He didn’t blame her. He couldn’t.
His precious daughter had been snatched, beaten, and stuffed in a metal prison, forced to sleep and shit in the same room and given barely enough to survive. All they were promised was a life of drug abuse and sexual degradation. It was horrifying, and he had sat next to her every night, watching her toss and turn with tears falling from his eyes.
Yes, he had gone to extreme lengths to get her back, but he hadn’t saved her. She still saw demons when she closed her eyes and she still feared every person who came anywhere near them.
He sighed deeply as he took his seat at the dining table, envisaging the cup of tea he had had with Sam Pope, begging the stranger to help save his daughter. Aaron would forever be indebted to Sam for the lengths he went to save his Jasmine, the unspeakable acts he committed all in the name of her survival. Even when Aaron himself had stepped dangerously close to the edge, Sam had reached out and pulled him to safety.
For a man who was trained to ruthlessly kill, Sam Pope was the most caring person he had ever come across.
It saddened Aaron that he had never gotten to thank him. To shake his hand and tell him, despite the horrors of his own past, that Sam Pope was a good father.
As he tried his best to sip his cup of tea, Aaron wondered if he was. Jasmine had asked to return from their walk early, unsure of the two youths who had gathered on the pavilion across the field. They had posed no threat, were over two hundred yards away and hadn’t even clocked their presence.
But Jasmine was terrified.
Now, she was locked in her room, crying until she fell into a light, horror-filled sleep.
Aaron began to cry, tipping his tea down the sink. It was a long road back for the both of them.
He had gotten Jasmine back.
But he hadn’t saved her.
Pearce thanked Etheridge for the drink and rose from his seat, offering a warm smile and a firm handshake which was returned with gusto. Pearce liked Etheridge, the multi-millionaire was still a soldier at heart, and they’d casually spoken for over an hour about their careers before Pearce had complimented him on his home. Pearce had joked about the demolition job Pope had done on the place when he had disabled a tactical unit. Etheridge had played along, agreeing that he had been held at gun point.
So said the medical report, which had found the bruising of a gun barrel being pressed against his skull.
Both men knew that they would never turn on Sam, but Pearce had to follow up his own investigation, especially when his own digging had uncovered a mayoral campaign with cancerous veins inside it. As they approached the front door, Pearce nodded towards the for sale sign in the front garden, the large, blue card looming over the pristine Porsche below.
‘Not sticking around, Paul?’ Pearce asked, popping his arms into his jacket. The rain had finally given up but had been replaced by a bitter cold that chilled to the bone.
‘I think it’s time for a change,’ Etheridge commented, his limp noticeable to a trained eye. ‘This life isn’t for me anymore.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, what with Kayleigh leaving, I’ve decided to sell the business and maybe do a bit of good.’
‘A bit of good, eh?’ Pearce raised his eyebrows. ‘I have a question?’
‘Shoot.’
‘How would someone get forged documents nowadays? I mean, with all passports going digital and the whole word deciding to live in the cloud, how would someone bypass all of those things? You know, so they were still official documents.’
‘Good question.’ Etheridge rubbed his chin. ‘You’d probably have to be able to configure a profile within the government database and manipulate the information to render historically as well as digitally. It would be very tricky.’
‘I bet,’ Pearce said, zipping up his coat. ‘Thing is, I doubt Sam Pope has that kind of knowledge on a computer but would definitely need someone to do it for him.’
Etheridge nervously chuckled.
‘Probably.’ Etheridge swallowed. ‘Is there anything else I need to think about?’
Pearce smiled and offered his hand once more. Etheridge took it.
‘Don’t worry about it, Paul. I’m not much of a computer person.’
Etheridge smiled and Pearce patted him on the shoulder before exiting out into the freezing cold but was warmed by the idea that Sam Pope had an ally in his ever growing war against organised crime. The things Etheridge could do with a computer and the doors he could open would be vital and as Pearce drove from Farnham back to Bethnal Green, he decided to close any case against Etheridge, to give him the best possible chance he could to begin his new life.
To do ‘something good.’
As the sun set on the first Sunday of December, Pearce arrived outside the Bethnal Green Youth Centre slightly late, the sky already dark and the temperature dropping rapidly. Although he still had forty-five minutes until the doors opened, he usually liked to have a cup of tea and a read of the Sunday news. The local youths who attended were always so talkative and alarmingly knowledgeable about current affairs.
While many would dismiss them as estate kids or ‘hoodies’, he was often surprised with how intelligent they were and the conversations he had had around politics and the law were fascinating. It was a testament to Theo Walker, the former soldier who had partnered Sam in his past and who had set up the project to help the kids who had to survive on the streets.
Pearce had done his best to honour him, but age and time restraints were making it harder to do it beyond once a week.
As he got out of his car, he took a moment to stretch his back, Father Time reminding him of his age as more aches and pains infiltrated his reasonably athletic body. He stepped through the gate and towards the door of the community hall when a young man climbed off from the steps and approached him. Pearce assessed him and quickly offered him his warmest greeting.
‘Hello, young man. Can I help you?’
The young man had been severely beaten, his face was slashed and bruised. His right hand was wrapped in bandages and he twitched nervously. Pearce thought he recognised him but couldn’t place him.
Wiseman approached Pearce, nervously chuckling.
‘Err, I don’t want to get into any trouble,’ he finally said.
‘There is no trouble here, son. I don’t allow it.’
Pearce’s joke caused Wiseman to smile, his youthful exuberance peeking through the brutal scars.
‘Well, I was sent here by Sam Pope.’ Wiseman waited a moment then continued, ‘He said this was a place to come to if I needed help.’
Pearce stood still for a moment, shaking his head slightly as his respect for Sam grew even more. The most wanted man in the country was probably its most caring.
Pearce offered his handshake.
‘He wasn’t wrong.’
Wiseman took Pearce’s hand, solidifying their friendship with a shake before following the wise detective into the community centre, the warmth of the building welcoming him in from the cold and ushering him into a new life.
Epilogue
Burrows spat the final remnants of vomit into the toilet bowl and then reached for the chain. He sighed with relief that the ordeal was over and pulled himself up, his beady eyes flashing around the cubicle. A few numbers were scrawled across the wall, all of them offering a lude outcome and he stepped out into the airport bathroom.
It had been two weeks since he had gone dark, using the money he had been stockpiling for the last fifteen years to hide away in the darkest hole in the country.
Having worked for the Kovalenkos for a decade and a half, Burrows had over two million in a personal fortune that he kept hidden, choosing to live off of the generous salary provided by the UK taxpayer.
He had seen the end coming as soon as Sam Pope began taking down some of the major crime brackets in London. Once Frank Jackson’s High Rise fell, he knew that unless something was done, Pope would connect enough dots to lead him to their doorstep.<
br />
Then the game would be up.
He was right.
But Burrows had managed to slip through the net, reading with little remorse that Harris’s bright star had been extinguished and he had retired in shame. As the weeks went by, more stories of their misdeeds had flooded the broad sheets, with Burrows’ links to Kovalenko exposed. Harris, despite his campaign benefitting from the money, had been put forward as a victim of their betrayal, but his life was still spiralling out of control.
With their chance of fifteen minutes of fame and a potential pay out, a number of women came forward, selling their stories of their affairs with Harris to anyone willing to buy them. It wasn’t Burrows’ problem anymore, and he blamed Harris for not pushing the task force earlier.
Burrows had been in his ear every day, telling him to base the campaign around bringing Sam Pope to justice and tackling the rise of crime in London the right way. He had sold it like it was Harris’s idea, that he was the one in charge. But Burrows had pulled the strings and the odd lavish gift or dinner date with Assistant Commissioner Ashton had been most beneficial.
There had been nothing in the papers regarding their links and despite her rejection of his advances over the years, Burrows wasn’t willing to sell her down the river just yet.
An announcement echoed over the speakers, asking all final passengers for the non-stop flight from Birmingham to Kiev to make their way to gate sixteen. Burrows splashed water on his face, not recognising the plump man before him. The tufts of hair that framed his head had overgrown and his grey beard was overdue a trim. The green contacts had changed his eye colour, but he cursed having to put them in everyday.
Sergei Kovalenko had been in touch when news of Andrei’s passing became public. Despite their best efforts en route to the hospital, the paramedics had declared Andrei dead before they’d arrived.
Sergei hadn’t been best pleased, but he didn’t blame Burrows. He wasn’t anything more than a facilitator, but the man had been incredibly loyal to him and his family.
Therefore, he had offered Burrows a safe haven in Kiev, where he would protect him from the authorities who wanted him crucified.
A few days later, state-of-the-art documentation had arrived, giving Burrows a new identity as Gregory Baker. He didn’t hate it, but he felt like a snake, ready to shed its skin. Along with the new passport and birth certificate, they’d falsified his dental records, his finger prints, and removed any record of his DNA from the government system.
Kovalenko’s reach was huge and it terrified Burrows just how powerful a man he was.
Powerful and cruel.
Burrows had arranged for the safe transportation of his fortune, purchased a one-way ticket and now, having thrown up the last of his nerves, he felt like he had finally stepped from one life to another.
It was time to live as Gregory Baker.
A retired ex-pat who settled down in Kiev with the massive fortune he’d made as a stock broker.
It was better than living the rest of his life in a prison where he would be signalled out as part of the system that had let most of the inhabitants down.
He made his way through the gate and boarded the plane, finding his seat and locking himself in place. He wasn’t the best flyer, but he was ready to leave it all behind.
His crimes.
His life.
His country.
All of it.
As the plane shot down the runway and lifted into the sky, Burrows felt liberated, that all of his indiscretions had been left on the ground and he was a man reborn.
He had gotten away with it.
He was free.
Four rows back, sat in the window seat, Sam Pope lifted the bill of his cap and shot a look in Burrows’ direction. Etheridge had sent him all the information he needed to track Burrows down and also furnished him with a state-of-the-art passport.
As Sam watched Burrows order a gin and tonic, he took a sip of the mineral water he had ordered. The seat was uncomfortable, the beating he had taken from Oleg Kovalenko was still echoing throughout his body. The bullet wound in his leg still sent painful reminders whenever he tried to move in his cramped confines.
But it would be worth it.
In just over four hours, they would land, and Sam would introduce himself.
Sam wanted the head of the snake.
And Burrows would lead him straight to him.
As Burrows sipped his drink, Sam glanced out of the window, and England faded from his view.
It was time to take the fight to them.
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Sam Pope Novels
THE NIGHT SHIFT
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THE TAKERS
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LONG ROAD HOME
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TOO FAR GONE
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THE FINAL MILE
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THE TAKERS
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About the Author
Robert lives in Buckinghamshire with his family, writing books and dreaming of getting a dog.
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Copyright © Robert Enright, 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
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All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Cover by Phillip Griffiths
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Edited by Emma Mitchell
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Proof Read by Lou Dixon
The Takers Page 25