There would be a time for him to face the consequences of his actions, but not until he’d put Sam through as much pain as humanly possible.
Ever since he’d been liberated by Wallace, he’d researched all he could about the life Sam went on to lead. He had married the wonderful woman who’d shown Mac such kindness and even fathered a son. While Jamie Pope’s demise was unfortunate, Mac felt no sympathy. Having spent seven years in a Taliban prison cell, any semblance of humanity had left him.
Wallace had seen that and had allowed Mac to channel it towards his bidding.
With no empathy coursing through his veins, Mac was a perfect killing machine and whatever names were sent to him through the Blackridge network, he eliminated them ruthlessly and without question.
Men.
Women.
Children.
They were just names on a screen.
But Sam would mean something. Killing him would grant Mac peace for the trials he went through. Once Sam had begged him for death, he would gladly go to jail or to the afterlife, safe in the knowledge that he’d restored the balance.
Set things even.
After killing and robbing Josh Maxwell, Mac had made his way to London by train and then found the nearest Internet café near Waterloo Station. Despite the usual quizzical looks his charred face drew, he found a quiet seat in the far corner of the room and was able to log onto the private servers of an online RPG called Warrior’s Call.
Video games had never appealed to Mac, his rough upbringing saw him spend his time out on the streets as opposed to stowing away in a bedroom, fighting monsters in the vain attempt to raise his online credibility. But Blackridge had provided their Ghosts with a log in and a playable character, purely as a failsafe if they went off the grid.
Mac had hoped the server was still running, despite the dissolution of the organisation in the wake of Wallace’s death.
The General had saved his life, given him a purpose, and whenever he thought about his passing, it only added fuel to the vengeful fire burning within him.
The server was still active, although the small chat box in the top right showed only two active users.
Ignoring the colourful imagery of the game, Mac typed in his passcode and waited.
Whoever else was logged in kept him waiting, but after five minutes, they responded.
‘Welcome back to the server. Please state your quest?’
Mac rolled his eyes. He was sure that whoever was on the other end of the keyboard was a snotty, computer nerd who enjoyed pretending he was a mythical creature. The irony was, he was a mythical creature to Mac, as they would never meet. The operatives who controlled the logistics and tech side of Blackridge were kept out of sight, locked away in dark terminals, plotting the elimination of targets.
While Mac may have been the one pulling the trigger, the one’s pushing out the orders were just as complicit in the bloodshed.
Mac responded with the pre-rehearsed lingo he’d committed to his memory.
‘Retribution quest. Need nearest loot box.’
Again, he cursed himself as he typed but the phrase was designed not to flag up on any potential searches. Blackridge may have had close ties to the government, but their business wasn’t strictly legal. Wallace had garnered enough power to operate throughout the world, smiling and nodding in the official meetings and dealing with legitimate threats off the books.
Mac rubbed his chin with impatience as the nerd began their response, the small notification that they were typing felt like a personal mocking.
‘TS,0.3KM,F1,L32,C4881’
Mac smiled. The response would flag as nothing more than a gaming coordinate, but to him, it was a map. Having dialled into the IP of his computer, the genius on the other end of the chat had quickly ascertained his location. The train station a third of a kilometre away, first floor, locker thirty-two. The four digit combination code would grant him access, where he would find a ‘survival pack’, a safety net that Blackridge had set up in almost every town or city within which they operated. The fact that this one was located within Waterloo Station, a short walk up the road, brought a smile to his face.
It would contain a black satchel, with a pack of fresh underwear, toothbrush, ten thousand pounds in cash, and a loaded handgun.
Enough tools to drop off the radar.
But Mac was preparing for the exact opposite, and he patted the inside of his jacket, feeling the solid steel of the SIG Sauer P226 he’d used to put a bullet through Eric Maxwell’s head.
The very same gun he’d nearly killed Sam with.
Another message popped up, drawing his attention.
‘Is there anything else I can provide before you embark on your quest?’
There was no coming back from what Mac had planned, and with Wallace dead, there seemed little need to protect the integrity of the web server.
Blackridge was over, and while the operative on the other end of the web chat was valiantly trying to ensure support for the assets who were now being hunted by the government, it would only be a matter of time before it all came crashing to the ground.
A fitting way to end, considering the four-storey plummet that its founder had taken at the hands of Sam Pope.
With his plan of vengeance starting to take place, Mac allowed a wry smile to creep across his scarred face.
‘Expert needed.’
He waited patiently. The icon flashed his response was incoming.
‘Expert need for what purpose?’
Mac leant forward; his eyes bright with malice.
‘Explosives.’
Chapter Fifteen
Since the moment her first request for an update on Sam Pope had been rebuffed, Singh had felt something was wrong.
