But Sam would fight.

  He was born to survive.

  As he slid the black T-shirt over his body, he grimaced with pain. He needed to get some painkillers on his way to London, and he marched across the room to the sports bag on the table, which was stuffed with the remaining weaponry he had.

  Two SA80 Assault Rifles.

  Two Glock 17s.

  Three grenades.

  Sam had promised Dana Kovalenko a war, so he was going to bring her one. Until the final bullet flew from his gun or the last breath left his body, Sam Pope would fight back.

  Then Brandt’s phone pinged with an incoming message, and Sam suddenly had a chance to end the war before it had even begun.

  ‘It’s done.’

  Dallow blew out his cheeks and placed his phone down on the table. He’d been held captive by Nash and Defoe, but not uncomfortably. Sure, his jaw still stung with soreness from the vicious strike from the younger man, but beyond the odd snarky comment, there had been nothing else forthcoming. Nash, while unbelievably imposing with every movement, spoke softly and politely, and had made it clear that as long as Dallow was useful, he’d be fine.

  Dallow was desperate to prove himself just that, as he was certain that once the mission was over, the two Americans wouldn’t want to leave any breadcrumbs.

  Unfortunately, one of them was always in the room with him, making it impossible for him to either reach out for help or investigate them any further. He’d thought about calling the police secretly, but then he would have to explain his role in everything.

  He’d end up in prison.

  And his chances of survival there were slimmer than sitting in the reasonably comfortable chair he was in.

  Defoe had his hands behind his head, leant back in the chair on the opposite side of the table, and he regarded Dallow with disdain.

  ‘It ain’t done. You sent a fucking text message.’ He sat forward and lifted the handgun from the table. ‘We’re the ones who have to get it done.’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it…’

  ‘Enough.’ Nash entered the room, his arms stretching the white T-shirt to its limit and exposing the tattoos that ran the length of his arms. ‘Good work.’

  Dallow smiled and quickly withdrew it as Defoe stood, making a show of the weapon in his hand.

  ‘So he’s useless now, right?’

  ‘Whoa, wait…’

  Defoe started laughing. A needless display of power and one which drew the ire of Nash, who stomped forward and swiftly disarmed his colleague.

  It was a show of skill.

  Of superiority.

  ‘What the fuck is your problem?’ Defoe snarled.

  ‘He still has his uses, and you don’t need to dick measure with him.’

  ‘Jeez, Jake, I’m just fucking around.’ Defoe patted Nash on his shoulder. ‘You should try to lighten up. Well, seen as how we got a few hours to kill, I am going to see what the spa’s like downstairs and how much it will cost for the nice lady to jerk me off. You should come, big guy. Might ease some of that tension.’

  ‘Get your hand off me, or you’ll need to get her to pull your dick out next time you need to take a piss.’

  Defoe scoffed but obliged and then stepped past his hulking superior and headed to the door. As he did, he looked at Dallow and then imitated shooting him with his finger. That swiftly turned into an upward middle finger and the door slammed behind him. Nash sighed and then placed the gun in the back of his trousers.

  ‘Is he always like that?’ Dallow asked meekly.

  ‘Unfortunately.’ Nash turned back to his hostage. ‘But he does raise a good point. How useful are you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Panic began to set in, and Dallow began searching frantically for a possible exit. Nash held up his hand.

  ‘Easy. I have no intention of killing you.’ He then pointed at the row of monitors. ‘I need you to do some digging for me.’

  ‘Digging?’

  ‘I want to know more about this Kovalenko woman. Eli, he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s married to the cause. The Foundation don’t ask questions. Us assets, we get given a contract, we fulfil it and then we walk away. No trace. No footprint. No questions.’

  ‘But you have some?’

  Nash drew his lips together in a thin line and took the seat next to Dallow and then rubbed a hand over his bald head.

  ‘Something just doesn’t feel right. You heard that conversation. She’s put money on this Pope because he killed her brother, but he saved kids from being sold to God knows what corner of Earth.’

  ‘Brandt asked for the same information when we took the contract. All I could find were some news articles about it, but any police records about the incident have either been removed or archived way outside of my reach.’ Dallow shrugged. ‘The press claimed there were links with a mayoral candidate, and I guess, for the good of the country and the political landscape, they wanted to sweep it under the rug.’

  ‘Politicians.’ Nash spat with disgust.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Dallow gulped with nerves. Nash looked at him. ‘Are you gonna kill me?’

  Nash looked down at the carpet below his feet. For over two decades, he’d served as the blueprint for what a Foundation asset should be. There had been a lot of people who’d wanted to ask that question, but he’d never given them a chance. So many people who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, who had either seen or heard something that could be considered a breadcrumb.

  Nash executed them without hesitation.

  But years of serving the same master came with its own flaws, especially when the agenda changed without his input. Without a seat at the table, he was reliant on Callaghan to do the right thing. As a mentor and a friend, Callaghan was one of only three people who Nash trusted in the world, but even he knew that Callaghan’s influence only stretched so far.

  The notion of the Foundation being a covert force for good had long since evaporated, and this confirmed it.

  They had accepted a contract from the vengeful family of a known sex trafficker.

  There was no balance they were restoring. No moral gain for anyone.

  The hit on Sam Pope was about vengeance, and the Foundation had accepted it for nothing more than cold, hard cash.

  Blood money.

  Money made off the back of lord knows how many young women and the sickening fate they’d been sold into.

  Nash clenched his deadly fist and grimaced.

  ‘You still want to be useful?’ he eventually asked. Dallow nodded enthusiastically. ‘Get reception to get you some sleeping pills, and then do exactly as I say. Then maybe I’ll rethink this whole killing you thing.’

  Nash offered Dallow a smile, which somehow reassured the young man, yet chilled him to the bone at the same time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The license plate had been a dead end.

  Despite the man putting his career in jeopardy, DS Anderson hadn’t delivered an easy route to Sam Pope, despite claiming to be the man in the know. After a few hours of brutal torture, the man had claimed to Mendoza, through a barrage of tears and snot, that he could give him Pope on a plate. It turned out; he had a license plate for a hired Range Rover that had been rented out by a female American.

  For that reason, Mendoza had made a pledge to kill Anderson once he’d collected his reward for Sam Pope’s delivery.

  After visiting the car rental shop and intimidating the middle-aged man behind the counter, Mendoza had decided to search the local news websites until he found the stories relating the attack at the café and the potential Sam Pope sighting. It was all broadly speculation, with the Derbyshire Police, quite rightly, playing down the incident as nothing more than a confrontation.

  While the two Americans had been injured and taken into custody, there was no mention of Sam Pope, the missing SUV, or of any large German man. But Mendoza knew it was a smokescreen, and a quick search of the village on Twitter returned numerous, worried posts about potential gunshots in the area.

  He had no other leads and a rapidly emptying hourglass, so Mendoza decided to drive out to Spondon that afternoon, half expecting the place to be overrun by the police. To his surprise, the streets were empty, save for the elderly inhabitants of the village, who were walking their dogs and enjoying the rare day of sunshine as the weather began its descent into autumnal gloom. It was a rather quaint village, a world away from the poverty-stricken slums of Old Havana where he’d grown up. Having lived on the streets of the shanty towns, Mendoza was moulded into the unfeeling, dangerous man he had become, and watching as these middle-class folk strolled peacefully down cobbled streets, lined by flower gardens, sickened him.

  They had no idea how lucky they were.

  How oblivious they were, not just to the danger of the man in the car, but to the state of the world beyond their gate.

  Mendoza pulled the car into the local car park, reversing it neatly between two parked cars, one of which had an elderly man struggling to lift his dog into the boot. Mendoza slid his window down.

  ‘Need a hand?’ Mendoza asked, masking his thick Cuban accent with a pretty impressive English one. The man nodded, and Mendoza stepped out of his Mercedes, adjusted his blazer, and then duly helped the man lift the dog into the back. The man slammed the door shut and then turned to his mysterious helper.

  ‘Thanks, son.’ He regarded Mendoza with a keen eye. ‘You’re not from round here, are ya?’

  Mendoza held up his hands and grinned.

  ‘You got me. No, I’m from north London. I’m just visiting the area for a wedding.’

  ‘I see. Nice day for it.’

  ‘It’s not until tomorrow, but thought I’d take in some of the sights. This place is really nice.’

  ‘It is.’ The man seemed suspicious. Mendoza had ensured his blazer covered the tattoos down to his wrist, and the white T-shirt covered those that adorned his sculpted chest. ‘Well, when the police aren’t putting us all in a panic.’

  ‘I heard about that.’ Mendoza played along. ‘Something about a fight in a café?’

  ‘Mama’s Café.’ The man pointed up the road. ‘I’ve been going there for thirty years and not seen as much as an argument. These damn tourists. No offence.’

  ‘Hey, none taken.’ Mendoza pointed at his face. ‘Cuban dad. Means I get a hell of a tan, right?’

  The man chuckled and wished him well, and Mendoza set off towards the café. As soon as the man dropped into his car, Mendoza dropped the fake grin and walked with purpose to the parade of shops. Once again, the expected police presence was absent, with a sign tagged to a lamppost asking for any witnesses to call them with information. To his surprise, the café was open, and he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Whatever carnage had taken place the day before, there were no signs of it, and the only sign of life was a sweet old lady who was sweeping the floor. She didn’t look up as she spoke.

  ‘Afraid we ain’t doing food today, my dear.’

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ Mendoza asked, his accent returning. She turned to look at him.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a handsome fellow?’ She grinned. Mendoza’s tanned skin suited his sharp face, with his neat beard compensating for his bald head. A flicker of a tattoo snuck up from the collar of his T-shirt, but he knew that in his smart, casual attire, he scrubbed up rather nicely.

  It caught people unawares.

  Put them off guard.

  ‘Well, thank you.’ Mendoza flashed his grin and motioned to a table. ‘Can I sit here…?’

  ‘Maggie,’ she replied with a smile. ‘But most folk round here call me Mama.’

  ‘Mama it is.’ Mendoza took his seat. ‘The name’s Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie? You don’t look like a Charlie.’

  ‘I know. Sadly, I have Cuban heritage, but that’s it. Everything else is English through and through.’

  ‘That’s not a bad thing.’ Maggie gave a thumbs up and ambled behind the counter. The coffee machine hummed to life, and she pottered in front of it, the gentle clicking of porcelain as she got his mug ready. After the initial warm greeting, a silence had begun to filter into the room and Mendoza didn’t want things to take a turn.

  He was a cold-hearted killer by trade, but a harmless old lady wasn’t high on his list of targets. If he could get what he wanted without going down the same route as with Anderson, he’d prefer it.

  But if needs must…

  ‘To be honest, I’m surprised you’re open.’

  ‘Open seven days a week, my dear.’

  ‘I meant after the incident yesterday.’ Mendoza caught her eye. ‘From what I heard that is…’

  Maggie sighed and shuffled out with the coffee. She placed it down on the table before him and then put her hands firmly on her hips.

  ‘If you’re a journalist, you can finish up your coffee and get out. I’ve already said to the rest of you all, nothing happened. Nothing of note.’

  ‘Mama…’ Mendoza reached out and gently held her wrist. ‘I was stationed with Sam Pope out in Afghanistan ten years ago. I served with him. He’s my brother.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about…’ Maggie squirmed, her eyes darting around the room.

  Mendoza knew he had her.

  He stood, making no effort not to intimidate her with his strong build. He knew he looked like a soldier, and he’d rather lie to the woman than hurt her.

  ‘He saved my life when we were out there, and now, I know I have the chance to save his.’ Mendoza gave a fake concerned look to the door. ‘I know the police are after him, but I know they won’t find him. He’s good. But I know I would never forgive myself if I didn’t reach out and try to help him.’

  ‘I know…’ Maggie’s eyes watered, and she looked down at the ground. Mendoza reached out and placed a caring hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Please, Mama. If you know anything, it could help save his life. Especially if there are people out there trying to hurt him.’

  The old lady sighed and then looked out of the window towards the road that curved away from the high street. It was where the local cemetery was, and where her late husband was buried. He was a good man.

  Sam Pope was a good man.

  And this young Charlie, well, if he knew Sam Pope, then he must be a good man, too.

  ‘He’s staying a few streets down. Not sure which one, but there are only a few guest houses available around here. Said he booked it online, but that’s too confusing for me. He told me his name was Jonathan something, but I knew it was him. He just has that look about him, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Look?’ Mendoza shrugged.

  ‘Of a hero.’

  Mendoza chuckled and then cracked his neck. He reached down and lifted his coffee, downing the whole drink in one go before handing the cup to Maggie. Bemused, she took it, as he pulled out his wallet, shifted out some notes, and tucked them into her pocket. He turned and headed to the door, as she fumbled with the mug and then pulled out over fifty pounds from where he’d stuffed it.

  ‘Oh, Charlie. This is way too much…’

  She was horrified by the thick, Cuban accent that responded, along with the evil sneer.

  ‘Consider it a payment for your information. I will tell him where I got it, when he begs me for death.’

  With that, Mendoza slammed the door open and stepped out into the cool breeze of the afternoon, already shifting through his phone to find accommodation in the village and headed in the general direction she had pointed him to.

  It wouldn’t take him long to find the right one.

  And then he would collect his bounty.

  Dead or alive.

  As he turned the corner onto the street, he saw him. It was just a glimpse, but it was just enough for Mendoza to step backwards into a driveway and take cover behind a large hedgerow. His movement had been so fluid, there was no way Pope could have seen him.

  But it was unmistakably him. About fifty yards down the street, hoisting a sports bag into the boot of a nondescript car. Short brown hair and stubble, with the physique of an elite athlete, the man was undoubtedly in his physical prime.

  Peeping through the leaves, Mendoza noted the way he moved. The way he walked.

  Like a soldier.

  A man of purpose.

  His face was littered with bruising and a severe gash across his lip.

  Wherever he was planning to go, he seemed in complete control. There was no rushing, no panicked movements.

  Mendoza waited for Pope to return to his abode before he took off and ran as quickly as he could back towards the car park. As he slid into the seat and revved the engine, he saw the black car turn out from the end of the road.

  Moments later, Mendoza pulled out of the parking space and followed.

  The message had changed Sam’s plan of action.

  While he’d intended to lay siege to London and rattle the right cages to find his way to Dana Kovalenko the hard way, a slice of good fortune had fallen into his lap. Brandt had clearly been working as part of an operation, and one could reasonably expect there to be someone off-grid running things from a logistics perspective.

  It’s how every high-end operation functioned, with someone being the eyes and ears from a remote location, feeding the assets the information in real time. Undoubtedly, that person would have been worried by the lack of response, especially with the arrest of both of Brandt’s accompanying operatives. That would have hit the news and been swept up by any analyst worth their salt.

  But in less than two hours, it would have been twenty-four since they’d engaged their target and whoever was behind that computer would have been none the wiser.

  They wouldn’t know that Brandt was dead.

  Sam measured a guess that it would be another three days or so until anyone revisited the crime scene for the Murphy case, and there, the police would be greeted by a dead body and another mountain of paperwork.

  But the analyst had played their final hand. The message that Sam had received on Brandt’s phone was laced with desperation.

  Rendezvous: Powell House, Hudson Way. Exit Strategy 2 Initiated. Will bring ammo. 21:00. KD.

 

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