Sam took a deep breath and hunched forward, resting his hands on his knees.
He had made it through.
Had survived.
With the guards that manned the gates and watch towers summoned inside by the riot, Sam took a second to breath in the quiet.
The freedom.
Overwhelmed by the moment, Sam had failed to notice the car parked a few feet away. The familiar voice drew a smile from his beaten face.
‘You look like hell.’
Sam stood and opened his arms as Singh took a few steps forward and embraced him. Moments later, she helped him to the back of the car, fired up the engine, and sped back through the gates Etheridge had disabled and within minutes, Sam was asleep, his head pressed against the door, the blood from his eyebrow smearing the plush interior as they headed back to London.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mac had sat in the car for over an hour.
On the drive over to Maidenhead he’d thought it would be easy. For so long, he’d dreamt of the day when he would get even with Sam. When he was rotting in that cage, he prayed not for his own survival, but for Sam’s. The chances were, Sam had been obliterated by the missile that had rocked Mac, as he knew Sam was chasing behind him. The blast had smashed into the ground behind Mac as he ran for his life, so logic had dictated to him that Sam had perished.
His captors never found his body.
Mac had been left alone.
But every day he wished for Sam’s survival instead of his own death, the notion of finally looking the man in the eyes had kept him alive.
But now, as he sat in the car he’d stolen from a multistorey car park beside Waterloo Station, he hesitated.
This part of the plan was always going to be difficult, but Mac was surprised he had any compassion left. Wallace had ensured it had stayed hidden, if it even existed and for every target Mac had mercilessly killed, he’d been certain any emotion, besides the seething rage that burnt within him, had been extinguished.
But he was wrong.
The Ford Fiesta he’d stolen was an easy drive, equipped with the mod cons that littered every new model. Mac had been careful to ensure the car he took had an inbuilt satnav, and he tapped in the address, following the robotic voice as it guided him through the heavy London traffic and onto the M4, which he followed until he crossed over into Berkshire. As he ventured through Slough, Mac wasn’t particularly impressed by the industrial looking town, hardly meeting the aesthetic of the rural countryside he expected. Passing through towards Maidenhead, the scenery changed, offering wonderfully kept fields and charming streets. Had he travelled farther, he would have been in the historic town of Windsor, where the royal castle was situated and was a beacon for tourists along with those looking for a fun, yet expensive day out.
As Mac turned passed the Braywick Football and Rugby complex, he pulled into a quiet road, following the blue line on the screen towards the dot that nestled within a cul-de-sac at the end of the road.
He crawled to a stop.
You have reached your destination.
‘Not yet,’ Mac uttered, the gravity of his plan unsettling him slightly.
An hour later, he was still sat, staring at the beautiful house in the left corner of the curved road. It was beyond anything he would ever have owned himself, had he been given the option of a normal life. The detached house was immaculate, the white stone covered with ivy around the bottom two windows. It was big enough to hold four bedrooms and Mac could understand the idea of moving to such a lovely street to raise a family.
Kids where never on his radar, but he’d often dreamt of having a young son when he was lying on the floor of his cage, drifting in and out of consciousness, teaching him how to ride a bike.
But in war, there were always casualties, and sadly, as Mac looked at the house, those words rang true.
With a deep breath, Mac wrestled with the notion of turning the car around and continuing with the rest of his plan. The country would still be demanded to hand Sam over to him and there was still a lot of satisfaction to be had by killing him slowly.
It was the least the country owed him.
But he wanted Sam to hurt. To be as destroyed as he was, to the point where nothing could put him back together.
Before he could make his mind up, the door to the house opened and he saw her.
Lucy.
Mac’s mind flashed back to a decade ago, when he’d sat in the garden of Sam’s house, breaking bread with the wonderful woman, sharing stories and laughter. It was the closest he’d felt to being accepted and back then, he’d considered Sam a brother.
Lucy, his remarkable wife, had been as enchanting as she was beautiful and the two of them together had planted a seed in Mac’s mind of the future he wanted.
But that was long gone, scorched by the cruel flames that had scarred him for life.
Wallace had told Mac about the pain Sam had been through, the devastating loss of his son and the subsequent divorce. Mac had no sympathy for the man; that pain wasn’t enough.
Not when there was still someone left on the face of the earth who he cared about.
Looking tired and with her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, Mac watched as Lucy walked through the front gate and around to the alleyway between the houses, a black bag clutched in her firm grip.
Mac left the car.
As she returned to the gate, she didn’t even notice the man approaching.
‘Lucy.’
She turned, instantly struck by the horrific scarring that wrapped around his face. After a few moments, realisation hit her, and her eyes widen in shock.
‘Mac?’
