Burrows looked surprised at being asked the question, as Sergei kept his eyes fixed on Sam. Behind him, Sam heard Vlad moving behind him and the very clear sound of him locking the door.
‘He has information about what happened to your nephews.’ Burrows struggled to speak, the fear pouring out of him. Sergei flashed a glance at him.
‘My boys. They were like sons to me. My brother, he was not a good man.’
‘And you are?’ Sam interjected. Sergei smiled again and reached into the draw of his desk. His hand returned holding a finely crafted, serrated blade. Burrows adjusted himself in his seat, uncomfortably.
‘I make those boys into men,’ Sergei began, slowly walking around the desk towards a now crying Burrows. ‘They came to me when Andrei killed his father. He showed me he had guts. I like guts. He also had brains; he was smart. He told me your English girls get a much better price. So, I sent him to your country, and he made me a lot of money.’
Sam gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Sergei made his way to the front of the desk and sat on the edge of it, directly in front of Burrows. In Sam’s periphery, he could see Vlad and Artem moving into position. Sergei leant forward.
‘You, “Greg”, have no guts. You weep and cry for your sins even though they’ve made you rich.’ Sergei suddenly lunged forward and pressed the blade against Burrows’s throat. ‘Now, if you have brains, you tell me who the fuck this man is.’
Before Burrows could respond, Sam spoke as clearly as he ever had.
‘My name is Sam Pope.’ Sergei flashed him a venomous look. ‘I put both your boys in the ground.’
‘Kill him,’ Sergei barked, before slashing the blade crudely across Burrows’s throat, blood spraying forward and splattering the oak desk. As Burrows collapsed forward, grasping at his open throat, Vlad lunged for Sam. Instinctively, Sam turned on his heel, and caught Vlad’s arm by the wrist. He twisted it, wrenching the shoulder from its socket and Vlad dropped to his knee with a roar of pain. With his other hand, Sam flicked open his knife and rammed it into the side of his neck, twisted and then pulled back. With one fluid motion, he straightened his arm and flung the knife towards the fast approaching Artem. The blade spun in the air, travelling the few feet between them before bedding into the large man’s left pectoral.
Sam dropped Vlad to the floor, his life gushing out of the hole in his neck, and charged at Artem, who had dropped to one knee. Sam expertly placed his hand on Artem’s greasy forehead and then slammed it has hard as he could into his quickly raising knee.
The crunch of bone told him instantly that he’d broken the man’s neck and he let Artem’s prone body drop the floor, the hand still twitching.
It had taken him ten seconds to kill both men.
Sergei stood shocked, his back pressed against the wall and Sam straightened his jacket and then walked towards Burrows. His skin was deathly pale, and the blood had covered his entire body. The final few breaths were filtering through the gaping hole in his throat and Sam tried, but couldn’t muster any pity for him.
The man had made his bloodstained bed and now he would lie in it for eternity.
Sam reached down and picked up the blade Sergei had used, stepping away from the hopeful reach of Burrows, the last fragment of life spilling out into the pool of blood around his now motionless body.
Sam approached Sergei, who frantically looked for a way out. The desk was blocking the potential two storey drop from the window. His murderous guest stood between him and the door. With all options exhausted, he cracked a smile.
‘Very impressive, Mr Pope,’ he said nervously. ‘I could use a guy like you. I’ll make you a rich man.’
Sam took a few more steps forward and then lunged, his hand wrapping around Sergei’s throat and pinning him to the wall. Face to face with the man responsible for one of the most profitable sex trafficking operations in Europe, Sam felt his other hand tighten around the blade.
‘You have ruined the lives of so many girls. Of their families.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Sergei croaked, as Sam pressed down on his throat. ‘These girls mean nothing to you.’
Sam paused, remembering how helpless he was to save his own son. How helpless he would be to save the girls who were too far gone. Sam looked Sergei dead in the eye.
‘It’s the right thing to do.’
To Sam’s surprise, Sergei began to laugh. After a few chuckles, Sergei smiled a cruel, twisted smile.
‘I like you, Sam. You have guts.’
‘You like guts, right?’ Sam asked. Before Sergei could respond, Sam plunged the knife deep into the side of Sergei’s abdomen, the warm blood oozing out and over Sam’s hand. Sergei’s eyes widened with a mixture of pain and fear and in one swift movement, Sam dragged the blade through the flesh, ripping open the man’s stomach. ‘There you go.’
Sergei dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he tried hopelessly to hold his innards inside his body. He fell forward, splashing onto a pile of his own intestines and blood. Sam dropped the knife next to him and walked towards the door, listening as Sergei’s life came to an end.
He’d decapitated the snake.
Sam stopped at the bar on the way out and peered over, finding the half-naked woman crouched behind, her hands over her head and trembling with fear.
‘You’re okay,’ he said, but she couldn’t hear through her sobs. He knew she was terrified. ‘Call the police and tell them to get as soon as possible. Tell them there was a shooting.’
The woman looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot. It didn’t surprise Sam to discover she was English.
‘But there was no shooting?’
Sam reached for the unfinished pint on the bar and took a large swig before looking back at her.
‘There will be.’
The colour drained from her face with fear, and Sam turned towards the door, knowing his way out was going to be just as eventful.
Starting with the man guarding the door.
As he pushed himself away from the bar, Sam lifted the glass ashtray and carried it with him. He stood to the side of the door, then gently wrapped his knuckles on it.
The door swung open instantly and the man stepped in, startling at the blood bath that welcomed him. Before he could call for help, Sam slammed the glass ashtray into the side of his head, the glass embedding into the side of his skull.
The man went limp.
Before he could hit the floor, Sam reached under the man’s arms and held him up, the extreme strength needed to move a dead weight body causing his muscles to strain. The pain in his leg intensified and he felt the stitches of his bullet wound rip. Sam gritted his teeth and began to drag the lifeless body down the stairs. Judging by the amount of blood oozing from the side of the man’s skull, Sam knew the man was either dead or close to it.
Sam struggled to the bottom of the stairs and then, with all his might, he heaved the body into the door that opened up onto the club. The body slammed into the doors, bursting them open and the sleaze of the gentleman’s club rushed to meet him.
The sight of their dead friend caused the two henchmen guarding the door to lose focus, their shock and anger colliding in a fatal few seconds. Sam drew the Glock from his jeans and sent a bullet in each of their directions.
Both burrowed their way through skull and brain and the men joined their comrade in the afterlife.
The music cut out, replaced by the terrified screams of the dancers and customers, the gunshots spreading panic like a virus. Sam stepped out into the nightclub, his vision slightly skewed by the cocktail of darkness, flashing lights, and smoke. Dozens of people were scrambling in terror, but Sam knew two of them would be armed and heading for him.
He raised his gun and fired a shot into the ceiling.
Survival instinct took over and everyone fell to the ground for cover. Except the two other henchmen who were marching his way, their hands buried in their blazers, their fingers wrapping around their guns.
&n
bsp; Sam emptied two more rounds.
Both men hit the ground, their brains and skull painting the wall behind them.
Before Sam could turn, he heard another ringing gunshot and felt the impact of the bullet collide with his spine. It drove him forward, his hips hitting the top of a private booth and he collapsed over onto the supple leather chair.
The vest had stopped the bullet, but Sam still felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. As he struggled to recapture his breath, he slid under the table, unclasping the strap of his assault rifle and slid it from under his jacket.
Thankfully, the bullet had missed it completely, but his spine wasn’t so grateful. He heard the footsteps approaching, before the booming familiar voice of the doorman echoed through the club.
‘You’re a crazy man.’ There was a hint of enjoyment in his voice. ‘Crazy but dead.’
Sam pressed his feet against the wall and steadied the stock of the gun to his shoulder. It was an awkward angle, but he had to make it work. His mind shot back through its archives to the shots he’d made during his career, shooting a flying cannister of petrol to save his troop from a certain death.
It was awkward, but doable.
The doorman’s shoe crunched on the broken light fixture caused by Sam’s warning shot, giving away his position. With his instincts toned to zoom in on any noise, Sam gritted his teeth, ignoring the rising pain in his leg and the ache in his back and he pushed himself back from the wall. The propulsion sent him sliding back onto the floor and before the doorman could correct his aim, Sam squeezed the trigger.
A flurry of bullets ripped through the attacker, blood spraying out in delicate bursts. The man collapsed dead to the floor, accompanied by more screams of terror. In an instant, a large boot collided with Sam’s rifle, knocking it into the darkness. Sam tried to scramble up but within seconds, Denys was on top of him, pinning Sam to the ground with his vast weight. Sam swung a few hard fists into the man’s midsection, but it was like hitting a brick wall.
Denys wrapped his fingers around Sam’s throat and pressed as hard as he could, his dark eyes twinkling with pleasure.
Bang.
The gunshot was deafening, and the side of Denys’s head blew out, sending his limp body in the same direction. Gasping for breath, Sam struggled to his feet, rubbing his neck before hobbling towards the holder of the gun.
The barmaid from upstairs stood both arms outstretched, her fingers still uneasily resting on the trigger. Her eyes were wide with shock, something that the army had trained out of Sam.
With slow, painful steps, Sam approached her, his hands outstretched in a show of obedience and he gently reached out for the gun. Resting his hand on top of it, he slowly pushed it downward before the young girl relented and let him take it. She stepped towards him, burying her head in his chest, the sheer horror of her life, culminating in her killing a man burst forward and she wept.
After a few moments, the customers and other women began to rise to their feet, realizing the iron fist that ran the club had been severed. With great discomfort, Sam eased himself out of his jacket and draped it around the young woman’s shoulders. She gratefully accepted it, pulling it closed and zipping it up to the collar. Sam tucked the pistol in the back of his jeans and then hobbled a few feet to his rifle. His back roared with pain as he bent down to retrieve it.
As he stood, he noticed all eyes were on him. His arms were covered with the blood of the most dangerous criminal in the country and the room was littered with bodies.
They had no clue who he was or why he’d come.
But the look in their eyes was a mixture of fear and gratitude.
In the distance, the sound of sirens carried across the night sky giving Sam his cue to leave. He looked around at the girls, the magnitude of his actions not yet hitting them. He gave them a forced smile.
‘Wait here for the police,’ he ordered. ‘They’ll get you home.’
Sam turned and began to limp towards the exit, his jeans covered in his own blood. As he passed the bar maid, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm.
He turned to her; her eyes wet with tears.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
Sam nodded, then with a grunt of pain, he hobbled to the door and out into the bitter night. As the freezing grip of Kiev closed in on him, he headed to his car, ready to drive to anywhere but there.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Alma?’
The barista yelled the name out with the usual uncertainty, his eyes scanning around the busy Starbucks. The mid-morning rush was in full swing, the regular caffeine addicts rushing in before the mayhem that was lunchtime. Just after eleven, and DI Amara Singh was stood by the collection counter, gazing out of the window and onto the wet, freezing streets of London. Her nose still wore the bruising from the clubbing blow she’d received in the gun fight at the Port of Tilbury, where she’d recklessly entered the war zone against her superior’s orders.
Coupling that and the claims that she helped Sam Pope escape, meant she was at the bottom of a pit with very little rope.
It certainly wasn’t a good look for the person who sat at the top of the task force designed to catch him.
Well, she had been.
Staring ruefully out of the window at the busy city she’d spent the last decade of her life protecting, Singh knew she was in trouble the day after Sam Pope had saved her life and the lives of four teenage girls. Assistant Commissioner Ashton, who had personally vouched for her, read her the riot act. Not only had she failed to control the Sam Pope situation, there was a strong suspicion that she had in fact aided him.
While Singh denied helping Sam escape, she couldn’t deny that she’d worked with him to retrieve the missing girls. She even went as far as to call him a hero, saying he’d risked life, limb, and his liberty to find four girls that the police didn’t even have on their radar. While she knew they did the best they could, the political nature of the Metropolitan Police Force meant sometimes you had to pick your battles. Which is what Amara Singh had done when she’d turned a drunk Aaron Hill away from the station, ignoring his pleas for help and focusing on catching the most wanted man in the UK and making her career.
The desperate father had found his way to Sam Pope himself, and Sam had put her and the Met to shame with how far he was willing to go to get Jasmine Hill, and the other missing girls, back.
The very thought caused her to grimace.
Sam was a criminal. Singh had accepted she was going to be abducted, abused, and killed by Andrei Kovalenko when he had her cornered and ready to bundle into the shipping container. Had it not been for the intervening bullets sent from Sam Pope’s sniper rifle, she would most likely be dead.
Or begging to be.
She knew Sam had saved her life and that he’d done the right thing. But she’d dedicated almost half of her thirty-two years to the law, believing vehemently in what it stood for and the line that upheld it. The line was getting thinner by the day, but she still knew in her heart, that despite being a good man, Sam Pope was a criminal.
So, comparing his efforts, where the law and the preservation of life held no weight, with those of her upstanding colleagues made her feel dirty.
Amara Singh had faced a lot as an Indian woman on the police force, especially at a time where any praise or promotion could just be seen as filling the diversity quota. She’d had to work triple to prove that she not only deserved her spot, but that she was ready for more. Her dedication to the job had meant no lasting relationship, which had upset her traditional Hindu parents. They wanted her to marry and start a family, like her sister, but over time, her constant achievement and rapid rise through the ranks had seen a different pride emerge from them.
Amara Singh didn’t fail.
That was what she’d told herself her entire career. But now, staring out into the dreary, winter afternoon, with a beaten face, aching body, and recent demotion, she didn’t feel like much of a winner.
�
�Alma?’
The voice echoed again; this time tinged with annoyance. Amara quickly scanned both ways until she realized she was the only customer. A split second later, it dawned on her that she was once again a victim of the very questionable listening skills of the Starbucks barista. She offered a half-hearted smiled before reaching for her flat white, heading towards the row of stools that lined the far window of the shop. Opposite the coffee house, the iconic triangular sign of the Met Police spun slowly, the New Scotland Yard building stood behind. The police HQ cast a gloomy shadow over the London Southbank, the beginning of December bringing with it an icy chill. Singh held her piping hot coffee in her delicate hands, two of her fingers taped together from where she broke them fighting two Ukrainian henchmen.
It had only been a week, but it felt a lifetime ago.
In those seven days, Ashton had relieved her from her command as head of the task force, taking over the responsibility until a more suitable candidate became available. Singh would have questioned the decision, but she knew that Ashton’s close friend, Mark Harris, the former leading candidate to be the Mayor of London, had just had his life shattered by calls of corruption and greed.
Harris had been stitched up by his confident, Carl Burrows, who had since disappeared.
So had Sam Pope.
Singh had a sneaky suspicion that those two facts were not coincidental.
With a deep sigh, she dropped onto the stool and took a sip of her coffee, willing herself to pull herself up and get back to it. Her career had been forged by her unquenchable thirst to learn and her need to succeed. This was her first major blip, but it wouldn’t stop her.
That wasn’t the issue.
The issue was her wavering belief in the fine line between right and wrong.
The line that Sam Pope walked.
A line that, for a brief moment in that port, when the gunfire had ended and the trauma had finished, she’d wondered about walking too.
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 3