‘Such a late transfer. Usually, we get so much notice to make sure everything is in place.’ Harris shook his head. ‘Just, keep everything tight, Sharp, and I’ll handle the red tape tomorrow.’
‘Have a good night, sir.’
Sharp slammed the door closed before Harris could respond and the car crawled towards the large, impenetrable gate, beginning Harris’s overlong exit from the facility. As the gate slid open and the black Mercedes pulled away, a cruel smile creaked across Sharp’s face.
Harris’s orders had been clear.
Sharp and his team were to ensure that Sam had an easy first night at Ashcroft. That was fine by him. As far as he was concerned, after getting a few licks in earlier, he’d already laid down the law to Sam. Whether he liked it or not, he would fall in line.
Neither Sharp, nor any of his team, would lay a hand on Sam.
As he turned away from the gate as it began to close, he rubbed his meaty hands together. He marched back to the entrance of the ominous Grid, hellbent on keeping his promise.
He wouldn’t lay a hand on Sam.
But Sharp could be very persuasive and there were certainly a number of desperate men, willing to do desperate things when given the chance.
Anything for a crumb of comfort and it wouldn’t take much for Sharp to make that happen.
As he crossed the threshold and showed his security pass, a pointless exercise that he would do away with the second he took charge, he afforded himself a small chuckle at the idea forming in his head.
It was time to welcome Sam to Ashcroft.
* * *
Sam was surprised by how comfortable his bed was.
While every impression he’d had since he was marched through the heavily secure facility was that it was designed for maximum punishment, he expected the bed to fall in line. It wasn’t like staying at the Ritz, but as he lowered himself onto the thin mattress, he was surprised to find a modicum of comfort from it. Considering he’d spent many nights asleep outside, hidden within the rough landscapes of the middle eastern countries while on tour, a thin mattress was welcomed.
As he’d been led to his cell, he could hear the threats emanating from the other cells. It was expected.
While the inhabitants of The Grid were predominantly cut off from the world, Sam recognised the very real possibility that his mission would have leaked through. If a building that harboured a number of the UK’s most dangerous criminals didn’t have some links to the world he’d mercilessly fought for over a year, it would have shocked him.
To the guards, he was a criminal.
To the inmates, he was a criminal killer.
In other words, he was on his own.
His head was still ringing from the cheap shot from Sharp but compared to what he’d been through in the last few weeks, it was nothing. As he shuffled on the mattress, a pain shot from his spine, the stitches from his run in with The Hangman of Baghdad not quite dissolved. Sam’s mind raced back to that night, balancing precariously on the slippery scaffold of the once prosperous High Rise, with a murderous assassin looking to slice him to pieces.
Sam had powered through.
Fought back.
Survived.
After slicing open the man’s throat and leaving him to die in the rain, Sam had envisaged his fight was over. As he’d dropped to his knees, it was the first moment of peace he’d experienced since he’d lost his son. Despite the horrifying revelations of Project Hailstorm, Sam had put things right.
Marsden’s death had been avenged.
Blackridge had been disbanded.
Wallace’s reign of terror had been brutally ended.
He had allowed DI Singh to take him in, knowing it would resurrect a career that his mission had ruptured. It was the least he could do.
After a few hours of quiet reflection as he stared at the dank, grey ceiling of his cell, Sam had tuned out the noise from the rest of the prison. He had already missed the allotted hour for exercise, but he could hear the clanking of cell doors as the staggered mealtimes approached. With each group of fifty prisoners who were herded to the canteen like cattle, another wave of violent promises echoed in his direction. The odd rebuke from a prison guard followed, but Sam was under no illusion that they were interested in his safety.
They were here to watch over the prisoners. Keep them in check.
But he sincerely doubted, judging by the attitude of Sharp, that his safety was top of their priority list.
He was just another criminal.
Right on cue, a fist pounded on his door, filling his room with a sharp echo that caused him to grit his teeth. An angry voice demanded he stood to the far wall and Sam slowly obliged. His cell door swung open and a gruff prison guard stood. Mid-forties and with a gut that told Sam he was well fed, the guard eyed him up down before jerking his neck.
‘Grub time. Hop to it.’
Sam stretched as he walked, ignoring the pain in his spine, and he rolled his shoulders, still feeling a tightness in the joint which had been decimated by a bullet in Rome. There had certainly been costs to his fight against crime and Sam put his freedom at the bottom of the list. Compared to breaking his promise to his son and the punishment he’d put his body through, being locked down in a secret prison was a minor inconvenience.
As they strode through the prison, Sam scanned the corridors. They were identical in layout, and every single one of them consisted of ten cells, all spaced out by a few metres. There were no distinguishable features, nothing on the walls, and the desperation of the situation the inhabitants faced hung heavy in the air.
Eventually, they made their way to a set of thick, metal double doors, which the guard opened with his security pass. As they slid open, the
