Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4)

by Robert Enright

  The man pulled a Glock from the inside of his black jacket and Singh felt sweat slide down her neck.

  Highly dangerous.

  She rounded the small corner at the end of the corridor and her heart sank.

  A dead end.

  To the left, in a small alcove, was a rusty old elevator and she frantically tapped her thumb on the button. To her relief, the green light surrounded the button and somewhere above, she heard the agonised churning of an old pully system.

  ‘Do. Not. Move.’ The man’s words were deep and powerful, slathered in a thick, German accent. ‘Drop the phone.’

  Singh obliged, hoping that Etheridge could still hear as it slapped against the concrete. Slowly, she began to turn.

  ‘I said don’t move,’ Brandt repeated, taking a step closer before crushing the mobile device under his weighty boot. Singh flinched at the crunch and began to question how many times she was going to look down the barrel of the gun before she realised how dangerous this game was.

  In front of her, the lift dinged, and the doors struggled apart, revealing a surprisingly large elevator. A service lift designed for carrying large quantities of stock for the shops and the transport of defunct equipment. The thought crossed her mind to leap into the lift, hit the button, and slide through as the doors closed like a modern day Indiana Jones.

  But she knew the man would fill her with holes before she even crossed the threshold.

  ‘Move. Into the lift.’ Brand stepped forward and prodded the gun into her spine. Singh tensed but then quickly obliged, stepping into the lift which suddenly felt a lot smaller. She finally turned to face her captor, who remained as expressionless as a mannequin.

  ‘I am a police officer…’ Singh began, scolding herself for even trying.

  Brandt didn’t respond. He took a few steps towards the elevator, only turning as he heard the final footsteps but by then it was too late.

  Sam had pressed himself against the wall as he approached the end of the corridor, tip toeing to hide the sound of his impending arrival. After Brandt had forced Singh into the lift, he knew he had to time it just right. There was no way Wallace would send an amateur to lead the team and judging from what Etheridge had been witnessing, the emotionless man was completely in charge.

  As Brandt took a step toward the lift, Sam lunged, with the large German turning at the final second and raising the gun. Sam threw a fist, catching Brandt on the wrist and dislodging the gun from his grasp. Brandt shot his other arm out, wrapping his vice like grip on the scruff of Sam’s jacket and hurling him towards the wall. Sam hit it hard, and then raised his arms to block the barrage of blows that Brandt swung, each of them propelled with the proficiency of a boxing champion.

  Sam was equal to it, absorbing the impact on the muscles of his arm.

  A sickening thud echoed in the corridor and Brandt stumbled forward. Sam, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, charged forward, slamming his shoulder into Brandt’s solid midsection and ran with him, using his momentum to send them both careening into the service elevator. Singh followed, the handgun still in her hand, the handle dripping with blood from where she’d pistol whipped her assailant.

  Brandt hit the metal wall hard, the entire carriage shaking and Sam whipped up, ducked a right and cracked Brandt with a sickening elbow to the side of the head, drove a knee into the man’s midriff, and then spun him swiftly by the right arm, guiding him face first into the metal bar that ran the perimeter of the lift for support.

  The impact shattered Brandt’s nose, which exploded down in a sickening wave of blood and cartilage.

  With one final swipe of his arm, he drove his elbow into the back of Brandt’s skull, shutting his lights out.

  For now.

  The doors to the lift finally shut, and as they ascended, Sam reached across an impressed looking Singh and pressed the emergency stop button.

  The lift shunted to an unconvincing stop.

  Sam turned back to Singh.

  ‘Look, I am so sorry we…’

  Singh slapped Sam across the face as hard as she could.

  ‘You prick.’

  ‘I deserve that,’ Sam agreed, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

  ‘I thought you were dead, Sam,’ Singh ranted. ‘After what happened in Tilbury, I figured it was you who killed the rest of that disgusting family. It had your handiwork all over it. But then you just disappeared. Nothing. No sign of you anywhere and for the last few months, your old boss has been making my life a living hell.’

  ‘I know.’

  Singh stared at Sam, who offered her an apologetic smile. As she handed him a tissue from the pack in her jacket pocket, he began to tell her what he’d been through over the last few months, dabbing the blood from his face as he spoke. He told her about being forced into a mission with a threat to his ex-wife, and his need to get to his mentor before Blackridge.

  Singh listened in disbelief, her eyes widening as Sam told her how he fought Buck to the death in a small, abandoned, underground facility in the outskirts of Italy, while his mentor lay dead beside them. He lifted his T-shirt, showing her the healed bullet wound that scarred his stomach, missing his spine by inches.

  ‘Jesus,’ Singh exclaimed. ‘That was lucky.’

  ‘It was exact.’ Sam felt a chill run down his spine. ‘Shoot to maim.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The person who shot me, he didn’t want to kill me with this shot. This was to put me on my knees.’ Sam shook away the awful memory.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘My mind is playing tricks on me, telling me it’s a ghost from my past that I long since buried.’ Sam offered her a shrug. ‘But it’s just another bridge to cross.’

  ‘And all this? Wallace? Project Hailstorm?’

  ‘It’s all on the USB stick with Etheridge. But to get it, we needed Blackridge agents, to try to steal their access.’

  ‘So, you used me as live fucking bait?’ Singh fumed.

  ‘I need a fingerprint,’ Sam said, his voice straining as he squatted down beside Brandt and lifted his limp, lifeless hand.

  ‘You’re going to cut his finger off?!’

  ‘God no.’ Sam shook his head and pulled out the envelope. ‘I’m just taking a copy of his prints. I’m not a savage.’

  Singh smirked at the joke, but quickly hid it with a scowl. Sam didn’t notice as he quickly went through the same process with Brandt as he had with the rest of the team, collecting the prints on the plastic sheets before storing them safely away in his pocket. Once he’d secured them away, he reached over to press the button once again, to complete their journey, but Singh stepped in his way.

  ‘Do you have any idea what I have been through in the last few months?’

  ‘Was it worse than recovering from a bullet wound?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Singh snapped. ‘My life was perfect before you came into it. I had the job of my dreams and everything was perfect. Bringing you in should have been the best moment of my career.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’ Sam took a step closer to her, his brow furrowing with frustration. ‘You knew I was at the top of that tower. Why didn’t you send a team up to arrest me?’

  ‘Because you saved my life.’ Singh could feel her eyes watering and cursed herself for it. ‘I should have died in that Port, but you saved me. You killed a lot of people that night, and a lot more since, but ever since you saved me I’ve struggled to find any compassion for those you have put in the ground.’

  ‘I’m sorry for everything, Amara. I truly am. But I need to end this. There is a woman who saved my life, who will never be safe until Wallace and Blackridge are torn to the ground.’

  Singh wiped her eye with her sleeve, shaking her head in frustration.

  ‘Why, Sam? Why do you have to be the one to do it?’

  ‘Because this is my fight. It’s not yours. It’s not anyone else’s,’ Sam said coldly. ‘Once it’s done, you’ll have your life back.’

&
nbsp; ‘The only way I will ever have my life back is if I bring you in myself.’ Singh looked up at Sam, who stood less than a foot from her. She looked down at the gun still in her hand and smirked.

  Sam leant in and pressed his lips against hers and Singh dropped the gun, her hand reaching up and running through his recently shaved hair. The kiss was as passionate as either of them had ever experienced, with months of fear, excitement, confusion, and anger bursting forth as they stumbled back into the wall of the lift, with Singh pinned against the metal. They kissed for a few moments longer, with Sam resting his hand on the curve of Singh’s face before gently moving his mouth away from hers.

  The moment lingered between them as they considered how different life could have been.

  How, down different paths, they may have walked one hand in hand.

  But the fight wasn’t over.

  Some people didn’t get to live the lives of others. There were those who had to fight. Those who had to make sacrifices.

  Those who did the right thing.

  Agonising as it was for Singh, she pressed the button on the lift, kick starting it back to life and giving Sam the silent permission to leave and finish his war once and for all.

  The doors pinged and the two of them stepped out into a similar looking corridor only on the upper floor. As derelict as the one downstairs was, this one was worse. Clearly nothing more than a cut through for staff, the lighting fixtures were rusty, with a few lights flickering a slow death.

  At the end of the corridor, leading towards the bright sunshine that the station was basking in, was a large man. Sam stopped in his tracks, placing a protective arm in front of Singh and moved her behind him. She couldn’t help but feel a flutter as Sam stepped between them like a barrier.

  The man was heavyset, with thinning black hair on top of his heavily bearded face. His skin was brown, clearly of an Arabic decent and his frame filled the leather jacket almost to breaking point.

  The man’s eyes bore through Sam, as if searching for his soul.

  Slowly, the man began to remove the leather jacket, giving Sam every indication that there was only one way out of the tunnel.

  ‘Let’s go back,’ Singh said quietly, her eyes widening as the man began to walk towards them.

  ‘You need to get back into the lift,’ Sam said, not taking his eyes off the incoming threat.

  ‘Sam…’

  ‘Go,’ Sam ordered. ‘Get out of here and if you can, buy me some time.’

  Singh stepped back into the lift, flashing a worried glance as the monstrous man closed in on Sam, who cracked his neck and stretched out his shoulders, limbering up.

  The hulking figure approached.

  The Hangman of Baghdad.

  As the doors closed, Singh held her breath, terrified for the safety of the man she was in love with.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sam carefully considered the large man as he approached, noting how the man was very clearly unarmed. The intention was clear.

  The man wanted to fight.

  Which meant he was good.

  Farukh held the weight and height advantage and judging by the glint in his eye, Sam could tell that this was what the man enjoyed. Sam gently cracked his neck, loosened his shoulders, and raised his fists, ready to take the big man on. As the doors to the elevator closed behind him, Sam took a step forward and threw his first punch. With a speed that caught Sam by surprise, the man ducked, drilled Sam in the ribs with a concrete like fist and then thrust his thick, black boot into Sam’s chest.

  The impact was sickening and Sam stumbled back, colliding with the wall behind. The man hardly moved, his arms relaxed by his side, almost goading Sam to take another shot.

  In his ear, Sam could hear Etheridge complaining that he had no visual on his location, but he knew that Wallace had scrambled the armed police towards the station and that Sam was running out of time.

  Sam flicked the earpiece from his ear.

  He had already run out of time and escape routes.

  He didn’t need reminding.

  Sam took a deep breath, looked beyond his bearded attacker towards the bright light of the station and the hint of an exit.

  There was only one way to it.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ Sam muttered to himself and pushed himself from the wall and towards the man. Sam swung a hard right to the head, but as Farukh lifted his arm to block, Sam swerved and drilled it into the man’s ribs. It was like punching a cement block and Farukh swatted his arm down, locking Sam in place. He spun Sam on the spot, then thrust his meaty skull forward, smashing his thick forehead into Sam’s face.

  Dazed, Sam stumbled on the spot and Farukh twisted his arm, before kicking him in the back of the knee. Sam dropped down like he was praying and Farukh placed the bottom of his boot on Sam’s spine and mockingly pushed him forward. Sprawled on the floor, Sam was realising pretty quickly that he was outmatched.

  As he slowly lifted himself from his chest, blood dripped from his nose, the impact of the headbutt drawing blood. Reaching all fours, Farukh drove a vicious kick into Sam’s ribs, flipping him over onto his back, before lifting and then driving his heel down. Sam rolled out of the way, stamped his right foot back and knocked Farukh’s balance off.

  With his attacker wobbling, Sam pushed himself back to his feet and threw a couple of hard hooks, both of them rocking the man’s mighty, beard encased jaw.

  They seemed to irritate more than incapacitate and on the third punch, the man ferociously blocked it with an elbow, then grabbed Sam by the scruff of his jacket and hurled him into the wall. Sam hit the brick hard and fell to the tiled floor, slowly dragging himself towards the walkway ahead.

  Behind him, he could hear the calm steps of Farukh, his military boots clapping casually behind. Whoever this man was, he was not part of Blackridge. Something told him that he was much worse. But what was his investment in Sam?

  If he was working for Wallace, why?

  Sam struggled to piece the dots and as he continued to drag himself across on his body like an injured snail, he could hear the man chuckle.

  ‘You were supposed to be challenge.’ The man tutted. ‘Like everything to do with this country, you are nothing but disgrace. Now tell me, where is USB stick.’

  Sam pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from the punishment the man had dished out. His face was dripping with blood and his ribs felt like they’d been run through a blender.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sam asked, each word causing his split lip to sting.

  ‘My name is Ahmad Farukh. You know this name?’

  Somewhere in the back of Sam’s mind, he did. While he couldn’t place the how or the why, he knew that the man wasn’t known for his good behaviour.

  ‘Why are you helping Wallace?’ Sam demanded, taking small steps as he walked backwards, edging his way closer to freedom. While his hopes of escaping had already diminished, Farukh humoured him by allowing him to continue.

  ‘I don’t help Wallace. I want stick,’ Farukh said calmly. ‘For it, I am willing to kill you quickly if you’re helpful. Continue to fight me, Sam, and I will ensure the pain is such that you beg for death.’

  Sam took a second to contemplate his options. His body wasn’t capable of outrunning Farukh, that much was sure. The man had systematically targeted his legs, back and shoulders, ensuring Sam’s freedom of movement was compromised. Whatever red flag the name had set off in Sam’s mind, the man’s actions had clearly back them up. Over the past year, Sam had been through enough battles to know when he was outmatched. He had fought Mark Connor in the High Rise, the two of them dismantling the apartment before Sam had lodged a knife in the man’s eye and pushed it through to the brain.

  In the abandoned tower overlooking the Port of Tilbury, he’d fought Oleg Kovalenko to the death, eventually hanging the simple behemoth with a hook through the jaw. Buck had fought with all the ferocity of a marine in the underground bunker in Rome, but Sam had been armed then and was able t
o put a bullet through the man’s skull.

  All of those fights had pushed Sam to his limit.

  But Farukh had every intention of pushing him beyond. Sam took a deep breath and his shoulders slumped.

  ‘Fine.’ He eventually relented.

  ‘Good. Hand it over.’ Farukh held out his hand, the knuckles a faint memory after years of fighting.

  Sam reached into the inside of his jacket, his face resigned to defeat.

  It was the only option he had.

  It was a Hail Mary, but it was at least a fighting chance.

  His fingers clasped around the handle of the thin blade Masters had attacked him with and in one swift movement, he drove it clean through Farukh’s palm, the blade bursting out the back of the hand with a visceral spray of blood. With one fierce shove, Sam drove the man’s hand down to his own thigh, pushing the blade through the jeans and into the thick muscle.

  Farukh grunted with pain as Sam stepped back, hobbling as fast as he could towards the walkway and the possibility of escape.

  That’s all it was.

  A possibility.

  Farukh pulled the hand clean from his thigh, his jeans stained with blood and in one sickening act of grit, pulled the knife back through his hand. He slammed the blade down onto the ground and then stomped after Sam, ignoring the roaring pain of his wounds and the blood that gushed from the both.

  Sam stepped onto the walkway, just as Farukh grabbed the back of his jacket.

  He spun Sam on the spot and drove a hard elbow into Sam’s throat, doing his best to crush it. Sam coughed blood, the air struggling to slide through and he stumbled back against the railing, the concourse behind him. Nearby civilians screamed in terror as the two bloodied men emerged from the corridor, and as Farukh stepped forward, Sam took his final throw of the dice.

  He threw a leg out, driving his trainer into the fresh wound that adorned Farukh’s thigh.

  It was like kicking a bee’s nest.

  Nothing but rage erupted from Farukh, who drove forward, grabbed Sam by the scruff of his jacket and hurled him over the railing, letting him drop the fifteen feet to the unforgiving concrete below.