Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3)

by Robert Enright

  LONG ROAD HOME

  ROBERT ENRIGHT

  In loving memory of Bernie Prosser.

  A true hero.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The car horn blared angrily into the night, its continuous roar echoing off the tall, white buildings that framed the streets of Rome. A few concerned members of the public stood in shock; others quickly reached for their phones to call for help. Some, perversely, snapped pictures.

  Sam Pope slowly lifted himself from the steering wheel, blood streaming from a gash above his right eye thanks to his collision with the solid leather. The airbag had deployed, saving him from a worse fate. With a shaking hand, he reached for the buckle of his seat belt, his knuckles slashed by the deluge of glass that had rained down on him like confetti at a wedding.

  His mind raced to Lucy.

  How beautiful she’d looked walking down the aisle towards him.

  How happy they’d been, sat in the hospital, watching a screen that showed them their impending future as parents.

  Her devastation as she knelt on the side of a London road, watching as the medics drew a sheet over the dead body of their son.

  Jamie.

  Outside on the street, an audible scream of panic cut through the ringing in Sam’s ears and he snapped back to the situation. He turned for the door and a searing pain shot up his spine and hit his brain like a test of strength. He gritted his teeth and shoved open the door, glass sprinkling the pavement. Smoke gently rose from the indented bonnet; the metal wrapped around the lamppost he’d careered into.

  He’d been run off the road and now the person behind the wheel of the truck that had caused the accident was approaching.

  To finish the job.

  Fighting the pain echoing through his body, Sam collapsed out of the broken door, his blood-soaked shirt ripping on a sharp, shattered welcome mat. His right eye had swollen almost shut, the blood smear across his face caused more shrill cries of terror. The bullet wound in his shoulder was oozing blood down his chest, each pump sending an agonizing throb to his brain. He looked up at the sky with his good eye, the thick clouds that hung over the Italian capital had covered the city in a freezing shower of rain most of the evening. Now, only the biting wind carried winter on it. He looked to his left; the whiplash trying its best to stop him. A few people scurried away in fear, dashing past the bright window displays that were decked out in the usual Christmas decorations. A lazily tinselled tree along with a cheap nativity set. A tacky, illuminated snowman.

  Christmas cheer.

  Sam winced at the irony, then strained his head to the right.

  The figure, decked completely in black, was approaching, walking slowly from the semi-truck that had smashed into the side of his own car, obliterating his escape plan and rattling his brain like a maraca.

  Sam pressed his hands down, the glass puncturing the skin, and he groaned as he pushed himself up. A sharp pain from his leg caused him to lose his balance and he stumbled into the shattered shell of his car. His entire thigh was maroon, the blood from his bullet wound had soaked through the denim of his jeans. It had been a little over three weeks since his thigh had been ripped open at the Port of Tilbury where he’d taken down the Kovalenko trafficking empire.

  All to save a young girl from a fate worse than death.

  Although that moment had led him on a path that had taken his fight overseas, he knew it had started long before then. Before he took down the ‘High Rises’, the protected buildings run by Frank Jackson, one of the most notorious criminals in London. Long before he was battering rapists like Chris Morton for cheating the justice system.

  Even before his son had been killed by a drunk driver.

  Sam Pope had been one of the most decorated soldiers the United Kingdom had ever had, with his career as a sniper tantamount to legendary. With tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, his impeccable record saw him recruited to an elite task force, shrouded in secrecy. It should have been the crowning moment of a glittering career before he put away the rifle for good and enjoyed his life with his family.

  Instead, he was shipped home in a coma with two bullet holes in his chest and two words haunting his mind.

  Project Hailstorm.

  But now he knew the truth.

  That’s what this had all been about and as he shuffled down the panic-stricken streets of Rome, stalked by a man intending to kill him, he knew his search for what truly happened could be coming to an end.

  In the distance, the wailing of a siren pierced the air, the police racing in vain to his rescue.

  Sam was built to survive, but with his head ringing and his vision blurry, he knew what was coming.

  The bullet exploded from the gun and sliced through the cold air, burrowing through his back and bursting out of his abdomen.

  Sam hit the ground instantly, the burning sensation of the bullet wound growing through his body. The street was deserted now, the public long since fled from a trained gun man. Sam could feel his good eye watering and as he limply pushed himself up to his knees, he spat blood into the puddle forming around him. He’d seen enough bullet wounds in his time to know what was happening.

  He’d been behind the trigger for most of them.

  He’d been shot to wound.

  Whoever his executioner was, the man was trained and didn’t want this to be quick.

  Sam feebly pressed his hand to his stomach, the warm blood flowing freely through his fingertips.

  Behind him, the car horn still roared its single note into the night.

  Somewhere in the distance, the sirens gave false hope.

  Footsteps approached him.

  Sam tried to move but he couldn’t, his mindset of fighting for survival was betrayed by his body. The blood loss was already beginning to take its toll and his head began to spin. Vomit threatened to race up his throat and join the large puddle of blood that he knelt in. With his last remaining effort, he pushed it down and straightened his back, his spine cracking slightly. The pain was unnoticeable now.

  Sam Pope was going to die.

  But he was going to die with his head held high.

  Behind him, boots crunched on the glass that littered the road and Sam took a few deep breaths.

  Visions of his life began to flash through his mind, from his childhood following his father from military posting to military posting. The visions of his mother, drinking to hide her sadness.

  Visions he’d locked away long ago.

 
; His pride at receiving his first sniper rifle.

  The horror of watching his spotter, Mac, decimated by the rocket of an Apache helicopter, leaving Sam to fight his way back to civilization. The cold evenings in the desert, playing cards with Theo, talking sports with Corporal Murry, or being bamboozled by Etheridge’s thirst for data.

  He’d been honored to serve with them.

  They were good men.

  Good friends.

  Images of his sniper scope flashed through his mind like a flicker book, remembering every face he’d sent to the afterlife.

  The footsteps drew to a stop. Sam could hear the man’s strained breathing, a wheezing that filtered into the wind, intimating a deformation.

  Sam coughed, blood spraying outwards as he tried to steady his final few breaths. The warm puddle of blood had encircled him, marking the spot where he would finally be put to rest.

  The vision of Lucy appeared in his mind once more, his eyes slowly opening on a hospital bed to see her tear-streaked face crack with relief. She’d stuck by him when he’d turned down an honourary discharge to join the elite task force and stayed glued to his bedside when they sent him back riddled with bullets.

  Sam took another energy sapping breath, the air struggling to reach his lungs and he could feel his hand falling away from the bullet wound in his side. He let it flop to the side in acceptance, allowing his life to pour slowly from his stomach. A light speckle of rain fell on his wrist, and with his final few moments, he lifted his blood-spattered head upwards, locking his one open eye on the heavens above.

  He thought of Jamie.

  Sitting with him in the nook they’d built in his bedroom, where his son baffled him with his love of books. Lying next to him at bedtime, listening as his son read The Hungry Caterpillar to him for the umpteenth time.

  Watching as he investigated everything in the playground, overturning every stone and smiling at every insect he came across.

  While Sam had loved every minute of being a soldier, even when bullets were raining down on his location and he flirted with death, he’d never loved anything more than he’d loved his son. He’d loved Lucy unequivocally, and part of him always would.

  But Jamie was his world.

  As Sam stared up at the thick, dark clouds that had gathered over his demise, he felt the cold rain crash against his battered face. A tear joined them as he thought of the body of his dead son. The victim of a drunk driver, recklessly ending the life of a child on his way to meet his dad.

  The death which had spurned Sam to take to the streets, to go where the justice system couldn’t and set him on a path of redemption that had seen him leave a trail of bodies and broken criminal empires in his wake.

  A path that had led him to this moment.

  On his knees on the cold streets of Rome, battered and beaten, with blood pumping from his stomach and his life ebbing away.

  Behind him, he heard the safety catch of the pistol and took one final breath. He forced his broken body to straighten, adamant he would die with a sense of pride.

  He thought about the good people he knew, the likes of DI Adrian Pearce and DI Amara Singh back in London, who had ruined their careers to help him on his mission.

  Paul Etheridge, who had served with him in Iraq and had helped him locate the missing girl; a mission which sent him headfirst into a war with a notorious Ukrainian crime family.

  Theo Walker, his best friend, who had laid down his life to help him protect an innocent woman.

  All of them were worthy of being with him in his final moments.

  He said a silent goodbye to Lucy, knowing she’d been right to leave him, to start a family elsewhere and find some sort of happiness after their tragic loss.

  He didn’t blame her. He’d loved her for it.

  He thought of Jamie, and how he would be with him imminently.

  Behind him, the sirens wailed as the police cars turned onto the street, too far to help. An engine of a car roared loudly.

  The attacker finally spoke through the cacophony of noise.

  ‘I’ve waited a long time for this.’

  Sam’s eye opened in shock, the voice reaching into his mind and grasping at a horrifying memory from his past. Before he could turn and confront the vengeful ghost of his past, the screeching tires of an oncoming vehicle almost threatened to drown out the sound of his attacker pulling the trigger.

  Everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  One Week Earlier…

  ‘They’ll kill me.’

  Carl Burrows wept pathetically, his portly body squeezing its way through the tight rope that bound him to the wobbly, uncomfortable chair. His eyes, hidden under the green contacts used as part of his failed identity change, were red through tears.

  The man had fallen a long way from the top.

  For years, he’d worked diligently alongside several high-ranking politicians in London, earning a sterling reputation as a man who could put anyone in the mayoral seat. Stern, well-educated and with a cold, cut-throat mentality, he’d been as respected as he’d been feared. Little did the opposition, or the men he represented, know that he was on the Kovalenko payroll, facilitating the lucrative sex trafficking operation the Ukrainian crime family had brought to London. While he’d never stolen a girl from the streets, violated them to instil fear, or stuck the needle in their arm to keep them dependent on their terrifying lives, he was the one who opened the gates.

  He made sure the right palms had been greased and the right heads turned the other way.

  Carl Burrows – respected political advisor and feared campaign manager – was nothing more than a criminal.

  Sam Pope stood, his arms folded, staring at him from the other side of the grotty bedsit. A broken bed with a stained mattress lined one wall, while a tiny sink and oven threatened to poke through the limescale in the far corner. An empty shell of a cupboard hung from the wall, the doorless hinges coated in rust. Sam’s suitcase rested on the pathetic bed, shrouded in the shadow created by the lone, halogen light that tried its best to bring a semblance of light to the room.

  Sam had been in worse, his time spent recovering from an explosion to a derelict village in southern Sudan had been a particular eye opener. But ever since he’d embarked on his war on organized crime, material items or luxurious abodes had become irrelevant.

  To him, this was more than adequate.

  To Burrows, it was a nightmare.

  Sam leant back against the chipped wall of the room, his muscular arms folded over each other. His right forearm bore the scar of a knife slash, his shoulder ached from being stabbed. His leg, freshly patched up by an old medic buddy of Etheridge’s, burned in agony from the fresh bullet wound and was in need of proper treatment.

  But that could wait. It had to wait.

  Not while there were still more girls lost to the horrors of sex slavery. While Sam had eradicated the London side of the Kovalenko business, he knew there were far worse things happening in the Ukrainian capital.

  Sergei Kovalenko was one of the most dangerous men in Kiev but due to his contributions to the economy through laundered channels, he was revered by many. The police stayed away; the government turned a blind eye. As long as he kept the right pockets full, he did as he wanted.

  Kovalenko wanted revenge.

  Sam had asked Etheridge to pull everything he could on Burrows the second the connection was made between the rotund weasel and the Kovalenkos. Etheridge had delivered and then some. Not only had he been able to trace Burrows to his hideout in Birmingham, he’d also been able to hack into all communications between Burrows and Sergei himself.

  The plea for help.

  The promise of asylum.

  The demand for everything Burrows had on Sam Pope.

  Well, if Kovalenko wanted him, Sam wasn’t in the mood to disappoint. Slowly, he pushed himself off the wall and walked towards his quivering captive, doing his best to disguise his limp. Burrows cowered as much as he could, h
is T-shirt soaked with sweat.

  Sam gently leant down, grimacing as he reached eye level. Burrows squirmed on his seat and Sam fought back a smile.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Sam responded calmly. ‘If you don’t tell me everything I need to know about his nightclub, I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.’

  The colour immediately drained from Burrows’s face and he swallowed. Having spent nearly forty years in politics, he was accustomed to empty threats. But knowing that Sam Pope had abducted and tortured a gang leader with home-made acid only a few weeks prior, he felt nothing but terror.

  His groin turned warm and wet as he urinated, his body giving into the very real threat before it. What had looked like an easy way out of his situation, one lined with money and women, had quickly turned sour. Upon being picked up at the airport by one of Sergei’s men, Burrows had sunk into his seat and accepted his fate as a wanted man. But they would never have caught him. Sure, he would have to live the rest of his life under the new identity of Gregory Baker, but it was a small price to pay for his freedom.

  To have gotten away with it.

  Thirty minutes into their journey from Kiev airport, a car had collided into the back of the 4x4 carrying him, and Burrows had been jolted awake. His driver, a burly man with a thick unibrow, had slammed on his breaks and leapt from the vehicle with murderous intentions. The side street was empty, and Burrows had sighed deeply at the likely beating the careless driver would have taken.

  It was only when his own driver’s head was smashed through the passenger window and a gun placed in Burrows’ face did the realization hit him.

  Sam Pope demanded he leave the vehicle, ushering him into the boot of the other car before knocking him unconscious with a swift blow to the head.

  When Burrows awoke, he was tied to the chair in the centre of the freezing cold flat, with nothing but Sam Pope and the threat of pain for company.

  Sam slapped Burrows across his wrinkled, flabby face.

  ‘Answer me,’ Sam demanded, straightening up and taking a few steps to the large sports bag that rested on the rickety bed.