Pope wasn’t a villain in the eyes of the public. If anything, he was seen as an anti-hero, someone who was willing to go beyond for the greater good. All of his targets were criminals, all of whom had the resources or capabilities of avoiding the law. Which meant, if the press got hold of what Pope had done, they were more likely to view his intervention as a good thing.

  That, if Sam Pope was willing to fight for Chavet, then maybe his claims weren’t so flagrant after all.

  Cissé didn’t question Ducard’s insistence of innocence. It was unlikely, he knew that, but he would take the future French President at his word. There were big decisions that would have had to have been made over the years, and Ducard had the courage and the conviction to make them. It was a quality that Cissé admired and, as he informed Ducard of Eva Marie Rojas’ recruitment to the cause, he did so with the professionalism that was expected.

  ‘Thank you, Laurent,’ Ducard said glumly, sitting on the balcony of his presidential suite. The city of London was lit up, and with the hours that have passed since Sam’s interference, Ducard had succumbed to his nicotine addiction. He puffed his cigarette, looking disappointed as he blew out the smoke. ‘You know, you never really quit.’

  ‘We all have vices, sir,’ Laurent replied with little emotion. ‘I must ask, do you believe Rojas is a good idea?’

  ‘She’s the best there is,’ Ducard said through the smoke. ‘No offence, Laurent. I trust you implicitly with my security at all times, and I know you have the background necessary to bring them in. But I need you with me. I need the world to see that nothing is wrong. If I let you off the leash and on a tear through this city, then it would only add more credibility to Olivier’s claims.’

  ‘I should have been there,’ Cissé said with a shake of the head.

  ‘You assured me that Domi could handle it.’ Ducard stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I know he was a close friend, but he didn’t deliver. It cost him his life, Laurent. Don’t let it cost us our trust. I want you to collect Rojas when she arrives, give her whatever she needs, and stay out of her way. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ducard regarded his right-hand man with a sorrowful look. Throughout their years together, the man had shown nothing but fierce loyalty. There had never been talk of a family or any ties that would ever get in the way of his orders, and Ducard knew he had taken Cissé’s loyalty for granted over the years. It had only occurred to him, when Domi’s death was confirmed and Cissé had to leave the room for a moment, that the man did have people he cared about. It was a frightening sight to see Cissé let loose on someone he didn’t know or care about.

  It was terrifying to think of what he would do to the man who had killed his best friend.

  Ducard lifted another cigarette from the packet and lit it with the embers of the previous one, cursing himself for chain smoking but doing little to abate it. As he took a long, hard drag, he looked up at the night sky. Within the next few hours, a private jet would be landing in Heathrow Airport, bringing in the deadliest assassin that Ducard had ever known. It had been over a decade since Rojas was first brought to his attention, when Wallace had handpicked her as a back-up plan for the mission gone wrong. Her reputation was exquisite, and in the years since she had escaped who he now knew to be Sam Pope, Ducard had paid her handsomely to handle international matters off the books.

  The Bolivian.

  It was a mysterious enough moniker to gain a legacy throughout the world of international espionage and having a direct line into her had been a valuable weapon in his arsenal. Although Cissé sometimes took it as a personal afront that he would look for alternatives outside of his own staff, Ducard had often done it with his loyal follower in mind. While Rojas was as dependable as she was lethal, she was also expendable.

  There was never any paper trail.

  Wired transfers pinging from offshore account to offshore account, running through so many shell companies it would tie anyone looking up in knots.

  If she was caught, she would never talk. And if she did, she would have no way to prove it.

  She was, in essence, the ultimate Hail Mary, as there would be no way of staging what she would do. She ghosted through cities, leaving no visible footprint, and through ways Ducard could never explain, she was able to find people who had worked extremely hard not to be found. And when she did, then they died.

  The Bolivian had built her reputation.

  Now, he was keen for her to enhance it.

  They were too close to the seat now, and if Olivier and Pope were able in some way to prove what he had sanctioned all those years ago, then his campaign would be over.

  His liberty would be over.

  He’d spend the rest of his life behind bars, and whatever legacy he had built would be eradicated immediately. Ducard had come too far for that to happen, which was why hiring Rojas was a necessity.

  But as he took a sip of the glass of scotch he had poured after he had run out of wine, he carefully drew his cigarette to his lips and looked at Cissé, who stood, as always, to attention and ready for an order. There was a clear sadness cloaking the man, who was mourning not just his friend, but also the opportunity to avenge him.

  Ducard knew how dangerous Cissé was, and in that moment, as he felt the smoke hit the back of his throat, he thought of how much of a cluster fuck the evening had become. And that Sam Pope, a man who seemed to have a penchant for upsetting the apple cart, had once again found himself where he shouldn’t.

  Perhaps, Ducard thought, he should do a good thing for his loyal friend after all.

  ‘Rojas is here to kill Olivier Chavet.’

  Cissé nodded, and then, to Ducard’s horror, smiled. It was a rare sight to behold, but as the edges of Cissé’s mouth curled upwards for a few seconds, the message had been understood and the outcome would be biblical.

  The Bolivian was there to make the Chavet problem go away.

  As for Sam Pope, he was all Cissé’s.

  The leash had been loosened.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was immediately apparent to Sam that he was dreaming, but everything felt so real. The smells of the damp leaves as the rain crashed over them. The sound of the spluttering engine as it tried to keep going, pushing the boat slowly down the Amazon. Sam looked around and everything felt familiar, but not exactly.

  As if someone was colouring outside of the lines.

  The random noises of the jungle echoed from the trees that lined the river, and Sam felt the humidity fall upon him like a cloak. Twelve years and he could still recall the rickety wooden floor of the speedboat as it waded through the waters of the Teles Pires. In the cabin ahead of him was Alberto, a local man who they had paid for the journey, but as the hands of time had passed, so had any distinguishable features of the man.

  He wore a yellow shirt.

  He had dark hair.

  That was all that had been retained. Standing next to him was Sam’s commanding officer, Sergeant Javier Vargas, whose world-weary face was shaded by the bill of his cap that was affixed to his bald head. In his arms was an SA80A2 assault rifle, which Sam could describe with his eyes closed. Although nearing fifty, Vargas’s bare arms were rippling with muscles and veins, and he stood with complete authority. To Sam’s left was Private Laurel Connell, a black bullet-proof vest strapped to her wiry frame and her dark ponytail poking from the back of her own baseball cap. Across from her was Private Jason Bennett, with his heavily tattooed arms and the cigarette clinging from his lips. There was some banter between them, stirring the clear sexual tension, but Sam couldn’t remember what it was.

  But they were there with them.

  The vision quickly snapped forward, and Connell and Bennett were dropping over the side of the boat into the shin-deep water before they moved to the embankment, their guns up and their eyes alert.

  ‘Are you a man of faith, Sam?’

  Vargas’s English was exceptional for a man who was born and bred in Argentina, and Sam had often found his mastery of the language better than the American duo who had already disembarked.

  Sam knew his answer before he spoke it.

  ‘I believe we know too much about the world to believe in divine intervention.’

  The conversation leapt forward, his mind only remembering so much.

  ‘What do you fight for?’

  ‘I have orders, sir.’

  ‘If you don’t fight for something, then what are you willing to die for?’

  ‘I don’t intend to die, sir.’

  Sam’s recollection of Vargas was of a thoughtful man, who regarded Sam with a paternal gaze.

  ‘Then what are you willing to live for?’

  ‘My son.’

  The answer now held a supreme guilt that Sam knew he had allowed his subconscious to place. When he had found himself in this conversation twelve years ago, he had hopes and dreams for Jamie and the life he would have. Now, revisiting it long after Jamie’s death, Sam wondered why he fought so hard to survive.

  ‘Then we will make sure you get back to them.’

  As Sam stepped off the boat, it felt like the ground beneath him flipped, and he was now walking towards an abandoned outpost alongside the other three. Connell and Bennett were uttering concerns that didn’t register, and all four of them entered the outpost.

  At the time, the place had been a storage facility of all sorts of useless equipment, but now it was empty, as Sam’s memory had etched out the finer details. All that was visible were the two bodies on the floor, the bullet wounds in their skulls as fresh as the moisture in the air.

  Chavet and Rabiot.

  Sam hadn’t known the names at the time, but he remembered the feeling of betrayal, of knowing they had been set up and sent to die. The next few moments happened in flashes, as if someone was taking photos with a Polaroid camera.

  Two Jeeps carrying sixteen militia approached.

  Vargas taking position by the window.

  Bennett rushing through the door to face them head on.

  Then the sickening crack of a sniper rifle, a sound so familiar to Sam, that he recognised the deadly weapon before anyone else did.

  The back of Bennett’s skull, followed swiftly by the front, was obliterated by the bullet and as he slumped to a quick death, Sam recalled the grief-stricken scream of Connell. As Sam rushed to the upper floor to try to fight back, Connell pressed against the door frame and unloaded on the advancing soldiers. Beneath him, Sam knew Vargas was drawing most of the fire.

  More flashes of guns and death, as Sam eliminated soldier after soldier from his position.

  Then the sound of gunfire from the floor below, and as Sam turned, he looked down the barrel of a rifle and heard the gunshot echo. The intruder fell forward with blood pouring from his skull, as Connell rushed towards Sam.

  Every footstep was in slow motion, and no matter how many times Sam replayed it in his head, he could never warn her quickly enough.

  A bullet zipped through the glass, followed by the haunting clap of the sniper rifle, and Connell’s spine was obliterated.

  She died in Sam’s arms.

  ‘POPE. JUMP!’

  Vargas’s words rung out and Sam remembered flying from the first-floor window as the building erupted in a ball of fire and wooden splinters thanks to his superior grenade. Everything was hazy after that, as Sam fought the final few soldiers based on nothing more than muscle memory, as the fall had knocked him senseless. He remembered the sniper taking shots through smoke, trying their best to finish the job, and when it looked like Sam’s time was up, Vargas managed to save his life.

  The final moments of Vargas’s life would stay with Sam forever. Already bullet riddled, the grenade had burnt half of his face, removed both his left arm and right foot and had sent a jagged piece of shrapnel into the man’s thigh.

  He asked Sam about Jamie. About Lucy.

  As Sam held his only hand and obliged him, Vargas shed a tear and thanked him for his service.

  ‘It’s been an honour, sir.’

  ‘Don’t waste it. Now get back to your family.’

  Sam was already running when he heard the sniper take their shot, as Vargas had used his final breath to haul himself above the jeep and draw their attention.

  Then, Sam’s memory grew hazy, and he recalled circling back round to the base of the mountain that had overlooked the outpost, where he found the sniper rifle.

  And a woman.

  They struggled.

  Sam shot.

  She fell.

  Then, Sam collapsed to his knees, and unlike reality, the ground around him ran red with blood, and as it flowed past, so did the dead bodies of Vargas, Connell, and Bennett.

  All of them dead.

  Another echo of the sniper rifle rung in Sam’s ear and shook him awake.

  The dream startled Sam from his sleep and sat bolt upright, blinking his eyes to adjust them to his dark surroundings. The single bed he was lying in was drenched with sweat and, as he breathed his heart rate to a more natural pace, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself off. The room he had been shown to by Agent Agard was a box room, with nothing more than the bed and a towel over the end of it. Sam used the towel to wipe the sweat from his shirtless torso before sliding his T-shirt over his scars. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway of the rickety cottage and peered both ways. A few other doors were closed, presumably with Olivier and one of the agents getting a few hours’ sleep before they figured out the next step. At the far end of the hallway was the staircase, with the faint blurring of light drawing him towards it. He made his way as softly as possible, but the tired floorboards gave him away and he gave up trying to be subtle. Halfway down the stairs, he could see the light coming from the kitchen, and then heard the sound of the kettle being set to boil.

  He pushed open the door to the kitchen and entered.

  ‘No sugar, right?’

  Corbin was standing by the worktop, pulling two mugs from the sink and placing them beside the boiling kettle. She seemed a little less intense, probably due to exhaustion and Sam nodded and smiled.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Can’t sleep?’

  ‘I did. But I got woken up.’

  ‘Really?’ Corbin raised a thin eyebrow as she pulled open the fridge and retrieved the milk. ‘By what?’

  ‘Just memories.’ Sam blew out his cheeks and took a seat. His body ached. Before he’d gone to bed, he’d checked himself over in the mirror. His spine was stiff as a pole from where one of Ducard’s men had sent him through the door, and judging from the bruising under his arm, his suspicions of a broken rib were pretty fair. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m on second watch.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’ll give Agard a few more hours and then see.’

  She poured in the water and then the milk, stirring briskly before dumping the tea bags into the nearby bin. The pokey kitchen was littered with a few ready-meal boxes, and Sam gratefully accepted the hot mug.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, tell me, Sam.’ Corbin sipped her drink and then continued. ‘What exactly is your plan?’

  Sam took a sip of his tea and then sighed.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sort of winging it.’ He shrugged. ‘As soon as I saw him on the TV, I just knew he was running out of time. Like I said, I worked for a man like Ducard for a long time. I know how they think. Olivier’s a good kid, but he’s naïve if he thinks he can keep running Ducard’s name in the dirt and not expect any kickback. But I’ve spent a lot of sleepless nights wondering why the hell me and my crew were sent to die and their memory at least deserves the truth.’

  ‘Pretty reckless. Especially now that you’ve got the whole of the UK looking for you.’

  ‘Trust me. You get used to it.’

  Corbin smiled. For a man who was described as the UK’s most dangerous man, Sam Pope didn’t seem like such a bad guy. His affable personality was at odds with the file she had pulled up on him. Multiple kills. Escapes from high security prisons. International incidents in Ukraine, Germany, Italy, and America, all within the last few years. But probably the most dangerous part of the man was his steadfast belief that he was in the right.

  ‘Well, you know I can’t just let you walk out the door, right? We’ve spent too long building our case against Ducard to just let you loose on him.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No, but you’re in our protection. You and Olivier. Him, because he’s a dead man on his own. You, well, I can’t have a wildcard in play.’

  Sam nodded his acceptance and took a big gulp of his drink. With her guard down, Corbin was quite likable. Although she was clearly an attractive woman, Sam’s loyalty to Mel, however misguided, allowed him to see beyond that. Corbin clearly cared about her country and was seeking a truth that the majority wanted hidden. She’d put her own life on the line to hunt it, and the last thing Sam wanted to do was get in the way.

  They both wanted the same thing.

  Just for different reasons.

  ‘Private Javier Vargas. Private Laurel Connell. Private Jason Bennett.’

  It took Corbin only a second to realise she needed to note those names down.

  ‘These were your comrades?’

  ‘Yep,’ Sam said coldly. ‘They were all killed looking for your two diplomats. You probably won’t find much on them, as Wallace had everything funnelled away behind so much security, you’d need the best hacker in the world to find it. Thing is, I know a guy, but I have no idea how to find him.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He’s been on the run for three years. He helped me escape from prison. He’s a good friend.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Corbin was scribbling away on her pad. ‘Maybe I can track him down?’

  ‘Trust me. You can’t.’ Sam smirked at the thought of Etheridge and then felt a sudden pain for their estrangement. ‘But there is a way we can peg this on Ducard. A way to prove he gave the order. But I need something from you, too.’

  Corbin dropped her pen and locked her eyes on Sam.

 

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