Before Sam could respond, Chapman quickly glanced at his phone, dropped it on the desk, and stood.
‘Need to take a piss.’
He patted Sam on the shoulder as he hobbled through the door to his own, private cell and as Sam heard the crashing of urine in the water, he reached across, snatching the phone before the screen locked. Quickly, he flicked to the call history, found the last call and memorised the number instantly. Carefully, he locked the phone, placed it back on the desk and sat back, sipping his drink as Chapman returned.
‘That’s better.’ He dropped back into his chair and lifted his mug. ‘To our partnership.’
Sam joined in, raised his own and then polished off the last of his whisky. He placed the mug onto Chapman’s desk and stood, smiling.
‘Thanks, boss.’ Sam shuddered at the term. ‘I appreciate the drink.’
‘Plenty more where that came from.’
As Sam made for the door, he stopped at the threshold, and turned back to an interested Chapman.
‘One more thing. I noticed Glen had a phone. I was wondering if…’
‘Top drawer.’ A slightly light-headed Chapman pointed sloppily at the cupboard. ‘They only have ten or so calls in them but help yourself. Although, not sure Domino’s delivers at this time.’
Sam genuinely chuckled and opened the cupboard, rooting through a few iPods, porn mags, and other contraband until he pulled out a crummy looking phone. It was an unknown make, but Sam wasn’t looking for quality.
He just needed to make a call.
Sam held the box up, Chapman nodded, and Sam thanked him and headed back to his cell. As soon as he did, he slid the phone from the box, booted it up and waited.
One bar of signal.
It was enough.
Sam dialled a number and held the phone to his ear; the call was answered on the third dial.
‘Hello?’
Sam had never been more grateful to hear Etheridge’s voice.
‘Paul. It’s me.’ Sam spoke quietly. ‘I got it. Do you have a pen ready?’
Chapter Eighteen
TWO YEARS AGO…
Mac had never felt so valued.
After being rescued by Wallace two years prior, the General made it his personal mission to nurse Mac back to health. Having spent seven years in captivity, he was dangerously malnourished and although the burns and scars that tattooed his body would never disappear, Wallace went out of his way to nurse the mental trauma he’d experienced.
Insisting Mac stay in a government treatment facility, where he was tended to by the very best doctors and nurses, he soon found himself gaining weight, recovering some of his composure, and soon enough, was able to begin weight training. After a year of physical and psychological rebuilding, Mac felt like a new man.
A man with an extreme amount of hate bubbling inside.
With his focus on revenge, Mac wanted to know where he could find Sam so he could make him pay for his treachery.
But Wallace had different plans.
Through a series of deep discussions, Wallace had told Mac he had so much more to offer the world besides being angry at it. While what he’d experienced had been monstrous, the world was full of people willing to do the same thing to millions more. Blackridge, Wallace’s covert anti-terrorism unit, were spread across the globe, fighting the good fight to keep the world safe.
Mac had already proven he was a skilled marksman and despite his fractured mindset, could be a valuable asset.
All Mac had thought about during the beatings and the years spent in his cage was getting his hands on Sam.
Wallace was offering him so much more.
The General told Mac that killing Sam wouldn’t change what happened. That when he finally did, he would discover how hollow he was now he didn’t have that fury to hold on to. But, once Mac had served his country, like the true soldier he was, Wallace promised he would put Mac and Sam in the same room together and let Mac have his vengeance.
Sceptical of once again becoming a soldier, Mac deliberated for a few weeks. It was only when Wallace drove him to a secure location just outside of Solihull that Mac changed his mind.
As the car approached the large, derelict concrete structure, Mac turned to Wallace in the driver’s seat. His heart fluttered with panic as memories of being confined in a Taliban base rushed back to him.
‘What is this?’
‘Relax, Mac,’ Wallace said calmly as he pulled the car to a stop outside the door. ‘I have something for you.’
Despite his reservations, Mac trusted the General implicitly and exited the car. Wallace marched to the front door where he was immediately greeted by a tough looking woman, who stood to attention. Decked out in the same black polo shirt and trousers as Mac, it was clear this was a Blackridge facility. That information calmed Mac slightly, but as they meandered through a few rooms and descended a staircase, he could feel his nerves rising to the surface.
‘Sir?’ Mac’s words were fraught with fear. Wallace stopped on the second step, turned, and fixed the young soldier with a warm smile. Slowly, he extended his hand.
‘Trust me, Mac. I won’t leave you behind.’
Mac took a long intake of air and then took the General’s hand, following him down the steps until they came across a large, metal door. Outside was another Blackridge operative, a large black man with a bandage wrapped around his knuckles. He too, stood to attention as Wallace approached, which the General kindly dismissed.
‘How is he?’
‘He was being a bit mouthy.’ The operative motioned with his bandaged hand. ‘I had to quiet him down.’
‘Very good.’ Wallace shot a glance to Mac, then back to the operative. ‘Why don’t you take a fifteen-minute break?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man answered instantly, nodding his goodbye to both men and then disappeared up the staircase. Before Mac could ask what was going on, Wallace hauled open the large metal door, his bulky frame making it look easy.
‘After you.’ Wallace gestured for Mac to enter and hesitantly, he did. The room was dark and empty, the walls thick reinforced with thick, soundproof panels. The concrete floor was spattered with historic bloodstains. A single light dropped from the ceiling, offering a circular glow around the man who sat, strapped to a chair beneath. With blood trickling from his eyebrow across his swollen eye, the man had clearly taken a beating.
Mac stopped in his tracks and Wallace stepped forward, approaching the man who begged for his freedom in Arabic, tears streaming down his face and collecting in his bloodstained beard.
‘This, Mac, is Ahmed Bin Salma. A Taliban general who my team flew into the UK this morning. As you can see, he isn’t exactly as powerful as he once thought.’ The man spoke and Wallace clipped him across the face with the back of his hand. ‘Shut up.’
‘Sir?’ Mac stepped forward cautiously.
‘This man was in charge of the Taliban recruitment camp that held you hostage for seven years. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t there when we stormed the base. Which means now, he is in a lot of trouble.’ Wallace gestured to a small table that was shrouded in shadow on the far side of the room. ‘He’s all yours, Mac. When I tell you that I’ll let you take back what people have taken from you, I mean it. I’ll be outside.’
Wallace slapped Mac on the shoulder and squeezed it, before stomping back towards the door which closed behind him. Mac stood still for a few moments, contemplating the promise the General had made. Here before him, unable to escape, was the man who made his life a living hell for over half a decade.
Everything Wallace was offering was real.
The chance to make a difference.
An opportunity to channel his anguish into something real.
The promise of revenge.
A cruel smile grew across Mac’s charred face and he walked casually over to the table. Without pausing to choose, he lifted the claw hammer, felt its weight in his grip, and then stepped into the illuminated ri
ng where the man sat. The fear that grew in his eyes when he recognised Mac, knowing full well the torture he’d put the man through. With a whimper of acceptance of his fate, the man took a long, deep breath.
Mac swung the hammer, the connection sending a vibration through his arm as it cracked the man’s skull.
The impact of the blow sent the man sideways, tipping the chair and he fell on the floor, his breathing intensifying as he tried to handle the pain.
With blood pouring from the man’s skull, Mac crouched over the top of him and as he let out a guttural roar of pure rage, he brought the hammer down on the man’s skull again and again and again until he was hitting nothing but brain soaked concrete.
* * *
Mac sat on the uncomfortable bed of his hostel room and took a deep breath. Remembering the thrill of exacting his revenge on the man responsible for his torture only reaffirmed his desire to bring a similar fate upon Sam.
Ahmed Bin Salma may have been the man who sanctioned his living hell.
It was Sam who had left him to it.
He stood and walked to the misty mirror that hung crooked on the wall. Shirtless, he examined the horrible burns that had scarred his body for life, reliving the agony as the missile struck the ground, blowing him into oblivion.
All the scars his body wore were reminders.
General Wallace’s death had hit Mac hard. Furious that he wasn’t given another chance to bring Sam to his knees, Mac had taken the time to recuperate from being run over but he never stopped pining for another opportunity. He would have killed Sam outright, but Wallace needed information from Sam, which he clearly didn’t get.
The tabloids and news channels held little regard with Mac, who often found the presenters more interested in their appearance of reputation than the news itself. But when the story broke about Blackridge, it hit him hard.
Being one of Wallace’s Ghosts had given Mac a renewed sense of purpose, with countless targets eradicated by his hand. It had pulled him back from the brink, turned him into the soldier he always knew he could be.
Losing Wallace was the worst part of it.
Despite the wild claims of terrorism, Mac had trusted in the General more than anyone else. After having his trust obliterated by Sam’s abandonment and the subsequent years of horror, Wallace had wrapped an arm around him.
Turned him into something worthwhile.
Wallace had cared.
But once again, it was Sam Pope who was the cause of his pain. Once again, Mac had been chewed up and spat out, left to rot by a man who pretended to give a damn. Sam could hide behind the grief of losing his son, but Mac knew there was something rotten inside Sam. The man was a survivor, but he didn’t care about the cost.
That was about to change.
After his exchanges with the anonymous Blackridge operative, Mac ensured his phone was on for the duration of the next twenty-four hours. Sure enough, a delivery was arranged to the front desk of the hostel which Mac intercepted before anyone had the chance to investigate it. He had fought too long and hard for his revenge to allow a nosy receptionist to potentially bring it all down.
With the package carefully sat in the cheap wardrobe in the corner of his room, he set about the next stage of his plan.
He needed the country to hand over Sam Pope.
That would be easy enough and with a little research, he knew he would find something.
The hardest part was the third stage.
Giving Sam a reason to beg.
Mac ran his hand across the limited stubble that spurted around the scar tissue on his chin as a horrible feeling of regret manifested in the bottom of his stomach.
He knew exactly how he would do it.
He searched for any part of himself that would regret what he was about to do.
He found nothing.
* * *
There is nothing worse than knowing a crime has been committed but having no pieces to the puzzle. It was one of the lectures Singh had related to most when studying to become a detective, and now, having long since reached the rank of DI, it was rearing its head again.
No evidence meant there was nothing she could do.
Not within the structure of the legal system, anyway.
A part of her wanted to follow Sam’s lead by pushing the law to the side and doing what was necessary to get to the truth. But there were too many eyes on her. Ashton was keeping tabs on her movements, ready to throw her to sharks if she messed up or jump in and promote their relationship should Singh succeed.
Now, having mentioned it to the Commissioner, she was sure he would at least pass an interested glance in whatever she did next.
Singh had left the office that evening with her mind scattered. As she took the Jubilee Line back towards Canons Park, she knew she was battling two separate, but equally overwhelming, feelings.
The fury that someone had tampered with Sam’s transfer, along with the worry for his safety.
Ashton knew where Sam was, but wasn’t going to share that information. Singh opened her fridge and stared at the bottle of wine sat inside the door. Her drinking was beginning to dance dangerously along the line of becoming a problem and she slammed the fridge shut, turned, and popped a pod into her Tassimo coffee machine instead.
She needed a clear head.
Finding Sam was going to be harder than she ever imagined. As the coffee spluttered into the mug, she retrieved her laptop from her study and sat it on the kitchen counter, staring blankly at the search bar. There was little chance of her finding anything from Google.
If Sam was being kept hidden somewhere, she doubted the facility would have its own website.
Singh sipped her coffee and after an hour of staring at the screen, she slammed the laptop shut.
She needed a good night sleep.
Staring at the screen wasn’t going to do her any good and the chances of the answer just falling into her lap were non-existent.
As she reluctantly headed towards her bedroom, she heard the faint buzz of her mobile phone and darted across her plush flat, fumbling with her jacket that had been slung over the back of a chair.
She retrieved the phone mid-ring, not recognising the number, and hesitantly answered the call.
‘DI Singh,’ she said firmly.
‘Amara. How are you?’
‘Paul?’ Singh sounded shocked. She hadn’t spoken to Etheridge since the day of the trial, where her anger at his non-attendance had built a friction between them.
‘The one and only.’ Etheridge sounded his usual, jovial self.
‘Paul, I need to talk to you.’ Singh began, knowing she was taking the first few steps on a road that would lead to self-ruin.
‘What a coincidence. I need to talk to you, too.’
‘Really? Is it about Sam?’
‘Sort of.’ Etheridge paused. ‘Tell me, how do you feel about taking down the biggest criminal in the country?’
Chapter Nineteen
It took every ounce of Singh’s negotiation skills to get Ashton to agree to the raid.
As always, Ashton wanted to know all the details, demanding to know where the anonymous tip came from and to satisfy her own ego, why it didn’t go to her? Singh knew how to play the game, leaning on the work Ashton had done to push Singh front and centre which seemed to placate the Deputy Commissioner.
Ashton agreed to the raid and as they both stood against the police car, they watched as an Armed Response Unit infiltrated the JB Meat Co. factory, located in a remote business park on the outskirts of Aldershot, Hampshire.
Singh watched intently, remembering the days when she rode with that crew: vests, and helmets on, rifle by her side. It had been as exhilarating as it had been terrifying but bursting into a drug den and facing open fire had toughened her up.
Built her into the tenacious woman she was today.
It wasn’t her tenacity that had brought them to this location. Etheridge had told her he’d traced a phone signal that had receive
d a call from Harry Chapman to the location, which he’d investigated. The large, metal structure was a clear meat packing factory, but Etheridge had scoured through the building plans and financial reports with a fine-tooth comb and something didn’t add up. How he got those records, Singh didn’t ask but there were definitely grounds to investigate.
‘You better be right about this.’ Ashton warned, looking straight ahead as she spoke. The brisk, spring morning brought with it a chill and Singh began to feel the effects of no sleep. A few coffees had kept her going and the forty-mile drive with the window open had kept her eyes open.
But now, with the chances of this all being a mistake, she began to feel completely exhausted.
Through the crackle of the radios, they heard the ARU command people to drop their weapons and then a loud crack of gunfire.
Singh and Ashton looked at each other and then marched forward, moving between the other squad cars that were parked in front of the building. Waiting by the door for further instruction, Singh felt her hands twitch with excitement.
Etheridge had been right.
Moments later, the captain of the ARU emerged, informing them that the gunfire was a warning shot and the workers within the lab had immediately surrendered.
‘You found drugs?’ Ashton barked, and Singh detected a hint of annoyance in her voice.
‘I’ll say. It’s like an Amazon warehouse full of the stuff.’ The captain turned to Singh and nodded. ‘Good call, Singh.’
Singh smiled, not only at the compliment but by the horrible shade of green Ashton turned.
The rest of the morning played out as expected. As the early morning employees began to arrive, they were held back by a police cordon, all of them agitated at not being told why they couldn’t get through. That in turn, brought interest from the passing public and sure enough, the press followed.
The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Page 15