The Right Reason

by Robert Enright

  THE RIGHT REASON

  ROBERT ENRIGHT

  For my wife,

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sam Pope had never experienced pain like it.

  The searing agony that ruminated in his side caused him to regain consciousness, his brain screaming through the feeling. He blinked slowly, his eyes lacking clarity, the room was awash with bright light and a fuzzy outline.

  He tried to push himself up, but the pain roared through his body like a tidal wave and he crashed down on the hard surface, the back of his head colliding with the solid stone and sending it spinning.

  Where the hell was he?

  And why was he in so much pain?

  With deep, concentrated breaths, Sam slowed his heart rate down and once again opened his eyes, willing himself to look through the burning brightness for some definition. Slowly, the fuzziness faded, and he could see a rusty metal pipe running across the grey, stone ceiling. Connected to the end of it was a lone, uncovered light bulb that flickered intermittently,

  Where he was, Sam doubted the safety of the electrics was a pressing concern.

  His right arm felt numb, but with his left, he patted the surface beneath him.

  It was a solid wood, which coated the tips of his fingers in dust. Slowly, Sam turned his head to the side, his eyes scanning the bare, stone wall, coated in a thin layer of grey dust. Light cut through the hole in the wall, a muggy heat following after and Sam felt his shirt sticking to his damp spine.

  He arched his head up.

  He wasn’t wearing his own shirt.

  Usually decked out in a camouflage T-shirt, Sam noticed he was wearing a longer, ill-fitting white shirt. The type he saw the locals in Afghanistan wearing.

  The right-hand side of it was slightly bloodstained, a few droplets slowly expanded across the material. Beneath, he could still feel that burning pain and with his left hand, he gently lifted the shirt up.

  His body was littered with bandages.

  A large one had been carefully wrapped around his entire waist, taped to his well-chiseled abs with medical tape. A few other rogue bandages were dotted farther up towards his rib cage.

  Around all of them, his skin was either red raw or burnt almost black.

  What the hell happened?

  Sam’s mind was hazy at best and the air in the room was hard to take in.

  It was painfully hot, and Sam reached his left arm across his abdomen and placed his fingers on the bandage.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  A voice echoed through the room, a thick, Arabic accent riding on each word. The voice startled Sam, a rare occurrence in his life. As a highly trained and decorated sniper, Sam had proven himself to be one of the British Military’s most dangerous soldiers. With his mission completion rate near perfect and his kill count as terrifying as it was revered, Sam was trained to always be on his guard.

  But when you’re lying on your back, broken and bleeding, in an unknown location, all your training goes out of the window.

  Except one lesson.

  Survive.

  And despite his current condition, Sam Pope was built to survive.

  Sam’s eyes darted around the room, turning to his left and looking out at his dimly lit surroundings. It wasn’t much, a derelict room at the back of a stone shack he guessed. A few battered chairs had been piled against the far corner of the room, which Sam assumed were for the table he was lying on. To their left, a metal tray sat on the side table, with swathes of cotton wool and bandages strewn across it. In a box on the floor, he saw another collection of bandages, these ones stained with what he assumed was his blood.

  His T-shirt was also among the trash, the bloodstained material ripped beyond recognition.

  In the doorway, a man stood.

  He was in his fifties, his brown skin contrasting against his neatly trimmed grey beard. His brown eyes, hidden behind his spectacles, regarded Sam with concern. On his head, he wore a white taqiyah, which held as much religious meaning as his white gown.

  Sam tried to sit up once more, his fight-or-flight instinct trying to wrestle through the pain to little avail. The man shook his head.

  ‘You must rest.’ His voice was calm. Soothing.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Sam asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘My name is Farhad.’ The man stepped forward, reaching for something.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sam spat in terror. Farhad’s hand came into view.

  It was holding a glass of water.

  ‘You must drink.’

  Sam raised his eyebrow in surprise, but his body craved the moisture. Suddenly, the entire room felt like a furnace and Sam gently opened his lips as the man tipped the glass toward him. The water ran freely down his throat which felt scorched.

  Like he had shouted himself hoarse.

  Shouted with fear and concern.

  But for whom?

  Sam had never been worried for his own life. Before every tour, he had promised his girlfriend, Lucy, that he would return to her. They had recently bought a house together in Ruislip, North London, having been dating for nearly two years.

  He had known she was the one from their first date. Sat awkwardly across from each other in a London pub not far from Paddington Station, she caught him off guard when she asked him his views on the latest takeover at Queens Park Rangers Football Club. As a fan, Sam had a few choice words to say, but her knowledge of football made their conversation flow.

  Soon, so did the drinks and they ended the night with a random game of bowling and a long, good-night kiss.

  Now she was waiting for him in their two-bedroom house, making it look as stunning as she was. She had a keen eye for interior design and Sam, usually so dismissive, couldn’t wait to get back to see what she had done.

  Get back to her.

  But he wouldn’t have been yelling for her. Sam was yelling for someone else.

  His head was thumping with pain and as if reading his mind, Farhad held his hand open.

  Two small, white tablets presented themselves.

  ‘Paracetamol,’ Farhad offered. ‘You take.’

  Apprehensively, Sam took the pills with his left hand and dropped them into his mouth, his body craving anything that would soften the pain. His enabler once again lifted the glass and Sam sloshed down the pills with the last of the water.

  Just being conscious was painful and with the drugs now swimming through his body, he felt woozy.

  ‘Where am I?’ he eventually stammered, resting his head back on the table.

  His eyes were feeling heavy.

  The sweltering heat coiled around him like a hungry snake.

  ‘Just rest,’ he heard Farhad say. ‘I tell you everything when you wake.’

  The final word just about scraped through as Sam once again fell into a deep, painful sleep.

  ‘Sam, we need to go. NOW!’

  With his thick, Manchurian accent making each word sound heavier, Private Matthew McLaughlin held the binoculars to his blue eyes. The young man had been assigned to Sam’s tutelage after impressing through sniper school. Sam had raised the bar to an almost impossible level during his own journey through it, and McLaughlin had c
ome closer than anyone since. Marsden had seen something in him, the same thing he had with Sam himself, and the wise mentor always felt the best way to improve, was to engage.

  Nothing builds a soldier more than the cold, real battle itself.

  During the eight months Sam had taken McLaughlin under his wing, they’d forged a bond that only builds between two people who put their lives in the other’s hands. ‘Mac’, as Sam affectionately called him, was Sam’s spotter. Instead of honing his skills behind the scope of a rifle, Mac was developing his planning skills, working out the distance and wind speeds before relaying the information to Sam.

  If a wrong direction was ever given, Sam would correct it. The mission always came first. But he would point out why Mac had been wrong, which to his credit, was rarely ever. The man was a gifted spotter which would make him a hell of a sniper. The only possible downside Sam saw, was his lack of killer instinct.

  Sam had developed his quickly. He could coldly pull a trigger and end a life without a second thought.

  But Mac, he was still young. At twenty-three, he was five years Sam’s junior and still had high hopes for the world. Sam knew they dissipated the more bullets you delivered to the centre of people’s foreheads.

  The two of them were lying across the vast, dusty mountain tops of the Kabul Province in Afghanistan, overlooking the run-down village of Chakari. They had been sent on a mission to eliminate a Taliban recruitment cell which had been reported to be terrorising the village. It had nearly been a decade since Bin Laden had orchestrated the attack on the Twin Towers and in the years since, the British Military had been aligned with their US counter parts in the battle against terrorism.

  Sam had even met the esteemed General Ervin Wallace, a man as feared as he was respected by his peers.

  Sam squinted through the scope of his rifle, running the crosshairs across the dusty street that dissected the run-down shacks. The entire village was poverty stricken, with a number of families trying their best to grow vegetation from the deadland or coax water from the empty wells.

  A few kids kicked a tatty football through the street, celebrating each kick as if they’d scored the winner at a world cup final.

  It was a haunting existence and one Sam knew was unlikely to change, despite how hard they fought.

  Mac pulled the binoculars away from his young, handsome face and stared at Sam. Beneath his helmet, his brown hair fluttered under the rapidly increasing wind. Sam pulled the rifle upwards, spun to his right, and pointed it towards the sky.

  The incoming helicopter was firmly in his sights.

  ‘We need to fucking move,’ Mac yelled in terror; his eyes wide with fear. ‘There’s an extraction point three kilometers that way.’

  ‘I’ve got this,’ Sam said calmly, adjusting his scope and zeroing it in on the glass that curved around the front of the aircraft.

  ‘Sam.’ Mac slapped his arm in panic. ‘We have to leave.’

  That slap was all it took.

  Sam pulled the trigger, the bullet that would have nested nicely between the eyes of the pilot, went flying into the cloudless, humid sky. It would have taken down the entire chopper, reinforcing their mission further and rendering them both heroes.

  But as the bullet flew past the aircraft, so did their hopes of survival.

  Mac had gotten to his feet, turned and sprinted to the west, the direction of the extraction point. Despite his young age, Mac had told Sam of his high school sweetheart, Clare, who he was desperate to return home to. Sam understood, and he admired how Mac kept a photo of her taped to the inside of his helmet.

  ‘Mac, wait,’ Sam called out, doing his best to swing his rifle around to his back, the strap catching on his shoulder and causing it to swing back.

  Above him, the thudding propellers of the helicopter echoed, and Sam threw his helmet to the side and began to chase after his terrified protégé. The wind from the chopper caused the dust to rise from the ground, like the impact from a bomb.

  Sam raised a gloved hand to shield his eyes, trying his best to see Mac as he ran ahead.

  Sam could just about make out the silhouette of his comrade as he chased after him.

  Mac was about thirty yards in front of him.

  A large bang roared from above, followed by the sound of something ripping through the air.

  A rocket hit the ground just behind Mac, the ground exploding upwards in an incredible fountain if flames, smoke, and gravel. The blast expanded out like a magnetic pulse and Sam screamed for his fallen comrade.

  Seconds later, the flames and the blast collided into him with a murderous fury.

  Sam felt himself lift off the floor, felt the pain surge through his body, and then the horrible surge of falling through the air.

  Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The thud of metal cracking solid soil echoed gently in Sam’s head and his eyes slowly open. The brightness of the room was from the sun invading through the makeshift window, the light bouncing through the brickwork and bathing the room in a myriad of shadows.

  The sharp, numbing pain in his skull had subsided and Sam quickly remembered his situation.

  He was laid up in an unknown location, a dusty, run-down room, being tended to by a man he’d never met.

  Farhad.

  Sam was trained not to panic, but he was finding it hard to put that into action.

  He swallowed, his throat as dry as the arid lands he was watching over before the attack and he tilted his head to the side. A metal cup rested on a small side table and Sam felt his body groan as he shifted his arm up to reach for it. He had no idea how long he had been out for; the concept of time had evaporated along with any reasonable expectation of making it out of the situation alive.

  But he was built for survival and with considerable difficulty, he pushed himself up to a seated position. The room spun a little, as the pain on his right side shook through his body like an earthquake.

  On a positive note, he had regained some feeling in his right arm.

  With his left, Sam reached and clasped the metal, lifting the dusty water to his lips and greedily sipped. The water rushed down his throat, the soreness having relented, and he found himself coughing. As he did, he felt his right-side ache and he lifted his stained robe once more. Fresh bandages adorned his body, but whatever was under them hurt like hell.

  Fragments of his memory returned to him as he recalled his vivid dream.

  The chopper.

  The explosion.

  Mac.

  Another hard clang of metal stirred him from his terrifying thoughts, and he looked towards the window, his neck aching too much to allow him to a decent view. Gently, he swung his left leg over the side of the bed. With more difficulty, his right one followed.

  He pressed his bare feet down onto the stone, surprised by the coolness. The air was humid, the unrelenting sun beating down on the small village which Sam had once viewed from up above. His mind was still jumbled from his ordeal, but he knew he was a long way from home with little to no chance of returning.

  But that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

  Gritting his teeth, Sam tried to push himself up from his makeshift bed, but his right arm buckled slightly, and he had to steady himself from a painful collision with the stone below.

  He heard a chuckle emanate from the corner of the room.

  Sam shot a glance towards the corner, his green eyes landing on those of a small boy.

  No older than seven, the small boy startled with fear, his dark hair messily combed across his head in thick waves. Wearing a shirt not dissimilar to Sam’s, he leapt to his feet and his sandals slapped against the stone as he jettisoned from the room.

  ‘Wait,’ Sam croaked, his voice breaking, and he took another swig of water.

  Moaning in pain, he tried to stand again, wobbled slightly but then steadied. With his feet planted, he scanned the room. It was a gift which put him above every student during his training. His
ability to note and remember every pertinent detail made him as calculating as he was deadly. Usually, it allowed him to plan his strikes with deadly precision and made his escapes as hazard free as possible.

  He absorbed the details of the room.

  The metal tray which was now empty of all medical materials to his left.

  The child had taken six steps to remove himself entirely from Sam’s view.

  The approximate height of the bed he had been laid upon.

  Whatever was useful.

  Usually, Sam’s memory aligned with his aim and made him the deadliest man in the British Military.

  Today, he was only reminded of how lost he was and how much trouble he was in.

  Another clang echoed from outside, accompanied with the rattle of hard soil being shifted.

  Sam took a step forward, but as he placed his left foot down, his knee buckled, and he stumbled towards the wall. He managed to stop his collision with his left hand, but his knee felt absent. Whatever he had done, he would need to tread carefully.

  He was battered.

  But he wasn’t beaten.

  Not yet, anyway.

  With careful steps, Sam ambled across the room, pressing his left hand to the wall for support.

  The air smelt stale and hung heavy, with each breath struggling to infiltrate Sam’s lungs.

  Sam made his way through the doorway.

  A derelict room presented itself.

  A wooden table sat in the middle, a dusty, thick red rug hanging over it in a feeble attempt at decoration. A few photos sat atop of it, heavy with dust. Sam recognised the man as the one who had tended to him. To his right was a beautiful woman, her symmetrical face framed with a white headscarf. Two young boys sat on their respective laps, one of whom Sam was sure had just fled from him.

  They looked like a happy family.

  Behind them, he could see what looked like a busy city centre. A long way from where they were now.

  A battered sofa was pushed against the far wall, the cushions ripped and lacking any offer of comfort. As he meandered towards the front door, he passed a small alcove where a few plates rested on a shelf, a small cooking apparatus beneath it.