The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  But now, as he sat in the car he’d stolen from a multistorey car park beside Waterloo Station, he hesitated.

  This part of the plan was always going to be difficult, but Mac was surprised he had any compassion left. Wallace had ensured it had stayed hidden, if it even existed and for every target Mac had mercilessly killed, he’d been certain any emotion, besides the seething rage that burnt within him, had been extinguished.

  But he was wrong.

  The Ford Fiesta he’d stolen was an easy drive, equipped with the mod cons that littered every new model. Mac had been careful to ensure the car he took had an inbuilt satnav, and he tapped in the address, following the robotic voice as it guided him through the heavy London traffic and onto the M4, which he followed until he crossed over into Berkshire. As he ventured through Slough, Mac wasn’t particularly impressed by the industrial looking town, hardly meeting the aesthetic of the rural countryside he expected. Passing through towards Maidenhead, the scenery changed, offering wonderfully kept fields and charming streets. Had he travelled farther, he would have been in the historic town of Windsor, where the royal castle was situated and was a beacon for tourists along with those looking for a fun, yet expensive day out.

  As Mac turned passed the Braywick Football and Rugby complex, he pulled into a quiet road, following the blue line on the screen towards the dot that nestled within a cul-de-sac at the end of the road.

  He crawled to a stop.

  You have reached your destination.

  ‘Not yet,’ Mac uttered, the gravity of his plan unsettling him slightly.

  An hour later, he was still sat, staring at the beautiful house in the left corner of the curved road. It was beyond anything he would ever have owned himself, had he been given the option of a normal life. The detached house was immaculate, the white stone covered with ivy around the bottom two windows. It was big enough to hold four bedrooms and Mac could understand the idea of moving to such a lovely street to raise a family.

  Kids where never on his radar, but he’d often dreamt of having a young son when he was lying on the floor of his cage, drifting in and out of consciousness, teaching him how to ride a bike.

  But in war, there were always casualties, and sadly, as Mac looked at the house, those words rang true.

  With a deep breath, Mac wrestled with the notion of turning the car around and continuing with the rest of his plan. The country would still be demanded to hand Sam over to him and there was still a lot of satisfaction to be had by killing him slowly.

  It was the least the country owed him.

  But he wanted Sam to hurt. To be as destroyed as he was, to the point where nothing could put him back together.

  Before he could make his mind up, the door to the house opened and he saw her.

  Lucy.

  Mac’s mind flashed back to a decade ago, when he’d sat in the garden of Sam’s house, breaking bread with the wonderful woman, sharing stories and laughter. It was the closest he’d felt to being accepted and back then, he’d considered Sam a brother.

  Lucy, his remarkable wife, had been as enchanting as she was beautiful and the two of them together had planted a seed in Mac’s mind of the future he wanted.

  But that was long gone, scorched by the cruel flames that had scarred him for life.

  Wallace had told Mac about the pain Sam had been through, the devastating loss of his son and the subsequent divorce. Mac had no sympathy for the man; that pain wasn’t enough.

  Not when there was still someone left on the face of the earth who he cared about.

  Looking tired and with her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, Mac watched as Lucy walked through the front gate and around to the alleyway between the houses, a black bag clutched in her firm grip.

  Mac left the car.

  As she returned to the gate, she didn’t even notice the man approaching.

  ‘Lucy.’

  She turned, instantly struck by the horrific scarring that wrapped around his face. After a few moments, realisation hit her, and her eyes widen in shock.

  ‘Mac?’ She raised her hand to her mouth. ‘I thought you were…’

  ‘Dead.’ He forced a smile. ‘Surprise.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Lucy shuffled nervously. ‘If you’re looking for Sam, I’m afraid we separated a few years back.’

  ‘I know. I’m here for you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lucy took a step towards the gate.

  ‘I need you to come with me.’

  Mac shot a glance to the gate, raising his only eyebrow at the now terrified woman, clearly indicating he would block her path. Lucy shook and folded her arms across her chest.

  ‘Mac, I have a three-week-old baby in the house. I have to go back inside.’

  ‘Please don’t make this difficult.’

  Mac slid a hand to the back of his jeans and revealed the gun. Lucy’s face drained of colour and a tear slid down her immaculate face.

  ‘Mac, please.’

  ‘Is your husband in the house?’ Mac demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then your baby will be fine.’ Mac gestured for her to move away from the gate with the gun. ‘If you do exactly as I say, then I promise you, I’ll do my best to bring you home to them.’

  Lucy shot a final glance towards the house. Sam had spent years grieving for the loss of his friend, carrying the guilt of his death on his shoulders. Seemingly back from the dead, with a clear sense of menace behind his every word, Lucy worried for the safety of her new family. Her husband, Nick and their young daughter, Abbie, were at the forefront of her mind.

  She needed to keep them safe.

  Without the chance to say goodbye, Mac ushered her towards the car, opened the passenger seat and she obediently got in. With the gun still in his hand, Mac fired up the engine, pulled out of the cul-de-sac, and headed back towards London. His heart was racing, and he hated himself for the fear he’d instilled in her.

  Knowing what was in the boot of the car, along with the terror he would put her in a few hours’ time, he did his best to focus on his hatred for Sam.

  It was all about Sam.

  That, and Mac’s insatiable need for vengeance.

  With tears streaming down her face, Lucy looked in the side mirror, watching the sun set behind her home, wondering if she would ever see her family again.

  * * *

  After a much-needed gulp of Scotch, Ashton refilled her glass and slumped back in her chair. Staring at the brown liquid inside the crystal glass, she knew she wouldn’t find any answers in the bottom of a bottle.

  How the hell did this happen?

  Earlier that day, she’d been stood in front of the press, controlling a wonderful narrative around her hard-working team and top detective, cracking an uncrackable case and bringing to an end a decades long reign of terror from one of the country’s most notorious criminals.

  It should have been a celebratory drink, but there was nothing but remorse.

  Word had reached her of the outbreak at Ashcroft and instantly her stomach had flipped. Knowing that Sam was somewhere beneath its impenetrable walls, she’d nervously wondered what had caused it. Her highly regarded position made her privy to the whispered conversations, with the senior figures and government officials wanting to keep the entire story off the record.

  The country didn’t know much of Ashcroft’s existence.

  They certainly couldn’t know of its implosion.

  Joining a conference call which included Commissioner Stout, along with the Home Secretary, Ashton had her worst fears confirmed.

  Sam Pope had escaped.

  Instantly, the conversation had turned to her, with a number of officials demanding answers as to why he was even there in the first place. When Stout spoke of his need to ‘look into it’, it became very clear that the blessing she thought he’d given was forged.

  Throughout her decorated career, Ashton had proven her impeccable judgement, climbing the ladder by knowing where all the pieces on the c
hess board were.

  At that moment, she realised that a different game was being played altogether.

  The call abruptly ended with the Home Secretary demanding the situation be brought under control, not even bothering to explain the consequences of failure. Ashton knew, poured herself a drink and threw it back in one. The Scotch burnt her throat, but she poured another, just as the door to her office was thrown open and the irate Police Commissioner stormed in. Stout was renowned for the sense of calm he brought to the job, but the fury in his eyes and the folder in his hand meant that whoever had crossed his path on his journey to her office would have been terrified.

  Without even offering a greeting, Stout slapped the folder down in front of Ashton and pressed his hands to hips.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  Ashton leant forward and flipped open the folder, scanning the document.

  ‘It’s Sam’s transfer papers to Ashcroft, sir.’

  ‘I know that.’ Stout leant forward and poked at the bottom of the page. ‘This. I did not sign this document.’

  ‘But I received this the day of the trial and assumed you had done me a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’ Stout shook his head, wrestling to control the volume of his voice. ‘There are strict protocols around prison transfers, especially Ashcroft. It takes weeks. You know this, Ruth, so tell me, how could this have happened?’

  Ashton could feel her world crumbling around her. Everything she’d worked for was teetering on the edge. As with all people in positions of power, Ashton had made enemies along the way, taking necessary steps for the good of her career. But she racked her brains for who could have done such a thing. A transfer request to a secret prison would only pass through certain hands, all of which belonged to people with more sense than to forge a signature.

  A horrible feeling set in her stomach that she’d been set up, but with no way to prove it, she had to stay quiet. Stout squeezed the bridge of his nose in anger and took a deep breath.

  ‘Ruth, I’m going to ask you a question and I need the truth.’ He looked at her and she nodded her understanding. ‘Did you forge this signature?’

  The question hit Ashton like a slap to the face and her restraint vanished.

  ‘Of course not. Do you think I’m stupid enough to do such a thing?’

  ‘You understand how this looks, right?’ Stout cut in, angered by her tone. ‘Your obsession with putting Sam away was getting borderline worrying and now I’m presented with this. It doesn’t look good.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Ashton stated. ‘I’m insulted you would even question me.’

  ‘Well, I have questions, Ruth. Fucking thousands of them. But the bigger one, beyond who signed my name to that form, is where the hell is Sam Pope now?’

  Stout slammed his hands down on the desk, leaning forward with authority. In the weeks since bringing Sam to justice and being told of her ascension to Stout’s position, Ashton had felt untouchable. Her confidence had spilled over the fine line to arrogance and she found herself speechless at his question.

  She didn’t know where Sam was.

  Had no clue what was going on or any idea of what to do next.

  For the first time in years, Ashton felt out of her depth and what hit her hardest was Stout knew it too. With a resounding sigh, Stout straightened up, recomposed, and stared at her.

  ‘You need to fix this, Ruth. For both our sakes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I promise you I will…’

  Stout held up his hand, cutting her off. Shaking his head, he shot her an unimpressed glare.

  ‘Save it. You’re on thin ice, Ruth.’ Stout turned on his heel and headed to the door. ‘Fix this or start writing your damn resignation.’

  The door slammed shut behind him, rocking the room slightly and Ashton slumped in her chair. Her dream was slowly dissipating before her and she reached out, lifted the glass and gulped the entire glass of Scotch in one.

  Somehow, despite everything she’d accomplished, Sam Pope was still the bane of her existence.

  Wiping the residual drops of Scotch from her thin lips, Ashton lifted the phone and demanded to be put through to DI Singh immediately.

  Ashton needed answers.

  Her career depended on it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Quit being a pussy.’

  Sam laughed at Etheridge’s comment, but then drew his teeth together and hissed in pain. Sat on a stool with his elbows pressed against the marble worktop, Sam was being patched up. His blood-soaked T-shirt had been thrown away and Etheridge was stood behind him, his latex gloved hands carefully threading a needle and stitched through his skin. Etheridge was not a medic, but he was an intelligent man and with the hospitals not an option, had offered to crudely stitch the wounds inflicted by Ravi to stem the bleeding.

  Sam reached out with his bandaged hand and took a swig of his beer, hoping the alcohol would numb the pain. Etheridge had already performed a similar job on the slice down across his palm. It had stopped the bleeding, but even after a few paracetamol, Sam could still feel the freshness of the pain. Considering what he’d put his body through in the last year or so, having his friend stitch his skin together wasn’t too bad.

  After Singh had collected him from the prison, she’d brought him back to Etheridge’s house as quickly as she could. Before she’d left, she’d turned off her mobile phone and as she followed Etheridge’s directions to the remote location of Ashcroft, she’d tossed it from the window at over eighty miles an hour.

  The last thing she needed was for Ashton to trace her signal.

  It wouldn’t only lead them to Sam, but would bring the hammer down on a career which was starting to veer dangerously close to the point of no return.

  As Etheridge pulled the thread tight, Sam grunted in pain and Singh shook her head.

  ‘This is insane.’

  ‘It’s necessary,’ Etheridge responded, not breaking his concentration.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Sam assured her with a smile.

  ‘No, not this. I mean everything.’ Singh stood and paced the room. ‘When is it going to stop?’

  Etheridge cut the thread and took a step back to admire his handiwork. The thread was neat enough, but the soreness around the wound told Etheridge that Sam would be in a bit of discomfort for a while. As he scanned over the other scars that decorated Sam’s broad, muscular back, Etheridge assumed Sam would be fine with a bit of discomfort. Pulling the latex gloves off and dumping them in the carrier bag, along with numerous blood-soaked cotton balls, Etheridge patted Sam on the shoulder and stepped back.

  Sam stood, stretching his back and unconvincingly rolling his shoulder, the pain striking like he’d be lashed with a whip and he turned to face Singh, who still waited for her answer.

  Taking a final swig of beer before putting the empty bottle in the bag, Sam sighed.

  ‘It doesn’t stop.’

  ‘It has to.’

  ‘It can’t.’ Sam’s voice rose. ‘There are people out there, Singh, who think they’re untouchable. People who do unspeakable things without a second thought to the damage they cause. I wish I could put my faith in the police, I really do, but when I’ve seen your superiors rubbing shoulders with the people I’ve put in the ground, I can’t. Someone has to fight back.’

  Singh looked offended, struggling to stop her eyes from watering. Etheridge, not wanting to involve himself in their quarrel, took his beer from the kitchen counter and stepped out into the cool spring evening, ignoring the light drizzle that was coating his garden.

  ‘Why does that have to be you?’ Singh demanded.

  ‘Because I can. You wouldn’t understand.’

  Sam took a few steps around the island in the centre of the kitchen, heading for the door. Singh stepped out, blocking his path.

  ‘I know that you lost someone close to you, Sam, but killing criminals isn’t going to bring your son back.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Sam held up his hand, his words heavy with pa
in. ‘You have no idea what this fight has done for me. It has saved me.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Sam. It hasn’t.’ A tear fell down Singh’s cheek. ‘You’re still in pain. No matter how many people you save or people you kill, you’re still hurting. All you’re doing, is digging a bigger and bigger hole for yourself. You might do some good along the way, but not for yourself. If you spend all your time trying to save everyone, when will you have time to put yourself back together.’

  Singh slowly reached out her hand and gently placed it on Sam’s cheek. He closed his eyes, her words hitting him like a punch to the gut. The gash above his eyebrow had been taped shut. He placed his hand on top of hers and held it for a few seconds.

  A moment of intimacy his life couldn’t accommodate.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sam gently pulled her hand away from his cheek and stepped around her, heading for the hallway. After the tribulations of Ashcroft, Sam needed a long, hot shower to wash away the blood and pain. Singh took a deep breath, recomposed, and then turned after him.

  ‘I can’t protect you anymore, Sam,’ she said with authority. ‘Both of you. You forged official documentation which had led to a number of deaths. I can give you both a day to get gone, but that’s as far as I can go. I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged, indicating that she didn’t have any other option. Sam stopped on the bottom step and fixed her with a warm smile.

  ‘Thank you, Amara. For everything.’

  With her heart breaking, she forced herself to return likewise.

  ‘You saved my life, Sam. Twice. It’s the least I can do.’

  The two of them shared a few seconds of quiet, wondering what life would had been like had it taken a different path. Sam nodded, confirming to her that he felt the same way and with considerable effort, he heaved himself up the stairs towards the bathroom. Singh watched him go, each step he took away from her was like a hammer to her heart. Dabbing at her eyes, she lifted her jacket from the coat hook and headed to the front door.

  ‘Leaving so soon?’ Etheridge asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway.