‘How is he?’
‘He was being a bit mouthy.’ The operative motioned with his bandaged hand. ‘I had to quiet him down.’
‘Very good.’ Wallace shot a glance to Mac, then back to the operative. ‘Why don’t you take a fifteen-minute break?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man answered instantly, nodding his goodbye to both men and then disappeared up the staircase. Before Mac could ask what was going on, Wallace hauled open the large metal door, his bulky frame making it look easy.
‘After you.’ Wallace gestured for Mac to enter and hesitantly, he did. The room was dark and empty, the walls thick reinforced with thick, soundproof panels. The concrete floor was spattered with historic bloodstains. A single light dropped from the ceiling, offering a circular glow around the man who sat, strapped to a chair beneath. With blood trickling from his eyebrow across his swollen eye, the man had clearly taken a beating.
Mac stopped in his tracks and Wallace stepped forward, approaching the man who begged for his freedom in Arabic, tears streaming down his face and collecting in his bloodstained beard.
‘This, Mac, is Ahmed Bin Salma. A Taliban general who my team flew into the UK this morning. As you can see, he isn’t exactly as powerful as he once thought.’ The man spoke and Wallace clipped him across the face with the back of his hand. ‘Shut up.’
‘Sir?’ Mac stepped forward cautiously.
‘This man was in charge of the Taliban recruitment camp that held you hostage for seven years. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t there when we stormed the base. Which means now, he is in a lot of trouble.’ Wallace gestured to a small table that was shrouded in shadow on the far side of the room. ‘He’s all yours, Mac. When I tell you that I’ll let you take back what people have taken from you, I mean it. I’ll be outside.’
Wallace slapped Mac on the shoulder and squeezed it, before stomping back towards the door which closed behind him. Mac stood still for a few moments, contemplating the promise the General had made. Here before him, unable to escape, was the man who made his life a living hell for over half a decade.
Everything Wallace was offering was real.
The chance to make a difference.
An opportunity to channel his anguish into something real.
The promise of revenge.
A cruel smile grew across Mac’s charred face and he walked casually over to the table. Without pausing to choose, he lifted the claw hammer, felt its weight in his grip, and then stepped into the illuminated ring where the man sat. The fear that grew in his eyes when he recognised Mac, knowing full well the torture he’d put the man through. With a whimper of acceptance of his fate, the man took a long, deep breath.
Mac swung the hammer, the connection sending a vibration through his arm as it cracked the man’s skull.
The impact of the blow sent the man sideways, tipping the chair and he fell on the floor, his breathing intensifying as he tried to handle the pain.
With blood pouring from the man’s skull, Mac crouched over the top of him and as he let out a guttural roar of pure rage, he brought the hammer down on the man’s skull again and again and again until he was hitting nothing but brain soaked concrete.
* * *
Mac sat on the uncomfortable bed of his hostel room and took a deep breath. Remembering the thrill of exacting his revenge on the man responsible for his torture only reaffirmed his desire to bring a similar fate upon Sam.
Ahmed Bin Salma may have been the man who sanctioned his living hell.
It was Sam who had left him to it.
He stood and walked to the misty mirror that hung crooked on the wall. Shirtless, he examined the horrible burns that had scarred his body for life, reliving the agony as the missile struck the ground, blowing him into oblivion.
All the scars his body wore were reminders.
General Wallace’s death had hit Mac hard. Furious that he wasn’t given another chance to bring Sam to his knees, Mac had taken the time to recuperate from being run over but he never stopped pining for another opportunity. He would have killed Sam outright, but Wallace needed information from Sam, which he clearly didn’t get.
The tabloids and news channels held little regard with Mac, who often found the presenters more interested in their appearance of reputation than the news itself. But when the story broke about Blackridge, it hit him hard.
Being one of Wallace’s Ghosts had given Mac a renewed sense of purpose, with countless targets eradicated by his hand. It had pulled him back from the brink, turned him into the soldier he always knew he could be.
Losing Wallace was the worst part of it.
Despite the wild claims of terrorism, Mac had trusted in the General more than anyone else. After having his trust obliterated by Sam’s abandonment and the subsequent years of horror, Wallace had wrapped an arm around him.
Turned him into something worthwhile.
Wallace had cared.
But once again, it was Sam Pope who was the cause of his pain. Once again, Mac had been chewed up and spat out, left to rot by a man who pretended to give a damn. Sam could hide behind the grief of losing his son, but Mac knew there was something rotten inside Sam. The man was a survivor, but he didn’t care about the cost.
That was about to change.
After his exchanges with the anonymous Blackridge operative, Mac ensured his phone was on for the duration of the next twenty-four hours. Sure enough, a delivery was arranged to the front desk of the hostel which Mac intercepted before anyone had the chance to investigate it. He had fought too long and hard for his revenge to allow a nosy receptionist to potentially bring it all down.
With the package carefully sat in the cheap wardrobe in the corner of his room, he set
