Chapter Nine
Deputy Warden Sharp hated standing to attention.
While he’d always strived for a career within the armed forces or the police, the idea of rank and abiding by the established hierarchy angered him. He was a powerful man but having to obey orders took him back to his youth, where he was tormented and bullied by those higher up the social food chain.
Although he saw the contradiction with how he ruled when Harris was on his rest days, it still boiled his blood when he was asked to open a door for his boss. But those days were soon coming to an end, and as he watched Harris struggle to walk towards the car door he’d politely, albeit begrudgingly, opened for him, Sharp couldn’t wait to make what he felt were necessary changes to the way Ashcroft housed its prisoners.
Harris was a light touch.
Sure, he commanded respect from the inmates, but respect meant there would be room for compromise.
After Sharp had beaten and shunted Sam off to his cell, he’d been summoned by Harris, who once again chastised him for his rough treatment of the new prisoners. While his beating of Sam had been administered in a blind spot of the building, Sharp’s reputation proceeded him and when Harris questioned whether Sam would show signs of a beating should he pay him a visit, Sharp could only grunt and shrug.
‘Our job is to govern these men.’ Harris had stated coldly. ‘Not reign supreme over them.’
Sharp had bitten his tongue.
If he had it his way, Sam would be rotting for the first few weeks in solitary confinement. The quicker he could break Sam, the quicker he would bend to his whims. But there was something about Sam that irked Sharp, a resolute nobility that he both detested and envied in equal measure.
The man was a soldier.
One of the best the UK had ever seen.
Sharp had been as obsessed with Sam’s mission along with the rest of the media, following in awe as he raged a one-man war on crime. They had written about how he’d singlehandedly taken down one of the biggest crime empires in London, raided a building on his own, and put several men in the ground.
Then, with the fate of several young girls in the balance, he’d gone to war with a Ukrainian sex trafficking rink, and even went toe to toe with the Met’s Armed Response Unit. Only two weeks ago, he’d brought down one of the most powerful men in the UK and staged a daring attack on a government motorcade in broad daylight.
It told him that Sam Pope wasn’t just made of steel. But that he was nigh on incorruptible.
But that was fine with Sharp. He didn’t need to have Sam in his pocket, nor did he need him to fall in line. All Sharp craved was the fear.
Sam Pope may have been a hero to some, but in here, he was a criminal.
Just another shirt number.
Another man who would eventually walk his final mile in the confines of Sharp’s prison.
When the day came for Sam Pope to walk his own, Sharp would be in the chair, watching with interest as the highly decorated, revered man would eventually fall under his watch.
That was power.
Power that wasn’t quite his yet.
Harris eventually scraped his limp foot across the gravel beside Sharp and locked on his authoritative stare.
‘I trust everything will be in order, tonight?’ Harris half sighed.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Be on high alert.’ Harris awkwardly lowered himself into the backseat of the car. ‘There will be a lot of interest in our new guest.’
‘I’ll keep my eye on it, sir.’ Sharp offered a faux smile.
‘I don’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing.’ Harris mused out loud. A look of concern spread across his withered face. ‘Something doesn’t sit right.’
‘Sir?’ Sharp stood straight, hands clasped and pressed to the base of his spine.
‘Such a late transfer. Usually, we get so much notice to make sure everything is in place.’ Harris shook his head. ‘Just, keep everything tight, Sharp, and I’ll handle the red tape tomorrow.’
‘Have a good night, sir.’
Sharp slammed the door closed before Harris could respond and the car crawled towards the large, impenetrable gate, beginning Harris’s overlong exit from the facility. As the gate slid open and the black Mercedes pulled away, a cruel smile creaked across Sharp’s face.
Harris’s orders had been clear.
Sharp and his team were to ensure that Sam had an easy first night at Ashcroft. That was fine by him. As far as he was concerned, after getting a few licks in earlier, he’d already laid down the law to Sam. Whether he liked it or not, he would fall in line.
Neither Sharp, nor any of his team, would lay a hand on Sam.
As he turned away from the gate as it began to close, he rubbed his meaty hands together. He marched back to the entrance of the ominous Grid, hellbent on keeping his promise.
He wouldn’t lay a hand on Sam.
But Sharp could be very persuasive and there were certainly a number of desperate men, willing to do desperate things when given the chance.
Anything for a crumb of comfort and it wouldn’t take much for Sharp to make that happen.
As he crossed the threshold and showed his security pass, a pointless exercise that he would do away with the second he took charge, he afforded himself a small chuckle at the idea forming in his head.
It was time to welcome Sam to Ashcroft.
* * *
Sam was surprised by how comfortable his bed was.
While every impression he’d had since he was marched through the heavily secure facility was that it was designed for maximum punishment, he expected the bed to fall in line. It wasn’t like staying at the Ritz, but as he lowered himself onto the thin mattress, he was surprised to find a modicum of comfort from it. Considering he’d spent many nights asleep outside, hidden within the rough landscapes of the middle eastern countries while on tour, a thin mattress was welcomed.
As he’d been led to his cell, he could hear the threats emanating from the other cells. It was expected.
While the inhabitants of The Grid were predominantly cut off from the world, Sam recognised the very real possibility that his mission would have leaked through. If a building that harboured a number of the UK’s most dangerous criminals didn’t have some links to the world he’d mercilessly fought for over a year, it would have shocked him.
To the guards, he was a criminal.
To the inmates, he was a criminal killer.
In other words, he was on his own.
His head was still ringing from the cheap shot from Sharp but compared to what he’d been through in the last few weeks, it was nothing. As he shuffled on the mattress, a pain shot from his spine, the stitches from his run in with The Hangman of Baghdad not quite dissolved. Sam’s mind raced back to that night, balancing precariously on the slippery scaffold of the once prosperous High Rise, with a murderous assassin looking to slice him to pieces.
Sam had powered through.
Fought back.
Survived.
After slicing open the man’s throat and leaving him to die in the rain, Sam had envisaged his fight was over. As he’d dropped to his knees, it was the first moment of peace he’d experienced since he’d lost his son. Despite the horrifying revelations of Project Hailstorm, Sam had put things right.
Marsden’s death had been avenged.
Blackridge had been disbanded.
Wallace’s reign of terror had been brutally ended.
He had allowed DI Singh to take him in, knowing it would resurrect a career that his mission had ruptured. It was the least he could do.
After a few hours of quiet reflection as he stared at the dank, grey ceiling of his cell, Sam had tuned out the noise from the rest of the prison. He had already missed the allotted hour for exercise, but he could hear the clanking of cell doors as the staggered mealtimes approached. With each group of fifty prisoners who were herded to the canteen like cattle, another wave of violent promises echoed in his dir
ection. The odd rebuke from a prison guard followed, but Sam was under no illusion that they were interested in his safety.
They were here to watch over the prisoners. Keep them in check.
But he sincerely doubted, judging by the attitude of Sharp, that his safety was top of their priority list.
He was just another criminal.
Right on cue, a fist pounded on his door, filling his room with a sharp echo that caused him to grit his teeth. An angry voice demanded he stood to the far wall and Sam slowly obliged. His cell door swung open and a gruff prison guard stood. Mid-forties and with a gut that told Sam he was well fed, the guard eyed him up down before jerking his neck.
‘Grub time. Hop to it.’
Sam stretched as he walked, ignoring the pain in his spine, and he rolled his shoulders, still feeling a tightness in the joint which had been decimated by a bullet in Rome. There had certainly been costs to his fight against crime and Sam put his freedom at the bottom of the list. Compared to breaking his promise to his son and the punishment he’d put his body through, being locked down in a secret prison was a minor inconvenience.
As they strode through the prison, Sam scanned the corridors. They were identical in layout, and every single one of them consisted of ten cells, all spaced out by a few metres. There were no distinguishable features, nothing on the walls, and the desperation of the situation the inhabitants faced hung heavy in the air.
Eventually, they made their way to a set of thick, metal double doors, which the guard opened with his security pass. As they slid open, the noise of the room dropped.
The large room was lit by halogen tubes that hung from the ceiling in perfect symmetry. Ten metal tables were spaced evenly around the room, with an uncomfortable stool bolted to the underneath. Occupying most of them was an assortment of some of the most dangerous and vile criminals in the UK and all of them had their eyes firmly trained at the doorway.
On Sam.
‘You got thirty minutes.’
The guard gave Sam another shove before casually stepping to the side of the room, joining a colleague to cast a disinterested eye over proceedings. Sam scanned the room, meeting the hate filled stare of most of the prisoners, all of whom were hunched over metal trays containing unappetising food. As he walked towards the lone food counter, he noted the table at the far corner of the room.
A large man with a thick white beard sat, his hands clasped on the table and an air of authority about him. To his left sat a small, weasely man, with greasy hair pasted to his head and a thin, whispy beard. To the right was a specimen. Despite being seated, the man towered over the other two, and was twice as broad. The sleeves of his jumpsuit were rolled up, and his brown forearms were covered with ink. All three of them watched him, their eyes following his every step.
With the rest of the table empty, Sam assumed that a seat at that table was by invite only.
Sam approached the counter and lifted one of the metal trays, his stomach rumbling despite the food presented to him. A slab of unidentifiable meat, boiled potatoes, and some discoloured vegetables, accompanied with a plastic spork and a carton of orange juice. Despite the clear lack of care in the nutritional value of the meal, Sam was famished and he walked calmly and confidently to the nearest empty chair, placed the tray down, and sat. The other occupants of the table froze, either in disbelief or fury and Sam shovelled a potato into his mouth before fixing them all with a stare.
A cold, unnerving stare.
Clearly, it took them by surprise and Sam afforded himself a small, inward chuckle as a number of them broke it instantly. He had no intention of causing trouble on his first night, but the prison held no fear to him.
And he was hungry.
As the volume in the room began to grow, the interest in his arrival declined. The meat, which was passable chicken, tasted great and as Sam took his final mouthful, he noticed Sharp enter the room, sending another hush across the room like a shockwave. The deputy warden shot him a scowl and Sam replied with a bored raise of his eyebrow.
But then Sharp nodded to the far side of the room.
Instantly, the large, tattooed man slammed his cutlery down and stood and Sam sighed. As the hushed room watched on in a mixture of shock and bloodthirsty pleasure, Sam tracked the rising sound of the man’s heavy footsteps as they hurtled towards him.
As expected.
Just as the man’s shadow filtered over his plate, Sam could hear the extra emphasis the man placed on his final step, indicating he was shifting his body weight. Sam twisted his body to the left, evading the fist which crashed into his dinner like a sledgehammer. Sliding out from the stool in one, swift motion, Sam turned to face the hulking inmate, whose eyes were wide with fury, as if Sam’s evasion was a personal insult.
Sam held his hands up.
‘Look, let’s not do this tonight.’ He offered, but the man growled through his teeth and swung another fist. Sam ducked, before planting a hard knee into the man’s ribs, driving the wind out of him. As soon as he did, the entire room erupted into a chorus of cheers, as if they were watching their favourite wrestling show. As the man hunched over to gather his breath, Sam wrapped his hand around his bald head and slammed him face first onto the table.
As the man doubled back in a state of shock, Sam turned around in time for another fist to connect with his right cheekbone. Sam shook the blow, and the other man who had framed the older gentleman in the corner swung another. This time, Sam dropped a shoulder, allowed the man’s arm to fall across, before grabbing it with both hands. As he pulled the greasy, runt of a man towards him, Sam lifted his body up, flipping the man over and watching as he collided back first onto the cruel edge of the metal table.
Before Sam could turn his attentions back to his first attacker, a sudden pain erupted from his ankle, shaking his body and dropping him to the floor. As he jolted uncontrollably, he could make out Sharp and his officers surrounding the three of them, to a chorus of jeers from the crowd baying for blood.
While he hadn’t pissed his pants, Sam could confirm that Sharp was right.
The electric shock hurt like hell.
As Sam’s breathing slowly returned to normal, Sharp loomed over him, a cruel smile of crooked teeth across his face.
‘Trouble on your first night, eh?’ He shook his head. ‘What are going to do with you?’
With a snap of his fingers, Sharp stood back, and Sam could feel the hands of the guards wrap around his wrists. As he was dragged across the floor like a mop, his brain began to unscramble and the last thing he saw before being hauled from the room, was an impressed smile on the face of the bearded old man, whose goons he’d just dispatched.
As he was led down the hallway, Sam didn’t know if that was such a good thing.
Chapter Ten
A week had gone by and Singh hadn’t heard a single thing.
No reports on how Sam was surviving in Pentonville, or any updates on how he’d been assimilated into prison life. While Ashton had been forthright with her demands for Singh to distance herself from Sam for the good of her career, and her own, Singh had snuck onto the intranet a few times, checking the inhouse records but coming up blank each time. She was by no means a technological wizard, but the Met Police internal web system was hardly the Matrix.
But every search came to nothing.
Discreetly, she’d reached out to a trusted ally who worked in the IT department, but they too had been met by nothing but disappointment.
Something didn’t feel right.
Singh had broached the subject once with Ashton, who had been hamming up her personal touch with everyone in the office, ensuring the support of many when she rose to the top seat. It was as transparent as a pane of glass, and every time she offered Singh an empty smile, it made her skin crawl.
It also caused her to reflect.
Just over six months ago, Singh looked at Ashton with wide-eyed respect. A woman who had risen through the ranks, making impeccable career moves,
and forging the right friendships. It was inspiring to Singh, who was also climbing through the ranks and back then, Singh would have been congratulating Ashton for playing the political game.
But things had changed.
Sam Pope’s war against injustice, either side of the thin blue line, had opened her eyes.
She didn’t want to throw away her career, but Singh’s motivation had moved away from what style of epaulettes she wore on her shoulder. Now, it was about making a difference.
About ensuring that true justice was carried out and she wasn’t going to allow her own aspirations to blur her view on right or wrong.
Not since Sam had laid it out so clearly.
Her requests to Ashton for an update regarding Sam were met with a condescending shake of the head and a warning that she should know better. The rumours about her collusion still hadn’t gone away, but in the eyes of the media, she was a beacon of hope for a police force whose credibility had been fed through a wood chipper.
But she was a damn good detective.
When presented with a version of the truth that knotted her stomach, Singh couldn’t help but investigate it. It was that dogged nature that made her such a valued detective, that had seen her put forward to hunting down Sam in the first place.
Which now made her a pain in the arse.
The media had been quiet, too. Ever since the despicable murder of Helal Miah, the press had given the Sam Pope story a wide birth. There was extensive coverage of the sentencing for the first couple of days, with some of the more liberal papers printing Sam’s speech verbatim as some sort of rallying cry. It was a dangerous tight rope to walk, as while Sam’s acts were noble in theory, they were criminal in execution.
The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Page 8