Public Enemy (Sam Pope Series Book 14), page 19
Sarratt had clearly realised it as well, and she pulled out a folded sheet of paper and placed it on the counter next to his coffee.
‘If it helps, Murray, for the past week, I’ve been battling the idea of doing what is sensible as opposed to doing what is right.’
Murray stared down at the paper and then looked back up at the commissioner.
‘And where did that get you?’ he finally asked.
‘Here. Next to you. Wondering if you’ll do the same thing.’
Sarratt turned and headed back to the door of the shop. Murray watched her leave, before he threw back the coffee in one long gulp, thanked the barista, and strode to the door. With the paper tucked into his jacket pocket, he burst out of the coffee shop into the rain, turned on his heel, and headed in the opposite direction of his office.
Weaving through the trees in the darkness, Sam had to tread carefully. There was no option of a torch, so as not to giveaway his position, and each step was carefully placed into the squelching mud. As he made his way through the woods, the vast building that housed Wainwright soon came into view, illuminated by the bright spotlights that covered the expansive lawn surrounding the mansion. A high-pitched alarm had been triggered, no doubt by Sam moving past a sensor hidden somewhere within the darkness of the woods.
There was no playing it safe now.
They knew he was coming.
As Sam approached the edge of the woods, he could see a concrete path that ran across the perimeter of the garden itself, which was segregated into sections by flowerbeds that had been devastated by the winter months.
Sam pressed himself against one of the trees, submerged in the shadows, and he tried to peer through the rain that burst into his line of sight when it hit the light.
He counted four men by the front of the house, all of them wandering aimlessly as they tried to keep warm in the cold. He couldn’t see any weapons, but there was no way that those assigned to protect Wainwright weren’t armed to the teeth.
This was going to get messy.
Sam dropped down to one knee, put his rifle down, and then reached into the front of his tactical vest. He pulled out the fireworks he’d purchased on his way into the town, and he pushed their wooden stands into the accommodating mud. The wind picked up, playing havoc with his attempts to spark the lighter to life, and with a groan of pain, he shifted his left arm and cupped the lighter with his hand.
A flame flickered.
He brought it to the wick of the firework, tossed the lighter, lifted his gun, and started running. He kept within the treeline, and as he got thirty paces away, he heard the ear-piercing shriek of a firework as it rocketed up into the sky, leaving a trail of sparks to filter down into the rain. It exploded above the building in a blaze of colour, and instantly, the four men erupted into panic.
Another firework shot up, this time alerting the men to its location, and Sam watched as the four men rushed across the floodlit garden towards it.
Sam pulled up his rifle. The Heckler & Kock G36 was a lightweight rifle, and he drew the scope to his eye, his left arm just about managing the weight as he steadied it in his grip. He nestled the stock into his right shoulder, slid his finger around the trigger and took a breath.
No going back now.
As the four men covered the grass at speed, two gunshots rang out, and two of the men spun to the ground, howling in agony as they clutched their blown out kneecaps. The other two spun expertly, clearly military trained, and drew their weapons within seconds.
That was all Sam needed.
He stepped out from the shadows, gun still locked expertly in his grip, and two more pulls of the trigger took down both men, the bullets shattering their collar bones as he shot to disarm. As quick as he could, Sam raced forward towards the building, holding his rifle as he covered the distance. Just as he was about to reach the pathway that ran along the side of the house, a burst of gunfire exploded and a barrage of bullets tore up the wet mud a few feet behind him. Sam swivelled on his foot, pushing his heel down into the mud to steady himself, and dropped to one knee. He whipped the scope to his eye and drew the crosshair onto the man who was lifting his rifle as well.
Sam pulled first.
The trio of bullets ripped through the man’s chest, lifting him off the ground as the blood splatter was whisked away by the rain. The man hit the mud, and Sam scanned the surroundings before continuing on down the pathway. As he approached the corner of the mansion, he pushed himself against the wall, hidden by the shadows, and peered around the edge of the brickwork. Three more men were racing across the gravel covered entranceway, two of whom were loading their weapons as another barked orders. Their feet crunched on the stones below, and one of the men was yelling that he couldn’t see a damn thing because of the rain.
That was Sam’s saving grace.
He slid out the empty magazine and slammed in a replacement, before he drew up his rifle and stepped out from the corner, already with his weapon drawn.
One shot.
Two shot.
Two men hit the ground, writhing in agony on the sharp stones, clutching the bullet hole that had shattered their shins. The third man unloaded a round in Sam’s direction, shooting recklessly into the downpour. Sam dived forward, absorbing the hard fall onto the gravel on his damage ribs, and the pain instinctively loosened his grip. The rifle swung from his hands on its strap, and Sam desperately tried to reassert his grip.
‘Don’t fucking try it.’
The voice was laced with murderous intent, and Sam held his left hand up and slowly began to push himself to his knees with his right. The man approached, soaked through, with his rifle drawn, and he sneered down the scope towards Sam.
‘The admiral is going to give me a big, fat bonus for putting you down, mate.’
As Sam began to draw his right hand up, he slid the Glock 17 from the back of his jeans and swung it out into the rain. The man’s eyes widened. He tried to lift his rifle up in that split second, but to no avail.
The bullet blasted from the barrel of the Glock, sliced through the raindrops, and drilled a hole through the man’s forehead and out the back of his skull. A puff of red burst out into the rain, and the man collapsed to the floor, the contents of his skull leaking out onto the stones. Sam took a breath, returned the gun, and then pushed himself up. He jogged past the front of the house, reasserting his grip on his rifle, until he rounded the garish statues that sat on either side of the front door. About ten feet away, in the centre of the gravel, there was a stone fountain, with the feature in the middle still pumping out an impressive stream of water despite the rain.
Gunshots echoed, and bullets began to rip into the statues ahead of Sam. He pulled the Heckler & Koch up once more, emptied the rest of the clip and dispatched two more gunmen who were racing across the gravel.
Sam released the magazine, letting it drop onto the stones beneath, and as he pulled another from his pocket, the front door burst open. Instinctively, Sam turned the rifle, slammed in the magazine, but before he could make the shot, a thunderous shoulder barge sent him hurling backwards and he collapsed onto the hard stones. The man thundered after him, and as Sam collected himself, he once again tried to lift his weapon.
Only his left arm failed him.
His attacker was a brute, standing easily over six feet three, and had the build of a heavyweight boxer who had spent a few years in retirement. Although the man had a slight paunch, and seemed more meat than muscle, the man moved with the fluidity of a trained fighter, and he booted the rifle from Sam’s grip, pulled him to his feet, and rocked him with a brutal right hook to the stomach. Sam doubled over, and the man clasped the hood that overhung his tactical vest, spun Sam to the right and then let him go.
The momentum sent Sam hurtling shoulder first into the concrete fountain, and the impact sent a shudder through his body. His attacker wasted little time, marching across the stones with thunderous strides, and he hauled Sam up, pushed away his feeble attempt to protect himself, and he hammered Sam in the jaw with a left haymaker that sent Sam tumbling over the edge of the wall and into the water. The ice-cold water hit like a shock to the system, and Sam shot straight back out, catching the attacker by surprise as he tried to amble over the wall and into the water. Sam landed a hard right, ducked the returning left, and then nailed another that sent the man stumbling backwards. Dabbing a hand to his lip, the man saw his own blood and then let out a terrifying roar as he launched forward. But the shin-deep water stifled his movement, and Sam ducked the sledgehammer of a right fist, drove his own elbow into the back of the man’s head, and then planted his foot in front of the man’s left leg. The blow sent the man wobbling to the side, and he clipped Sam’s leg and collapsed into the actual water feature of the fountain. The blow was sickening, as the man collided face first into the stone. The impact ripped open a gash across the man’s cheek, and had clearly rattled his brain, as he laid helpless against the concrete statue.
Sam lifted his boot out of the water and drove it down as hard as he could.
He heard the man’s neck break.
He heard the sickening sound of a skull cracking.
Sam took a few steps back and then spat a mouthful of blood into the water that surrounded him. His attacker slid down the stone, leaving a trail of blood across the statue, and then disappeared into the water.
The rain had washed away most of the mud from Sam’s skin, and he looked upwards, and welcomed the refreshing cold against the searing pain that was emanating from his jaw. Then, with a deep breath, Sam clambered out of the fountain and retrieved his rifle.
With a trail of bodies left in his wake, Sam slammed the magazine into the weapon, re-established his grip, and headed to the front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The walk to the outpost was more laborious than Jensen had anticipated, but it was the stubborn male pride that had stopped him from asking for assistance. Wainwright had handpicked him to eliminate Pope, and he’d even overlooked his failure the day before. With every limp through the squelching terrain, a shot of pain ricocheted from his butchered leg, up his spine, and let off a roar of agony in his brain.
But Jensen gritted his teeth and continued to march.
Halfway to the outpost, Jensen heard the shriek of a firework go whizzing up into the sky, and he turned to watch as it exploded into a beautiful, glittery burst of colour.
Sam was here.
It was clever, Jensen had to admit, as he thundered on. With such a vast and expansive grounds to try to wade through, Sam had done what any experienced fighter would do.
Lure the enemy out.
Another firework exploded into the sky above the trees, but Jensen didn’t turn to observe. The outpost was submerged in the darkness, reaching up out of the woodlands and into the night sky. Behind him, Jensen could hear the crackle of gunfire, followed by a few dimmed screams of pain.
He needed to get up the ladder, and quickly.
He pulled out a pair of leather gloves from his coat pocket, pulled them over his hands, and secured his grip on the metal ladder. Every rung was slick with rainwater, but Jensen clasped on confidently and began to pull himself up. Every time he lifted his savaged thigh, he groaned but persevered, and slowly but surely, rung by rung, he pulled himself to the top of the outpost.
As he ambled to his feet, he was welcomed by the darkness of the night sky, but half a mile away, he could see the Everly Estate in all its majesty.
More gunfire.
More screams.
Sam was ripping through the small army Wainwright had pulled together at short notice, and somewhere deep inside, Jensen felt a small pinch of jealousy. He didn’t want to dedicate his life to some egotistical quest for justice like Sam did.
But the thought of laying siege to a building on his own, putting trained adversaries down as he went? That was certainly something he’d have enjoyed.
Instead, he’d have to settle for being the man to pull the trigger when Sam Pope was finally put to rest, and as he approached the open window of the outpost, he glanced down at the sniper rifle that Wainwright had promised would be there.
The Accuracy International Arctic Warfare rifle was standard issue throughout the UK military, and the British-made weapon was one that Jensen had been more than familiar with when he served. With genuine discomfort, he lowered himself down towards the weapon, and began to adjust the Bi-Pod beneath, setting it perfectly as he brought his eye up to the scope. As he peered through the lens, the Everly Estate loomed large, and Jensen blinked a few times to get his bearings. He was looking at the back of the huge house, and slowly, as he lowered himself onto his belly, he held the rifle as still as a statue. The years of training and warfare had turned Jensen into a walking weapon himself, and there was only one man he knew of who was more deadly behind the scope of a sniper rifle.
And Jensen was about to put a bullet through his skull.
Slowly, he moved the rifle on the Bi-Pod, scanning slowly across the illuminated grounds of the estate. He saw a number of guards writhing in agony on the grass, clutching either their legs or their shoulders.
Jensen scoffed.
Even when it came down to life and death, Sam was still conscientious enough to make sure he didn’t kill if he didn’t have to.
‘Fucking boy scout,’ Jensen muttered, and then continued to scan the grounds. A smile came across his face when he landed on a dead body. The man’s chest ripped apart by a small burst of gunfire. ‘That’s more like it.’
As he amused himself, Jensen then guided the scope up towards the entrance of the house, where he found two more men on the ground, their hands clutching bullet wounds and he had to resist his own impulse to put them down for good.
But his bullets weren’t for them.
Instinctively, he ran a hand over the magazine that had been snapped underneath the rifle, and he pulled back the bolt-action chamber. The thick, .300 Winchester Magnum bullet sat, ready to be launched towards his target. Jensen snapped shut the chamber and readjusted himself to the scope.
His phone buzzed.
It was Murray.
Whatever the message said, Jensen didn’t care.
Once Sam was in the ground, he’d soon send Murray to join him. It wasn’t personal.
But Guardian would be his by morning.
As he pulled it back up, he saw a large man hurl Sam into the fountain before rocking him with a thunderous fist that sent Jensen’s target into the water. Jensen readied his finger on the trigger, but then waited. His thigh was throbbing with pain, and the idea of Sam being slowly beaten to death had its appeal.
If the man failed, Jensen would shatter Sam’s skull from half a kilometre away.
Through the scope, and the torrential rain, he saw the man lunge for Sam, who ducked, drilled an elbow into the back of his head and sent him tumbling into the water feature. Then, in an act that didn’t surprise him in the slightest, Sam drove his boot into the man’s skull, sending his body limp, and undoubtedly ending his life.
It was brutal.
It was also impressive.
As Sam stumbled back away from his handiwork, Jensen cursed under his breath as he stepped just far enough to be shielded by the edge of the mansion. There was no clear shot, and Jensen swiftly adjusted the scope, pulling it back slightly to allow a clearer view of the entire estate.
Through one of the windows, he could see Wainwright yelling into a phone.
Through the ones that gave him visibility of the staircase, he saw armed men locking and loading.
Then he saw flashes of gunfire.
Sam was storming the building.
And Jensen smirked, as he reaffirmed his grip on the weapon, and waited patiently for Sam to walk into his sights.
Sam stepped through the front door of the Everly Estate and drew up his rifle, scanning it expertly around the vast reception area. The white tiles shimmered under the spotlights that were peppered throughout the ceiling, and the large stairwell curved across the back wall and up to a hallway that looked over the entrance. An open doorway led to a dining room, which Sam tentatively stepped into and cleared, but as he turned to step back into the reception, the wooden frame of the door shattered as two bullets ripped through the wood.
Instinctively, Sam swung back into the dining room and slammed himself against the wall, grimacing as his ribs rattled. He could hear the sound of boots slapping against the tiles, as a few armed men raced towards his location. Sam spun out, dropped to one knee to catch them off guard, and lit both men up with three round bursts. The bullets thundered into both men, sending them sprawling across the tiles, and smearing blood as they went. More bullets rained down on Sam’s location, obliterating the expensive ornaments on the table beside the doorway, and Sam returned fire before whipping back into the dining room for cover.
As he did, two hands reached out and clasped onto his shoulders, and Sam turned just in time to see the headbutt swinging towards him. The impact sent him stumbling back into the wall, his vision blurring as he felt the warm flow of blood trickle from his reopened eyebrow. He tried helplessly to regather himself, but as his hands gripped onto his rifle, his attacker threw a stinging punch that connected with his left arm. The pain was instant. His muscles relaxed, and Sam felt the rifle swing loosely to his side as the attacker followed up with a clubbing blow to Sam’s gut that caused him to hunch over, gasping for air. Relentless, the man grabbed the back of Sam’s hood and hurled him across the dinner table, and Sam clattered into the high-back, wooden chairs on the other side and crashed onto the floor.
His rifle spun out somewhere into the room.
Sam tried to push himself up, but his left arm gave out, and as he fell, rib first, onto the ground once more, his attacker slammed his boot into Sam’s stomach, and then again. As the boot drove in for a third time, Sam hooked his right arm around the ankle and rolled to the side, sweeping the man off his feet and causing him to slam his head on the side of the oak table. Blood gushed out from the wound, and the man wearily tried to rise to his feet. But Sam pulled himself up via the table and then slammed the man skull first back into the tiles with his boot.
