who had access to all the files pertaining to the case, someone who knew where he was and where he was taken to, and someone with the skill and training to infiltrate a known criminal hotspot and systematically take him apart in a matter of minutes.’ He glared across the table at Sam, who didn’t flinch. ‘Seven weeks ago, a Jason Marlow was found with every finger broken, along with both wrists and several ribs. He said he had been jumped by a gang, but when we investigated his injuries, we found he had been hung for several moments, with the attacker loosening the rope just before death. Sound’s nasty, right?’

  ‘It’s pretty messed up,’ Sam agreed.

  ‘Four months ago, two members of the O’Riordan Gang were found, severe head trauma and several broken bones. Do you know what links all of these men?’

  ‘They all got what they deserved?’ Sam shrugged.

  ‘All of the casefiles pertaining to their cases passed through this office. Funnily, it’s your name on the log books.’ Pearce slid a sheet of paper across to Sam to prove his point. ‘Explain that.’

  ‘Okay. You do know I work in the archiving office, right? This is just my job.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Pearce said, his eyes locked onto Sam like a homing missile. ‘I think you’re working a night shift.’

  Sam tossed the paper back across the desk at the smug-looking Pearce.

  ‘I think these people all got off because we have a flawed justice system. And instead of looking at that, you’ve been tasked with looking for someone to blame. Now don’t get me wrong, I know what people think about me. They don’t like me, they think I’m a crazy ex-soldier and all that bollocks. Whatever. I couldn’t care less. But if you want to start poking into my past and my record to try and make your little theory stick, then I have a problem. So instead of spending all this time trying to find out what happened to these people and accusing me of this nonsense, why don’t you direct your effort at the fucking system that let them off in the first place.’