Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4)

by Robert Enright

  But she was adamant.

  Adamant that the government were hiding something. That there was a secret project, one which tied Wallace and Sam Pope together and one that Wallace wanted kept hidden.

  Her life had been turned upside down.

  She was being forced out of the job she’d fought for her whole life.

  She had to lose a tail just to make it to see him.

  Whatever it was, it was big.

  Helal glanced at the clock, shook his head at the unruly hour that presented itself and poured himself another glass of Scotch. The liquid burnt his throat as he knocked it back and before he could second guess himself any further, he clicked send.

  The article slid off his screen, as the file was transported to his boss’s inbox, awaiting further approval before it could reach the rest of the world.

  It was a shocking article.

  At times, maybe farfetched.

  It would definitely ignite a heated discussion with Nigel the next day.

  As Helal slinked off towards the bedroom of his two-bedroom flat in West London, he hadn’t realised that by pressing send, the words ‘Project Hailstorm’ rushed through a tracing program and placed another target on his back.

  ‘Please remain seated until the plane has come to a complete stop.’

  A hopeful request from the young air hostess fell on deaf ears as the unruly British public instantly unclipped their belts and began jostling for control of the overhead bins. As the cabin crew tried their best to stem the flow of passengers reaching for their possessions, Ahmad Farukh watched with a pitiful sneer.

  The British had always baffled him with their delusions of grandeur. The innate arrogance that they were a great nation, built on strong moral foundations and with a dry sense of humour. In Farukh’s eyes, it was a nation built off the backs of others, oppressive as it was cowardly and every British person whom he’d introduced to his noose crumbled sooner than any other.

  Once confronted with a force that didn’t fear them, nor care about them, the British wilted like a dead flower.

  Sat in aisle seat, he turned to the young man who anxiously looked around the plane, eager to retrieve a bag that wasn’t going anywhere.

  Zero patience. The western world was always in such a rush, which is why he’d despised his only visit to London nearly a decade ago.

  Since then, he’d stayed in the Middle East and Africa, moving from job to job, collecting paycheque after paycheque. While he questioned his loyalty to his own country for abandoning the army, he did use the money he collected as an assassin to fund several community projects in his home town.

  He had pumped more back into Afghanistan than most and as far as he was concerned, everyone had done something worth being executed for.

  He looked around the plane.

  Several of the passengers were grossly overweight, sure signs of gluttony and excess. There were several couples, many of whom had cheated on their partners or engaged in some unlawful sexual act.

  Everyone had something justifiable.

  Everyone deserved to die.

  As he watched the procession of impatience filter off the plane and into Gatwick Airport, he unclipped his belt and hauled his large frame into the walkway. Behind him, the young man scampered up, as if his seat was on fire. Farukh shook his head and then marched down the plane, his broad shoulders almost clipping the overhead storage bins. His thick arms, covered in his black coat, brushed the chairs as he strode through the aircraft.

  ‘See you soon,’ the young cabin officer said, his eyes sparkling.

  Farukh ignored the man’s polite goodbye and stepped out onto the steps, the bitter cold of the English weather slapping him in the face with a frozen palm. It was a world away from Turkey, where the unrelenting heat had caused his brown skin to tan a shade darker.

  The wind lapped at his thick beard and he pulled the woollen hat from his jacket and slid it over his thinning hair.

  He followed the crowd through the usual rigmarole of entering the UK, watching with pleasure as the computerised passport checker kept failing, inciting an instant rage from a generation of people who are used to instant gratification.

  He travelled with just the bare minimum. A wedge of cash which he’d changed into sterling, his passport, and his papers.

  The passport was a fake. Top quality.

  His identity needed to stay hidden, as he was certain it would flag every international military force in the world.

  Travelling by plane was a risk he didn’t like to take, but he’d received a call he’d hoped would never come. As a man of few words, Farukh had made sure that he’d always been as good as them.

  His word was binding.

  So when an old acquaintance had failed as spectacularly as he had, Farukh had assured him he would fix it.

  It was more than just their names they needed to keep hidden.

  It was a skeleton too big for the world to ever know about.

  As Farukh passed through the luggage collection and the duty free, he emerged out of the airport and immediately lit a cigarette.

  The nicotine flowed through his lungs and he watched from the corner of his eye as the two men approached. They carried themselves with an undeserved sense of importance and Farukh shook his head in disappointment.

  ‘Mr Ahmad,’ the man began. ‘Your car is over here.’

  ‘I do not need car,’ Farukh said coldly, take a long, hard drag of his cigarette.

  ‘But General Wallace is expect—’

  ‘Tell Wallace I find him in my own time.’ Farukh flicked the cigarette into the man’s chest, catching him off guard. ‘If you follow me, I will kill you.’

  With his words hanging in the air like a thick smog, Farukh marched away from the two Blackridge operatives and headed towards the motorway. The Hangman of Baghdad disappeared round the corner and lost himself in the country.

  ‘Just stop, Sam.’

  Theo’s voice echoed through Sam’s head and he turned to face his friend. The entire sky was blue, not a cloud in sight. The field they were stood on was mowed short, a few daffodils poking through the greenery.

  ‘I can’t,’ Sam eventually said, taking a step towards him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because someone has to fight back.’

  ‘Why must it be you?’ Theo took a step forward. It had been just over a year since his friend had been brutally murdered, giving his life to save Amy Devereux. Sam had missed him terribly, and he wished himself to walk quicker.

  But as he did, he knew he would regret it.

  He always regretted it.

  The dream was a recurring one. Sam would walk aimlessly through empty fields, the world still and quiet around him.

  A world he no longer felt existed.

  Then, as the silence threatened to last forever, Theo would always appear. He would always step out from nowhere, his welcoming smile as bright as it had been when he lived.

  He would ask Sam to stop fighting. To try to make peace with what had happened.

  Sam could never accept it. Would never accept it.

  As they walked towards each other, Sam would watch as Theo would start to disintegrate, the mortal wounds he suffered would begin to ravage his body and before he could save his friend, his body would hit the ground, ripped to shreds by the explosion of a grenade.

  As Sam would mourn him, he would turn his head round, to look at the street which had now appeared. A car slammed into the lamppost and Miles Hillock fell out of the door, drunk and battered. His head bleeding, as people raced to help.

  Sam could see his ex-wife, Lucy, screaming as if she’d just stepped on a rusty nail.

  Her heart was breaking, the piercing cries accompanying the rupture.

  In front of the car, the broken body of his son, Jamie lay, his arm twisted in a ghoulish way.

  His eyes wide open.

  His life over.

  As Sam tried to walk towards his son, he could hear Theo once again asking Sam to stop.
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  To forgive himself.

  To grieve.

  Sam dropped to his knees, the sky opening up and showering him in freezing droplets of rain.

  The surrounding scene began to wash away, the rain pushing the memories of his family and his happiness away like a broken drain pumping down the kerb. Feeling tired, Sam slowly closed his eyes, the pain of all his injuries beginning to rage through his body like an unstoppable force.

  The knife attacks.

  The bullet wounds.

  As he flattened himself on the cold, wet ground, Sam closed his eyes and readied himself for death.

  ‘Not yet, Daddy,’ Jamie’s voice shot through the dark.

  Sam’s eyes opened.

  Sam shot up in his bed, his T-shirt stuck to his body. The cold sweat he’d come accustomed to had drenched the sheets and he slid out from them, taking a few moments to stretch out his lower back. While he kept himself at his physical peak, the pitfalls of approaching forty were beginning to appear.

  Slowly, Sam peeled the sodden T-shirt from his toned body and hung it over the chair that was tucked under the desk. The spare room Etheridge had offered him was spacious, with a few basic furnishings dotted around. It wasn’t the Ritz, and it certainly wasn’t in tune with man Etheridge was only a few months before.

  The pain and torture he’d gone through had changed him, that was for sure, and Sam could see it by the lack of showmanship or flagrant displays of wealth. In its place, a steely determination and the want to do the right thing.

  Sam approved.

  He popped open the wardrobe and thankfully found a few more T-shirts. He slipped one on, the sleeves a bit tight around his muscular shoulders, and he made his way onto the landing. The memories of his gunfight with the police flashed in his mind like a freezeframe in time. It always irked him he had to open fire on the police themselves.

  Most of the boys in blue were genuinely trying to do a good job. But months ago, faced with armed response team standing between him and the chance to save a teenage girl from a fate worse than death, Sam didn’t even need to think twice.

  He shot to wound.

  It was also the night he first came face to face with Amara Singh and despite everything that had happened in the months since he last saw her in Tilbury, she would wander through his mind on a daily basis.

  Sam shook her from his mind and ascended the stairs to the hub where Etheridge was sat in front of a wall of screens, the mixture of coffee and sweat pulsed in the air like a heartbeat.

  It was a little overwhelming and Sam coughed, drawing Etheridge to spin his chair, his unshaven face twisted in a smile.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sam chuckled.

  ‘How d’you sleep?’

  ‘Like shit. You?’

  ‘Haven’t.’ Etheridge spun back to the screen. ‘Whatever Marsden has on this stick, whoever locked down these files really didn’t want anyone to look in.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yup. Like a digital Fort Fucking Knox.’

  Sam laughed and looked beyond the desk to the window. The sky was clear but grey and a wind swept the debris of leaves from the gutter of the loft conversion. But at least it wasn’t raining. At the desk, Etheridge’s fingers clicked wildly on the keys, like a concert pianist reaching his crescendo.

  ‘Can you crack it?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Does the Pope shit on alter boys?’ Sam’s silence caused Etheridge to turn. ‘I mean yes. Give me a few more hours.’

  ‘Cool,’ Sam said, heading towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Etheridge called out, more out of politeness than interest.

  Sam smiled.

  ‘To see an old friend.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sometimes, it helped to stop and appreciate the little things.

  It was a saying that made him feel like an old man, but these days, Pearce was feeling his age more than ever. At fifty-two years old, he was certainly on the wind down, and had been able to retire for over a year. But the thrill of the job, the grip it had on him was, at times, all he had. His marriage had disintegrated over a decade ago, his ex-wife, Denise, leaving him for a man who gave her the love and affection she deserved,

  Pearce had loved her dearly, but his true dedication was to his work. He understood why she left and when she kissed his cheek for the final time, he knew it would be a life sentence.

  He would never retire.

  They would have to boot him out, give him some quickly thrown together speech about his commitment and loyalty and then present him with whatever they could buy with the whip round.

  That unwavering commitment to the job, to the difference between right and wrong and the justice system had never once faltered.

  But then Sam Pope came into the picture.

  While Sam’s actions had drawn Pearce’s attention, the man unearthed links between the police and the underworld that had given Pearce sleepless nights. As a DI who headed up the Department of Professional Standards, seeing those he reported into taking a cut off the top had made him sick.

  That commitment soon wavered.

  The last year had been a blur. One he’d never seen coming.

  He’d made friends.

  He’d lost them.

  He had seen a broken man fight back against those who feed off the innocent who wasn’t afraid to rattle cages that were always left alone. But if you throw a stone into a lake, it creates ripples.

  Sam’s actions had done just that.

  Pearce had been pushed to the side, with Ashton and other senior figures doing their best to push him towards the door.

  Amara Singh, a woman he’d grown fond of, had questioned his loyalty and was now as good as fired.

  Theo Walker, Sam’s best friend and a man who did as much as he could for others, was brutally killed in his own home.

  There had been so much death.

  So much blood spilt.

  While Sam had done it for the greater good, the aftereffects were still shaking lives into a state from which they would never recover.

  And Pearce felt old.

  As if maybe the commitment wasn’t there anymore. Not when he knew that those who called the shots were not always as trustworthy as they seemed. Not when the institution he had given his life to would place stopping Sam Pope above finding the teenage girls he was tearing through the city to find.

  Maybe it was time to take that step back after all.

  As the sun shone down on the concrete playground just outside of Bethnal Green Youth Centre, the decision was becoming harder to turn down. The centre, which had flourished in the past few years, had been the brainchild of Theo Walker once he’d retired from the armed forces. As a fellow black man, Pearce respected Theo’s brave plan to take under-privileged children off the streets and push them to make better choices.

  Encourage their learning.

  Mould their passions.

  It was a noble cause from a noble man and as sickening as his death had been, Pearce wasn’t surprised it came in a heroic way.

  Ever since then, Pearce had volunteered as much as he could. While he didn’t have Theo’s raw charisma, he was still able to banter with the kids, with a lot of them giving him stick for his profession. But he knew they respected him and the more weekends he’d spent with them, especially those who didn’t get to celebrate Christmas due to their home situation, Pearce had felt a stronger connection.

  For the first time in a long time, he actually felt like he was doing some good. It had been a feeling he’d felt for most of his career. Whenever he’d outed a corrupt officer or found an issue with a case, he’d felt like he’d made a difference.

  But after Sam shook the whole Met to its core, he’d been marginalised.

  The local council had contacted him about running the youth centre on a full-time basis, for a marginal salary but easy hours.

  It was becoming increasingly tempting.

&nb
sp; As he mulled over the decision, three teen boys raced past him, all of them hunting a stray football. The five-a-side match had become a weekly staple, with enough youngsters turning up to run an eight-team tournament. All of them respected Pearce’s house rules.

  No swearing.

  No fighting.

  No negativity.

  At first, it had been tricky. A few fights broke out. A bit of gang culture threatened to rear its ugly head, but it was soon stamped out. Now, as the sun beat down and Pearce’s stomach thought about lunch, he watched with pride as two teams played some excellent football, while the others watched on, chanting and cheering with excitement.

  Sean Wiseman, the young man who had stepped away from one of the worst gangs in London, volunteered at the weekends. He had volunteered as ref, but was already running out of breath, much to Pearce and the other boys’ amusement.

  ‘He looks like he could use a rest.’

  Pearce spun on the spot; the recognition of the voice caused him to smile.

  Sam Pope.

  On the other side of the fence that ran around the youth centre grounds, Sam stood, one hand gripping the chain link.

  ‘Jesus. I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Almost.’ Sam smiled. ‘But not quite.’

  Pearce nodded and smiled again. Despite the mayhem of the last year, he knew that Sam was a good man. A good man who was pushed down a dark path and was now doing whatever he could to scramble back to the light.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Sam. Nice hair cut by the way.’ Pearce flicked a glance back to the pitch as Sam ran a hand across his newly cropped hair. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t come here looking to help out, eh?’

  ‘Sadly not.’ Sam looked around at the building, the immaculate state of the garden and the mural painted along the brick work in honour of Theo’s memory. ‘He would be happy his work is continuing. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. It’s the least I could do.’ The ball shot past them both, with one of the boys in pursuit. ‘We both know what this world can do to people. It can chew them up, spit them out, and expect them to be okay with it. Whatever we can do to get to those before that happens, we do it. These boys, some of them might not make it off the streets. But if one of them goes on to become a doctor or a lawyer, or has a nice family life, then I would have done my part.’