Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4)
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This might sound like fear mongering or nonsensical click bait, but there are clear links.
After Sam Pope’s much publicised assault on a heavily guarded drug base in Dulwich, South London, two senior police officers sadly passed away. Inspector Ian Howell was pronounced dead at the scene, with the report stating he was gunned down by Sam Pope in the heat of battle. Further investigation placed two of the men associated with the crime lord, Frank Jackson, at Howell’s house, both found deceased.
Why would there be two dead criminals at a police Chief Inspector’s house? Could it be possible that the reported links between our senior police officials and organised crime are in fact binding?
I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but the notion that Howell, who was a senior officer with no armed experience, would storm a crime scene with a known vigilante is farfetched.
Another senior figure, Sgt Colin Mayer was found murdered on a small boat in Dawlish, Cornwall. His disappearance just before the storming of the High Rise gives additional credence to the idea that those links do exist.
My sources dictate that Sam Pope acted because he believed it was right.
The only innocent people who were killed were those in the Marathon itself, and the people who died by his hands were either known criminals or corrupt officers.
Again, I do not condone the act of murder nor do I believe that vigilantism should be celebrated. But I don’t feel we should sweep these startling connections under the rug.
The same link can be made by the abrupt withdrawal of Mark Harris from the Mayoral campaign at the end of last year. The man was almost a shoe in for the job.
Handsome, charming, and with a clear gift for the public role, Harris had set his stall on ‘cleaning up the streets of London.’ He even used Sam Pope as his opposite, as if positioning himself as an antidote to the Sam Pope issue. Harris was so sure of his success, he publicly backed a task force to bring Sam Pope to justice, using the man as an example for the rise in gun crime.
So why did he step down?
After a mass shoot-out in the Port of Tilbury, an avalanche of information poured forth about a terrifying sex trafficking racket, run by the Kovalenko family. Teenage girls, abducted for the sole purpose of sex slavery, were discovered in the aftermath.
The father of one of the girls, who wishes to remain anonymous for the safety of his family, said he spoke directly with Sam Pope himself.
While the harrowing experience will no doubt haunt his daughter forever, the father spoke about how Sam went through hell and high water to find her.
To bring her back,
To save her from her fate.
Not only did he achieve this, he put an end to the despicable enterprise, with further reports of the wider Kovalenko family meeting their grisly demise in a Ukrainian night club.
And then Harris stepped down amid reports that he had monetary links to a shell company owned by the Kovalenkos.
So again, I want to state, I do not condone the use of violence to solve anything.
Nor do I believe anyone should take the law into their own hands.
But with the facts pointing towards those in power shirking their responsibilities for their own gain and making a mockery of our justice system, then I ask: Is Sam Pope truly wrong?
If those we put in charge to look after the safety of this country put their own needs first, then who fights for the people?
There have been no reported sightings of Sam Pope in over three months, beyond rumours of an incident in Rome where a US private security operation went wrong. A private security operation with strong links to our very own military. The trail of bodies is being pinned on Pope, with the headline reading that he is one step closer to the edge and that we are no longer safe.
But without Sam Pope, who is watching over us now?
What he does may not be legal, but is it necessary?
The law is the law and we shouldn’t allow anyone to be above it. But with the country in turmoil, with our government comparable to a circus, and our trusted authorities trying their hardest to lose our confidence, do the streets really feel safer without Sam Pope?
It’s a sad day when we fear the law, not for what it does, but for what it doesn’t.
‘This needs to be shut down. Now.’
General Ervin Wallace slammed the tablet onto Deputy Commissioner Ruth Ashton’s desk and leant back in the chair. His colossal frame crept over the sides of the comfortable seat; his suit strapped tightly to it. While he carried a few extra pounds due to his time behind the desk and the unstoppable clutches of Father Time, he was still an imposing figure. A career soldier who had climbed up the ranks through his sheer determination and ruthless efficiency, he commanded as much respect as he did fear.
He knew he received both from the Deputy Commissioner in bucket loads, along with a strong attraction.
Ashton was approaching fifty, her brown hair, now frosted with grey, was pulled back into a tight bun. Her sharp facial features looked even more prominent, most likely due to the stress of Sam Pope’s disappearance.
While she was heavily expected to take the reins once the Commissioner stepped down, she knew having a man of Wallace’s considerable weight behind her would make it a formality. She’d taken personal responsibility for the task force which had failed to catch Pope and now, with the powerful General breathing down her neck, she felt the pressure building in her temples.
She reached across her immaculate desk and lifted the tablet.
‘It’s a free press, General,’ she said helplessly. ‘A trashy internet blog.’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ Wallace said firmly, his meaty fingers clasped on his lap. ‘This Sam Pope nonsense has gone on long enough and the last thing we need is fear mongering from the uneducated.’
Wallace regarded Ashton with a disappointed glare, revelling in his clear power of the woman. It was a feeling he’d become addicted to.
Power. Control.
It had seen him not only run an elite, off-the-books task force but also gain a controlling share in Blackridge, the private security company that had tried, and failed spectacularly, to stop Carl Marsden a few months before.
The previous field commander, Trevor Sims, had unsuccessfully tried to recruit Pope as a way to placate Wallace. They had blackmailed him with a threat to his ex-wife, but it wasn’t enough. Pope had reached Marsden first and according to Marsden, before Wallace regrettably had to end his life, was now in possession of the information Marsden had given up his life for.
Information which could ruin him completely.
Information he would hunt Sam Pope to the ends of the earth for.
Sims had died for his failure and while a similar fate wouldn’t await Ashton, Wallace had made it clear enough that if she failed him again, her career would be over.
Power.
Control.
Wallace smirked as Ashton tried to conjure up a solution.
‘I can have someone speak to this Mr Miah if you like?’
‘Ruth.’ Wallace leant forward, lowering his tone. ‘If I wanted someone to slap his wrist, I’d have asked one of the grunts out there.’
Wallace jerked his neck towards the door which lead to the offices of some of Ashton’s finest detectives.
‘This is the Metropolitan Police, Ervi—’ Wallace flashed her an angry glance. ‘—General.’
Ashton sighed, ashamed that she’d lost her first name privileges. Wallace stood up, straightening his tie.
‘Then police it,’ he commanded. ‘If the public begin to think we are not here for their safety, then we lose even more trust. It’s not just me they’re looking at, is it. Howell? Mayer? Soon, they’ll start looking higher up the chain.’
‘Okay. Okay,’ Ashton said fitfully. ‘I’ll get someone to speak to him.’
‘Send Pearce,’ Wallace said coldly. ‘He claims he has no links to Pope, so make him clean up this mess.’
Ashton licked her lips nervously. De
tective Inspector Adrian Pearce had been the first person to suspect Sam Pope of walking the wrong side of the thin blue line, way back when Sam worked in their archive department. Respected for his diligence but shunned for his work leading the Department of Professional Standards, rumours swirled that Pearce not only agreed with Pope’s mission but was actively helping him.
They had tried everything to get him to crack.
Countless interviews.
Busy work.
Hell, they even moved him to a broom cupboard.
But the man was unflappable, almost to the point that Ashton questioned whether he really did know anything. But the glimmer of delight in Wallace’s eye made up her mind.
‘Consider it done,’ she said firmly, standing herself and buttoning her tunic. She’d made sure to wear her smartest uniform when she’d been informed Wallace was on his way to see her.
Wallace nodded calmly.
‘And Singh? Is she still a problem?’
Ashton shook her head. DI Amara Singh had been the bright spark of the Met for a few years. Her rapid rise through the ranks had as much to do with her credentials as it did with her filling a necessary diversity quota. Despite her diminutive size, she packed a punch and excelled as an Armed Response Officer. Putting her in charge of the Sam Pope Task Force had at one time seemed like a master stroke.
Now it could end up being Ashton’s undoing.
They had suspended Singh for her perceived aiding and abetting of Pope, which was soon disproven. It may have driven a wedge in the blossoming union between her and Pearce, but Singh was soon back at her desk.
Ashton had reduced her to nothing more than a highly paid, highly skilled administrator, but the woman was as strong as she was.
She would not break.
There was a steeliness to Singh that Ashton admired, but now, with the General wanting blood, it was something Ashton feared may make her even more of a target.
‘Singh is no longer a problem.’ Ashton smiled. ‘Unless she blocks the photocopier again.’
The joke fell on deaf ears and Wallace sighed. He turned and marched towards the door of Ashton’s office, pulling it with such force that it shook the frame. He turned his head, locking his eyes on her once more.
‘This needs to be controlled, Ruth.’ His words were laced with menace. ‘Wild accusations may just rile the wrong people. People who may not be as patient as I am.’
With that, Wallace stepped through the door and into the office which fell deathly silent as he entered. The door slammed shut behind him and he stomped purposefully across the walkway towards the door, straight back and broad shoulders.
To the watching world, he was a man in complete control.
A man to be feared.
But in reality, Wallace was feeling the walls closing in and the inevitability of making a phone call that he’d made personal assurances, would never be made.
For the first time in a long time, the man to be feared was feeling that very same emotion.
Chapter Three
The unrelenting heat from the sun bore down on the metal factory, weighing down the oxygen in the room. Outside, the derelict road that lead into the abandoned building was covered with dust and gravel.
No one ventured out.
No one at all.
Just over a mile away, the historic town of Hasankeyf stood. One of Turkey’s most ancient towns, its incredible architecture was surrounded by derelict cliffs, riddled with caverns where the natives once lived. Now, situated near the Tigris River, the city was marked for death, the inevitable flooding due to the construction of the Ilisu Dam. Despite the objections of the habitants and the nationalists, the city was not long for the world.
Neither was the man strapped to the chair in the warehouse.
Abdul Qadir could feel the blood pouring from the gaping wound above his eyebrow, the outcome of a vicious strike by the man stood before him.
Despite the exhaustive heat, the large man wore a plastic apron strapped to his bulky body, the muscles slightly laxing into a slight gut due to Father Time. His dark eyes were locked onto him like a wolf ready to make the kill. Thinning black hair swept across his head, the sweat trickling down the side of his bearded face.
His meaty forearms bore sinister scars which were evident behind the thick hair.
Qadir had long since given up the idea of survival.
He had been a journalist, investigating the Afghanistan Military’s involvement in a recent assassination of a prominent rebellion leader in Syria. The man had been found stripped naked, castrated, and hung from a bridge.
A message had been stapled to his naked torso.
Talin.
Relent.
As he wept for the wife and young child he would be leaving behind, Qadir knew he should have listened.
His torturer slowly lowered the metal chain from the harness he had affixed to the metal beam of the roof, pulling the chain link down hand over fist.
The man’s reputation proceeded him.
Ahmad Farukh.
Aljulad bin Baghdad.
The Hangman of Baghdad.
Farukh had been one of the Taliban’s greatest generals, leading a series of brutal missions throughout the organisation’s reign of terror on the country. His bloodlust had seen even his own superiors question his motives, but the ruthlessness of his work kept them at bay.
If they had a problem, then they would point him in the direction and then look the other way.
Men.
Women.
Children.
Found, mutilated and hanged without a moment’s hesitation. The stories were so horrifying, Qadir remembered tales in his playground that spoke of The Hangman as if he were a real life bogeyman. Now, as the chain slowly lowered, and the leather strap that comprised the noose slid gently around his neck, he realised that some legends were indeed true.
And in that truth, his horrifying destiny lay.
Qadir shook with fear, his already drenched trousers filling with urine and the pungent smell wafted through the heat to Farukh.
The Hangman turned and looked at Qadir with a disappointing shake of the head.
‘In death, one will be remembered in one of two ways,’ Farukh said, his Arabic slow and purposeful. ‘Either as a coward or as a conqueror.’
Qadir felt the tears flooding down his cheeks as the noose rested on his collar bone, the cool leather pressing against the blood that had trickled down to his chest. As he finished his prayer, he turned to face his executioner. Qadir’s wavy black hair was matted to his head, thick with sweat and blood.
His left eye was swollen.
His right was shut; the blood gushing from the wound dripped from his lashes.
His lips were split, and blood seeped through them from the teeth that Farukh had removed with the rusty pair of pliers that were tossed lazily to the side of the room. The man had no fear of covering his tracks.
To the rest of the world, he was a ghost.
An urban legend.
A bump in the night.
Now, as Farukh lit a cigarette and let a plume of smoke casually lift from his mouth, Qadir saw what he truly was.
Evil.
Weeping as quietly as he could, Qadir shut his eyes and took a deep breath. All this for doing the right thing. For doing his best to tell his people what was truly happening with his government. That they would pay a man such as Farukh to erase people like they were mistakes.
To make them disappear.
Farukh watched with a perverted pleasure as his latest victim shook in his chair, praying to a god that Farukh knew had long since abandoned him.
Abandoned them all.
It was why men like him survived.
Were a necessity.
He rested the cigarette between his lips, careful for the end to not singe his thick, greying moustache. He wrapped both of his war-torn hands around the chain and with his vast might, heaved the chain.
The leather tightened.
A feeble gasp of air was soon shut off as Farukh heaved once more, crushing the man’s larynx as he lifted the man from the ground, the metal chair accompanying him as he ascended towards the heavens.
Not towards the grateful arms of Allah.
But towards an agonising end.
With one final yank, the chair lifted to eight feet, the weight of it pulling Qadir towards the ground. The man shook, the noose claiming his final moments in the world.
Farukh stared at his latest victim, taking a long, satisfying pull on his cigarette.
In an instant it was over.
The chain stopped swinging.
The chair gently swung from side to side.
Qadir was dead.
As casually as a jolly punter lifted a pint, Farukh lifted the small bottle of gasoline which he’d placed on the side, popping the cap and he carelessly sloshed the petrol across the dusty floor, the liquid covering the stone and surrounding fixtures.
The smell wafted through the suffocating heat, trying its best to mask the stench of death.
Farukh slid the apron over his head and tossed it into the puddle.
Taking one final drag of his cigarette, he flicked the butt towards the petrol. Flames shot up like the bowels of hell themselves, quickly spreading across the gasoline trail before consuming the nearby equipment. The heat rose quickly, but with calm steps, Farukh walked towards the exit to the fresh air and beating sun outside.
As he stepped out, he lit another cigarette, before cupping his murderous hand across his brow to shield the sun.
The historic landscape of Hasankeyf was a beauty to behold.
He smiled, taking another drag before heading towards the Jeep parked half a mile down the road.
Behind him, the factory fell to the relentless fire and inside the terrifying blaze consumed the motionless body of Qadir.
Within moments, Farukh would be gone.
Once the authorities had extinguished the fire and realised what had happened, there would be two names they would confirm.