The mini bar had next to nothing to accompany it, and leaving Amy and Andy unattended was not an option.
Two innocent people, holed up in a hotel to preserve their lives.
An innocent man murdered just to get to them.
For the first time, Pearce began to realise that what Sam was doing to these types of people may not have been so bad after all. He had dedicated his entire life to ensuring that the police badge represented the law, a safe haven for people against the evils that lurked on the street.
But now, as he stood a vigil to ensure the safety of two people from the very police service he had served with distinction for years, he began to wonder if maybe the line was too blurred to put right. Such were Pearce’s fears that he had signed out an active firearm before he had left the station, using his seniority as well as his previous contacts in the armed response unit. A Glock Seventeen. It sat idly on the small, empty side table of the room, glaring at Pearce with brutal intent.
As he exhaled a large plume of smoke out the window, ignoring the ‘no smoking’ sign affixed to the frame, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.
Sam.
He clicked the green icon and lifted it.
‘Sam.’
‘Theo is dead,’ Sam said sternly. His breath told Pearce he was marching somewhere. ‘They killed him.’
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Pearce said sincerely. ‘Amy told me he died protecting them. He was a good man. A hero.’
‘Amy? Is she…’
‘She’s with me,’ Pearce assured. ‘Khambay got to her first but I intervened. Got her and Andy the hell out of there.’
‘Off the grid?’
‘Yup.’
‘Good,’ Sam continued, his breath heavy as his pace quickened. ‘Earnshaw is dead. So is his wife. Suicide.’
‘Suicide?’ Pearce said sceptically.
‘It’s a cover-up. Same as with Amy. But it gets worse. Inspector Howell gave the green light on the hit.’
Pearce nearly choked on the smoke he had just inhaled, batting a fist against his chest. After spluttering it out, he lifted the phone again, his words alive with shock. ‘Inspector Howell?’
‘Yep. He confessed to me before trying to have me executed.’
‘What the fuck?’ Pearce stammered, flicking the cigarette butt out the window, the wind and rain instantly extinguishing it.
‘Three guys pulled up, one of them took him to the High-Rise whilst the others came for me.’ Sam sounded furious and Pearce knew he was grieving for his friend. ‘Howell is in league with Frank Jackson.’
‘Jesus.’ Pearce sighed, processing the bombshell. ‘What happened with the men who…’
‘I killed them,’ Sam said coldly.
The silence sat between them, a strict man of the law knowing that the man on the other end of the phone was now their best hope of true justice. It hung heavy in Pearce’s gut; an entire career devoted to upholding the law was being pulled apart at the seams. The very fabric of what he believed in was not just being questioned, but stomped into the mud.
They both knew where the conversation was going. Pearce decided to take the wheel.
‘You know, they will never let her be,’ Pearce said, glancing to the door of the room where Amy and her husband slept. ‘Both of them. They know too much.’
‘Understood,’ Sam said, both of them understanding the meaning of what was being said, what Pearce was actually doing.
Giving him permission.
The rain hammered down on the broken country and Pearce once again gazed out into the cold, wet dark. The rain would wash away the bloodshed, just like everything else.
The city would at least be a little cleaner.
He could picture Sam, stood in the downpour, a statue of complete fury and terrifying violence.
A man of war.
With the trail of violence, devastation, and betrayal reaching its crescendo, Pearce rubbed his temples with frustration. Sam Pope was a good man trained to do bad things, and now driven to only one outcome.
‘What are you going to do?’ Pearce asked, awaiting an answer he already knew.
‘What I do,’ Sam responded instantly. ‘I’m going to bring it down around them.’
With that, the dial tone went dead and Pearce doubted he would see Sam again. Bullets would be fired and blood would be shed, all in the name of greed and power. He looked at the downpour once more, and couldn’t help but feel it was the weight of the world hammering down upon him.
He picked up his cigarettes and lit one more before blowing the smoke out into the elements.
‘Good luck, son,’ he said solemnly.
‘Was that Sam?’
Pearce suddenly shot round to find Amy stood in the doorway. She had her arms crossed, hugging her petite body, and she offered a tired smile.
‘It was,’ Pearce replied, blowing more smoke out of the window.
‘Is he okay?’
‘He’s having a hell of a night,’ Pearce replied. ‘Grief does that to people.’
‘I can only imagine.’ Amy shook her head. ‘Especially after everything that has happened.’
‘Yeah, it’s been a crazy few days.’
‘No, I meant before. With his family,’ Amy said, confusion across her tired face.
‘What do you mean?’ Pearce said, stubbing out the cigarette on the frame of the window and tossing it into the downpour.
‘Why do you think Sam has mandated sessions with me? Or why his wife left?’
Pearce stepped forward into the room, trying to retrace the files he had read about Sam. About his life.
‘He killed a lot of people during his service.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It can mess people up.’
‘He comes to therapy to deal with his grief.’
‘Grief?’ Pearce said, hands on hips. ‘Grief for what?’
‘His son.’ Amy’s words were heavy with sadness. ‘Jamie died three years ago.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Three Years Earlier…
The morning had begun like any other, the sun peeking through the cracks in the blinds and cutting thin strips across the bed. Sam woke naturally, reaching over to the bedside table and switching off the alarm. Lucy murmured, still half asleep as he pushed himself up from the mattress. He gazed back at her naked body, remembering the passionate love they had made the night before. Even more excitedly, the conversations of expanding their family.
With carefully considered steps, he made his way across the landing and gently reached for the handle on the opposite door. A train was hanging from the wooden panels, the name of his son proudly displayed across it.
Jamie.
Slowly, he pushed the door open, the room bathed in the warm glow from the nightlight. The wallpaper was alive with pictures of cartoon animals, monkeys and elephants giddily chasing each other around the skirting board. The far corner was a mountain of toys, a series of teddy bears all clamouring atop each other for dominance. Then in the far corner was the ‘library’, an assortment of cushions laid out, surrounded by rows of books.
The boy was a bookworm.
Sam felt his heart beat with pride, especially as he had never taken reading seriously. He could read, but found no pleasure in it, and after coming through the care home system at seventeen years of age, he had fled to the army for his real education.
His son would be different.
He was smart. Too smart, in fact. It worried Sam, and he and Lucy had laughed at how early on it would be that they wouldn’t be able to help him with his homework.
But that was far away.
Now, asleep in his bed, was a five-year-old boy that was everything Sam had ever worked for. Jamie slept soundly, his bright blond hair swept across his forehead, his slim chest rising and falling with soft, delicate breaths.
Sam had never known a love like it, and he watched his son sleep for a whole minute before Lucy slid her hands around his waist and pressed her cheek against his muscular b
ack.
‘Let’s have another one.’
Sam felt a warmness spread through his chest, covering the two bullet scars that had sent him home a year before. He had nearly died in the battlefield; vague flashes of that night often leapt at him during his sleep.
A gun pressed against his back.
A derelict building.
The realisation he would never see his son grow old.
All that had passed and there he was, watching his perfect son sleeping whilst his perfect wife wanted another.
The perfect life.
He turned to Lucy and nodded. Her smile was uncontrollable as she tiptoed to kiss him.
‘Now back to work, Officer.’
He chuckled as she pointed to the bathroom for him to get ready for work, even going as far as to slap him on the buttocks as he walked past.
Sam sat on one of the few picnic benches dotted around the Hendon Police College in North London. The grounds were huge, the main building welcomed recruits and staff into the complex before expanding onto a large running track. There were derelict buildings for trained exercises, mock-up roads for traffic procedures, and a rigorous driving track, where a young officer was screeching around corners under the watchful eye of an instructor.
The far corner saw two rundown buildings shoot towards the sky like crusty fingers, the housing barracks for many of the recruits. Sam had been offered a place with the other trainee police officers, but with a young child and his adaption back to a normal life, he was granted permission to commute in every day. He did use the rest rooms inside the recruit quarters to iron his shirt before he began his training, regulation dictating he wasn’t allowed to travel into work dressed as an officer for his own safety.
Despite his varied training, he humoured them and abided by the rules. He was sure it was that very training that had pushed them to give him a few extra benefits, and they were already discussing him being fast-tracked into the AR.
The day had been strenuous, and he could still feel his eyes burning.
It had been one of the most dreaded days of the police training. Every recruit was to be sprayed with pepper spray, to measure their reaction and to experience the pain and sensation caused by it. It was a truly harrowing experience, as eighteen of them had been lined up on the field and sprayed in order. A few instantly fell to the floor, crying in pain and roaring in agony. A few stood their ground, Sam included, whilst others marched in random directions, trying to breathe their way through the experience.
They all needed to know how debilitating it was, in case they were ever caught in a crossfire.
Sam had been one of only three to remain calm, the burning more of an irritant, and he had spent the next half hour talking to those who were suffering worse.
As they screamed in pain, complaining about it being the worst thing to ever happen to them, he thought back to bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned building and understood why he was cut out for it all.
He was battle hardened.
He knew actual war.
The shower afterward had been the worst part; the toxicity of mixing it with water had caused a burning sensation across his entire body and now sat in his street clothes. The burning felt like a thousand needles being pressed against his skin. Just then his phone buzzed, and he smiled.
His ride had arrived.
‘Man, that must have sucked dick.’
Sam laughed at Theo’s reaction as he recounted the experience. They were sat in the beer garden of a local pub, their wooden table already stacking up a few empty glasses and an ashtray, which Theo was turning into a pyramid.
‘It wasn’t great, I’ll tell you that much,’ Sam agreed, tipping back the pint glass and letting the last remnants of his Moretti trickle down his throat.
‘We were trained to not lie in wait. We attack,’ Theo said, slightly merry from the booze. ‘How did you control that urge to do that thing you do?’
‘What thing that I do?’ Sam questioned, smiling at the young waitress who motioned for two more beers.
‘You know. Brutally kill people.’
Sam thumped Theo straight in the bicep, his knuckles hitting the hard muscle like a hammer hitting a brick wall. ‘Fuck you.’
Theo knew Sam was mucking about, but instantly regretted it. No soldier needed to relive the horrors of war, and despite Sam building a career as one of the greatest snipers the country had ever known, there were times when he was racked with guilt for the things he had done.
The number of times he had pulled a trigger.
There were many drunken nights, especially since he was discharged after they had riddled him with bullets, where Sam would break into tears, relaying the guilt he felt when he held his son—that he was holding him with bloodied hands.
It may have been orders.
But death was still death, and it was a commodity that Sam had dealt in for a decade.
The moment soon passed as the waitress brought another two pints of Moretti to the table, the cold beer tasting sweet and satisfying as they both took a big mouthful. A white foam dusting stayed on Theo’s moustache, much to Sam’s amusement. The evening was cool, the sun escaping earlier than usual, but the air was light and a cool breeze danced between the tables. A double date was taking place a few tables down, young couples talking about holidays and reality TV. A group of young lads argued over Manchester United’s chances in next season’s Champion’s League.
An older woman, wrinkled and covered in makeup, sat on her own, reading a novel as she sipped from a wine glass.
‘So, how long until you become PC Plod, then?’
Sam smiled at the jibe and took another sip of his beer. Theo lit another cigarette, letting the smoke waft lazily into the night sky.
‘About another seven weeks, give or take. They are doing another intake next year. You should apply.’
‘No thanks,’ Theo said instantly. ‘I’m done following orders.’
‘So what are you going to do? Join St John’s?’ Sam asked, alluding to Theo’s career as a medic.
‘I don’t know, to be honest.’ Theo took another swig of his beer. ‘I’m thinking of doing something with kids, you know? There are so many of them running with gangs where I live, and I…I don’t know, man…it’s stupid.’
‘The hell it is. Kids need guidance,’ Sam said, the alcohol slowly wresting control of his speech. ‘I’d be furious if my boy ended up roaming the streets.’
At that moment, one of the young men from the football enthusiast table said a loud goodbye to his mates before stumbling between the benches, to the jeering and laughter of his friends. Clearly drunk, he headed into the car park, frantically clicking the fob of his car keys until a blue Ford Fiesta blinked, chirping like a morning songbird. Sam watched with horror as the young man opened the driver’s door and fell into the car, his mates laughing in disbelief. He turned to Theo, who had made eye contact with the pretty barmaid, who was smiling at the attention the strapping man was showing her.
‘Theo, he’s way too drunk to drive.’
Sam started to push himself up, struggling to negotiate the gap between the bench and table, when Theo shot an arm up, pulling him back down.
‘One more drink,’ Theo said, arching his head towards the barmaid. ‘Besides, you’re not a police officer yet.’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Two beers please.’ Theo flashed his best grin as the waitress obliged, returning with the drinks and a folded-up piece of paper with her number on it.
Sam congratulated his friend, feeling absolutely no ounce of jealousy for the endless pursuit of single life, and sipped his beer, hoping the alcohol would soothe his conscience.
That night would forever be burnt into Sam’s memory.
It would haunt him more than the faces of the people he had lined up down the scope of his rifle, or those he had killed in hand-to-hand combat.
As he had stumbled away from Theo’s goodbye hug, he had checked his phone, scowling
as the battery had died. Lucy would have undoubtedly been chasing him, leaving adorably angry messages for him to not get too drunk, both of them safe in the knowledge that she found his drunkenness endearing. He rarely drank—usually only when he met up with Theo—and even she wouldn’t begrudge him a drink after a face full of pepper spray.
As he rounded a corner onto the main road, the first thing he saw were the flashing lights. Two police cars were blocking a section of the pavement, the uniformed officers diverting horrified onlookers away with rushed voices.
An ambulance ominously sat between the cars, its lights blinking in unison with the police cars.
The paramedics were hunched over.
A blue Ford Fiesta was on the curb, its tyres twisted at a horrible angle, the driver’s door open, a puddle of vomit beneath it. The drunken young man was sat in the back of one of the police cars, crying his eyes out.
Then he saw Lucy, sat stone cold, her eyes glazed and her skin pale. A police officer tried to speak to her, offering her a small brown bag to breathe into.
The words fell on deaf ears.
Her vacant stare was locked on the paramedics.
Sam felt his knees buckle.
Lucy had gone for an evening stroll to come and meet him, surprise him with their company and a possible trip to a takeaway shop.
He fell to his knees as he followed her stare.
Suddenly, the noise of the crowd, the surrounding traffic, and the police orders drained out as he stared at the paramedics.
Jamie lay motionless on the pavement.
His small body was twisted unnaturally, his right arm locked underneath his broken spine. One of his legs was crushed, the blood already staining his jeans.
Blood trickled from his nose and his left ear, pooling around and matting his blond hair to the cold, hard concrete.
His eyes were wide open.
The life had left them instantly.
Sam tried to breathe, tried to move, tried to do anything, but all he could manage was flopping forward and emptying his stomach all over the pavement.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 20