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

by Robert Enright

  It had felt like a lifetime ago, and as he stepped through the door to his house, all he wanted to do was see his daughter. Jasmine had wanted to return to school as quickly as possible, pushing the horrors of her capture aside and throwing herself towards a brighter future. Knowing it could have been something horrific had ignited her passion for studies and she’d already told him she wanted to pursue a career in law and help other families who’d had their children stolen.

  He’d never felt so proud.

  As a treat, he’d brought her her favourite take away and they’d promised they would watch the latest Marvel movie together.

  Just the two of them.

  ‘Jasmine. Honey,’ Aaron called out as he slid his drenched coat from his slightly chubby frame, his thinning blonde hair pressed to the scalp, accentuating his losing battle with Father Time. ‘Delivery!’

  He chuckled at his own, poor attempt at a ‘dad’ joke, before draping his jacket over the bannister. There was no response.

  ‘Jasmine?’ he called again, louder in case she was in her room. A noise from the kitchen caught his attention and he sighed, annoyed that he was still fearing the worst. He walked down the hall, past the living room where he’d shared a cup of tea with Sam and pushed open the kitchen door.

  Jasmine sat at the table, stiff with fear and with tears in her eyes.

  Next to her was a man, head to toe in black, with a balaclava covering his face.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Aaron barked angrily, stomping forward with intent. The man raised his gloved hand from the table, his leather clad fingers wrapped around Sig Sauer 226 handgun. He aimed it directly at Jasmine’s temple, who shuddered with fear.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ the man calmly asked, gesturing to the seat in front of Aaron with his other hand. Aaron immediately obliged.

  ‘Jasmine, it’s going to be okay. Just stay calm,’ Aaron spoke softly, reaching across the table. Jasmine glanced at the intruder who nodded, and she took her father’s hand. Aaron offered her a smile, battling his own fear with every fibre of his being. He turned to the man. ‘Please put the gun down.’

  The man waited for a few moments, burning a hole through Aaron with his piercing blue eyes before slowly lowering the gun and placing it on the table. He rested his hand atop of it, ready for anything. He wore a black, leather trench coat which hung over the sides of the wooden chair, along with a black jumper, jeans, and boots.

  Whoever he was, he didn’t want anyone to know.

  Behind the balaclava mask, Aaron could see what looked like scarring around his left eye and the left side of his mouth. With his other hand, the man reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He slammed it on the table, causing Jasmine to jump. Slowly, the intruder slid it across the table to Aaron, who snatched it up immediately.

  It was an article from the London Echo, accompanied by a picture of Aaron, as well Sam Pope’s army profile picture. Portraying Sam as a hero, the interview Aaron had given was to counteract the official line by the Met that Sam had left another trail of bodies and then disappeared.

  It had led to DI Singh knocking on his door, rapping him on the knuckles but then telling him she knew Sam had saved his daughter’s life.

  It was meant to paint Sam Pope in a better light.

  Now it had seemed to have brought the devil to his door.

  ‘Where can I find Sam Pope?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Aaron replied immediately, sensing the level of danger rising in the room.

  ‘According to this article, and many others, he did an awful lot to save her.’ The man pointed at Jasmine, his words carried a Manchurian accent and an thinly veiled threat. ‘You’re telling me he did that outta the goodness of his heart?’

  Aaron nodded.

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  The man slammed his fist against the table with blind rage.

  ‘He is not a good man!’ he exclaimed, reaching for the gun and raising it to Jasmine’s face again. The young girl wept quietly, her panicked eyes flickering to her dad for help.

  She’d been through enough already.

  ‘For the love of God, stop pointing that gun at my daughter.’

  ‘You have five seconds to tell me where I can find him.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Five.’

  Jasmine burst into tears, the fear wrestling hold of her consciousness.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Please, I don’t know!’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘I don’t know, I swear!’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘There is a guy… a smart guy, used to be in the army with him.’ The man in black stopped counting, but kept his muscular arm up, the gun a mere inch from Jasmine’s forehead.

  ‘What’s his name?’ The question fired out like a final warning. Jasmine’s face was glimmering with tears. She squeezed her father’s hand.

  ‘Paul… something,’ Aaron stammered, his mind racing, trying to find a memory among the sheer terror of losing his daughter again. ‘Ever… Evering. No, Etheridge.’

  The man retracted the gun. Jasmine was still breathing heavily, the idea of a bullet to her temple still firmly in control and causing her to shake with shock. Calmly, the man stood, his imposing frame was only exacerbated by his height. He slid the gun into the holster hung from his belt and he drew his coat across.

  ‘Thank you.’ His words were calm, as if holding a child at gun point was as normal as offering someone a cup of tea. ‘Enjoy your evening.’

  The man strode out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and out into the rain, leaving the door wide open and the freezing night to rush in. Jasmine collapsed from her chair, falling into Aaron’s arms as he dropped to catch her. After everything that had happened, all the terror of her abduction, this would only cause more damage. Whoever that man was, he meant nothing but harm.

  To his daughter.

  To Paul Etheridge.

  To Sam Pope.

  Aaron closed his eyes, feeling a warm tear peak over his eyelid and slide down his cheek, knowing he may have just put a good, honest man in danger. But he had to protect his daughter.

  As the freezing wind shook the front door on its hinge, he held Jasmine as she wept, knowing her life would never be normal and that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Check.’

  Theo Walker tapped the table with impatience, his eyes staring at the three cards laid out in the centre of the room. Sam smiled, knowing his hand was strong and he also checked. To his left, Paul Etheridge sat, his brown hair scruffily peeking beneath his camouflage cap. All three of them were decked out in their combat trousers, with Sam and Theo opting for rather flattering khaki vests. Etheridge, on the slighter side, wore a camouflage T-shirt, his glasses hanging around his neck from a plastic chord.

  Both he and Sam were sun kissed, their patrol of the south side of Camp Bastion, just north of Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Theo, with his dark skin, had mocked them incessantly as they slathered sun cream on. The three of them had been in the same platoon for a few years, with Sam and Theo especially building a strong friendship, with them visiting each other during the end of their tour. Sam had introduced Theo to Lucy and was seriously considering him as a god parent to their unborn child.

  Theo had graciously turned it down, saying his life as a Military Medic had sapped all faith and belief in God from him. Sam understood. Crouching in the mud, under heavy fire, holding a friend’s heart together with your bare hands was enough to eradicate any one's fate. Sam had often questioned his own faith against his role, whether it was truly God’s will that he ended life after life with the deadly squeeze of a trigger.

  Still, Sam had never been big on religion, but Lucy had already decided on the school she wanted their child to go to and apparently, not believing in a higher power voided your membership.

  As Theo readjusted his cards, Sam shot an inquisitive glance at Etheridge. The m
an may have been a genius, but his poker face was abysmal. The two jacks on the table had made for an interesting flop and considering Sam had the other two in his hand, he now knew that Etheridge was cursing himself for raising. The man could disarm a bomb in seconds, had written enough bespoke coding to override a number of security facilities, but when it came to cards, there was no hiding it.

  Paul Etheridge was shit.

  Sam turned the fourth card over, a six of diamonds which he placed carefully down, his eyes locked on Etheridge. He wanted him to keep betting, the fifteen-pound pile would soon double.

  ‘Theo?’ Sam asked, not taking his eyes off Etheridge.

  ‘Nah, I fold.’ Theo slapped his cards down onto the table. ‘This game is a load of horse shit, anyway!’

  Sam chuckled then turned back to Etheridge. With a nervous hand, he rearranged his cards, lamely attempting to maintain some semblance of power.

  He had nothing.

  Sam knew it. Theo knew it. He knew it.

  ‘Check,’ Etheridge said nervously.

  ‘All in.’ Sam dropped the remaining thirty-five pounds of his stake onto the pile of cash in the middle of the table. Theo let out a whistle of admiration, knowing full well Sam had Etheridge in the same position he’d found many enemy soldiers.

  In the centre of his crosshairs and ready to pull the trigger.

  ‘Tick, tock,’ Sam said and just as Etheridge was about to respond, a large crash erupted from outside, quickly followed by a barrage of raised voices. Instinctively, all three men shot up, rushing to the doorway of their tent. Sam was the first through, emerging to an escalating scene between the US Forces and his own sergeant, Carl Marsden.

  Mid-fifties and built like he was made of granite, Marsden was as respected as he was feared, but despite his intimidating service record and ice cool demeanor, he was as passive as a puppy and Sam knew it. To see him stood, fists clenched, ready to take on the three American soldiers must have taken some provocation.

  That was when he saw Trevor Sims scrambling from the floor, his lip busted open.

  Sam didn’t even question his superior.

  Sims was universally disliked. The man was a politician, not a soldier, worming his way into power and brown nosing every authority figure until his own nose became a part of them. He’d inexplicably been put in charge of a specialist unit, ensuring he only picked the glory missions.

  The man was a parasite and everything Sam despised about the US Army. The man was pro-privatising the military, charging the world top dollar for protection.

  In Sam’s mind, it went against the whole ‘freedom’ bullshit the man constantly spewed in his southern accent.

  ‘You’re gonna regret that, Marsden. You black piece of shit,’ Sims angrily jeered, his added racism doing little to rile up Marsden, but sending Theo into a blind rage.

  ‘What the fuck did you just say?’ Theo stepped forward, ready to continue the fight his ancestors had begun years ago. Calmly, Marsden placed an arm across Theo, pulling him away and pushing him to Sam. Despite his proud African heritage, Marsden offered Sims a smile.

  ‘Do yourself a favour, Sims. Take your frat boys here and fuck off. Before I really lose my patience.’

  Sims sneered at Marsden, who maintained his cool. Sims was a few inches shorter, his gut pressed against his light blue, sweat-stained shirt. The difference not only between them physically, but in terms of stature, was stratospheric. As the silence hung in the heat between them, Sam pushed Theo back into the muggy tent to calm down and Sims turned on his heel and stomped off back across Camp Bastion towards the gate that housed the US troops. Etheridge shook his head, sweat dripping down from under his cap and he followed Theo into their quarters, ready to lose some money. Sam stood, arms crossed, waiting for his commanding officer to brief him. Marsden calmly watched the antagonistic Sims march away and then he turned to Sam, a smile, framed by a grey beard, cracking across his face.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, son,’ Marsden said. ‘I’ve seen some shit in my life, but none of it stinks as much as that man there. Believe me, no matter what he says or tries to do, do not trust him.’

  Marsden reached up and patted Sam on the arm reassuringly, before pulling a cigar from his shirt pocket. With a wry wriggle of his eyebrows, Marsden headed off towards the command HQ, flicking a match and leaving a large plume of cigar smoke in his wake. Sam watched for a few moments, smiled, then re-entered the tent, ready to take his friend to the cleaners.

  The memory slowly dissolved from Sam’s conscious, replaced by the sharp pain the earlier strike to his head. The man responsible for the knock-out blow was named Buck, and he was as arrogant as he was physically imposing. The clear ‘alpha’ among the squad that had captured him, Buck had made his disdain for Sam quite clear.

  Sam couldn’t care less.

  What he did care about, was being locked in a white interrogation room in a Ukrainian airport, being fed bullshit by the repugnant Trevor Sims.

  ‘Thoughts?’ Sims asked, closing the manila folder in front of him and reaching for his cigar.

  ‘Well first off, my head is killing me,’ Sam started, a chuckle echoing from behind him where Buck guarded the door. ‘And the constant stream of crap you’re feeding me isn’t helping.’

  Sims rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, a cloud of cigar smoke following him like a grey, floating sheep. Sims had aged in the eight or so years since Sam had dealt with him, his hair almost completely gone and the metabolism clearly fading with age.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you, Sam?’

  ‘No,’ Sam said coldly. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’m not in the business of being liked or giving a flying fuck what people think. I’m in the business of national and international security. I put Blackridge together to be able to operate without the bureaucracy of the military. We don’t have to worry about hurting the feelings of whatever snowflake country thinks we can save the world by holding hands and sharing a fucking avocado on toast.’

  Sam started laughing and was met with a glare from an obviously agitated Sims.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Sam said calmly. ‘You couldn’t give a damn about the safety of anyone. You’re mercenaries. You pick and choose based on nothing other than money.’

  Sims sat forward, his mouth turned up in a snarl, revealing his stained teeth.

  ‘How about you, Sam? Huh? What do you class yourself as? A hero? A man of the people? Just because you go around fighting criminals doesn’t make you Batman. It makes you a criminal. You’re not a soldier. You don’t serve anyone. You’re a vigilante and a criminal.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sam responded, leaning forward and meeting Sims’s glare. ‘But at least I’m not whoring myself out and pretending I’m anything more than a gun happy prick in a polo shirt.’

  Sims sat back, folding one leg over the other and took another, long puff of his cigar. The smell hung in the air, threatening to choke them all.

  ‘Careful, Sam. You’re beginning to try my patience.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Sam shrugged. ‘Like you said, I’m not a soldier. Also, added to the fact that I don’t believe a word you just said.’

  ‘It’s in the file.’ Sims gestured with an open palm to the folder in front of them.

  ‘If what you’re saying is true, then let me talk to him. There must be some mistake.’

  ‘That’s not what’s on the table,’ Sims stated coldly. ‘As of right now, Carl Marsden, your former commander is in possession of top-secret information that could cause a lot of damage to a number of countries and organisations. He has been treated as not only a traitor, but a potential terrorist.’

  ‘A terrorist?’ Sam exclaimed. ‘Really? That man served his country for years with distinction. There is no way he would be involved in what you’ve been told.’

  ‘Then why is he running?’ Sims asked bluntly. ‘Why has he abandoned his family, why has he made contact with various countries looking for asylum, an
d why was the last thing removed from his computer an unhackable file with the same tracking IP as the information that went missing?’

  Sam sat back in his chair and took a moment. It had been less than a day since he laid siege to Echelon and put Kovalenko down. Now he was sat in custody, his freedom in extreme jeopardy, being blackmailed to hunt down a man who he held in high esteem.

  The evidence against his friend was stacking up. Marsden was in possession of a file that could be catastrophic for several military operations. Sam speculated it was an undercover list, documenting the names and aliases of several agents.

  Not only would that put them in immediate danger, it would work wonders to destroy the shaky trust most countries existed on these days. The only thing worse than being humiliated was being lied to too.

  But Sam was still struggling to believe that Marsden was capable of such an act of treason. The man was the army, through and through. He’d been on more tours than the Rolling Stones and had nurtured the careers of some of the UK’s finest soldiers.

  The man was not a terrorist.

  The man was on the run, but for what?

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Sam asked again, this time with a hint of defeat in his voice which brought a twinkle to Sims’s eye.

  ‘I want you to join my team and guide them to him. We know his whereabouts; we just can’t get inside his head. I remember him being a stubborn prick, but you know he thinks. How he acts. Plus, you know his tricks.’

  ‘Tricks?’

  ‘The man led countless covert missions with a number of different squadrons,’ Sims said with begrudging admiration. ‘The chances are, he’s covering his tracks.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Sam said defiantly.

  ‘Then I’ll drag you back to Ol’ Blighty myself,’ Sims joked, mocking the English accent. ‘I’ll hand you over to your government and let you rot in a cell for the rest of your life.’

  Sam shrugged.

  ‘Prison doesn’t scare me. I know I’ll have to face up to my crimes one day and I’ll gladly do that before I turn on someone who has more integrity in his little finger than you or any of your half-wit crew have in their entire body.’