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

by Robert Enright

  ‘Singh…’ Pearce began but was immediately cut off.

  ‘Now usually, the military are pretty forthcoming with records. Obviously, if we need to know about someone’s military history, it could be crucial in whatever our investigation is. But not only are these files locked down, but many of Sam Pope’s military records are also off limits. I’m telling you, Pearce, something doesn’t add up. Tie that up with Wallace coming to see me, and I think there’s something there that people don’t want coming out.’

  ‘Singh, listen, you have to…’ Pearce tried, needlessly, again.

  ‘Well, I’ve managed to extract a number of files into a secure folder and have called in a favour with Jake in IT. I have the files saved on a private cloud. Now who was that guy? Etheridge? The one who clearly helped Sam but denies it. I’ll get him to take a look and…’

  ‘Singh, for the love of God, listen to me.’ Pearce cut in, stopping Singh in her tracks and drawing a shocked look from her. ‘You have to stop this. Please.’

  ‘Stop this?’ Singh checked the door was closed and then lowered her voice. ‘Pearce, I’ve got senior military officials telling me to shut this down. I’ve clearly latched onto something and if it can help Sam in any way, then I need to do this.’

  ‘But it’s not your job, is it?’ Pearce said, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. ‘Your job is to catch Sam.’

  ‘No. My job is to do what’s right. I made a solemn vow when I passed out to protect and serve, to uphold justice and above all else, do what’s right.’ Singh’s voice cracked slightly, and Pearce looked at her with concern. It was if he could finally see the truth. The truth that she was trying to erase.

  She was close to failing.

  ‘Singh.’ Pearce sighed. ‘Amara. Ashton has blackmailed me to dig up whatever I can on you. She wants you out by the end of the week.’

  Singh straightened, gathering her paperwork from the desk and turning to Pearce in his chair.

  ‘I know I’m as good as gone. I was so blinkered for so long, the only thing I cared about was how far I could push myself in this place. How far I could go. How many people I could help.’ Singh shook her head slightly, pulling her lips into a tight line. ‘Somewhere along the way, I lost what was important.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Pearce asked, casting a caring and interested eye over her. She took a deep breath before responding.

  ‘Doing the right thing.’

  Both of them smiled, knowing that Sam Pope, a man both of them had been tasked with catching at different points, had changed their view on the law. Had shown them another path to justice. It wasn’t one they could take themselves.

  But it was one they could both help him down.

  Pearce stood, stretching his back and offering the soulful looking Singh his most charming smile.

  ‘Well, we better take a trip to Farnham, eh?’

  ‘Pearce?’ Singh raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, you want to go speak to Etheridge, right? I’m sure that computer nerd can sort you out.’

  Singh felt her grip on his folder loosen and the weight gently lift off her slight shoulders. Having felt like she was losing herself it was good to find someone just as lost.

  The most worrying thing was, there was no fear. Only a buzzing need to do the right thing.

  As if she had a new purpose.

  As she opened the door and slid through, she turned back to Pearce, who was following suit, his drenched overcoat in his hand.

  ‘But what about you, Pearce?’

  ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ He chuckled, locking his door. ‘Besides, I’m pretty sure that bitch would kick me out ten seconds after you.’

  The two of them laughed, their joy drawing a few disconcerting looks from the fellow officers. They were outcasts, but as they walked towards the exit, they felt a connection. A force of nature that had brought them together.

  Justice.

  It had been a long night.

  Etheridge had lost track of the time, the measurement becoming redundant around the time his mysterious intruder broke his second finger. Now, Etheridge was strapped to a chair, his body aching, and his shirt stuck to his body through sweat. The back of his head was sticky with blood, the painful souvenir of a blow from the man’s gun. After introducing Etheridge to the sharp edge of his own door, the man had proceeded to ask him where Sam was.

  Etheridge pleaded ignorance, sat on the floor of the hallway, his eyebrow gushing blood and blinding his right eye.

  The man had responded with a hard boot to the ribs, cracking one of them instantly and hammering the air from Etheridge’s lungs. The man had repeated his question, his thick Manchurian accent laced with menace. Etheridge thought about it, for only a split second and realized that giving Sam up wasn’t an option. His mind flashed back to the bottom of that mountain, just outside Egypt.

  His leg broken.

  Death only seconds away.

  Sam had saved his life that day, dispatching three rounds expertly, eradicating Etheridge’s would-be killers.

  He owed Sam.

  Refusing to speak, Etheridge had felt the hard, metal butt of the pistol come down on the back of his skull and turning everything to black.

  When he awoke, a few hours had passed, and he was strapped to his computer chair in his loft-converted office. Although his spacious mansion had a number of rooms to accommodate a workspace, he liked the idea of being sat on the top floor. Pathetically, it made him feel like he was the top dog.

  He already owned his own company.

  Despite the egocentric reasoning, the loft had been converted into a lovely, light filled office where he worked on a number of highly profitable contracts. Now, under the winter moon, the slanted windows that adorned the roof were being hammered by the downpour. Whatever time it was, it didn’t register with him and woozily he was confronted by his assailant.

  The masked man asked again.

  Etheridge again refused to answer.

  The man took Etheridge’s left hand and with his own gloved grip, snapped his index finger. Etheridge roared with pain, instantly receiving a jaw rocking right hook. The man asked again.

  Same response.

  Same outcome.

  The man snapped Etheridge’s middle finger, wrenching against its socket until his fingernail touched the back of his hand.

  This happened twice more until only the thumb was left standing. Etheridge was crying, the pain of his hand buzzed through his brain like a bumble bee. His fingers were scattered across his hand, useless and shattered. The cable wrapped tightly around his body was beginning to rub, causing a slight friction burn on his skin. He wasn’t a large man, and partook in badminton and squash to keep fit.

  But he was trapped on the chair, as the masked man sat at his desk, his eyes scanning the multiple computer screens. The man was searching through Etheridge’s files, hunting for any scraps of information that could take him to Sam.

  Whoever he was, he was dangerous.

  Etheridge knew Sam’s world had always been filled with danger and violence. Pre and post Jamie’s death.

  But this man, he radiated a chaos that caused his stomach to knot and Etheridge knew that sending him to Sam would be like pulling the trigger himself.

  But what would this man do if he continued to stay silent?

  As if reading his mind, the man spun round in the leather chair, slightly slouched, his brilliant blue eyes glistened with impatience as he glared at Etheridge.

  The man had hung his leather trench coat in the hall and was now just in his black jeans and jumper.

  The only noticeable feature Etheridge had noticed, was the scarring around the man’s left eye. The skin was charred and the eyelid itself was slightly crooked.

  Whatever had happened, it was painful.

  An agony that looked like it had been reincarnated as this mysterious man in black.

  ‘I’m done playing games, Mr Etheridge.’ The masked man spoke softly. He pushed
himself up from the chair and walked towards the door, patting Etheridge on the side of the face as he passed. Etheridge flinched, then shook with fear as the man left the room. Immediately, he scanned the room, hoping beyond hope that he had a mobile phone or any means of sending for help.

  Below, in his bedroom, he had a panic alarm that would notify the police of any intrusion. He’d installed it when one of Kayleigh’s ex-lovers had tried to break in to see her.

  Kayleigh?

  A wave of panic crashed through Etheridge like the rising tide, the horror of Kayleigh returning home to make amends now would undoubtedly end with her death. The door swung open again, bringing Etheridge back into the situation and the man approached him, holding a white, Egyptian cotton towel in one hand and a large, two-litre bottle of water in the other. He placed the bottle down and then turned to Etheridge.

  ‘These look expensive.’ The man mused. ‘What’s the thread count?’

  Before Etheridge could answer the man lunged forward, wrapping the soft, thick towel around Etheridge’s face, pulling tight at the back to completely cover him. The man pulled the towel downwards, tilting Etheridge’s head over the back of the chair. Terrified, Etheridge went stiff, his muscles tightening in sheer panic. The man leant in towards his ear.

  ‘Now, I’m going to give you a brief example of what your next few hours look like, if you can hold on that long.’

  With his hand still pulling the towel taut, the man lifted the bottle of water over Etheridge’s covered face and tipped it. The water splashed down onto the towel, the soft, plush fibres absorbing it instantly. As it did, it began to soak through, the water filling the nose and mouth of the man trapped underneath.

  Etheridge was drowning.

  He squirmed and gasped and after a few more moments, the man released his hold and pulled the towel back. Etheridge lunged forward, gasping for breath, his eyes red with tears. Panicked, he took short, sharp breaths, betraying his body’s need for a full intake. Etheridge felt the burning sensation of vomit forming the back of his throat, his nostril stinging. The man’s calm voice echoed in his ear.

  ‘Where can I find Sam Pope?’

  Etheridge took a few more breathes, willing himself to be the soldier he set out to be.

  ‘I…don’t… know,’ he finally responded.

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  The man wrapped the towel over Etheridge’s face again, ignoring the pleas for mercy and pulled it tight. Yanking it backwards, he tipped the rest of the water over the towel, emotionless as Etheridge squirmed and fought for survival. He waited longer this time, allowing Etheridge to edge a little further to death, before pulling the towel back and letting the air rush towards a terrorized Etheridge.

  This wouldn’t last much longer.

  They both knew that.

  The man in black sighed, shaking his head at the empty bottle of water.

  ‘I’m going to have to get some more water,’ he said coldly, as Etheridge stared vacantly ahead, accepting his slow, agonizing fate. Just as the man turned, the computer let out a rewarding ding, and a photo flashed up.

  The man stopped in his tracks.

  Etheridge lifted his head and felt a twinge of guilt course through his beaten body.

  It was Sam Pope.

  The name next to the photo said ‘Jonathan Cooper’, the forged passport completely undetectable. But Etheridge had been tracking it, ensuring he could keep tabs on Sam’s whereabouts. It was that new-found drive to help Sam that could now, ultimately, lead to the exact opposite. The intruder leant forward, hand on the desk and inspected the image with a sneer on his face.

  The passport had been scanned in at Rome Termini.

  Pope was in Italy.

  ‘There you are,’ the man uttered grimly, his muscles tensing with fury at the very sight of Sam. He pushed himself away from the desk and turned back to Etheridge. The man was bloodied and soaked through, his hand a mess of broken bones.

  But the man had not cracked.

  He was impressed. Casually, the man in black pulled a pistol from the back of his jeans and Etheridge’s eyes opened wide with fear.

  ‘Please, don’t kill me,’ Etheridge begged, all sense of self-respect had long since dissipated. ‘You got what you wanted.’

  ‘I know,’ the man said calmly. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’

  Lunging forward, the man pressed the barrel of the gun into Etheridge’s knee and pulled the trigger. A large flash and Etheridge felt an instant burning, followed by the sheer agony of the bullet shattering through his kneecap and rupturing every ligament in its way. It burst out the back of his leg in a magnificent spray of blood before embedding itself in the floor.

  Etheridge howled in agony, but a few seconds later, a combination of the shock and pain caused him to drop into a lucid unconsciousness.

  The man in black had shot to wound, but as he left, he wondered if anyone would find the man in time before he bled out. As he made his way down the stairs, Etheridge slumped forward in the chair, the cable pulling tight.

  He didn’t have long.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Another shudder of turbulence shook the private plane like a baby’s rattle and Wallace gripped the fine, leather armrest. Despite being a man who was practically bathing in blood, he’d always detested flying. Control and power were two things he craved to the point of obsession but being in the hands of the pilot and the incredible technology never sat comfortably with him.

  When he was a passenger, he wasn’t in control.

  The weather outside wasn’t helping, the ferocious winter storm attacking the plane like an antidote attacking a virus, and his mind wandered to the likely outbreak of chemical warfare in the next few months. Obviously, this was unknown to the doughy eyed public, all of them living blissfully in their safety nets.

  He knew the truth about what was happening in the dark corners of the world.

  It was his job to prevent it.

  With a self-satisfied chortle, he relaxed, allowing his broad shoulders to sink into the supple leather chair on the private jet. Being a man of considerable power, he was able to charter these jets for an emergency.

  And this most certainly was an emergency.

  It had been over a year since he’d last had any dealing with Carl Marsden and the name always triggered a trickle of regret. For over two decades, Marsden and Wallace had worked together, each becoming indispensable to the military in their own way. Marsden was a man of the people, a heck of a soldier who commanded respect and loyalty. Despite their philosophies differing radically, Wallace had always admired the way Marsden bonded with his troops.

  They would run into hell for him. And beyond.

  But while Marsden could spot a true talent and develop it into a ruthless, killing machine, he never operated with the same conviction as Wallace. While they were both dedicated to making the world a safer place, Marsden’s ideals were too soft.

  Marsden believed people were intrinsically good. That bad people were not born that way.

  Wallace, however, saw himself as a realist. He knew that if you wanted to deal with the dirty you had to get into the mud with them. That’s what eventually caused them to butt heads and ever since Project Hailstorm, they’d barely spoken. There was the unfortunate incident with Sam Pope and the even more tragic death of his child, but Wallace had seen worse happen to better people.

  It was the way of the world.

  Death and pain were inevitable and those who could use it as currency could dictate things.

  It was a harsh truth, but one he stood vehemently by.

  A truth that Marsden had never understood and one which broke their partnership. Since Sam went off the rails, Marsden had shipped himself out, working out of a military base in Switzerland for the past year. Wallace had kept tabs on him, as well as Sam. It had always paid to keep an eye on those who were involved in Black Ops missions. Although they were off the book, should anyone start sniffing there was always an o
pportunity to hang one of them out to dry.

  That irritating Amara Singh had started digging in the wrong garden and Wallace was pleased he’d already snuffed her out. AC Ashton was a strong, powerful woman and he was aroused by the idea of bedding her. It would happen. The woman was desperate to take the reins of the Metropolitan Police and he would ensure that his gratification would see her ascend to the throne.

  Plus, he knew the power he wielded was like a magnet for women who craved the very same.

  The jet shook again, and Wallace felt his knuckles whiten over the arm rest. On the table in front of him, his coffee shook slightly, next to the tablet which was jam packed with confidential files.

  Most of them were about Marsden.

  Others about Sam Pope.

  He’d been informed that Trevor Sims, the Head of Field Ops for Blackridge had apprehended Sam at Kiev airport. Under an assumed identity, Sam had brutalized one of Ukraine’s most notorious crime families. Wallace couldn’t care less. As far as he was concerned, Sam could eradicate every worthless piece of criminal scum this side of the equator. But Blackridge had been hired to find Marsden, who had recently gone on the run with vital files.

  It was being treated as treason and potentially, as a terror threat.

  Wallace knew Marsden, had known him for years and was concerned at how this could end for him. While their differences had long since severed any ties of friendship, Wallace needed to be there when Sims finally apprehended him.

  Sims, while being as ambitious as Wallace, always craved money over power. It was a trait that Wallace found repugnant and the man was so slimy he should come with his own hand sanitizer. But while he was never the soldier Wallace was, Sims was able to make the right connections, put together the most effective teams and had transformed Blackridge into an unstoppable machine.

  The reports had come in.

  Marsden was on his way to Rome.