It was love.
Sam stood for something.
What was right.
He had fought, without mercy, without fear, for the things he had believed in. To save an innocent woman, caught up in a diabolical bomb plot. To rescue teenage girls, whom he’d never met, from a fate worse than death.
To avenge his friend, who died trying to do the right thing.
To avenge his mentor, who had fought for the truth.
Sam may not have abided by the law, but he was a good man, and as she looked at him struggling through the pain, she could feel the selflessness of his offer.
His freedom would be devoured by the police in an instant, but it would save her future.
After everything, all the people he’d killed, all those he had saved, he was still doing the right thing.
The man was a hero, and it broke her heart that the justice system would see him as the complete opposite.
Slowly, Singh lowered herself down, face to face with him and she cupped his wet face with her cold hands.
‘The fight is over,’ she agreed, trying to smile through her tears. ‘You won.’
Sam reached up, gently resting his hand on hers, and they kissed. Devoid of the steamy passion of the one they’d shared in the lift the previous day, this one was soft. Tender.
A kiss goodbye.
After a few moments, locked together, Sam pulled away and woozily smiled.
‘Let’s go.’
Singh wiped her eyes, nodded her agreement, and then helped Sam to his feet, supporting his weight over her shoulder as she helped him limp towards the door.
Step by step, they slowly made their way back down the stairwell, Sam’s compromised mental state reliving some of the moments as he stormed the build the year before. Singh guided him down the steps and as they shuffled towards the front door, she pulled his hands behind his bloodied back and slapped her cuffs on him.
Sam had been arrested.
Singh had got her man.
Amara Singh didn’t fail.
But while her career would no doubt fly after this momentous occasion, it felt like failure. As they stepped out into the basking glow of the blue lights, she watched as an entire armed squadron circled Sam like a pack of sharks, their rifles ready, their demands for him to get on the ground, furious.
Sam obliged, gently dropping to his knees, his head bowed forward, the rain crashing against his beaten, broken body. Assistant Commissioner Ashton stormed from the crowd, walking through the armed guard that had surrounded them both and she looked at Singh with astonishment.
‘Well done,’ she said, her words laced with envy. ‘It seems you have done the impossible.’
‘He needs medical attention, Ma’am.’ Singh pleaded, but Ashton didn’t seem interested. With a sneer across her tired face, she looked down at Sam with an undeserved sense of achievement.
‘You are done, Sam,’ Ashton snapped spitefully. ‘You will go to prison and you will pay for the crimes you have committed. No one, not even you, are beyond the Metropolitan Police.’
Singh rolled her eyes, her head aching from the abuse it had taken over the last few days. There had been a time where she would have admired Ashton’s gumption, the power play of lauding over Sam in front of so many officers and the public was not lost on her.
But Singh didn’t care about that anymore.
She cared about what was right.
What was wrong.
And how Sam had shown her that there was a grey area in between. She looked down at Sam, who was breathing slowly. Ashton, her teeth bared like an attack dog, smirked at Sam for a few more moments before ushering over two of the armed officers.
‘Put him in the van.’ They hopped to it, reaching down and hauling Sam to his feet.
‘Careful.’ Singh barged in, to Ashton’s furious surprise. Singh helped pull Sam up and he offered her one last glance before he was hauled off towards the van, the two officers caring little for the state he was in.
To all the watching eyes, he was the prize catch.
The most dangerous man walking the streets of London.
Now, beaten and cuffed, he was just another criminal.
As Singh watched, her chest hurting through heartbreak as Sam was shoved into the van, Ashton, her coat wrapped warmly around her, sidled up next to her.
‘Forget him,’ she offered, almost with care. ‘Whatever the man did, he is a criminal. And you, you brought him in. This won’t be forgotten.’
Singh turned and looked at Ashton, staring a hole through her superior. The harrowing bruising on her face caused Ashton to divert her gaze uncomfortably and Singh smirked, knowing she’d proven to her that she wasn’t afraid.
Singh didn’t fear anything anymore.
As the sirens of the van began their long, droning scream into the night sky, the van pulled away, making its way slowly through the gathering crowd, ready to whisk Sam off to his future behind bars. Singh stormed away from the scene, bluntly rejecting the offer of medical assistance and decided she was going to take a long walk home.
She needed to clear her head and needed to heal her heart.
Ashton watched Singh leave, annoyed that her rebellious protégé had just solidified her legacy in the police, just as Ashton was on the cusp of ascensions. Still, despite Singh being the one to make the catch, Ashton would still spin it to Wallace that it was under her tutelage.
She’d guided Singh, promoted her quickly and now that shrewd judgement had paid off.
‘Ma’am, we have two bodies.’ A senior officer snapped her back to the matter of hand. ‘One up on the top floor and one sadly on the street.’
‘Where?’ she asked, and the officer pointed her towards the side street. ‘As you were.’
‘Ma’am.’
The officer nodded politely and went back to the mayhem and Ashton marched towards the small cluster of officers gathered around a body, the white sheet about to be placed over it.
Ashton felt her legs turn to jelly.
Staring up at her, with his head a crushed mess of bone and brain, was Wallace. The fall had crumpled his spine into a jagged mess of bone, his skull had been obliterated by the pavement.
Wallace was dead.
‘Are you okay, Ma’am?’ one of the officers asked, but she ignored him. Slowly, she turned back towards the crime scene, marching past the plethora of officers hard at work, the wide-eyed public trying to catch a snippet for their social media accounts.
She made her way back to her car and dropped into the back seat. Her driver remained silent, allowing her to weep as she hunched over on the backseat and howled at the loss of her beloved General.
Sam would pay for his death, she told herself. He would pay dearly.
Chapter Thirty
The following week was surreal.
The world watched on in amazement as what had been dubbed ‘The Weekend of War’ by the press had come to a close. With all eyes on the Metropolitan Police, Ashton was adamant on putting herself front and centre, happily talking to the media about the long and dangerous journey to bringing down Sam Pope.
The man dominated the press, with several of the outlets championing his release, highlighting the people he’d saved and the criminals he’d cleaned from the streets.
While it was hard during interviews to keep her cool, Ashton promised herself she would stay professional. There was one slip, when one of the journalists questioned the integrity of the late General Wallace, probing as to why Sam Pope had targeted the man and what links he had with the mysterious Blackridge.
Ashton had shut down the interview then and there, retreated to her office, and wept for the recently departed. While she was aware it was unrequited, she’d grown fond of the General, their sexual encounters meant more to her than just the feeding of passionate urges.
But he was gone.
Sam Pope hadn’t spoken a word since he’d been arrested, beyond signing a confession to the crimes he’d committed. When offered l
egal representation, he refused, despite being sternly told to accept the offer.
A full confession would mean he would never leave prison and while Sam said he understood, the only names he refused to confess to killing were General Wallace and a Sergeant Carl Marsden.
His lack of responsibility had infuriated the Assistant Commissioner, and she’d demanded a private meeting with Sam. While he sat quietly, almost at peace, she’d berated him for the murder of Wallace and for stripping the country of a fine man. Sam’s only response was to call Wallace a traitor, a decision that drew a hard, open palmed slap from Ashton. Disgusted by the vigilante before her, she promised Sam he would rot in prison until the day he died and that she would call on every favour to ensure every day was hell for him.
It fell on deaf ears and Ashton had felt less in control than ever when she’d returned to the office. Now, four days after the arrest, she realised that the story of Sam Pope would never be over.
The press would be tugging at that string forever, with undoubtedly more skeletons existing in numerous closets. She was scared to look further in Wallace, the notion of no smoke without fire had made her tremble slightly in fear.
What if the man she’d slept with wasn’t who he’d said? What if the rumours of barbaric actions and global terrorism were true?
It wasn’t worth thinking about and Ashton decided to focus on the other pressing matter.
DI Amara Singh.
A week before she was in the final stages of pushing the reckless detective through the door, much to the delight of Wallace. Now, as the person who had finally brought Sam Pope to justice, she was to receive an excellence award from the Commissioner and was the talk of the office.
The prodigy come good.
It reflected well on Ashton, of course, and she would ride the wave of praise as far as she could. But her suspicions of collusion remained, and she made a silent vow to keep digging, hoping one day to nail Singh for her crimes and let her rot in a dark hole as well.
The entire country was shaking, the public split on whether they wanted Sam to spend his life in prison or to be celebrated as a hero. It was dangerous territory and the last thing they needed were a bunch of senseless copycats taking to the streets in his place.
No, Ashton would make sure Sam was locked away behind as many doors as possible, with the key melted. She would hammer home the narrative of a crazed ex-soldier, who murdered as many innocent people as he did criminals.
The man who killed one of the UK’s most respected war heroes.
Ashton looked down at the newspaper on her desk, saw the name Sam Pope emblazoned all over it and immediately tossed it in her bin.
The name would haunt her forever.
Never, in his entire career in journalism, had Nigel Aitken ever felt so devastated.
The entire point of a free press was for the country to have access to the truth. People dismissed journalism as an intrusive profession, filled with cameramen with no boundaries and villainous reporters ready to stoop to horrendous levels just to get a scoop.
While in the tabloids that may have held some weight, for the majority, it couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Journalists were brave people, willing to knock on the doors where others were too scared and ask the questions no one else could. It landed them in hot water, sometimes even put them in danger, but every journalist worth their salt thrived for it.
The thrill of the story.
But the past week had been different.
Lost among the furore of Sam’s capture and the subsequent trail of destruction behind him, Helal Miah had died. An award-winning journalist, willing to go to extreme lengths for the truth, had been brutally murdered by a trained assassin.
Beaten. Tortured.
Then hanged.
It was horrifying and Nigel had shut down the publication for the week, the website showing a joyous photo of Helal’s infectious smile.
A loving tribute placed next to it.
Helal had been investigating the links between Wallace, Sam Pope, and Blackridge, his wild articles stoking many flames and had seen Nigel’s phone blow up. Several government officials wanted it shut down, telling Nigel that public distrust in the UK armed forces was not something they could afford.
The Met Police had sent a charming detective to talk him down.
But Helal was headstrong, and while his death was tragic, it clearly showed Nigel that he was on to something.
Brutal murders don’t happen by accident.
Nigel had wondered how he could honour his friend’s memory, looking through the final article he’d sent. It was a fascinating expose on the state of global terrorism, linking many strands towards the UK government and running the late General Ervin Wallace into the ground.
It was detailed, comprehensive, but it lacked the sufficient evidence that would make it watertight.
Nigel noticed the email in his inbox, the title catching his eye.
All the proof you will ever need.
As the editor of a popular publication, Nigel was accustomed to the odd prank email and opened it, expecting a cruel joke about Helal or a pornographic image.
Instead, what he received made his jaw drop in shock.
An email, sent by Paul Etheridge, detailing how he’d helped Sam Pope bring down the Kovalenko empire and how he’d helped him in his fight against Wallace. The email went to into great detail pertaining to Wallace, Blackridge, and the earth-shattering truth behind Project Hailstorm.
Attached to the email was an audio file and as Nigel played it, the colour drained from his face.
His hand shook.
It was a verbal confession from Wallace, admitting to the heinous crimes.
Nigel opened Helal’s article and respectfully began his amendments, his mission to honour his fallen friend being sparked into life with proof that would shock the country to its very core.
‘You sure about this?’ Singh asked with a smile, the bruising down her face had calmed to a dull, purple mark. The cut above her eyebrow nothing more than a scab.
‘More sure than I have been for a while,’ Pearce said, handing Singh a bottle of beer. She took it gratefully, and Pearce lowered himself down onto the steps of the youth centre. The sun was setting on another lovely spring afternoon, the orange glow of the sun reverberating off the windows. As Pearce slowly sat, he finally felt like a man entering retirement.
‘I hear that,’ Singh said, clinking her bottle with Pearce’s. ‘It’s been a funny six months.’
‘Funny year for me.’ Pearce chuckled, swigging his beer. ‘But it’s time to move on. For all of us.’
Singh nodded, a sadness to her movement. Pearce noticed it and wrapped an arm around her, drawing her in. The restoration of their friendship had been the one saving grace of everything that had happened. In their shared grief for what awaited Sam, Singh had reached out.
She’d forgiven him for her perceived betrayal and thanked her for helping Sam.
In a way, he’d saved her life.
‘So…’ Singh spoke, changing the subject. ‘You’re in charge full-time then?’
‘Yup. You’re looking at the new Bethnal Green Community Centre Manager.’
Singh whistled.
‘Get you.’ She chuckled and then rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m pleased for you, Pearce.’
He sipped his beer.
‘Please, call me Adrian.’
Singh looked up at him, tilted her head as if deep in thought and then shook it.
‘Nah, I don’t like that. Pearce it is.’
They both laughed and then sat silently, allowing the calming transition into the evening to relax them both. It had been a hell of journey, one which had seen both of their lives threatened and changed them both forever. As she finished her beer, Singh squeezed his shoulder and then stood.
‘I better be going,’ she said meekly.
‘Do you want a lift?’
‘No, the fresh air will d
o me good.’ Pearce stood and she offered him a smile. ‘Take care, Pearce.’
‘Don’t be a stranger okay?’
She nodded, her eyes watering and she buried herself into his chest. He held her for a few moments, gently rubbing her back. Sam’s journey had ripple effects, some that could never be altered.
Pearce was no longer in the Met.
Singh had nearly been killed.
While his fight may have finished, there were many nursing wounds.
Wounds that would leave scars.
Singh finally stepped away and disappeared around the corner, losing herself to the busy city. As Pearce watched her leave, Sean Wiseman stepped out from the centre, looking in the same direction.
‘She okay?’ Wiseman asked, his burgeoning career as a social worker making him care for everyone.
‘She will be.’
‘What about Sam?’ Wiseman popped the cap off his own beer and took a sip.
‘I couldn’t tell you. All I know is he’s a good man. And beyond that, my friend.’
Wiseman silently raised his beer in toast to Sam, agreeing with Pearce’s observation. Pearce accepted it, then turned back towards the youth centre, ready to begin the next chapter of his life.
The cell was small and the officer on duty made it a mission to slam his baton against the metal door at regular intervals. Sam had found it funny at first, especially as they knew about his military background.
He had slept in war torn bunkers.
The odd metallic bang wasn’t going to startle him.
After his arrest he’d been rushed to A&E, the blood loss from his battle with the Hangman had been almost fateful. Chained to the hospital bed, Sam had undergone surgery to repair the damage to his back and had since received over eighty stitches to piece it back together.
The painkillers had been strong but limited and now, with only the regular dose of paracetamol, the solid bed wasn’t providing much comfort.
Sat with his back pressed against the wall, the only other significant feature of the holding cell was the metal toilet basin.
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 23