‘Dead.’ He forced a smile. ‘Surprise.’
‘Oh my God.’ Lucy shuffled nervously. ‘If you’re looking for Sam, I’m afraid we separated a few years back.’
‘I know. I’m here for you.’
‘Excuse me?’ Lucy took a step towards the gate.
‘I need you to come with me.’
Mac shot a glance to the gate, raising his only eyebrow at the now terrified woman, clearly indicating he would block her path. Lucy shook and folded her arms across her chest.
‘Mac, I have a three-week-old baby in the house. I have to go back inside.’
‘Please don’t make this difficult.’
Mac slid a hand to the back of his jeans and revealed the gun. Lucy’s face drained of colour and a tear slid down her immaculate face.
‘Mac, please.’
‘Is your husband in the house?’ Mac demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘Then your baby will be fine.’ Mac gestured for her to move away from the gate with the gun. ‘If you do exactly as I say, then I promise you, I’ll do my best to bring you home to them.’
Lucy shot a final glance towards the house. Sam had spent years grieving for the loss of his friend, carrying the guilt of his death on his shoulders. Seemingly back from the dead, with a clear sense of menace behind his every word, Lucy worried for the safety of her new family. Her husband, Nick and their young daughter, Abbie, were at the forefront of her mind.
She needed to keep them safe.
Without the chance to say goodbye, Mac ushered her towards the car, opened the passenger seat and she obediently got in. With the gun still in his hand, Mac fired up the engine, pulled out of the cul-de-sac, and headed back towards London. His heart was racing, and he hated himself for the fear he’d instilled in her.
Knowing what was in the boot of the car, along with the terror he would put her in a few hours’ time, he did his best to focus on his hatred for Sam.
It was all about Sam.
That, and Mac’s insatiable need for vengeance.
With tears streaming down her face, Lucy looked in the side mirror, watching the sun set behind her home, wondering if she would ever see her family again.
* * *
After a much-needed gulp of Scotch, Ashton refilled her glass and slumped back in her chair. Staring at the brown liquid inside the crystal glass, she knew she wouldn’t find any answers in the bottom of a bottle.
How the hell did this happen?
Earlier that day, she’d been stood in front of the press, controlling a wonderful narrative around her hard-working team and top detective, cracking an uncrackable case and bringing to an end a decades long reign of terror from one of the country’s most notorious criminals.
It should have been a celebratory drink, but there was nothing but remorse.
Word had reached her of the outbreak at Ashcroft and instantly her stomach had flipped. Knowing that Sam was somewhere beneath its impenetrable walls, she’d nervously wondered what had caused it. Her highly regarded position made her privy to the whispered conversations, with the senior figures and government officials wanting to keep the entire story off the record.
The country didn’t know much of Ashcroft’s existence.
They certainly couldn’t know of its implosion.
Joining a conference call which included Commissioner Stout, along with the Home Secretary, Ashton had her worst fears confirmed.
Sam Pope had escaped.
Instantly, the conversation had turned to her, with a number of officials demanding answers as to why he was even there in the first place. When Stout spoke of his need to ‘look into it’, it became very clear that the blessing she thought he’d given was forged.
Throughout her decorated career, Ashton had proven her impeccable judgement, climbing the ladder by knowing where all the pieces on the chess board were.
At that moment, she realised that a different game was being played altogether.
The call abruptly ended with the Home Secretary demanding the situation be brought under control, not even bothering to explain the consequences of failure. Ashton knew, poured herself a drink and threw it back in one. The Scotch burnt her throat, but she poured another, just as the door to her office was thrown open and the irate Police Commissioner stormed in. Stout was renowned for the sense of calm he brought to the job, but the fury in his eyes and the folder in his hand meant that whoever had crossed his path on his journey to her office would have been terrified.
Without even offering a greeting, Stout slapped the folder down in front of Ashton and pressed his hands to hips.
‘What the hell is this?’
Ashton leant forward and flipped open the folder, scanning the document.
‘It’s Sam’s transfer papers to Ashcroft, sir.’
‘I know that.’ Stout leant forward and poked at the bottom of the page. ‘This. I did not sign this document.’
‘But I received this the day of the trial and assumed you had done me a favour.’
‘A favour?’ Stout shook his head, wrestling to control the volume of his voice. ‘There are strict protocols around prison transfers, especially Ashcroft. It takes weeks. You know this, Ruth, so tell me, how could this have happened?’
Ashton could feel her world crumbling around her. Everything she’d worked for was teetering on the edge. As with all people in positions of power, Ashton had made enemies along the way, taking necessary steps for the good of her career. But she racked her brains for who could have done such a thing. A transfer request to a secret prison would only pass through certain hands, all of which belonged to people with more sense than to forge a signature.
A horrible feeling set in her stomach that she’d been set up, but with no way to prove it, she had to stay quiet. Stout squeezed the bridge of his nose in anger and took a deep breath.
‘Ruth, I’m going to ask you a question and I need the truth.’ He looked at her and she nodded her understanding.
