The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  Chapter Fourteen

  FOUR YEARS AGO…

  ‘Here you go, pig.’

  A bowl of vegetable scrapings was tossed carelessly into Mac’s cage, spilling across the piss stained floor. Hunched in a ball, he slowly extended a quivering, skeletal arm out to retrieve it. His hand shook, his filthy hands scarred from where the Taliban soldiers had removed his fingernails.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt any pain.

  Seven years in captivity and Mac still had no idea where he was.

  The Taliban camp was sizeable, with at least fifty recruits being put through their paces on a daily basis by the dozen or so soldiers who ran the show. During the first few months of captivity, Mac had focused on learning their names, focusing on their identities as a way to fight through the pain. The medic they had within the camp had tended to the significant burns that dominated the left side of his body, but that was the only hospitality he’d experienced since his ordeal began.

  As the months ticked by, Mac had become resigned to his fate. The notion of rescue soon dissipated completely and his idea of collecting valuable intel died.

  There was no rescue.

  No hope.

  Within the first few weeks of his incarceration, he’d been whipped mercilessly in front of the new recruits, his back slashed until it looked like a beaten leather sofa. The blood loss had caused him to pass out, and when he awoke, he was face down in the cage that would become his home.

  Every few months, he was hauled from his cell, a broken and frail shadow of the soldier he once was and used as an educational tool to the brain-washed men who had joined the cause.

  They beat him, to not only show them who was in charge but also to bring their war against the western world to reality. The soldiers running the camp would never go to war. They would never be called upon to detonate a bomb in a busy city.

  They were there to groom the next generation to do their bidding.

  Therefore, Mac was the target for their pent-up hatred and they made sure he felt it to his very core.

  They would urinate through the bars of his cage, splattering him and the floor of his cell with warm piss, laughing as they did. They provided him little food or sanitation, ordering a young recruit to clear out the excrement he unloaded in the corner only once a month.

  When the soldiers got bored, they would take a hammer and spread his fingers across the ground. Then, as fast as they could, they would slam the hammer in the gaps between and when they finally missed, and they always did, they would crush his bone with a sickening thud.

  He would howl in pain.

  They would laugh maniacally.

  Then another soldier would have their turn.

  Mac had also been raped. On three occasions he’d been roughly pulled from the cell, beaten until he could barely move, and then sodomised by a soldier. Despite their strict insistence that they were serving their god, they were willing to defy him in order to assert their dominance.

  To show Mac that they were his masters and he was nothing more than an animal in their eyes.

  There had been times when he’d tried to end it all, mustering up the energy to slam his head as hard as he could against the harsh, stone wall of his cell until he split his skull open.

  But he was always nursed back to health.

  They would rather he be kept as a pet than bury him in the ground.

  Through it all, he remembered Sam’s words. It had been eight years ago, but he could recall them as if they’d spoken yesterday.

  ‘I promise I will do everything to keep you alive.’

  Sam had failed to keep his promise.

  He had left him here, to be tortured. To be killed.

  The anger had toiled away in Mac for years, and he hoped Sam had survived the blast so he could one day have the pleasure of putting a bullet in his skull.

  Mac was no longer a soldier.

  He was no longer a person.

  As he reached out and slid a rotten piece of carrot into his mouth, he heard a large explosion from outside the base, the impact rocking the cell and causing a few stones to scatter across the floor. Panicked cries echoed in the distance, followed by the unmistakable barrage of gunfire. The senior soldiers rushed to the door, barking orders in their native tongues as they reached for their rifles. Two of them stayed back, a clear sense of panic between them as another explosion shook the room.

  Mac pushed his wiry frame upward, lifting himself to his knees.

  Gunfire echoed directly outside the room, followed by a spray of bullets thudding against the door. The final two captors stood, rifles aimed, although their hands shook.

  The door slid open.

  They fired wildly, not noticing the flashbang that had been rolled in and everything went white. Mac’s hearing dropped to a high-pitched squeal but as his eyes adjusted to the room again, he saw a burly general march in, flanked by two rifle wielding soldiers. The man in charge stepped over the dead body of one of the captors to the other, who, riddled with bullets, was praying to God.

  The man ignored it, casually lifting the Glock in his hand and pulling the trigger. The captor’s skull exploded, much to Mac’s delight. That quickly turned to horror as a rifle was thrust into his face.

  ‘General, we have a captive here.’

  The soldier called across the room, and the murderous General marched over, peering through the bars at the pathetic, beaten human before him.

  ‘State your name, son?’

  Mac couldn’t believe it. It was years since he’d heard an English word that hadn’t been an insult in broken English, or had been treated like a person. A tear formed in his eye as he searched his brain rapidly, trying to recall an identity that had long since been swept away.

  ‘P-p-private Matthew McLaughlin, sir.’

  The man smiled warmly.

  ‘My name is General Ervin Wallace. You are safe now, soldier.’

  * * *

  Mac sat at the laptop which lay open on the small desk that his small room could accommodate. After he’d returned to the UK alongside a terrified Josh Maxwell, he’d calmly strangled his driver and left his corpse in the back of his truck. The entire journey had been fraught, with Josh mourning the murder of his brother and despite his pathetic pleas for his life, Mac couldn’t afford to leave a loose end.

  There would be a time for him to face the consequences of his actions, but not until he’d put Sam through as much pain as humanly possible.

  Ever since he’d been liberated by Wallace, he’d researched all he could about the life Sam went on to lead. He had married the wonderful woman who’d shown Mac such kindness and even fathered a son. While Jamie Pope’s demise was unfortunate, Mac felt no sympathy. Having spent seven years in a Taliban prison cell, any semblance of humanity had left him.

  Wallace had seen that and had allowed Mac to channel it towards his bidding.

  With no empathy coursing through his veins, Mac was a perfect killing machine and whatever names were sent to him through the Blackridge network, he eliminated them ruthlessly and without question.

  Men.

  Women.

  Children.

  They were just names on a screen.

  But Sam would mean something. Killing him would grant Mac peace for the trials he went through. Once Sam had begged him for death, he would gladly go to jail or to the afterlife, safe in the knowledge that he’d restored the balance.

  Set things even.

  After killing and robbing Josh Maxwell, Mac had made his way to London by train and then found the nearest Internet café near Waterloo Station. Despite the usual quizzical looks his charred face drew, he found a quiet seat in the far corner of the room and was able to log onto the private servers of an online RPG called Warrior’s Call.

  Video games had never appealed to Mac, his rough upbringing saw him spend his time out on the streets as opposed to stowing away in a bedroom, fighting monsters in the vain attempt to raise his online credibility. B
ut Blackridge had provided their Ghosts with a log in and a playable character, purely as a failsafe if they went off the grid.

  Mac had hoped the server was still running, despite the dissolution of the organisation in the wake of Wallace’s death.

  The General had saved his life, given him a purpose, and whenever he thought about his passing, it only added fuel to the vengeful fire burning within him.

  The server was still active, although the small chat box in the top right showed only two active users.

  Ignoring the colourful imagery of the game, Mac typed in his passcode and waited.

  Whoever else was logged in kept him waiting, but after five minutes, they responded.

  ‘Welcome back to the server. Please state your quest?’

  Mac rolled his eyes. He was sure that whoever was on the other end of the keyboard was a snotty, computer nerd who enjoyed pretending he was a mythical creature. The irony was, he was a mythical creature to Mac, as they would never meet. The operatives who controlled the logistics and tech side of Blackridge were kept out of sight, locked away in dark terminals, plotting the elimination of targets.

  While Mac may have been the one pulling the trigger, the one’s pushing out the orders were just as complicit in the bloodshed.

  Mac responded with the pre-rehearsed lingo he’d committed to his memory.

  ‘Retribution quest. Need nearest loot box.’

  Again, he cursed himself as he typed but the phrase was designed not to flag up on any potential searches. Blackridge may have had close ties to the government, but their business wasn’t strictly legal. Wallace had garnered enough power to operate throughout the world, smiling and nodding in the official meetings and dealing with legitimate threats off the books.

  Mac rubbed his chin with impatience as the nerd began their response, the small notification that they were typing felt like a personal mocking.

  ‘TS,0.3KM,F1,L32,C4881’

  Mac smiled. The response would flag as nothing more than a gaming coordinate, but to him, it was a map. Having dialled into the IP of his computer, the genius on the other end of the chat had quickly ascertained his location. The train station a third of a kilometre away, first floor, locker thirty-two. The four digit combination code would grant him access, where he would find a ‘survival pack’, a safety net that Blackridge had set up in almost every town or city within which they operated. The fact that this one was located within Waterloo Station, a short walk up the road, brought a smile to his face.

  It would contain a black satchel, with a pack of fresh underwear, toothbrush, ten thousand pounds in cash, and a loaded handgun.

  Enough tools to drop off the radar.

  But Mac was preparing for the exact opposite, and he patted the inside of his jacket, feeling the solid steel of the SIG Sauer P226 he’d used to put a bullet through Eric Maxwell’s head.

  The very same gun he’d nearly killed Sam with.

  Another message popped up, drawing his attention.

  ‘Is there anything else I can provide before you embark on your quest?’

  There was no coming back from what Mac had planned, and with Wallace dead, there seemed little need to protect the integrity of the web server.

  Blackridge was over, and while the operative on the other end of the web chat was valiantly trying to ensure support for the assets who were now being hunted by the government, it would only be a matter of time before it all came crashing to the ground.

  A fitting way to end, considering the four-storey plummet that its founder had taken at the hands of Sam Pope.

  With his plan of vengeance starting to take place, Mac allowed a wry smile to creep across his scarred face.

  ‘Expert needed.’

  He waited patiently. The icon flashed his response was incoming.

  ‘Expert need for what purpose?’

  Mac leant forward; his eyes bright with malice.

  ‘Explosives.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Since the moment her first request for an update on Sam Pope had been rebuffed, Singh had felt something was wrong. As one of the finest detectives in the Met, a gut feeling was usually the catalyst for solving a case. It was what made her, and many fine detectives before, so good at their jobs. The ability to process information, but immediately question its validity had helped her put a number of criminals behind bars.

  While her dealings with Sam over the past six months had seen her question a number of things, from her trust of her superiors to the very badge she stood for, one she never questioned was her gut.

  Something was wrong.

  She knew it.

  A residual guilt still lingered in her mind the following morning. Matt Allison had been the perfect gentleman, charming in some ways and although under different circumstances their union would have been just as unlikely, she felt bad for stringing him along. Not only was it cruel to offer him hope of progressing his clear attraction to her, but it also undermined her stern stance that her gender had no effect on her ability to solve a case.

  Using the potential allure of sex to garner information made her feel sick to her stomach and when she’d arrived back at her flat later that night, she had a stiff whisky and went to bed. A night of restless sleep followed, and she found herself at the coffee machine at half five the following morning, yearning for the caffeine boost as much as the truth.

  By eight o’clock, she was at her desk in the New Scotland Yard building, gazing out of the windows over the glorious River Thames. A few boats were slowly passing through and she cast her gaze out to the wider city.

  A city in chaos.

  To its inhabitants, it was a booming city, filled with shops, businesses, and bars, the epicentre of the British economy. Whatever street you walked down, there was always a buzz of activity, with tourists, shoppers, and workers weaving in and out of each other’s way like a strange dance.

  To those walking the streets, it was a place of wonder.

  To those protecting the very same streets, it was haunting.

  Before her life intertwined with Sam’s, Singh had already seen the worst of humanity. She’d worked diligently on Project Yewtree, hunting down the necessary evidence to ensure that when they hauled the vile paedophiles off the streets, they stayed off them,

  She’d burst into drug dens, armed and flanked by her team, engaging in gunfights with drug lords.

  She’d shot people.

  Critically injured them.

  But she’d never killed.

  Since then Sam Pope had consumed her career. As soon as she’d been assigned as the head of the task force, he’d taken a permanent residence in her mind. But as the hunt drew out, and the lines began to blur, he’d consumed her thoughts for other reasons.

  The pain he’d been through.

  The war he’d raged to save innocent children.

  The sacrifices he made to bring down one of the most notorious global terrorists.

  The risks he took to save her life.

  That kiss.

  She could feel her fingers tightening around the coffee cup, only for her thoughts to be disturbed by a familiar voice.

  ‘Singh. You’re here early this morning.’

  It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact, but Singh could hear the surprise in Deputy Commissioner Ashton’s voice. Turning away from the grey sky that hung over the capital like a grim warning, Singh offered her superior a smile.

  ‘Just wanted to get ahead of a few things, that’s all.’

  ‘Good to hear.’ Ashton nodded curtly, removing her hat and revealing her greying blonde hair, which was tied back in her usual bun. As she marched towards her office, Singh placed down her coffee mug and followed, whipping her blazer off the back of her chair and sliding it over her crisp white shirt. As Ashton circled her desk, she looked up with surprise as Singh knocked on the door and effectively let herself in.

  ‘Can I have a quick word, ma’am?’

  ‘Quickly.’ Ashton sighed, hal
f rolling her eyes as she made to look busy, shuffling some papers on her desk. ‘I have a meeting with the Home Secretary in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Fun,’ Singh replied dryly, regretting it as soon as Ashton shot her a furious glance.

  ‘What do you want, Singh?’ Ashton took her seat as Singh approached the desk.

  ‘Ma’am, I think something has happened to Sam Pope.’

  ‘You are right. Something has happened to him,’ Ashton replied, without looking up from her papers.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Justice.’ Ashton looked up smugly. ‘The man committed countless crimes, killed numerous people including a senior government official, and engaged in a gun fight with our own men. Now he is behind bars and you would do well, Singh, to leave it at that. Dragging up the past will only impede your future.’

  Ashton returned her eyes to her paperwork, signalling the end of the conversation. It was a silent request that Singh ignored.

  ‘Ma’am, I have reason to believe that Sam Pope’s transfer to HMS Pentonville either went array or didn’t happen. Is there any way we can look at the transfer logs and…’

  ‘Singh, your job is to catch the criminals. One that you’re very good at,’ Ashton said, rubbing her temple in frustration. ‘But in the interest of keeping this relationship amicable, I can tell you in the strictest of confidence that moments before Sam’s incarceration, I received approval from Commissioner Stout on my request to have Sam moved to somewhere more befitting his crimes.’

  Singh clutched the back of the chair opposite Ashton’s desk until her knuckles whitened.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I made good on my promise. I told him I was going to bury him in the deepest, darkest hole I could find. I didn’t expect Stout to sign off on it, but with his impending departure I guess he thought it was a fitting conclusion to a job well done.’