A moment that had set all of this in motion.
Sam could hear the muffled words of authority outside, and then the crunching of boots gradually growing in volume towards the door.
They swung open.
Before him, a powerful figure stood, his thick arms pointing out like triangles as he rested his hands on his hips. The daylight poured in around the man, casting him in a complete shadow and Sam squinted towards the broad silhouette. After a few moments, the man spoke.
‘Sam Pope. Welcome to hell.’
Chapter Eight
Deputy Warden Harry Sharp had practically licked his lips when the notice of Sam’s impending arrival came through, and while the late hour of it’s arrival was unusual, it had caused a stir of excitement in him. The standard process was for Ashcroft to be notified weeks in advance of a new inmate, ensuring the necessary safety procedures were in place for their arrival and successful transition into the facility.
But he disregarded the tardiness of the request.
Sam Pope was his.
Growing up with learning difficulties had made Sharp an easy target during his youth, something which had etched itself onto his psyche like a vulgar tattoo. With his parents’ dwindling interest in his schoolwork and wellbeing, his poor diet ensured he was teased for both his mental and physical state. Kids are cruel, which is why Sharp had never wanted the family life, cursing the very idea that he would end up like his pathetic parents. His father left when he was eight years old, which Sharp considered a blessing. The man couldn’t hold down a job and didn’t offer anything to society other than a shining example of what happens when you have no control.
He drank too much.
Took as many drugs as possible.
Fucked whoever would let him.
There was a real possibility that Sharp had siblings due to his scumbag father’s promiscuous lifestyle, but he had no interest in finding out. Anything that would tie him further to the man made his stomach turn. His mother, in his eyes, was weak. She allowed his father to sleep around, and she struggled through on a wave of benefits and cash in hand cleaning jobs.
When Sharp made his way to his teens, he filled out. The puppy fat soon converted to taut muscle and while he may not have been the brightest, he soon became the toughest in his school. When he was expelled for beating a former bully to a pulp with a chair, his mother didn’t even realise. Sharp focused his attention on joining the police from a young age, but he didn’t pass the entry exams.
He fared even worse at joining the armed forces.
Eventually, he became a prison guard.
The feeling of wielding power over people who thought themselves above the law was a sensation he couldn’t find in the arms of a woman, no matter how much he paid her. The feeling of slamming his baton into the back of an inmate’s skull for talking back was almost orgasmic.
Twenty years in the game, and now here he was, working as the deputy warden for a secret prison with a very select membership. Every time one of its degenerate population spoke back to him, he allowed the anger and pain of his neglectful parents to flow through him.
The incessant teasing from the kids at school.
The total rejection from the opposite sex.
He had been investigated countless times for excessive force when dealing with inmates, but his peers stood up for him. He didn’t know if it was out of friendship, a concept he was unfamiliar with, or because they were scared of him too. Either one was fine with him.
One hour before Sam Pope’s sentencing was due to begin, he received notification that Ashcroft would be his destination. At first, he thought it was a joke and was tempted to hand out a few backhands to his staff to draw out the ‘hilarious’ prankster.
But with Commissioner Stout’s name on the document, he found his anger morph into unbridled excitement.
Immediately, he got on the phone to Warden Geoff Harris, confirming their new guest. Harris was a meticulous man, who had spent over two decades in the army. Although he ruled with a much lighter touch than Sharp, he commanded double the respect from the rest of the guards and the inmates alike.
It infuriated Sharp how a man who showed such little aggression, held such power. Sharp may not have grown up the smartest man in the room, but he knew to toe the line. What he lacked in diplomacy he made up for by leading the line and with Harris slowly heading towards retirement due to his increasing health concerns, he had his eyes on the throne.
And when he sat there, he would ensure that his iron fist was never shrouded in a velvet glove.
Harris, in his usual, polite manner, insisted on travelling into the prison, deviating from his mandated rest day. Sharp had to grit his teeth in response, wanting to give Sam Pope his customary welcome. That would have to wait.
Diagnosed with MS at a late stage of his life, Warden Harris took Wednesdays and Fridays as rest days, allowing Sharp to show his worth to the powers that be and hopefully help him stake his claim to the top job.
Harris arrived ten minutes before Sam was due, insisting that Sharp still take the lead on welcoming him to the prison and then insisted he bring Sam to his office. Not wanting to look like a lap dog to his subordinates, Sharp made a silent promise to show Sam who was really running Ashcroft.
As the security van pulled through the final gate and slowed to a complete stop, he smiled. His uniform was in pristine condition, his navy shirt wrapped around his impressive frame. His handgun, a SIG Sauer P226, was strapped to his belt, with fifteen bullets ready to go. Despite not being the best shot in the team, Sharp was the most bloodthirsty and wouldn’t hesitate to fill Sam with the entire magazine if he got the chance.
The rain had relented, but a brisk wind blew around the van as the officers stepped out, identifying themselves before leading Sharp to the back of the van.
They unlocked the doors and threw them open, the brightness illuminating the van like a flash grenade and causing Sam to hold his hand up to protect his eyes.
Sharp smirked, happy at the discomfort of a man who thought himself above the law.
Above him.
With his meaty hands clasping his hips, he stood, allowing the brightness to bathe him in shadow.
‘Welcome to hell.’
Sharp mentally patted himself on the back for his opening line, one which he’d used on a number of new guests. While his colleagues may have rolled their eyes at his dramatics, he was always keen to set the tone immediately.
‘Get the fuck out of the van.’
Sharp stepped back, ensuring one hand was visibly on his sidearm and sure enough, with a little stiffness, Sam Pope stepped out, his eyes still squinting as they adjusted to sunshine once more.
With his hands cuffed, Sam took in the grand structure of the prison, his bruised eyes scanning the building as if searching for an exit point. Sharp allowed him a few moments, wanting the severity of his future to sink in before he cleared his throat.
‘Welcome to The Grid,’ he began, slowly pacing. ‘I’m Deputy Warden Sharp. You will address me as such from now on. You will not speak until spoken to. You will not move unless told to. In fact, you will only breath because I’ve allowed you to. Is this understood?’
Sharp spun on his heel dramatically, his eyes locked on Sam, who nodded. The lack of fear in Sam’s eyes irked him.
‘You will abide by the rules which we will make clear. Any deviation from the rules will result in one week in solitary confinement. You will have one hour a day to exercise. You will have three meals a day, one of which will be in the canteen for up to an hour. Any attempt to veer from the designated routes to and from your cell will result in one week in solitary confinement. Is this understood?’
Sam sighed and nodded. Having grown up in the military and spending most of his life as one of the UK’s elite soldiers, the drill instructor act was borderline pathetic. But realising he was in no position to question it, he played along. Sensing Sam’s lack of fear, Sharp strode directly at him, daring Sam to break his stare. H
is breath was warm, a stale smell of coffee wafting between the stained gritted teeth that he spoke through.
‘You’re in hell now, soldier boy. And I’m the fucking devil.’
Sam didn’t respond, but he refused to break the stare. The deputy warden suddenly feigned to lunge at Sam, in a lame attempt of intimidation. When Sam didn’t move, Sharp shot a furious glance at the other armed officers. To placate his own ego, Sharp drove a solid fist into Sam’s bruised ribs, driving the air completely out of him. Coughing and gasping for breath, Sam dropped to one knee, battling the urge to fight back with every fibre of his being.
There was no doubt in his mind that he would easily defeat Sharp. But with his hands cuffed, a number of armed guards trained on him, and his future in the man’s sadistic hands, he refused to rise to the bait.
This was one fight he would not win.
After a few moments and a couple of exaggerated shakes of his hand, Sharp turned to his men with a cruel smile.
‘Get him up.’ He turned back to Sam. ‘Let’s go see the Warden, shall we?’
* * *
Harris sat behind his large desk and peered through the window, the gloom of another spring afternoon hanging over the surrounding woodland with an awful sense of foreboding. A storm was coming, not just outside, but within his prison.
Ashcroft was the most high-tech, secure premises in the entire country, and he was proud to run it. He had spent the last thirteen years overseeing the government’s plans to effectively eradicate the most dangerous criminals within the confines of the law. Sure, there were liberties taken by some of his staff. Sharp suffered from ‘little man’ syndrome, but he couldn’t fault his deputy’s commitment to the cause.
There hadn’t been a riot in over five years.
No deaths in the last decade.
The inmates who resided within his prison were the worst of the worst. Mass murderers. Serial rapists. High profile gangsters. But somehow, Harris had nurtured an atmosphere of peace and for the most part, they all towed the line. Their actions while free men had determined their futures and they’d all resigned to their lockdowns.
But Sam Pope arriving had given him a headache.
Usually, Ashcroft were notified a minimum of two weeks in advance if a sentencing would lead to him welcoming a new inmate to their final resting place. The fact this had come in on the day had thrown him off, but Harris made a concerted effort to stay away from the bureaucracy of the police service. As far as he was concerned, the prison service was its own beast and he’d managed to tame the wildest of them all.
The other cause for concern was the reaction of the inmates.
While each of his prisoners was reprehensible by their crimes, there was almost a kinship between them. When they passed each other during their brief moments of freedom, there was an acceptance of who they were. A disgusting mutual respect had been forged between them, built on the severity of their crimes.
Sam Pope was a vigilante.
He had systematically taken down criminal empires. While Harris couldn’t help but admire the man’s cause, he was worried how the inmates would take to having a criminal killer among them. He had worked hard to keep Ashcroft off the map, but with so much government and police interest in Sam’s incarceration, he knew they would be sniffing around for information.
There was no guarantee he could keep Sam safe.
Nor that his guards would want to.
Without the proper time to prep his team and ensure they were ready; Sam Pope had been dropped on them like an unpinned grenade. Harris grit his teeth as a sharp pain penetrated his mind like a needle and he sat back in his chair and shut his eyes. The MS had been getting worse lately, but now was not the time for his health to fail. With a change in the status quo this big hitting his prison, the last thing he wanted was to hand over the reins to Sharp.
It would most likely end in a blood bath.
Filling his lungs to regulate his breathing, the headache was worsened by a pounding fist on his door. Harris sat forward, rested his hands on his desk and slipped seamlessly back into his well-respected composure.
‘Come in.’
The door opened and Sharp marched in, chest out and with a smug look across his face. Harris was in no doubt that he’d put on a show for Sam, his theatrics were just another reason he dreaded the day Sharp took his seat. Behind him, another armed officer followed, and Harris pushed himself out of his chair as Sam Pope shuffled in. Judging by his short, sharp breaths, Harris suspected Sharp had overstepped his welcome. It was something he’d reprimanded his deputy over before, but there was little hope for changing the man. The final officer stepped through and stood watch at the door, his arms folded on his chest and his eyes on Sam.
The tension was palpable, and Harris uncomfortably stepped around his desk and approached his new prisoner. Standing at six foot, Sam was the same height as the Warden, but looked almost twice his weight in muscle. The MS has withered away at Harris, who had once been a strapping soldier much like Sam. But age and the debilitating illness had taken its toll. Sam stood to attention, trying his best to hide the clear discomfort he was in due to Sharp, and he locked his eyes on Harris, who offered a warm smile.
‘Sam Pope,’ he began, as if regaling his grandkids with a story. ‘I must say, I’m somewhat surprised to see you here.’
Sharp scoffed loudly, but quickly remembered his rank as Harris shot him a thunderous glare.
‘I trust you understand the severity of your situation.’
‘I’m under no illusions, sir.’ Sam spoke calmly, catching the Warden off guard.
‘Now, I’m sure Deputy Warden Sharp has run through the procedures but let me make it clear. This isn’t a deep, dark hole to throw people into. I pride myself on running a tight ship here, but I also take great pride in the care we give our inmates. This may be your final home, but it is home. Now, the restrictions we have in place are non-negotiable, which means you will have to adhere to the schedules. It also means you need to wear a tag. Sharp?’
Harris turned to Sharp, who eagerly approached, his hands wrapped around a metal anklet similar to those used for house arrest. He snapped it around Sam’s left ankle, ensuring it clicked correctly. He smirked at Sam as he stood back up and took a few steps back as Sam turned his attention back to the Warden.
‘All prisoners are tagged at all times, so we can monitor your whereabouts. We haven’t had a riot here in years, but you can never be too careful.’
‘Plus, these bad boys shoot fifty thousand vaults at the click of a button,’ Sharp chimed in. ‘Not enough to kill you, but enough to make you piss your pants.’
‘Quite.’ Harris shot Sharp another stern look, reaffirming his authority. ‘Now with that out of the way, I understand this is a testing time for you. Do you have any questions?’
‘Is there a library, sir?’
The question caught the Warden off guard but drew a snigger from Sharp. Sam surmised that Sharp hadn’t read a book in his life and kept his eyes on the Warden, who drew a comforting smile.
‘We don’t, I’m afraid. However, we do have a weekly shipment of cigarettes, food, and magazines. I’m sure we can get a book or two.’ Harris eased himself onto the edge of his desk, clearly appreciating the rest. ‘You like to read?’
‘I do, sir,’ Sam responded. ‘I find it helps.’
A few chortles could be heard from the other officers, but Harris nodded approvingly.
‘It’s not a bad thing. Especially in here, your mind could use the distraction.’
Sam scanned the room, absorbing the details. There were several cabinets, no doubt containing confidential documents, along with a top of the range Mac Book which sat on the desk. On the walls, he noted the fine art that hung from their hooks. A shelf, crammed with books, was affixed to the far wall, along with a small display of medals.
‘You served, sir?’
Harris turned and glanced at the medals and returned with a proud grin.
&
nbsp; ‘I did.’ He slowly eased himself off the desk and approached Sam. ‘Many years ago, now. I know about your record, the incredible work you did for this country. It’s not gone missed.’
Sam grimaced.
For years, he’d thought he’d fought for the freedom of the world. Every bullet fired from his rifle had taken the world another small step towards it but less than two weeks ago, he’d discovered it was all a lie. Wallace had used him to tighten his stranglehold over the world of global terrorism, and Sam questioned every mission he’d ever completed.
Project Hailstorm.
It had left him with innocent blood on his hand and two bullet holes in his chest. While the truth had been exposed and Wallace’s legacy destroyed, the closing of that chapter in his life had left him riddled with self-doubt and another laundry list of injuries.
Where pride once resided, nothing but regret remained.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Sam forced a smile.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Harris patted Sam on the shoulder, and then nodded to Sharp who stepped forward, indicating to Sam it was time to go. Sam obediently turned, following Sharp’s lead as they headed to the door and the harrowing walk to his cell. As Sam was about to cross the threshold, Harris, who was lowering himself into his chair, called out.
‘Just be careful, Sam.’ His words were heavy with caution. ‘There are a lot of dangerous people in here.’
Sam stopped, and turned back to the Warden, his face emotionless.
‘I know,’ he said, before shooting a quick look at Sharp. ‘I’m one of them.’
Sharp’s nose twitched, a clear tell to Sam that he was nervous. Harris returned to his notes, as Sam followed Sharp’s march back towards the underground cell block. The officer behind him gave him a firm shove in the back, thrusting him further forward. As soon as they’d cleared the corridor and made their way down the steps towards the heavily locked-down lower levels, Sam waited patiently for the retaliation.
Before they unlocked the gate, Sharp drove another fist into his abdomen, followed by a knee to the face that rocked Sam’s skull. As he fell to his knees and shook the cobwebs away, he could hear Sharp laughing as the gates opened and the echoes of hundreds of violent criminals, baying to get their hands on fresh meat, roared through the prison like a mighty crescendo.
The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Page 7