The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Read online

  The Final Mile

  A SAM POPE NOVEL

  Robert Enright

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

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  Copyright © Robert Enright, 2020

  For Sophie and Olivia,

  Chapter One

  ELEVEN YEARS AGO…

  ‘Private Matthew McLaughlin, sir.’

  The young man stood firm, his back straight, his shoulders wide. Although a wiry man by design, he’d certainly taken his exercise routine seriously, and had packed on a visible layer of tight muscle. Sergeant Carl Marsden always kept an eye on the newest wave of Privates as they joined the rest of the armed forces, each stepping off the plane with an excitement bouncing around them like they were headed to a music festival.

  A few weeks into their first tour, with the Afghanistan heat beating down on them relentlessly and their backs aching, they soon adopted the usual grimace of a soldier.

  Proud. But in pain.

  Marsden had been in the UK Armed Forces for over two decades, serving as part of an elite squadron battling a corrupt government in South America. It had earnt him a few medals and the respect of everyone he came across, but to him, it was the bullet wounds and battle scars he carried that proved he’d fought for the betterment of the world.

  Now, he was stationed at the base, tasked with identifying the potential of each brave soldier and highlighting the elite. Those who showed capabilities beyond the average soldier would be guided down specific paths, where elite task forces would recruit them for missions Marsden knew were strictly need to know.

  It was why he’d called Private McLaughlin to his office. The thick canvas walls of the tent flapped gently in the harsh breeze. While they did well to protect them from the sweeping sand of the dusty floor, it also locked the heat in like an oven and Marsden sipped his bottle of water to quench what felt like an eternal thirst.

  With the temperature soaring, Marsden had removed his jacket, grateful for the short sleeves of the T-shirt that stuck to his clammy body. While his dark skin was a blessing in the scorching sun, he could still feel the heat emanating from his forearms. Beside him, Corporal Sam Pope had gone one step further, his camo-green vest strapped to his muscular frame. Sam had caught his eye six years ago when he was just twenty-one and had since blossomed into the deadliest sniper he’d witnessed in all his time serving for Her Majesty.

  Not only was Sam a gifted and deadly soldier, he was a man of integrity and Marsden had forged a wonderful relationship with the man based on respect and their commitment to doing the right thing. While it risked the wrath of those higher up, Sam had proven himself a few times in a combat situation to value the lives of his comrades and civilians above his own.

  Sam would die for the cause if he believed in it.

  The UK needed soldiers like him.

  Men like him.

  Which is why, as Private McLaughlin stood, sweating in his full uniform, Marsden had asked Sam to join him.

  ‘How long have you been in the army, Private?’ Marsden asked, pretending to read from notes he’d long since memorised.

  ‘Two years, seven months, and four days.’ McLaughlin’s voice quivered slightly as he stared straight ahead. ‘Sir.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-two, sir.’

  ‘Please,’ Marsden said calmly. ‘Sit.’

  Mac nodded and then rigidly sat in the chair opposite the desk. The mismatching furniture gave the office the look of a charity shop, but Marsden was grateful for the privacy.

  The last thing he wanted was to share with General Ervin Wallace, a man who was as bloodthirsty as he was boisterous. While Marsden didn’t agree with the bulldozer-esque approach of the man, he knew that when push came to shove, there wasn’t anything Wallace wouldn’t do to protect his country.

  The young soldier, sat nervously picking his nails, had been on Marsden’s radar for an entire year before Wallace deployed him to the same base as them. Wallace’s orders were for McLaughlin to be integrated into the unit, with Sam Pope to mentor him. McLaughlin had been several levels ahead of the rest of his class when it came to accuracy and distance shooting, stats which Sam had raised his eyebrows at when presented with them.

  They didn’t measure up to his but considering Sam Pope’s marksmanship had been the stuff of legend, it was never likely to be.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Sam broke the silence, offering the young recruit a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ McLaughlin stammered. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Please, just call me Sam.’

  As Sam walked across to the fridge in the corner, McLaughlin smiled nervously. Sam wondered what it must feel like. For him, there was never any doubt he would be a soldier. His father, William Pope, had been a senior ranking officer and with his mother leaving when he was a toddler, Sam had followed him from outpost to outpost. While it had contributed to a somewhat fractured childhood, Sam had blossomed into a bright, brave man built with unscrupulous integrity.

  But reading through McLaughlin’s file had painted a different picture. Sat before them was a lippy kid who had been kicked out of school for his bad behaviour. A young man who had had a few run-ins with the law and probably saw this as his last chance to turn his life around. Sam applauded the choice he’d made, knowing that the British Armed Forces wouldn’t so much as beat the bad attitude as reshape it.

  Mould him into more.

  Into a soldier.

  Sam pulled open the fridge, the shaky old machine humming loudly as he pulled a couple of bottles of water from within. He tossed one across without warning.

  ‘Catch.’

  McLaughlin rose to the challenge, his instinct and reflexes working in tandem as his hand shot up, snatching the bottle from the air. Sam nodded his approval and McLaughlin smirked, feeling relaxed for the first time.

  Marsden waited, his hands linked and resting on the unread notes that papered his desk.

  ‘So, you ready to step up?’ Marsden’s calm voice carried such authority and McLaughlin quickly guzzled his water to reply.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You say that a lot.’ Sam joked. McLaughlin smiled, their friendship already blossoming.

  ‘Now, while I know you’re keen to get behind the scope, no sniper worth his salt pulls the trigger without spotting for a while. I expect you to listen, to learn, and beyond everything, Private, I expect you to ask.’

  ‘Ask, sir?’

  Marsden turned to Sam, who put his bottle of water down before fielding the question.

  ‘If you don’t know, you ask,’ Sam said bluntly. ‘I know what it’s like in the barracks and when you guys all first get here. Everyone stays quiet, nobody wants to look like they don’t know what they’re doing or that they don’t belong.
But not with me. As far as I see it, if you need to know something, you damn well better ask me. It could be the difference between life and death. You do that and I promise, I will do everything in my power to keep you alive.’

  ‘Yes, sir…I mean Sam.’ McLaughlin corrected himself with a wry smile.

  ‘Brilliant.’ Marsden clapped his hands together and stood. ‘Then tomorrow at 0600 hours, you officially join the sniper division.’

  ‘And by division, he means you get to tag with me.’ Sam joked, drawing a shake of the head from Marsden.

  ‘Quite. Dismissed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ McLaughlin nodded, before scrambling from his chair.

  ‘Sir.’ Sam wrapped his knuckles on the desk as he followed, walking quickly to catch-up with his protégé as they exited the tent.

  ‘So, private, what do I call you?’

  ‘Umm…Matt. Matthew. My friends call me Mac.’

  ‘Then Mac it is.’ Sam smiled, clapping his hand onto the young soldier’s shoulder and banishing any nerves. ‘Mac it is.’

  * * *

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  Somewhere behind him, Mac could almost make out Sam’s voice screaming through the blind panic and relentless thudding of the helicopter.

  They had been on an outlook, casting their eyes out over the dilapidated town known as Chikari, when their cover had been blown. While Sam had been focused on the dusty road that peered off into the horizon, awaiting the safe return of one of their convoys, Mac had been negligent. He hadn’t been watching as the Taliban mobilised, launching an air strike on their location and sending a helicopter to chop them down.

  Sam had told him to stay put.

  It was the last thing he remembered before the panic set in.

  Survival.

  Fight or flight.

  Mac decided to fly.

  As he pushed himself off from the ground, completely revealing their position, he’d turned on his heels and began to run as fast as he could.

  Sam yelled after him, his cries for his friend to remain calm dying in the sheer noise of the aerial assault.

  As Mac ran, his heart raced too, his body shaking as the very real threat of death began to reach for him with its unforgiving clutch. The echo of a sniper rifle shook through the sky as Sam attempted to take down the chopper, but it was to little avail.

  Mac continued to run, his boots pounding the weeds and dust of the mountainside, his movements erratic, his direction clueless.

  Sam called out for him.

  Then his entire world changed.

  The whoosh of the rocket being launched sounded like an airplane taking off, and it clattered onto the ground a few feet behind him.

  The explosion was instant.

  As Sam was rushing towards him, it must have blown him backwards, with Mac not realising it had sent Sam spiralling down the uneven cliff face to the unforgiving ground below.

  His survival was unlikely.

  The blast itself had sent a shockwave through Mac’s entire body, the pain, as uniform and skin were disintegrated by the flames, had been overwhelming. The pain was immediately replaced with a strange numbing sensation, as the shock began to take control. It felt like parts of his body were there only in spirit. His entire right side felt absent. As he lay in the long grass, gasping for breath and any semblance of clarity, his skin was still bubbling from the immense heat of the flames.

  The right side of his head was charred, the hairs of his head and eyebrows gone, the layers of skin beneath charred.

  As he called out for Sam, his voice caught in his throat, his body trying to reserve its energy as it fought diligently to survive.

  ‘Sam.’ His voice rasped, no louder than a whisper, and his left eye managed to shoot a glance to his right hand.

  The skin was gone, the smooth pink muscles beneath were as visible as the relenting sun.

  While the remnants of his right ear hung from his mangled skull, he could hear the faint crunch of footsteps on the rocky cliff face.

  Sam.

  Come to rescue him.

  He had promised he’d look after him.

  That he would keep him safe.

  Get him home.

  Despite the pain, he arched his head up, his left eye squinting in the harsh glare of the sun.

  The smell of burning hung in the air like a thick fog and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the thudding of the chopper as it flew away.

  The footsteps doubled and it was only when he caught the outline of a thick beard and a white cloth wrapped around the head, did he realise that his prayers hadn’t been answered.

  It was the very opposite.

  A few more figures emerged, darkened by the shadows of the burrowing sunshine.

  As the Taliban soldiers mockingly joked at his expense in their native tongue, he felt hands grasp his legs and slowly, he was hauled across the rough terrain, hoping that he would succumb to his wounds before his captors could reach their destination.

  With his chances of survival diminishing, he felt a tear roll down his left cheek as he was slowly and painfully dragged towards his living hell.

  * * *

  NOW…

  Wallace was dead.

  When it had been reported on the international news channel that his mentor and saviour had been murdered by Sam Pope, Mac had felt the rage rise to the surface once again. Ever since Sam had given him the slip in Rome three months before, Mac had been waiting for Wallace to reach out.

  To give the orders to fight back.

  But they never came.

  After the years he’d spent in captivity, the relentless and brutal torture he’d survived, he’d thought of nothing more than his revenge.

  Sam had left him to die.

  Wallace had liberated him and nursed him back to health, continuously repeating to Mac that he was a soldier of the British Armed Forces and in his mind, it meant he was an asset.

  True soldiers don’t leave men behind.

  With the limitless funding extended to Wallace and his Blackridge organisation, Mac spent over a year battling through extensive reconstructive surgery and stomach-turning physiotherapy.

  While it fixed his damaged body and rebuilt him as an elite, killing machine, Wallace paid no attention to the psychological damage years of brutal torture had caused. In Wallace’s eyes, it made Mac a unique asset.

  A man without anything to lose.

  Through the years, Mac had asked Wallace repeatedly for his revenge, but Wallace kept him away from the United Kingdom, insisting that Mac use his considerable talents and his penchant for violence to help him save the world.

  Mac had killed multiple targets for the man, all in the name of the blind loyalty he showed to the man who not only rescued him from his horrific existence but had guided him to a life of meaning.

  There had been bloodshed.

  But he’d shed it gladly.

  While he’d failed in his mission to kill Sam in Rome, he now knew that it was time to return to the UK and finally exact his revenge on his supposed friend who had left him for the wolves.

  Sam had eventually gotten married.

  Had a son.

  Lived the life that Mac never had the chance to.

  Seven years. Seven years trapped in a cell in a desolate terrorist training camp in the middle of nowhere.

  Beaten.

  Tortured.

  Raped.

  All because of Sam Pope.

  And now Sam had killed the man who had pulled him back from the brink.

  As the unremarkable man on the TV spoke about Sam Pope’s trial and his inevitable life behind bars, Mac felt his fists clench, the charred skin tightening across his murderous hands.

  Staring at himself in the mirror, he wasn’t ashamed of the scars that run roughshod across his face.

  He wore them with pride.

  It was time to thank Sam for them, and with Wallace not in place to keep his leash tight, Mac promised himself that he would choke the l
ife from Sam and enjoy every second of it.

  The right eye, a beautiful white from the blindness incurred by the devastating blast, stared vacantly ahead. His left eye, an olive green, was watering, a tear of rage falling from it as he mourned Wallace and vowed his revenge.

  As he began to pack the small number of possessions he kept in the dank hostel room in the south of Austria, he gritted his teeth and urged himself to keep everything under control.

  It would take more than a prison to keep Sam Pope safe.

  But it would take all his focus to force the UK to hand him over to him.

  With revenge driving his every move, Mac marched to the door, threw his black overcoat over his wiry frame and slammed it shut for the last time, and began his long and unplanned journey back to the UK.

  Back to Sam.

  Back home.

  Chapter Two

  Sixty-eight years.

  The rest of his life behind bars.

  That was what Sam Pope was looking at. The holding cells at West Hampstead Police Station had been his home for the previous nine days, ever since he was pulled from the High Rise in Dulwich, his back sliced open from the brutal fight with ‘The Hangman of Baghdad’. As DI Amara Singh had helped him from the building, he barely registered the Armed Response team trained on him, their guns aimed, their fingers ready.

  The rain had been beating down, the freshness of the water seemed to douse some of his pain, but not much.

  Singh’s boss had been quick to get in his face, sneering as she sent him to the police van to be locked up and, most likely, the key thrown away.