Name Maker (Sam Pope Series Book 9), page 22
‘Someone needs to keep everyone safe.’
With that, Sam disappeared off into the night, leaving Nash contemplating their plan, and understanding that to Sam, this was a compulsion.
He needed to fight.
That evening, after Sam had guided the car down the middle of the road towards the Marlow Heights building, Nash had scaled the fire exit, waiting for the right moment to break through the glass and ambush from the top down. As soon as he heard the blast of gunfire, he smashed the glass with the butt of his Glock, slid his arm in and opened the emergency door.
The corridor was dimly lit, and it was roughly twenty feet until a turn. There was no way to know what was up ahead, but Nash held his gun up, his finger rested expertly on the trigger, and he took considered steps into the building, ready to help Sam in whatever way he could.
The penthouse was just as expensive-looking as Sam had expected, and it was a world away from the Airbnb’s and dingy flats he had frequented over the past three years. The lift doors opened up into the main hosting room itself, and as they pulled back to reveal him like a prize at a game show, his eyes locked onto Dana Kovalenko.
Her face contorted into a foul snarl as she made eye contact, and the seething rage caused her to step towards them immediately.
‘Out.’
Leon barked, and then stamped into the back of Sam’s knee, causing him to buckle forward and stumble down the two marble steps and onto the floor. Dana’s heels clicked loudly against the marble as she approached, and behind her, a brutally scarred man loitered, pacing slightly as if to contain the pent-up violence within. Sam had been in some dangerous situations before.
Penned down by a sniper in the middle of the Amazon.
Hidden away in a small home in Afghanistan while the Taliban circled.
Strapped to a chair by a Mexican drug lord and interrogated.
This was another to add to his ever-growing list of situations he had willingly gotten himself into.
As Sam pushed himself to his knees, he sat back on his legs and looked up at Dana.
‘Nice place. Shit hospitality.’
Dana put every ounce of her petit frame behind the slam, that connected with Sam’s cheek with such venom that it drew blood. Sam rocked slightly to the side, then spat a little puddle of blood onto the pristine marble. Dana stared a hole through him, daring him to speak again. Behind her, the man approached, and only then did Sam realise it was Nash’s partner.
Only it wasn’t. This was Nash’s partner if he had been dragged face first through the bowels of hell.
As he approached, Defoe twisted his horribly maimed face into a smirk.
‘Not looking good right now, is it, Sam?’
‘What? Your face?’ Sam could see the trigger going off. ‘What happened? Cut yourself shaving?’
Like Dana moments earlier, Defoe exploded forward, cracking Sam with an hellacious right hook that sent him sprawling onto his front, and more blood to spray across the floor. Dana put her hand on Defoe’s chest to keep him in check, while Leon hollered his appreciation.
‘You done fucked up now, Sam.’ Leon bragged.
‘You’re right.’ Sam agreed, and then turned to the man. ‘Give me a hand, won’t you?’
It was now Leon’s turn to see red, and as he drew his gun up, Dana slammed her foot down so it echoed loudly.
‘Enough.’ She pointed at Leon. ‘You stand down. I’ve had enough of this posturing. Look at you. The mighty Sam Pope, trying his best to show you he’s not scared. But you should be, Sam. You should be very scared.’
Sam groaned as he pushed himself back up, wiping away the blood that was trickling from his lip.
‘Why? Is lover boy here going to show me his face again?’
Defoe pushed past Dana, pulled the gun from the back of his trousers and pressed the barrel against Sam’s forehead.
‘Three million dead, right?’
Dana stepped forward and pushed his hand away.
‘We have him now. He can say whatever he wants, but it won’t matter.’ Dana pulled one of the modern, expensive-looking seats from the dining table, letting the metal legs screech across the marble until she was a foot away from Sam. Defoe stepped behind Sam, then reached down and locked his arms behind him, leaving him defenceless to the vengeful woman. She confidently sat down, and then she lifted one leg and pressed the sharp heel of foot into Sam’s thigh. Sam winced, which drew a gasp of delight from Dana, who pushed it once more and then slammed her foot down.
‘I promised you pain, Sam. I promised you that you would pay for what you did to my family. To my darling Andrei. I am not going to kill you. Not for a long, long time. You see, I will take you back to Kyiv, where I have some very, very skilled doctors who will be paid very well to keep you alive.’
‘That’s very nice of them.’
Dana thrust her heel into his thigh again, drawing a grunt of pain.
‘Silence!’ Dana drew her foot back, and practically licked her lips with excitement. She leant in close, so her mouth was an inch from Sam’s ear. ‘They will keep you alive, but they will give you nothing for the pain. First, I will take off your fingers. Then your toes. Then your hands. And so on, and so on, until there is nothing left but a body and a head. Then, when there is nothing left to cut off, I will see how much electricity I can pass through what is left of you until you finally, finally beg me for your death. Then, when I am bored, maybe I kill you. How does that sound?’
Dana drew her face level with Sam’s their noses almost touching, and her smile was one of sickening success.
She had won.
Sam smiled back.
‘It sounds like a pretty shit first date, to be honest.’
Dana slapped him again, and Defoe shoved him violently to the floor. As Sam tried to push himself back up, Dana turned and angrily headed back across the room to the door to the hallway, and as she did, she dismissively threw a hand up in the air.
‘Have your fun, boys. Just don’t kill him.’
Sam got to his knees and looked at the three men, and Leon and his running buddy put down their guns, while Defoe cracked his knuckles and his neck at the same time. Sam’s body ached, and his ears were still ringing.
Then a gunshot echoed from somewhere on the fourth floor, drawing a panicked look from all three men.
Sam smiled.
It had worked.
He had successfully stalled for time, and now, as he got to his feet, he looked at the three men, none of whom had a weapon, clenched his fists, and hoped he could last long enough for Nash to join him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Taking slow, measured steps towards the turning in the maintenance corridor, Nash approached the corner when a hand shot out, pushed the gun from his grip, and then spun him round into the wall.
It was Uri.
Dana Kovalenko’s right-hand man looked furious, but then a shocked realisation set across his face as he realised who he had just accosted. It had been a few days since they had met, squirrelled away in that remote meeting place. Back then, Uri had been certain that of all the men in the room, it was Nash who was the main threat to Sam Pope. The man had a resume that would make the devil himself quake with fear, but it was the man’s demeanour that had given Uri the sense of danger.
Nash was calm and collected, and even now, having been disarmed and shoved into a wall, all he had done was stretch out his arm and adjust his jacket. Considering the state of his former partner’s face, and the rants of the deformed American about betrayal, Uri wasn’t an idiot.
Nash was sneaking in through the back door, confirming to him what Defoe had wildly spat.
He was in cahoots with Sam Pope.
Which meant he was here to try to help the man kill his beloved Dana.
Which meant he had to die.
The corridor was narrow, with the low ceiling making it feel even more enclosed. The dim lighting ran along the wall, offering a dull glow that added to the sombre atmosphere. Both men knew the situation, and as Uri clenched and drew up his fists, Nash sighed and did the same.
‘There’s still time to walk away from this.’ Nash offered. ‘We’re not here for you.’
Uri didn’t say a word, allowing his actions to speak for him as he swung a meaty right hook, which Nash absorbed in the arms he threw up to protect his head. The man hit like a sledgehammer, and it wasn’t often that Nash was confronted by a man of similar size. Although he may have been an inch or two taller than the Ukrainian, they were similar in weight, which meant each clubbing blow that Nash blocked still hurt like hell. After raining down a few more violent punches, Uri launched forward with a knee, which Nash deflected before driving his elbow into Uri’s jaw, sending him stumbling back down the corridor. The two men stopped, and Uri dabbed at his lip, saw the blood, and smiled cruelly.
Nash pushed himself off the wall, and now, with both men in the centre of the long corridor, there was more room to manoeuvre. Uri charged forward, swinging with a left that Nash ducked, but he caught him with a follow up right. The blow rocked Nash, who then absorbed a powerful haymaker to his solid abdomen. It didn’t completely wind him, but it was enough for Uri to blast him with a sickening right hook that sent him spiralling to the wall.
Nash hit the brick, and then stepped back, and like Uri before, he dabbed at his lip, and then nodded in admiration.
Uri smiled.
This wasn’t going to be quick.
With a grimace, Nash tried to stretch out his shoulder, but the collision with the wall had re-ignited the agony of the bullet wound, and as he tried to lift his fists to go again, he could only lift one.
Uri noticed, and he tutted.
‘Is a shame. I would like to have killed you at full health.’
Nash half shrugged.
‘Shall we get this over with?’
Uri’s eyes flashed with rage at Nash’s nonchalance, and he charged forward again, but Nash expertly side-stepped and drove his knee into the man’s thigh, knocking his leg back. A swift left hook rocked Uri to the side and then Nash charged, their two hulking frames colliding and Uri slammed into the exposed brick wall, his head slamming against the concrete. But the man was relentless, and he pushed himself back up, a gash now dominating the side of his head, and blood oozed down his face. Nash went to lift his fists again, the pain of his shoulder causing him to falter slightly, and that was enough for Uri.
He lunged forward, ignoring the errant fist that Nash threw into his thick body, and Uri latched his meaty hand around Nash’s shoulder, digging his fingers in and brutally as he could and Nash roared with anger. Uri could feel the bandages and the hole underneath, and he dug in further, trying to bury his fingers into the wound through Nash’s jacket, all the while, Nash was hammering him with his free hand. After a few violent swings from Nash, Uri relinquished his hold, but the damage to Nash was done, and the American was weak on his feet.
Uri charged forward and drove his elbow into Nash, not caring where he landed it, but knowing that the collision would take the American hitman off his feet. It worked, and Nash hit the concrete floor hard, a little cloud of dust shooting upwards on impact. He groaned.
His shoulder was done, which meant he effectively had one hand tied behind his back and was now being picked apart by a man who had been forged by the Burket for years. With one hand, Nash began to push himself back up, but Uri drove his thunderous boot down onto his spine, and then followed that up by stomping down on Nash’s compromised shoulder. Nash howled in pain once more, and Uri then rolled him onto his back with his foot.
‘This was unsatisfying.’
The boot was raised again, and Nash watched as it rushed towards his face, the impact would surely snap his neck or shatter his skull. In the nick of time, he rolled to the side, propped up onto one knee like an Olympic sprinter, and then burst forward like he had just heard the starting pistol. With Uri’s foot planted, Nash dived into the man’s stocky body, and the impact sent both of them crashing to the floor below, the air driven from Uri has he hit the stone. The fight was getting scrappy, as both men had begun to feel the devastating effects of the blows that had landed, and as Uri tried to scramble to his feet, Nash latched onto him from behind, locked his one good arm around his neck, and then fell backwards, arcing Uri’s body into a crescent and then, using his expert training, he locked his legs around his body.
Uri began to struggle, feeling the air supply to his body being cut off, and as Nash wrenched harder and harder, Uri became more desperate. His wild hand eventually found the bullet wound once more, and as he gasped for life, he furiously hammered the wound through Nash’s jacket.
Nash tried to ignore the pain, but on the fourth blow, his own grip loosened, and Uri wriggled free, and then caught Nash flush in the jaw with a sickening elbow. Nash rolled back, his head spinning, as Uri scrambled forward.
His eyes lit up.
Nash’s discarded pistol was beside him, and he scooped it up, stood, turned and then took his shot. But as he was getting to his feet, Nash shook the cobwebs of the blow and then let his survival instinct kick in, the adrenaline pushing him to his feet just behind the Ukrainian. As Uri turned and pulled the trigger, Nash fought through the crippling pain of his shoulder to push the man’s arm upwards, causing the bullet to lodge in the ceiling above, sending a trickle of crumbling stone showering onto them. As Uri pulled the trigger, Nash drew back his good arm, and then drove the palm of his hand as hard as he could into Uri’s nose.
The blow was sickening.
The sound of Uri’s nose being driven backwards into his own brain was unlike anything Nash had ever heard, and he was thankful that the errant gunshot had dulled his hearing.
Uri fell backwards, his eyes still open, but his life very much over.
It had been a killing blow from Nash, one that had been taught to him by the Foundation during his initiation. He took a few moments to collect himself, to push past the pain that was emanating from his shoulder and the other blows his body had absorbed. He could feel the blood pumping down his arm and his chest and with a slight wobble in his step, he stepped across Uri’s dead body, retrieved his handgun, and then began limping back down the corridor towards the door, hoping against hope that Sam Pope was still alive.
The gunshot had given Sam the briefest of openings, and he had used it to blindside Defoe, who had been standing nearest to him. As Defoe turned back to Sam, it was too late, and Sam threw his entire weight behind the right hand that he struck him with. It sent the disfigured hitman crashing to the ground, and then Sam stood before Leon and his henchman. The two men had tossed their weapons away under Dana’s orders, and the fear of the situation was clear on both their faces. They quickly huddled together, with Leon taking a tentative step behind the other.
‘Fuckin’ kill this man.’ Leon demanded, and Sam watched as the man stepped forward, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, sharp blade. The man held it up, trying to intimidate Sam, but the tremble in his hand gave it away.
He wasn’t a trained killer.
Neither was Leon.
When they ran together as the Acid Gang, the entire crew had found strength in numbers. All together, they were an intimidating prospect, and if trouble ever came looking for them, they could band together to ensure they eradicated it. But now, separated and faced with a very different kind of threat, they were crumbling. Sam had already seen it in Leon before, when he had tortured him with home made acid which had resulted in the loss of the man’s arm.
If you pull apart the gang and isolate them, they were just as scared as the people they preyed on.
‘Fuckin’ shank him, bruv.’
Leon, who was doing his best to not make his cowering obvious, was barking the orders, and the gang member stepped towards Sam, his eyes locked on him, but lacking any sort of conviction. Put a gun in the man’s hand and he would have happily pulled the trigger.
But hand to hand was different.
It was more skilled. More personal.
It required a true killer’s touch, something that this man clearly didn’t have.
Sam stood patiently, taking a few deep breaths to help ignore the pain of the blows he had taken to his face, and he kept his eyes on the man, who shuffled inch by inch toward him. Somewhere on the ground behind him, Defoe was beginning to stir, which meant very soon, this would become a dangerous situation for Sam to be in.
This needed to be quick.
Sam forced the issue, stepping towards the henchman who, in his panic, lunged forward and tried to slash Sam with the blade. Instinctively, Sam dropped his shoulder, dodging the attempted murder, and he grabbed the man’s arm by the elbow and wrist, and twisted it. The tendons in the man’s joints crunched under the pressure and the man relinquished the knife with a feeble wail of pain, and Sam caught the blade before it hit the ground.
In the blink of an eye, he obliterated the man with three swift, deep stabs to the chest, before stepping past him. Leon watched in horror as the man fell to his knees, the quick blood loss making it impossible for him to comprehend what had happened, before he collapsed onto his front, the blood pumping from his body as he twitched through the last few seconds of his life.
‘Fuck this.’ Leon screamed and then tried to run towards the discarded weapons on the floor a few feet away.
As he did, Sam spun the knife so he was holding the blade between his thumb and index finger, drew his arm back and then threw it. The blade spun through the air before it embedded in the side of Leon’s upper thigh, causing him to drop to the floor amongst screams of agony. Leaving a smear of blood, he began to pull himself across the marble, but his missing limb made it a futile task. Sam walked across the room, each footstep growing louder as he got closer and Leon began to weep with fear.
His hand was a few inches from the gun.
He could almost reach it.
