Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4)

by Robert Enright

  The Hangman.

  Somewhere, in the back of Wallace’s mind, the image of Singh and Sam being hung from the roof lingered. He didn’t doubt for a second that Farukh was capable of it.

  Dangerous, but not reckless.

  They needed the stick. Wallace needed proof.

  ‘Did you read all the files on stick?’ Wallace asked, looking at Sam who was again, peering out through the plastic, beyond the scaffolding to the street below.

  ‘I read enough.’

  ‘Did you read about Chakari?’

  The word struck a chord with Sam, straightening his back as if an ice cube had been passed down his shirt. It had been over a decade since he’d been blown from the mountain face, left to die like his good friend Mac. A local doctor, Farhad, had nursed him back to health, only to give up his own life for the safety of his children.

  Sam had never forgiven himself for the orphaning of those boys, knowing that their father’s good nature had kept him alive, but got him killed.

  Sam had wiped out the terrorist cell responsible for Farhad’s death, but it had felt like scant consolation.

  The boys were never located.

  Mac’s body was never found.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Sam eventually said.

  ‘Yet, we are all haunted by ghosts from our past. Aren’t we, Sam?’ Wallace continued, his arms resting over his knees. ‘You are haunted by the memory of your son. Don’t get sensitive about it, it was in the reports that Mrs Devereux filed a year ago. Marsden stopped you from killing yourself and you had to have mandated therapy sessions.’

  ‘You were keeping tabs on me?’

  ‘Absolutely. Sam, you’re one of the deadliest soldiers this country has ever produced. All of this, this war against the system, it doesn’t have to happen. I know you think I’m the enemy, that I’m the bad guy, but what I am is a necessity.’

  ‘You have killed hundreds of people…’ Sam interjected, turning from the makeshift window.

  ‘To save millions,’ Wallace snapped. ‘In black and white, it looks like I’m a monster, but you don’t see the grey areas. The areas where, thanks to my interventions, entire countries are now free of tyrannical reign. Free from oppression. Because of the deaths that I facilitated, there is actual freedom. Men like me will never be celebrated, but we are needed. You, Sam. You could achieve so much more. Alongside me, you could change the world.’

  Sam shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘I would rather die than help you mould the world in your image.’

  ‘My image? Sam, some of my work is based on what you created.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  Wallace’s face twitched with a smirk, a twinkle appearing in his heavily bruised eye.

  ‘The man who I left you with in Italy. The one who ran you off the road. The one who put two bullets through you.’

  ‘The one who tortured Paul?’ Sam stepped forward; his interest peaked.

  ‘A man of that fury. Consumed by that much vengeance. That is not something I can create. Even I cannot generate hatred to that degree.’ Wallace flashed his cruel grin. ‘That was created by you.’

  Before Sam could respond, and wonder further down that rabbit hole, the sound of footsteps echoing from the stairwell filled the room. Sam snapped his head to the doorway and took a step forward. Wallace made a movement to stand, but Sam pressed the gun against the side of his sweaty, blood-stained head, encouraging him to stay seated. As the footsteps grew in volume, Sam determined there were two sets, encouraging him that Singh was still alive.

  Moments later, the plastic sheet to the penthouse was pushed aside, and Singh was shoved through. Her face was heavily bruised, with a crude plaster pressed to her eyebrow. Beyond that, and the fear in her eyes, she looked okay.

  She greeted Sam with a weak smile, clearly understanding the gravity of the situation. Sam looked to reassure her with a nod, but his eyes were soon drawn to the mighty figure who emerged behind her.

  While Sam’s lip was scabbed and caked with dried blood, and his body screamed in agony from their last encounter, Farukh looked fine.

  As if fighting Sam was as difficult as swatting a fly.

  This time, there was no escape.

  Fate had pulled them all to the empty, spacious room atop an old war zone, where Sam had made his first statement to the country.

  He was ready to fight.

  And now, as all four of the occupants took their time to look at each other, he wondered if he was getting ready to fight for what would be the last time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The entire day had been one big blur.

  Since returning to the office among the panic of Sam’s attack, Pearce had tried to get his head down and lose himself in the mundane work he’d been given. It had been over a year since he’d been given a real case. The higher ups didn’t like the evidence trail he’d presented to them when it was revealed that Inspector Howell had conspired with Frank Jackson to stage a terror attack at the London Marathon.

  While they’d acknowledged Howell’s deception and sentenced him to life in prison, Pearce found himself ostracised. He was shunted to a pokey office in the corner of the building, too small to fit more than one person in it.

  He was sneered at by his colleagues, more so than usual and the higher ups had done little to dissuade the officers that he was in cahoots with Sam Pope.

  Pearce wasn’t just presented as a snitch.

  He was presented as a hypocrite as well.

  But he’d been able to deal with it. Through his entire career, he’d developed the thick skin needed and the street smarts to match.

  But he couldn’t shake the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The feeling of guilt.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Sam’s attack on Tower Bridge, the execution of Wallace’s men, and subsequent abduction of the General, was the only choice Sam had. With Singh being abducted, Sam needed the ultimate card to play. But by helping him escape, Pearce had willingly aided and abetted the most wanted man in the UK. Sure, before he’d turned a blind eye, but this was different.

  This felt like it had gone too far.

  The whole afternoon had been one big wrestling match with his conscience, and after what felt like his eighth cup of coffee of the day, he turned and looked at the clock on his desk.

  Somehow, it was nearly ten.

  Thinking that time was dragging, Pearce had in fact sat in his office for nearly twelve hours, tossing his thoughts back and forth like a tennis ball.

  He had scrawled a quick letter, signed it, and the shimmied out from his broom cupboard. The Scotland Yard office was nearly empty, the only people still in attendance were the cleaners, those on the night shift, and a few senior officers who seemed to spend more time at their desks than anywhere else.

  As he strode through the corridor who flashed a glance through the window at the bitterly cold evening, watching as a light drizzle began to gently tap against the glass.

  Below, the iconic Scotland Yard logo span.

  It had always filled Pearce with a sense of pride, but now, the spinning logo only added to the guilt.

  He marched through the Task Force office; the desks all empty apart from one unlucky officer who had been rota’d to the all-night phone line. The young man didn’t even look up from his desk as Pearce approached Ashton’s door. He took a deep breath and then rapped his knuckles gently on the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  Ashton’s voice was curt and authoritative, and Pearce obliged. She looked up from her desk, peering over her glasses as the senior detective entered and she sighed.

  Pearce had caused her a number of issues over the past year or so, especially regarding her blossoming relationship with General Wallace.

  ‘Evening, Ma’am.’ Pearce nodded respectfully, standing proudly with his shoulders straight and hands behind his back.

  ‘What can I do for you, Pearce? It’s lat
e.’ The final statement told him he was on a time limit.

  ‘I’ve come to officially start the process of my retirement, Ma’am.’

  Ashton dropped her pen and looked up, her finely tweezed eyebrows raised.

  ‘Oh?’ She struggled to hide her delight. ‘What has caused this?’

  ‘I’ve been doing this a long time, Ma’am. I’ve had a hell of a career and I’ll be honest; I’ve loved every second of it. But recently, I’ve been thinking that I could be doing a lot more good out there than I am in here.’

  ‘I hope this isn’t because you were moved to another office?’ Ashton offered flippantly. Pearce politely smiled.

  ‘No, Ma’am. It’s to do with the fact that the more we try to fix things, the worse they get. My focus was always on how we operated as an organisation. How people such as yourself, and the Commissioner, ran the police to ensure we are keeping the public safe.’ Pearce could see a smile forming on Ashton’s face. ‘And to be honest, Ma’am, the way we operate, the way you operate, makes me think we are doing more harm than good.’

  The colour drained from Ashton’s face, replaced with a red-hot rage.

  ‘How dare you? You come in here, telling me that we are doing harm when you’re the one who’s had known dealings with Sam Pope?’ She slammed her hands down on the desk.

  ‘Allegedly.’ Pearce pointed out, his calmness riling her up more. ‘I assume I don’t need to work my notice.’

  ‘Get the fuck out of here, Pearce.’ Ashton’s face snarled like a rabid bulldog. ‘I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to kick you out the goddam door myself.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Ma’am.’ Pearce bowed before turning on his heel and heading for the door. As he reached out for the handle, he froze. That horrible feeling at the pit of his stomach rumbled once again. He turned back to Ashton, who had already raised the phone, prepping security to escort him from the premises.

  ‘What?’ She barked.

  ‘Despite everything, we still need to do the right thing,’ Pearce said, almost to himself than to her.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Pearce felt the horrible feeling of betrayal. Sam was a good man, but it had gone too far.

  Pearce had to do the right thing.

  Had to.

  ‘Singh and Sam are at the High Rise.’ As he spoke, he saw Ashton’s eyes light up. ‘Wallace had Singh. Sam took Wallace. You need to get her out.’

  ‘You better not be lying,’ Ashton spat, hanging up the phone before redialling.

  ‘Not this time. But I’d send guns,’ Pearce said. ‘Try to keep them alive, okay?’

  Ashton didn’t respond, she was already mobilising an armed squad to head towards the High Rise. Pearce quietly left, hoping that whatever impact his decision would have, that Sam would understand. While Sam may have been looking to fight until his dying breath, Pearce had to do whatever he could to keep them all safe.

  It would be his final act as a member of the Metropolitan Police, and ten minutes later, with his desk and locker cleared and as he stepped out into the evening rain, he’d made peace with his decision.

  It was the right thing to do.

  Pearce packed his belongings into his car, took one final look at the building with which he had served his country with such distinction for three decades, before he dropped into the driver’s seat.

  His car roared to life and he headed for home.

  Retired.

  Farukh didn’t take his eyes off Sam. Not once.

  As the standoff continued, the tension in the room rose, just as the temperature dropped. Outside the High Rise, a wind had picked up now, crashing rain against the plastic sheets. Sam looked to Singh.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ she replied, offering him a hopeful smile.

  ‘Drop the gun,’ Farukh ordered, his voice calm.

  ‘You drop yours.’

  Farukh laughed at the insinuation.

  ‘I do not carry gun. I prefer to kill man by my bare hands. To see life choke from him.’ Farukh smiled. ‘You will find this out.’

  Sam pulled the gun away from Wallace’s head and tossed it to over the desk. He raised his hands up, signalling he was unarmed, and then he drilled his foot into Wallace’s spine, pushing him towards Farukh and sending him sprawling across the floor.

  ‘Now her,’ Sam demanded and Farukh raised his eyebrows at Singh, encouraging her to move. She stepped across the room to Sam, and they hugged. Wallace, hauling himself to his feet, dusted down his ruined, expensive suit.

  ‘Very touching,’ he spat. ‘The stick?’

  ‘Yes,’ Farukh echoed. ‘The stick’.

  ‘Sam, you can’t give them it,’ Singh pleaded. ‘The world needs to know the truth. About him. About you. Everything.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, you daft cow,’ Wallace joked. ‘You’re lucky to still be alive. Now, Sam, hand…over…the…stick.’

  Sam looked at the two men and then back to the pleading eyes of Singh. Her right eye was heavily bruised, but her piercing stare still carried enough emotional weight behind it.

  She understood.

  Sam wasn’t just fighting because he had nothing better to do. He was fighting because no one else would.

  Knowing Singh was nearest to the doorway, Sam finally sighed and nodded.

  ‘Okay.’ Sam reached into his pocket and tossed the stick towards Wallace. His meaty hand clapped it out of the air and his eyes widened with glee. Instantly, he dropped it to the floor and stomped it, the plastic shattering, the memory device cracking into multiple pieces.

  All the files. All the proof.

  Gone.

  Another crushing defeat under the oppressive boot of Blackridge and Wallace turned and nodded to Farukh.

  ‘Kill them.’

  Farukh nodded, seemingly pleased with Wallace’s end of the bargain. As Farukh took a step forward, Sam placed a protective arm across Singh’s stomach and stepped in front of her.

  ‘That wasn’t the deal.’

  ‘The deal’s changed,’ Wallace casually replied. ‘You are both too dangerous to our mission going forward. I hope you understand that. Now I would say it wasn’t anything personal, but it definitely is.’

  As Farukh took another step towards them, he reached to the back of his jeans, and released the two grips from the leather pouch. Unbuckling the curved blades, he pulled them out with relish, his eyes glistening at the thought of putting them to use. Sam looked at the two men, regretted tossing his gun but then pulled open his shirt.

  ‘You’re right,’ Sam said defiantly. ‘The deal has changed.’

  Strapped across his muscular, bullet scarred chest, was a wire. Taped between the two bullet wounds that Wallace himself had administered, Sam let the two men glare at the device, before Farukh turned to Wallace.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wallace stammered. ‘Sam, where is that wire feeding to?’

  ‘It’s been feeding all day. To a remote location where Etheridge is ready to post to every single news broadcaster on the internet.’

  ‘What has he said?’ Farukh demanded, pointing one of his razor-sharp blades menacingly at Wallace. ‘Did you mention me?’

  ‘Oh, he told me everything,’ Sam lied. ‘How you brutally murdered Abdullah Bin Akbar during Project Hailstorm, how you killed his family and murdered his kids in cold blood.’

  Farukh turned to Wallace, incensed. Wallace, panicked, held up his hand.

  ‘He’s lying. I didn’t say any of that!’

  Sam continued, ushering Singh towards the door as Farukh took another step towards Wallace.

  ‘How you have killed for several governments. How Project Hailstorm was your idea and that all the deaths should be laid at your door.’

  ‘This is bullshit, Sam. I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I do not take chance.’

  Farukh’s words echoed in Wallace’s ears, as the man swung his ar
m with the speed and precision of a heavyweight boxer, plunging the curved blade into the top of his stomach. Slicing right through the skin and muscle, the burning sensation roared through Wallace’s body, exploding with a cough of blood which shot onto the floor. Wallace’s eyes begged for mercy, and Sam and Singh watched on in horror as Farukh pulled Wallace towards the large, plastic sheet covering the nearest window, the blade slicing the large war monger open, his intestine slowly flopping through the tear in his gut. Farukh twisted his hand, rotating the razor within Wallace’s inside, dicing his organs, before pulling it out. Blood and remnants of his insides splattered the plastic and Wallace, with his life flashing before his eyes, was reduced to nothing more than a man.

  A man about to reach his end.

  Without batting an eyelid, the Hangman swung his other hand, the blade slashing the fat hanging underneath Wallace’s chin, his throat opening up like a packet of crisps. Before the blood could cover Farukh, he drove his military boot into Wallace’s ruined stomach, propelling him through the sheet and into the night.

  As the cold wind surrounded him, the rain pelted him, and he felt his throat rip open further and empty, Wallace watched as the top floor of the High Rise raced away from him, and then his life ended.

  The fall had shattered his spine and cracked open the back of his head like a cantaloupe.

  Wallace was dead, butchered, and laid out for his country to see.

  Sam had already ushered Singh towards the door, as Farukh, with the same amount of nonchalance as someone who had just taking the rubbish out, turned to him.

  He calmly wiped the bloodstained blades on his lapels, cleaning them as a matter of courtesy, before his eyes locked on.

  He raised the blade at Sam, the intent clear.

  ‘You.’

  Sam could hear Singh rushing down the stairs, pleased in the knowledge he’d saved her.

  This was his fight.

  It may be his last.

  But Sam had always fought for something. It was who he was.

  With the armed assassin making his first steps towards him, Sam raised his fists, ignored the aching pain that coursed through his war-ravaged body and got ready to fight one last time.