The millionaires’ road he lived all was as peaceful as ever, with the large houses all locked away behind their automatic gates and their expensive luxury cars.
Opposite the house, he melted into the shadows of the large hedge that framed his neighbour’s house.
A few hours later, he felt his arms shake with excitement as Sam approached the gate of his house, looking forlornly at the misdirecting ‘Sold’ sign that stood proudly before resting his head against the metal.
Etheridge had stepped forward, ready for his dramatic entrance and quietly approached Sam from behind, the unloaded gun in his hand.
Etheridge’s story had hit Sam like a punch to the gut. While he knew every war had casualties, he’d never intended to put his friend in harm’s way. It had been a desperate act to find a young girl. By associating himself with Etheridge, he had painted a target on the man’s back, one which highly trained people had taken aim at.
Sam had felt sick.
As the eerie silence had settled between them as they sat at the breakfast bar in the now sparse kitchen, Etheridge had decided to break the silence.
‘You look like crap.’
They had chuckled and Etheridge had insisted that Sam clean himself up, directing him to one of the pristine bathrooms. Sam had graciously accepted, his guilt weighing down every step as he trudged to the bathroom.
As Etheridge handed him a towel, he also handed him a pair of electric clippers with a smile.
Sam had chuckled, but the grim reality hit him in the face as he saw his reflection.
His beard was scraggily, despite his best efforts.
With a click of a button, Sam glided the electric razor across his sturdy jaw, the hair tumbling down to the sink below like brown snow. After a few moments, his face felt fresher than it had done in months, and he ran his hand across the stubble.
He turned the setting on the razor to grade three and then pushed it slowly through the thick hair on top of his head. For a few moments, he looked hilarious, with random tufts of hair flopping over his increasingly shorn skull. A few moments later, he dropped a grade on the clippers and ever so slightly shortened the back and sides. It was hardly stylish, but it was neat and tidy.
Sam hadn’t had his hair this short since he was in the army and he couldn’t help but smile at the familiarity of it. As he let the shower heat up, he helped himself to a string of floss, attacked his teeth with it and finished off with some mouth wash.
Feeling slightly cleaner, he dropped his clothes to the floor and stepped into the shower, the hot water crashing against him like a warm cuddle. Five minutes later, he emerged, feeling the freshest he had in a long time.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and looked at his body. While he’d lost a little muscle mass in his three-month recovery, he was still in decent shape.
He looked at his scars.
The damage he’d endured during his time in Chakari over a decade ago. The knife wound from his fight with Mark Connor in the High Rise. The bullet wounds in his thigh, shoulder, and stomach ever since he began his fight with the Kovalenko’s.
All of them were permanent reminders.
As where the two white scars on his chest, staring up at him like a pair of pupiless eyes.
His body had been through war.
And he was about to go into another.
As he stepped out of the bathroom, he nearly tripped on the clothes that Etheridge had left for him and he welcomed the clean underwear, jeans, and T-shirt as he pulled them on. The T-shirt was a little tight, but it would do.
Grateful for everything, he followed the light shining from Etheridge’s converted loft, through the hallway where he’d engaged in a gun fight with the police.
Just another crime to add to his ever-growing list.
As he stepped in, he raised his eyebrows. Etheridge had certainly been busy. When Sam had last been in the same room, he’d been presented with a few screens and some expensive kit. Now it looked like an underground government facility. Several screens lined the walls, all connected to a beast of a computer which Etheridge commandeered through his wireless keyboard and mouse. In the far corner, a large batch of servers hummed, different lights twinkling like a Christmas show.
The high back leather chair spun round, and Etheridge sat, his hands clasped together.
‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr Pope.’
Sam chuckled.
‘Shouldn’t you have a white cat?’
‘I’m allergic.’ Etheridge smiled and then reached under the desk and pulled open a small fridge. He retrieved two bottles of cold beer and flicked off the caps, handing one to Sam.
‘To peace,’ Etheridge said dryly. They clinked and Sam took a large swig, the cold alcohol tasted superb. Etheridge took a gulp and smacked his lips. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup,’ Etheridge said proudly. ‘Made a few changes.’
Sam nodded his agreement. Last time he’d seen his friend, Etheridge certainly had the look of a man who enjoyed his excess heavy lifestyle. But the chubby beer belly had gone, replaced with a leaner torso. His arms were firmer and the fluffy remnants of hair he’d desperately held onto had been cropped back.
He was a new man.
Focussed.
After a few more silent sips of beer, Sam spoke.
‘Paul. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you.’
‘What?’ Etheridge slapped his knee brace. ‘This thing. Best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Seriously. You helped me out and it nearly got you killed. I can’t imagine what you went through.’
Etheridge took a long, thoughtful swig of his beer and then placed it on his desk. He took a deep breath and leant forward, regarding Sam with a stern look.
‘I’m not going to lie, Sam. It hurt like hell. The man who did this, he was like nobody I’ve ever seen. But while I was recovering, while
