‘You said it’s about Sam Pope. Not a matter of national security.’
‘Ms Singh, when it comes to Sam Pope, it’s always a matter of national security.’
The two of them shared an intense stare for just a moment before Singh’s curiosity erupted like a volcano and she stepped back, ushering the senior military man inside and not knowing the danger she’d just willingly placed herself in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amara Singh flicked the switch of her coffee machine and then slid her lean frame into the thick, woolly hoody she’d retrieved from her bedroom. The winter cold had been creeping into her flat over the last few weeks and she shuddered as she reached for two mugs.
Was it the cold that caused her to chill?
Singh had always had a good intuition; it was one of the reasons she’d risen so quickly up the ranks within the Met. Those who pointed out her gender or ethnicity as the reason were those who lacked the intelligence or intestinal fortitude to climb themselves. That said, she was beginning to question how smart she was being right now.
In her living room, an unknown military official was waiting to discuss Sam Pope, the man she’d been tasked with catching and whom she owed her life to. If Assistant Commissioner Ashton were to find out about her snooping, she was sure she wouldn’t only lose her position on the task force permanently, but possibly her cherished place within the Met.
‘Sugar?’ she called out.
‘Two, please.’ Came the gruff reply, the man’s voice carried with it a weight that commanded respect. Singh obliged, dropping two spoons full into the mug and then filling it with the now boiled coffee. Her entire body ached, craving sleep, but she knew it was unlikely.
A General wouldn’t arrive at her house in the middle of the night if it wasn’t important.
Singh made her way back to the living room, where General Wallace was stood by the fireplace, his arms behind his straight back and casting his eyes over the framed photos on Singh’s mantel piece. Cherished snapshots of her life, the key moments that filled her with pride and love. Wallace turned from the photo of her passing out parade and offered her a warm smile. He gratefully accepted the mug and took a sip. Singh followed suit and then offered Wallace a seat.
‘Thanks, but I’ll stand,’ he stated firmly. ‘Detective Singh, exactly how much do you know about Sam Pope?’
Singh took another sip and then placed her mug down on the white coffee table. She gave up almost a foot in height to Wallace and his experience at commanding a room was evident.
‘Sir, I know he is a danger to himself, to society and after what he did just over a week ago to my AR team, a threat to the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Good answer.’ Wallace said with a smile. ‘Did you know that I personally commanded Pope for two tours?’
Like someone clicking their fingers in her brain, Singh linked the name Wallace to Sam. She looked up, feeling Wallace analysing her every movement.
‘I did, yes.’
‘Where did you find that information?’ Wallace’s tone carried a slightly tougher edge.
‘Sir?’
‘Where did you come across my name?’ Wallace demanded, taking a step closer.
‘I was doing some research on Sam.’
‘Sam?’ Wallace raised an eyebrow.
‘Pope.’ Singh corrected, cursing herself. ‘When I was placed in charge of the task force to catch him, I pulled as much information as I could find. That was where I found your name, sir.’
Singh offered a firm nod, trying to hammer home the lie she’d just told. Wallace took another sip of his tea and then placed the mug down on the table too, he then turned on his heel and slowly walked back to the mantel piece, lifting the photo of Singh stood in her police tunic, her parents proudly stood either side of her in the Hendon sunshine.
‘This must have been a very special day,’ Wallace said, not looking up from the photo. ‘I remember the pride my parents had every time I received a medal or made a new rank. Bless them. They’ve been dead a long time now, but you never lose that sense of satisfaction, do you? That feeling of knowing your parents are proud of you.’
Singh smiled and shrugged, looking towards the door. Wallace nodded and placed the photo back on the mantlepiece. Without turning, his voice boomed out, a tinge of authority wrapped around his words.
‘Tell me, Detective, were your parents proud when you were unceremoniously kicked off the task force?’ Singh startled and Wallace turned, his eyes locking onto her like a homing missile. ‘Or have you not told them?’
Singh tried to gather her thoughts, desperately trying to fan away the red mist the comment was designed to create.
‘That is none of your business, General,’ Singh said.
‘Oh, it is my business. Anything to do with that man, is my business. Do you know where he is now?’
‘No, sir,’ Singh said, trying to compose herself. ‘There have been no sightings of Sam Pope since he left the Port of Tilbury over a week ago. Also, there have been no sightings of Carl Burrows, the chief aide to the former candidate—’
‘Mark Harris, yes, I’m aware.’ Wallace cut in dismissively. ‘See, last night, reports came in that Sergei Kovalenko was brutally murdered in his own nightclub in Kiev, along with seven of his staff. The body of Carl Burrows was also found at the scene and all eyewitnesses claim that one man did it. Any guesses?’
Singh sighed, her anger bubbling below the surface but refusing to rise to Wallace’s condescending tone. He continued.
‘This is now a matter of international relations. Eastern Europe isn’t going to be thrilled to know a British vigilante is spilling blood in their streets.’ Wallace shook his head. ‘I read through all the reports after Pope took down the Kovalenko’s UK base of operations and it seems a number of people are questioning what part you played in it.’
‘I saved the lives of four young girls, sir.’
‘Hmmm… perhaps. There are also strong claims of collusion between Pope and yourself.’
‘As I said in my report, he saved my life to help save the lives of the girls. I made the snap decision that finding four abducted kids was more important than stopping Pope.’
‘See, the reports also state that you were ordered by your commanding officer to stay behind. Yet, you turned up at the very place Pope was and have now admitted you helped him.’
Singh felt her cheeks flush and her fists clench. The man was good, she had to give him that. With careful, measured steps, Wallace approached her, the size of his frame encasing her in shadow. Singh refused to flinch.
She never flinched.
Wallace stopped a foot away from her and leant in, his warm breath tickling her ear.
‘There are no reports linking me to Sam Pope on any file in possession of the task force.’ Singh felt her body tighten. ‘Forget the words Project Hailstorm. Erase them from your mind. If not, I’ll tie you to Sam in enough ways that they’ll throw you in the deepest, darkest hole I can find. Do you understand me?’
Singh nodded, pulling her lips into a tight line, refusing to respond. Her knuckles were whitening, and she could feel her nails puncturing the flesh of her palms. Wallace patted her on the shoulder with his meaty hand and then strode across the room towards the front door. Yanking it open, the hallway light bathed him in a dark shadow. He turned one last time, his dark eyes burning a hole through Singh, which chilled her to her marrow.
‘Stop digging, Singh. Before you get too far that I don’t let you out.’
With a slam of the door, he was gone. Singh let out a deep breath and stumbled nervously across to her kitchen, pulling the fridge open. She took a bottle of beer from the shelf and then, with a shaking hand, popped the lid with the novelty bottle opener her sister had gotten her for her birthday.
Shaking, she took a swig of beer.
Singh knew she was in deep. The army were watching and now, unless she stepped carefully, she could lose it all. She took another large swig, knowing full w
ell that the detective in her was about to lead her to a very bad decision.
Sam pressed the button to activate the automatic door and then stepped through into the next carriage. The overnight train from Kiev to Berlin was twenty-two carriages long, with eight of those designated sleeping zones. He had carefully made his way through five of them and now stepped into the first-class seating zone. The comfortable, leather seats were placed opposite their own individual tables and a few well-dressed gentlemen adorned several of the chairs. One of them was engrossed in the tablet in front of him, his noise cancelling headphones encasing him in the magic of his film.
Sam wandered to the end of the carriage and slowly lowered himself onto one of the seats, his leg aching. Sims had insisted Sam see a medical professional about the injuries sustained in the UK and Ukraine and although he ached like hell, Sam was grateful for the treatment.
At least he didn’t have to worry about the bullet hole in his leg in anymore.
Sam turned his attention to the window, glancing out at the dark vista, not knowing where they were. He imagined, given the amount of time they’d been on the train, that they were racing through Poland, but he couldn’t be sure. It had been a long time since he’d been to Germany and he was sad it wasn’t on better terms.
The idea of sightseeing and then enjoying the fine, local ale was an empty hope from a life he would never have. All he had now was the aching pain through his body, the fear for his mentor’s safety, and the very likely threat of prison at the end of it.
It was the road he’d chosen.
And one he walked fearlessly.
‘You should be in bed.’
A voice cut through his thought process and Sam lifted his tired gaze upwards, to the smug sneer of Buck. Sims’s right-hand man towered over him; his huge arms folded with his Marine tattoo sneaking out from under the sleeve of his polo shirt. His nose was purple, two plasters criss-crossed over the broken cartilage and dark bruising was appearing under his eyes.
Sam offered him a wry smile.
‘Sorry, Daddy. I needed a glass of water.’
‘Very fucking funny,’ Buck spat; his New York accent was lighter than most.
‘How’s the nose?’ Sam gestured at his own. ‘And the arm?’
Buck leant down, so his broken face was level with Sam’s. If it was an act of intimidation, it failed as Sam calmly returned the glare with a sigh.
‘You know what, when this is over and we kill your friend, I’m going to beat the living fuck out of you.’
‘Is that so?’ Sam said, bored.
‘You bet your ass.’
‘I look forward to it.’ Sam turned his gaze back to the window, when Buck reached out and grabbed his chin, yanking his head back. Sam immediately reached out, grabbed Buck’s wrist, his finger trained to find and squeeze the pressure point. As Buck jolted in pain, Sam pushed himself to his feet, still holding the arm but before he could do any further damage, he heard the familiar click of a gun safety being unlatched.
‘Sam, for Christ’s sake, let him go.’ Sims stood, the Sig Sauer he held was pointed directly at him. Sam begrudgingly obliged. Behind Sims, two further members of his crew stood. Another meathead, covered in tattoos and clear steroid induced veins and a young, slim mixed-raced girl with short, dark hair and piercing brown eyes.
‘Sir,’ Buck began. ‘Let me kick his—’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Sims barked angrily. ‘Twice now, this man has made you his bitch so why don’t you stick your tail between your legs and fuck off back to your room?’
Buck turned back to Sam with murderous intent. Sam offered a smile and a small wave.
‘Yes, sir,’ Buck finally said and stepped past him, heading back towards the cabin.
‘Sweet dreams,’ Sam yelled after him, provoking Buck to turn back, his eyes wide with anger. The other muscular soldier stepped in, ushering Buck towards the door and saving his comrade from further embarrassment. Sam sat back down in his seat and returned to gazing out of the window. Sims holstered his handgun and placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head like a teacher.
‘It’s not wise to piss off my soldiers, Sam.’
‘Like I said, they’re not soldiers,’ Sam responded quickly, his eyes still searching the dark outside.
‘Try to get some sleep. My sources tell me we won’t have much of a window tomorrow.’ Sims turned to head back down the carriage.
‘Sims,’ Sam called out, grabbing his attention. ‘Just let me talk to him, okay?’
Sims smirked.
‘Goodnight, Sam.’
As Sims marched back down the corridor, he glared at the two other passengers who had been distracted by the confrontation and similarly scared by the gun. Sims knew the scowl he shot them would keep them quiet for the remainder of the trip. He walked past the young, female member of his crew and nodded, before stomping through the door and back towards his quarters.
The young woman, dressed in black khakis and the Blackridge polo shirt they all wore, approached Sam.
‘Can’t sleep.’
Sam shook his head, offering little in way of response.
‘My name is Stone. Alex Stone.’ She extended her hand, but Sam didn’t move. After a few moments, she sheepishly retracted it. ‘I don’t know about you but spending time with these assholes is tough work.’ Sam turned and met her smile with a raised eyebrow. ‘I could use a drink. Coming?’
A smile broke across Sam’s stubbled, slightly cut jaw.
‘Are you going to try to kill me?’
Alex shrugged playfully, her New York accent was deep and unmistakable.
‘I wasn’t planning on it.’
‘Good enough.’
Sam lifted himself out of the chair and followed Alex to the door, realising in that one moment, he wanted nothing more than a cold beer.
The train shot through the dark, continuing its journey to Berlin.
CHAPTER NINE
‘I don’t think you have much choice.’
Trevor Sims leant back in his chair, folding his arms and placing them across his slight gut. His shirt was stained with sweat and his greasy head was shimmering. The lighting in the room didn’t help, the long, halogen bulbs hummed loudly as they pumped the room with heat. In front of him on the table, was a file filled to the brim with damning evidence.
Alex Stone said nothing.
The room was dank and empty apart from the metal table she was cuffed to and the two chairs either side which were occupied. On the wall was a large mirror, obviously a two way, but who was watching she didn’t know.
She didn’t care.
She was about to lose her family.
It had been a tough road to this point, and she wasn’t blameless in the direction it had gone. Over time, she’d made some bad decisions, but usually for the greater good. Despite breaking the law, she was never a criminal.
Alex Stone had never done anything for personal gain.
She had too much to lose, which meant there was easily a way to leverage her. The type of scenario that a man like Trevor Sims thrived on. Slowly, he placed a thick cigar between his lips and with the flick of his wrist, a match sparked into life. They were in the seventy-eight precinct NYPD station in Brooklyn, only five blocks down from where Alex lived with her siblings.
She was just returning home. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The men who accompanied the officers to her location, the seven-eleven where she was picking up some milk, had been decked out in polo shirts and sunglasses.
They weren’t police.
Government, maybe?
All she knew was the unit was called Blackridge and the man sat before her, puffing clouds of thick, dark smoke into the room and overcasting them both, was the man in charge. Whoever he was, he clearly held some sway to not only use the police like his personal lap dogs, but he could violate the smoking law in their very building.
Alex sat on her hands, her toned, brown arms were covered in a few random t
attoos of skulls and butterflies, permanent reminders of her previous life.
She’d gone straight.
But clearly, not straight enough.
After a few more awkward moments of silence, only broken by the theatrical puffs of the cigar, Sims sat up straight again, resting his hands on the table. Alex’s hands also rested on the table, unwillingly. The chain of her hand cuffs had been latched under a metal bar, pinning them in place.
Sims smiled and then reached for the file once again.
‘Let’s go through this again, shall we, Ms Stone?’ He flashed her a smile. ‘You’re twenty-six years old, correct?’
She nodded.
‘Correct?’ Sims’s voice echoed with authority.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It says here, you attended four months of police training when you were twenty-one. You attended community college to get the necessary credits, which is very impressive. Remind me, why did you need to attend the community college?’
Alex shuffled uncomfortably on her seat, knowing full well the question was rhetorical. Outside, she could hear the hustle and bustle of the NYPD police station.
‘It says here that you were expelled from your school for fighting. Looking through your file, I see that this is probably linked to your home life. Pill popping mom, three kids, no dad. Must have been hard.’
Alex felt her fist clench but took a few deep breaths. Take five and keep calm.
‘Anyway, you turned it all around, even helped your mom get off the pills and then what? Thought you would give back to the community? Become a respected officer of the law? Thing is, what we didn’t cover is between the ages of fifteen to nineteen, you participated in…’ Sims theatrically checked the file. ‘…over ninety illegal street races. Is that correct?’
Again, Alex said nothing.
‘So, not only did you break the law, you lied about it, am I right? You used your father’s name, Willis, instead of Stone. Surely, you must have known they would soon connect the dots. I mean, it wasn’t straight away but shit always comes out in the wash, darlin’.’
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 7