‘Jesus. Fucking. Christ.’ Etheridge exclaimed, as they read the mission report.
Seeing the events written down was like lifting a blindfold and Sam suddenly felt woozy, as the memories that had evaded him for so long, suddenly came rushing back.
He remembered.
He remembered everything.
Chapter Nineteen
Seven Years Earlier…
The sun had long since set over the horizon, the ferocious heat that bathed Afghanistan on a daily basis had been unbearable at times. But none of the squadron had uttered even the smallest of complaints. All of them were heavily trained, the best of the best, and Sam knew he belonged among them.
For over a decade, he’d been the UK’s most feared sniper, racking up over ninety kills for his country, many of which were high profile targets or covert operations needing his cover. For the most part, his career had been a sparkling journey of success, with medals and praise showered upon him for his skill and bravery.
The horror from three years ago, when he was blown from the mountains overlooking the depleted town of Chikari haunted his nightmares, the final moments with his good friend Matt McLaughlin, his spotter, who was blown away by the blast. Not a day went by that he didn’t mourn his friend’s memory.
They had never recovered a body and Sam could only hope that the young man had felt no pain when the missile hit.
Apart from another mission gone wrong in the Amazon rainforest, Sam had a reputation to back up Marsden’s recruitment of him into the elite squadron, overseen by the imperious General Ervin Wallace.
The man carried himself with unshakable power, like a prize bull patrolling his pen, and although the entire squadron who had made camp two clicks south of the target were some of the most skilled men the UK and US had ever seen, none of them dare speak out of line.
Wallace was a tyrant.
But he got the job done.
It was why he’d been given the go ahead to create an elite team for missions that were so off the book, they were not recorded. The long-lasting partnership between the UK and America had taken on a new role, one of policing the world without it knowing.
For soldiers like Sam, and the others who were preparing their weapons, it was a duty they had willingly signed up for.
For men like Wallace, it was like a drug.
The power.
The control.
With the resources bestowed upon him by the government, Wallace had created a team that made him one of the most powerful men in the world. The finer details were kept to hushed conversations in dark corners. The official reports would be written with as much information redacted as needed.
The world would only know the bare minimum.
The reports would be useful only as a record of an event.
The soldiers themselves knew what had happened but were never privy as to why. Again, need to know become unknown, and despite his unease, Sam followed his orders as a good soldier did.
The war on terror had been raging for years, with horrifying milestones such as 9/11 and 07/07 a painful reminder that the war never ended.
The fight was never over.
In secret government boardrooms, Wallace was hailed as a hero. A man who had pulled together two of the most powerful armed forces in the world and took the fight to the bad guys.
They had already successfully completed three missions, all of them taking place on the outskirts of Kabul, the capitol of Afghanistan. Several prominent figures in the Taliban militia had been eradicated, and the squadron had lost only one man.
A Corporal Lance Milton.
The American died in an explosion when a fallen Taliban soldier pulled the pin on a grenade as Milton turned his body over.
It was a fateful mistake, one which the rest of the squadron mourned and learned from.
There was no humility anymore.
Every Taliban soldier was to be killed on sight, with a double tap a requirement. The phrase didn’t sit too well with Sam. Not only because it was coined by his American brethren, but because in Sam’s career, he’d never needed the security of a second shot.
Sam only needed one shot.
Lethal in one.
That’s what the smarmy Trevor Sims had said, the repugnant man following Wallace around like a snivelling shadow. While Marsden had left the operation after recruiting Sam, he’d warned him of Sims.
The man was distasteful, racist, and delusional.
But he had no moral compass and his blind ambition made him as loyal as a dog.
Perfect for his role as Wallace’s second in command.
As the cold night washed over the dusty wasteland surrounding their camp, Sam watched as an unmarked Jeep arrived, it’s lights off and two men inside. As it came to a stop, the driver quickly leapt out, scarpering around to the back of the vehicle and pulling out a large sports bag. From the passenger seat, a large, stoic man stepped, his neat beard framing a strong jaw. His piercing eyes locked onto the driver who handed him the bag and then back away.
Sam didn’t know his name, but the man was tall, stocky, and walked with a purpose. A few murmurs from the rest of the watching crew mentioned the name ‘Farukh’, but Sam paid no heed.
If he needed to know that man, then Wallace would have made an introduction.
As the man disappeared into the tent where Wallace and Sims were talking strategy, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Inside, he looked at the photo of Lucy, her smile bright enough to light up the dark dessert. He yearned to return home to her, to their home in Ruislip, where they’d discussed starting a family.
This would be the last mission, he decided. It was time to step back from the never-ending war and build a new life.
Maybe he could help train others to take his place, guide those with the gift of accuracy down a career path such as his own. The thought saddened him, as he didn’t want others to face the horrors he
