Lucy had been up early to go to work, her job as a high school deputy head teacher kept her extremely busy and fulfilled. Sam had suggested taking a trip into the city once Mac had admitted he’d never been and as they rode the Metropolitan Line from Ruislip Manor all the way to Euston Square, Mac had stared out of the window in a trance.
Although part of the London Underground, the Met Line didn’t actual head beneath the surface until it had passed Finchley Road, giving Mac a wonderful view of Wembley Stadium as they approached Wembley Park Station. As a big Manchester United fan, he’d seen his team win multiple trophies at the storied ground but seeing the famous arch soaring proudly into the sky took his breath away.
But now, stood on Parliament Street, surrounded by an army of gawping tourists, Big Ben had much the same effect. The magnificent clock face was shimmering in the sunlight, the rays bouncing off the glass. Sam looked at his friend and smiled. It was nice to see him relaxed as he was always so intense while on tour. Sam understood.
Mac wanted to be the best.
Sam was more than willing to help him get there.
As they stood for a few moments, allowing a group of young tourists by, Mac eventually turned to his mentor.
‘Thanks, Sam. For everything.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ He slapped Mac on his solid arm.
‘Seriously. When I joined the army, I kind of did it as a last resort. I was out of options and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could make something of myself. But the last six months, you’ve shown me I can go beyond that. Have the life I never thought I could.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Sam replied sheepishly.
‘No, you have. When I walked into that tent with you and Sarge, I was bricking it. But since then, all I think about is being a soldier. Being the best damn sniper I can be and now, seeing your life, it’s shown me what I want my life to be. Thank you.’
Out of nowhere, Sam swiped his arm over Mac’s head, locking him in a headlock to the alarm of a few passers-by. After a few moments, they dismissed it for the tomfoolery it was and Sam let go, both men chuckling.
‘Enough of this mushy shit,’ Sam said jokingly. He glanced at his watch, assessing whether their hangover from the night before would still be lingering. ‘Pint?’
‘Good shout.’
They turned and headed back towards the parade of shops that lined the streets as they headed towards Holborn, and they soon found a pub. Before they went in, Mac lit a cigarette with a hint of embarrassment, knowing Sam didn’t approve but wouldn’t judge. After a few puffs, Sam thrusted a thumb towards the door, indicating he was going to get the drinks. Through a cloud of smoke, Mac spoke one final time.
‘In all seriousness, thank you, Sam. You changed my life.’
‘Don’t mention it, buddy,’ Sam said sternly. ‘As we always say, we never leave a man behind.’
Sam disappeared into the pub, leaving Mac to beam with pride as he finished his cigarette. With all the carelessness in the world, he stubbed it out and followed his mentor in, with no clue that in a years’ time he would be subjected to more pain than he thought humanly possible.
* * *
Sam’s words had stuck with Mac through all of it.
The betrayal.
The tortures.
The rapes.
‘We never leave a man behind.’
It was bullshit. Empty words from a man who had left him to die in the hot sun. Mac could feel the anger pulsing through him, and his fists clenched, but he took a deep breath. He needed to maintain his calm.
To keep control.
The road back to the UK had been relatively easy. After stealing a car from a used car showroom in Austria, he’d driven through the beautiful country, evading the German border patrol easily enough before once again helping himself to a car. The sleek, efficient German car made for a smooth drive as he navigated his way through the country, driving up through the wonderous city of Munich, before heading north towards Stuttgart. It had taken him three days to venture to the German border, stopping only to sleep in his car in secluded spots off the motorway, or to eat.
With his finances dwindling, it occurred to Mac that he was truly on his own.
Wallace was dead.
Blackridge had been decommissioned and from the protected message boards that the operatives occasionally visited online, those in the field were now wanted by several international governments for questioning. Mac included.
As Mac approached Stuttgart, he recalled another one of Wallace’s ‘Ghosts’, Brandt, was originally from the city and he wondered if he was lying low back home? It was unlikely. From the messages he’d read, Brandt had been unsuccessful on a Sam Pope operation in London the same weekend Wallace had died.
Idiot.
Mac cursed Wallace out loud, slamming the palms of his hands against the solid, leather steering wheel as he drove. If Wallace had given him another shot at Sam, he would still be alive.
Mac would have killed him.
This time, he wouldn’t hesitate.
In the months since Sam had evaded him in Rome, not an hour went by when Mac wished he’d taken a different shot. Instead of shooting to wound and allowing him the chance to kill Sam up close and personal, he would have put the bullet through the back of his treacherous skull.
That time would come.
A few days later, after once again evading the necessary border checks upon entering the country, Mac had made his way across France. He had been caught off guard by the serene beauty of the land as he drove through, passing vast open fields and quaint, pictureesque towns. As he approached Calais, he was running on empty.
Physically and fiscally.
Getting back to his homeland would be trickier, as traversing the English Channel would require a willing transporter. With the stringent checks
