Despite his refusal, defeat began to dominate his thought process and he leant his head forward, resting it gently against the metal bars.
He was so tired.
As his mind raced to find a way to contact Adrian Pearce, he was oblivious to the stuttered steps of the hooded man behind him. By the time Sam’s instincts had kicked in and he knew he’d been ambushed, it was too late.
He felt the barrel of the gun press against the back of his skull.
‘Hello, Sam.’
Chapter Ten
It had been a long road for Etheridge, too.
Six months earlier, he’d just signed a lucrative deal with a Japanese mega brand to rebuild their entire digital security platform. His company, BlackOut, was leading the way in cyber security and companies were lining up to sign exclusive contracts with him. While he thought of himself as a reasonably modest man, he couldn’t help but smile as the clients came knocking and the company’s bank account swelled. As the founder and CEO, he was living the life of a millionaire.
The sports cars.
The trophy wife twenty years his junior.
The six bedroom mansion in the picture-esque countryside.
Fast forward a couple of months, and an old acquaintance had shown up at his door.
Sam Pope.
Having begun his career in the military, Etheridge had excelled with his technical wizardry, even if his physical prowess was lacking. As a talented bomb disposal expert, he’d joined Marsden’s elite platoon and soon bonded with the ruthlessly efficient soldier.
Then, one fateful night on the Turkish border, Etheridge slipped and fell. With his leg shattered and the enemy closing in, his life had flashed before his eyes.
In a matter of seconds, Sam had eliminated the approaching assailants, the sight of his scope ensuring the bullets from his rifle sent them all to the afterlife.
Sam had saved his life.
So when the UK’s most wanted vigilante turned up at his house begging him for help, he had to return the favour. A missing girl was at stake and Etheridge, using his intimate knowledge of security systems, was able to help Sam not only locate her, but bring her home safely.
Sure, it cost him his marriage.
The Armed Response Unit of the Metropolitan Police had engaged Sam in Etheridge’s own home, only to be left incapacitated.
Sam had shot to wound.
After a few rigorous interviews by the desperate detectives hell-bent on catching the man, Etheridge was off the hook. Sam had found the young girl, Jasmine Hill, along with three others, all on the cusp of a horrific future in the Eastern European sex trade.
He forged Sam a passport, gave him some cash, and sent him on his way to Kiev to finish the job. As he awaited further contact, Etheridge was soon visited by a stranger, dressed in black and with one goal.
To find Sam Pope.
The pain he put Etheridge through was unlike anything he’d felt. Worse than the broken leg he’d suffered all those years ago. The man, burnt and disfigured, had water boarded him in his own office, bring him to the brink of death time and again, but Etheridge had shocked himself.
He had not talked.
But his computers did.
Sam’s fake passport triggered an alert on his system, giving the sadistic attacker his location. The man in black had gotten what he wanted, but it wasn’t enough. Without batting a charred eyelid, he’d pressed a handgun to Etheridge’s surgically repaired knee and pulled the trigger.
The pain had been instant.
The burning sensation roared through his body like an explosion as the bone and cartilage was eviscerated. Blood loss and shock caused him to lose consciousness and as his vision faded and his torturer left, Etheridge had accepted his death.
When he awoke in the hospital later that evening, he found DI Adrian Pearce sat next to him. The friendly detective had visited him with a fellow detective, Amara Singh, for Etheridge’s expertise. When they asked him again, he bluntly refused.
A few days later, after extensive surgery and a few trips to physio, Etheridge had been fitted with a permanent knee brace which would hinder his mobility for the rest of his life. Pearce had kindly taken him back to his mansion, where to no surprise, Kayleigh had already taken a bag and left.
He was expecting the divorce papers any day.
After refusing Pearce’s offer of help one last time he’d stumbled into his house and sat at the vast marble breakfast bar that framed the island in the centre of his kitchen.
Something had clicked.
As he looked around the home he’d held as a symbol of his success, he felt disgust. None of it mattered.
The cars.
The expensive sofas.
The 4k TVs dotted around the house.
All of it meant nothing.
Coming so close to death had changed something within him.
What should have sent him running for the hills had done the opposite. While Sam had been willing to run into a gun fight to save a young girl he’d never met, he’d been too obsessed with making money. With living a life of luxury. While his accomplishments in the business world had been incredible and made him a wealthy man, he felt empty.
He had used his considerable knowledge and skills to widen his bank account.
That was about to change.
Over the following few months, he’d readily signed the divorce papers, wilfully allowing Kayleigh to take a large settlement that would no doubt feed her materialistic itch. He had also decided to sell his controlling shares in BlackOut, which were eagerly gobbled up by the other stiffs who sat at the executive table.
Within a few weeks, he was free of it all, with a bank balance capable of funding a small country and the brain of a man capable of weaponising it.
He put the house on the market, and it sold within a day.
Being a prodigy behind a keyboard meant piling a number of names behind numerous shell companies was child’s play. He sold the house to himself effectively, before purchasing a small flat in Tenerife.
A little record manipulation not only moved his own life to another country but showed him just how easily he could shock the system if he needed to.
Even to the most trained eye of the government or whatever nefarious outfit came looking, he’d given it all up after his assault and had retired to the Canary Islands to live a life of luxury. He even made weekly transactions to a local supermarket in Tenerife, before having the deliveries diverted to a local charity.
He was no longer a concern or an interest.
But, still based in his home, he upgraded his software, spending a small fortune on the best computers money could buy. His office which was once a place for him to mull over corporate contracts, was now a control centre, the walls covered in screens and with his own data centre powering it.
He was in every system without them knowing it.
He was a ghost in the machine.
All he needed was a purpose.
A mission.
Then, just like the man in black had, an opportunity had come knocking.
As soon as Jonathan Cooper’s passport had pinged up on his screen, he’d quietly left the sanctuary of his control room and stepped out into the brisk, spring evening.
The millionaires’ road he lived all was as peaceful as ever, with the large houses all locked away behind their automatic gates and their expensive luxury cars.
Opposite the house, he melted into the shadows of the large hedge that framed his neighbour’s house.
A few hours later, he felt his arms shake with excitement as Sam approached the gate of his house, looking forlornly at the misdirecting ‘Sold’ sign that stood proudly before resting his head against the metal.
Etheridge had stepped forward, ready for his dramatic entrance and quietly approached Sam from behind, the unloaded gun in his hand.
Etheridge’s story had hit Sam like a punch to the gut. While he knew every war had casualties, he’d never intended to put his friend
in harm’s way. It had been a desperate act to find a young girl. By associating himself with Etheridge, he had painted a target on the man’s back, one which highly trained people had taken aim at.
Sam had felt sick.
As the eerie silence had settled between them as they sat at the breakfast bar in the now sparse kitchen, Etheridge had decided to break the silence.
‘You look like crap.’
They had chuckled and Etheridge had insisted that Sam clean himself up, directing him to one of the pristine bathrooms. Sam had graciously accepted, his guilt weighing down every step as he trudged to the bathroom.
As Etheridge handed him a towel, he also handed him a pair of electric clippers with a smile.
Sam had chuckled, but the grim reality hit him in the face as he saw his reflection.
His beard was scraggily, despite his best efforts.
With a click of a button, Sam glided the electric razor across his sturdy jaw, the hair tumbling down to the sink below like brown snow. After a few moments, his face felt fresher than it had done in months, and he ran his hand across the stubble.
He turned the setting on the razor to grade three and then pushed it slowly through the thick hair on top of his head. For a few moments, he looked hilarious, with random tufts of hair flopping over his increasingly shorn skull. A few moments later, he dropped a grade on the clippers and ever so slightly shortened the back and sides. It was hardly stylish, but it was neat and tidy.
Sam hadn’t had his hair this short since he was in the army and he couldn’t help but smile at the familiarity of it. As he let the shower heat up, he helped himself to a string of floss, attacked his teeth with it and finished off with some mouth wash.
Feeling slightly cleaner, he dropped his clothes to the floor and stepped into the shower, the hot water crashing against him like a warm cuddle. Five minutes later, he emerged, feeling the freshest he had in a long time.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and looked at his body. While he’d lost a little muscle mass in his three-month recovery, he was still in decent shape.
He looked at his scars.
The damage he’d endured during his time in Chakari over a decade ago. The knife wound from his fight with Mark Connor in the High Rise. The bullet wounds in his thigh, shoulder, and stomach ever since he began his fight with the Kovalenko’s.
All of them were permanent reminders.
As where the two white scars on his chest, staring up at him like a pair of pupiless eyes.
His body had been through war.
And he was about to go into another.
As he stepped out of the bathroom, he nearly tripped on the clothes that Etheridge had left for him and he welcomed the clean underwear, jeans, and T-shirt as he pulled them on. The T-shirt was a little tight, but it would do.
Grateful for everything, he followed the light shining from Etheridge’s converted loft, through the hallway where he’d engaged in a gun fight with the police.
Just another crime to add to his ever-growing list.
As he stepped in, he raised his eyebrows. Etheridge had certainly been busy. When Sam had last been in the same room, he’d been presented with a few screens and some expensive kit. Now it looked like an underground government facility. Several screens lined the walls, all connected to a beast of a computer which Etheridge commandeered through his wireless keyboard and mouse. In the far corner, a large batch of servers hummed, different lights twinkling like a Christmas show.
The high back leather chair spun round, and Etheridge sat, his hands clasped together.
‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr Pope.’
Sam chuckled.
‘Shouldn’t you have a white cat?’
‘I’m allergic.’ Etheridge smiled and then reached under the desk and pulled open a small fridge. He retrieved two bottles of cold beer and flicked off the caps, handing one to Sam.
‘To peace,’ Etheridge said dryly. They clinked and Sam took a large swig, the cold alcohol tasted superb. Etheridge took a gulp and smacked his lips. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup,’ Etheridge said proudly. ‘Made a few changes.’
Sam nodded his agreement. Last time he’d seen his friend, Etheridge certainly had the look of a man who enjoyed his excess heavy lifestyle. But the chubby beer belly had gone, replaced with a leaner torso. His arms were firmer and the fluffy remnants of hair he’d desperately held onto had been cropped back.
He was a new man.
Focussed.
After a few more silent sips of beer, Sam spoke.
‘Paul. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you.’
‘What?’ Etheridge slapped his knee brace. ‘This thing. Best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Seriously. You helped me out and it nearly got you killed. I can’t imagine what you went through.’
Etheridge took a long, thoughtful swig of his beer and then placed it on his desk. He took a deep breath and leant forward, regarding Sam with a stern look.
‘I’m not going to lie, Sam. It hurt like hell. The man who did this, he was like nobody I’ve ever seen. But while I was recovering, while they were checking if I could even walk again with this knee, I realised I wasn’t worried. Not about my marriage. My business. All of my expensive shit. None of it mattered.’
He shook his head and continued.
‘What matters is the fight. Now before you try to talk me down, Sam, I know I was never much of a soldier. But I’m a good man. I watched you go to war for a young girl you’d never met because it was the right thing to do. From what you told me about what happened in Italy, you’ve started a fire with Wallace’s fucking hit squad to try to save a good man. Because it was the right thing to do. I can’t fight out on the streets like you can, but I have the knowledge and the resources to help you. To do the right thing. So what do you say?’
Sam leant back against the doorframe and downed the rest of his beer. He looked at his friend and clenched his jaw.
‘It was never meant to go this far. I promised my son I was done killing people, but when he was taken from me and the law did nothing, it changed me. I came this close to ending it all but a good man pulled me back from the brink. Then, when I started taking down the criminals the police couldn’t, when I saved those girls, I started to get a little piece of who I was back.’ Sam felt his voice break slightly. ‘I know I’ll never see my boy again. That I’ve broken my promise to him. But I couldn’t save him, so if I can save another, then I will.’
Etheridge awkwardly pushed himself up out of his chair, steadying himself on his dodgy leg and extended a hand.
‘Then let me help you, Sam.’
Sam hesitantly took a breath and then clasped the hand and shook it tightly.
‘Okay, on one condition. You stay right here. I won’t have you taking another bullet for me.’
‘Trust me, I am more than happy with that condition.’ Etheridge chuckled and dropped back into his seat, swivelling back towards his screens. ‘So, what’s first?’
‘We find Wallace.’
‘Okay, and then what?’
Sam’s eyes narrowed with fury.
‘We bring it down around him.’
Chapter Eleven
As he drummed his fingers on the desk, Helal stared at his screen. The article had flowed from his fingertips like an unstoppable wave, his trademark dramatic flair dancing across his words.
It was a sensational story.
One he almost fully believed.
And that was the problem.
In the near two decades he’d been writing articles and working his way up the journalistic ladder, he’d always followed one strict principal.
He had to believe in what he was writing.
There were plenty of hacks who were more than happy to bash out a two thousand word click bait article and collect their wages. It didn’t matter if it was an article body shaming a young celebrity, o
r a needless list about a popular TV show. Some of the newer ‘journalists’ were chasing clicks, which meant more money. It was the way the world had been heading for a long time and Helal had seen the trend emerging way before Nigel and had helped him to somewhat steer the ship upstream.
Sure, the office was filled with the younger generation, fixated on ‘pumping out as much content as possible’. They were a vital cog in The Pulse machine. Their empty, shallow articles generated enough money for Nigel to fund the real writers, the ones who put the world into word and laid it out for the public to see.
Helal knew his articles didn’t make him popular with some places. He was banned from every football ground in London for his expose on the shifty dealings between owners and agents.
He had been given a police escort for a week after he exposed a racist element to a political party.
Death threats had been made.
His name had been dragged through the mud.
But it had never bothered him. Because he’d believed every word he’d written.
This. This felt different.
His last article had landed him in hot water and had clearly irked the chain of some pretty powerful people within the Metropolitan Police. The detective, Pearce, had been polite enough, but it was going to take more than a stern plea from a nice man to get him to back down. Helal knew the only reason they wanted him to stop was because he was right.
But this…he wasn’t so sure.
Amara Singh was an engaging woman and it had taken every part of Helal’s resolve not to turn the drink into something more casual. She was one of the most attractive women he’d ever met, but her tenacity was what really struck him. Clearly, for a young lady who had achieved so much by her mid-thirties, she refused to back down from most challenges.
And from what she was willing to share with him, that was still the case.
She knew she was jeopardising her career, even her own safety.
Singh had told him all about the late-night visit from General Ervin Wallace, a man revered by the national press like the second coming of Winston Churchill. While he shared the same lack of hair and burly physique, that was where the similarities ended. In Helal’s opinion, Wallace was a war mongerer and he questioned whether Singh was right to provoke a beast who has shown many times he was all too willing to strike out.
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