Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3)

by L E Fitzpatrick

  “Yes, before I was arrested.”

  She flashed him a sympathetic look. “I've never been to the work camps. I hear they're bad.”

  “I suppose that's the point, though, isn't it? If they weren't, it wouldn't be a deterrent.”

  “Still, it shouldn't have happened to you. You're a good man. You should never have been sent there. What that girl did to you….” She turned away, colour rising to her perfect cheeks. “Sorry. I followed your file since Adams brought it to us. I feel like I know you already. I was really looking forward to meeting you. I just wish it were in better circumstances.”

  Mark blushed. He didn't know what to say, so he smiled sheepishly.

  “There it is.”

  The vehicle had been abandoned at the side of the road. The back door was wide open, exposing the empty cell and discarded restraints. They pulled up alongside it. Mark checked it hadn't been damaged. The tyres were still good and the engine still worked. On any other day the vehicle would have been pillaged by the local community, but, with all eyes on the border, people clearly had better things to do than rob the alloys from a police vehicle.

  Agent Stone stepped inside the transporter and picked up the plastic ties that had kept Charlie bound. She inspected the cut on them and showed it to Mark.

  “He must have had a lot of help. There aren't many Reachers with that many connections anymore.” Her eyes narrowed. “He never gave a name?”

  Mark swallowed. Adams had already answered this question, and if he told the truth he'd be leaving his boss open to all kinds of problems. “No. No name.”

  “Shame. But then they rarely do,” she said with a sigh. “Can I ask you something?”

  He nodded.

  “You won't tell Johnson?”

  “No. I won't.”

  “The man in the cell, did he have a limp, a problem walking?”

  Mark's eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  She put the restraints into her pocket and climbed out of the truck, as though being in there was too painful. Mark followed her, closing the truck up so he could move it.

  “I haven't been totally honest with you. When Adams sent us your file, I knew you had to join us. You're the only other person who would understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “The damage the Smith brothers can do to this world. I knew Charlie Smith only briefly, but it nearly cost me everything. He tricked me, deceived me into thinking he was something else. I lost the respect of my peers, my job. I'm more qualified than Johnson to run operations, but because of Smith I'm relegated to second, even third sometimes on missions.” She stared up at Mark, her wide eyes glistening with angry tears. “It would have been more of a mercy to kill me compared to what he did. And when I saw your file, I knew that finally someone would understand how dangerous and destructive they are. They ruin lives.”

  “I understand,” Mark said, and now he truly did. “Believe me, nobody hates them more than me.”

  “I do believe you. And I believe that you will do everything you can to bring them all to justice.” She pulled out a small card and handed it to him. “If you hear of anything that can help, let me know directly. I'll do the same if I hear anything. Together we'll bring them in.”

  Mark clasped the card in his hand, his fingertips touching Agent Stone's. She gave him a shy smile and gestured to her own vehicle. He watched her go, already longing to be back in her company. It took all his resolve to get into the transporter and turn his back on her, but he took solace in the card and the lifeline she had given him. If she hated the Smith brothers as much as he did, they could join forces. He wouldn't have to be alone any more.

  11

  The binds bore into Charlie's wrists, blood soaking his fingers as he struggled against them. He was pushed forward, an electric prod striking his back at every hesitation. A cold breeze slapped his face as he trudged up the dirt track. There was nothing in front of him, just an expanse of darkness growing closer. Then, in this black nothing, a strand of light found him. An open, burning entrance beckoned. He was scared. So very scared. Inside, other Reachers wailed. Soon he would be one of them. Crying, sobbing, screaming. Echoes. Ghosts hanging in the veil. His breath quickened. A cell door opened. And he was pushed through.

  Charlie lurched upwards, his sweat-soaked clothes sticking to his body. He wasn't a stranger to nightmares, but it had been a long time since he'd relived that sorry day. When the Institute got him the first time he had believed it was over, that being pushed inside that godforsaken building would be the end of him. It wasn't. If he was optimistic he might even say it was the making, instead. But he wasn't an optimist. And if they got him again, there was no way he'd get out alive.

  They didn't get him, though. He wasn't in a cell. He wasn't in the transporter. Judging by the zebra-printed walls and satin bed sheets, he was pretty sure he wasn't in London, either. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately regretted it. The past few days had not been kind to his body, and pain was only part of his problems. His crutch was lost in Jess O'Connor's apartment, or taken by Adams as evidence of his weakness, and somehow he was going to have to get up without it and find somewhere to piss.

  Adopting defiance as his ally, he pushed himself upward and reached out for the wall to steady himself. It betrayed him. His legs buckled and he fell forward, knocking into a shelving unit of sex aids and lubricant. The door he'd been heading for opened, and beneath the rubber and leather he could just about make out Rachel's shape.

  “Jesus, Charlie, are you okay?” she asked, clearing the debris.

  Two strong arms that were definitely not Rachel's hooked under his and hauled him to his feet. “Now, darling, you tell me what it was you were after, and I'll get it for you.” Roxy dropped him back on the bed.

  Charlie looked to the open doorway, expecting to see his brother. But John wasn't there.

  “How are you feeling?” Rachel sat beside him, her fingers seeming to find every sore point on his face. She'd been out of the hospital almost a year now, but her instincts always got the better of her. “Looks like someone really went to town on you.”

  “Nothing more than I deserve, I'm sure. Where's John?”

  Charlie saw them share a look. He didn't like it.

  “Where is he?”

  “He's fine,” Rachel assured him. “He's just on the roof cooling off, that's all.” She was a brilliant doctor but a terrible liar. Something was wrong, and every twitch in her face betrayed her.

  “What aren't you telling me?”

  Her discreet glance at Roxy wasn't discreet enough.

  “Rachel?” he snapped.

  “It's Darcy.”

  Charlie braced himself. Father Darcy had been his and John's only family. The man that had raised them and kept them safe after they left the Institute—for as long as they would let him, at least. But he wasn't immortal. To reach eighty, with the life he had led and the dangers he had faced, was a miracle in itself. And when Charlie had last seen him the old man was hooked up to a medicom, unconscious and unlikely to make a full recovery. Still, this wasn't a moment he had ever wanted to deal with.

  “He's missing.”

  Missing? “Wait, what do you mean he's missing?”

  “As in, we don't know where he is,” Roxy said.

  Charlie cursed. Before he'd set off for London he left Darcy with his current employer, Riva Morris, after she assured him he'd receive the best medical treatment. Okay, so they had been the ones that killed Riva's husband last year, but Charlie'd thought they could trust her. She was reputed to be a woman of her word. Well, he would make sure this was the last double-cross she pulled.

  “Where's Riva? I'm going to kill her.”

  “Sorry, love, you've been beaten to it.”

  Rachel's hand found Charlie's. “Riva was killed last night.”

  “Was it John?” He could just imagine John's rage upon finding Darcy missing. Without Charlie there to calm him down, his brothe
r would take matters into his own hands, squeezing the life out of Riva if she didn't give him answers.

  “No. Not John. It was Curtis. Dr Curtis.”

  Charlie was starting to wonder if he'd taken one too many blows to the head. “The doctor? Why the hell would he kill Riva?”

  Again they looked at each other. Charlie was starting to get annoyed.

  “I don't know exactly. But he's a Reacher, Charlie.”

  This was crazy. Rachel had been working Curtis for the past few days, there was no way he could be a Reacher. She would have sensed it straightaway.

  “I know what you're thinking, but I didn't know,” Rachel insisted. “Not until it was too late. He's a Reacher, but not like us. When I was with him he was human, but then he changed. He… I don't know. I can't explain it. He killed those girls, Charlie. The dead girls at the border. It was him. At least it was a part of him. Then he killed Riva and her men too. And then Roxy.”

  Charlie looked up at his friend. He looked very animated for a dead man.

  “I got better,” Roxy said, although now Charlie was looking for it, he could see something was different about him. There was a hollowness to his face, a darkness in his eyes.

  “He killed the girls too?”

  “I saw it all.” From her face he could tell she'd be having nightmares too. “I had to stop him. He was using his powers to strangle John, just like he did Roxy. But I couldn't hurt him, of course. So I kissed him, and then I saw it all. God, I can't even describe it.”

  Rachel wasn't squeamish. You couldn't be after working in St Mary's Hospital. But whatever she'd seen had clearly frightened her. She was still distressed, even now it was over. It wasn't like her at all.

  He needed to understand and see for himself. “Show me,” he said.

  “Are you sure? It's not pretty.”

  “I want to see what you saw.”

  “Don't say I didn't warn you.” She leaned forward to kiss him.

  The touch of her lips sent a wave of delicious energy through his aching body. His powers awakened, crackling in his fingertips, before her own overpowered him. He was expecting a vision, like one of the drug-induced hallucinations he used to have. But mainly it was emotions and thoughts that couldn't be his own. The need to destroy, to harm the sinful. The pleasure of watching the last remnants of life slip from heavily painted eyes. There was hunger, consuming hunger, and a fanaticism beyond comprehension. Charlie felt each murder, his fingers twitching at the power Janus Curtis could wield.

  He broke the kiss breathlessly, trying to piece together what he'd seen and what it all meant. Rachel had every reason to be scared. Curtis was one of the most dangerous creatures Charlie had ever seen. He pressed his forehead against hers in a vain attempt at reassurance, although he wasn't sure for whose benefit.

  “He killed them all?”

  “Without hesitation,” she said, and he realised she had glimpsed far more than she had shown him.

  “But why would he take Darcy?”

  “Charlie, the man is cuckoo. Why would he murder all those girls?” Roxy folded his arms, his impatience getting the better of him.

  “He killed the girls because he thought they were godless. Darcy wasn't. Maybe he took him away from Riva because he thought he was doing a good deed. If he took him at all. We don't know that he did. Darcy wasn't there when we got there, but Riva could have moved him earlier.”

  “Either way, Curtis was the last one in that house who's still alive. You better tell him the good news,” Roxy said. “He looks like he needs it.”

  Charlie let out a desperate laugh. “There can be good news?”

  “Riva was dead when we got to her, but her safe was full. We have money, Charlie, a lot of money.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough to buy Lilly's location, go after her, and hide her afterwards.”

  A tear threatened to roll down Charlie's face. He didn't even know what prompted it. For two long years he had been waiting to have the means and strength to go after his baby girl. Now he could. But victory was bittersweet. Going after Lilly meant abandoning Darcy. And the thought of leaving Darcy in the hands of a psychopath was too much. He couldn't do it. There had to be another way.

  “I need to see John.”

  “Hold your horses, pet.” Roxy reached to the side of the cabinet and pulled out a steel-capped cane. “Got you a present, in case you need to bash him over the head.”

  Charlie rose, balancing precariously on the cane. It would have to do.

  * * *

  He pushed open the rooftop door and was blasted with wailing sirens as emergency vehicles circled the city. Smoke plumes flashed red and blue. Street lights flickered. Against a sepia sky, John's silhouette looked out at the city, a frozen black figure omniscient in his vantage point. He'd always stood like that, even as a child, as though the surrounding world was something separate and apart from him. In many ways it was. While Charlie had momentarily penetrated the chaotic normality of British civilisation by taking a wife and having a child, John had remained detached: a shadow walking the same streets, but in a different way.

  For years, Charlie had pitied his brother's inability to assimilate. But now he could see John's distance was the only way. They were not meant to be part of the city. They were different, so different not even the word Reacher truly categorised them anymore. And this world was not meant for them. At least not in the way Charlie had been trying to pretend it was.

  But regrets were for people who had time to lament, and Charlie had wasted too much time already. “You know, Darcy used to say—”

  “Don't you fucking dare.” John turned, his dark eyes flashing. “Don't you dare pull that sentimental crap on me.”

  Dealing with John's emotions was a complex minefield, and Charlie was too tired to tread lightly. “Look, I get that you're pissed, but—”

  “Pissed? You get that I'm pissed!”

  He couldn't help himself, he rolled his eyes. “We don't have time for a tantrum, John.”

  “But we have time for you to fuck around?”

  Charlie could have conceded the point—he shouldn't have stayed with Jess, he accepted that—but he never would have taken his eye off the game if he had known what was going to happen. “Hey, just because I'm not a heartless bastard like you—”

  “Don't even pretend you were staying with her because you're a good guy.”

  “I'm not here to talk about what happened.”

  “You mean you're not going to apologise.”

  “Apologise for what?”

  John was too quick. He grabbed Charlie, pushing him against the closed fire door. “For what? How about for abandoning the mission because some girl lifted her skirt for you? How about for not being there when we needed you? How about for bringing the fucking Institute here?”

  This was what his anger was really about. Things went bad. Jobs fell apart. People got hurt. It was part of the game. A part they were both used to. But the Institute was a piece that was rarely played. It was the one twist that could unnerve John, the one thing he was truly frightened of. He clutched Charlie's collar as a cold-blooded soldier, but beneath his ruthless stare was an eight-year-old boy who was desperately pretending he had no feelings.

  Charlie wound his hand around the back of John's neck and drew him closer, knowing John would instinctively let go. He did, but Charlie held tight. John was taller and stronger and everything Charlie wasn't, but Charlie was still the big brother. It was still his job to look after John and keep him safe.

  “I know it was close. Too close. But they didn't get me. They didn't get you. They didn't get Rachel. And do you know why? Because we're better than them. We always have been.”

  John's muscles loosened. He closed his eyes, and Charlie could sense he was winning. When John calmed down, Charlie would tell him about the agent and how far away from danger they really were. Agent Adams wasn't a threat, if anything he was an ally now they were both after Curtis. Hell, if Charl
ie had the time he'd even point Adams in the right direction.

  The clouds above them cleared, exposing a pale half-moon. “We need to make arrangements to leave the city,” Charlie said. “Lilly is our priority.”

  “I know. It's what Darcy would want.”

  “But I have to see someone first.” Charlie's pause was too long. He was making John suspicious. “We have to help Darcy too. And I know how to do it. I know how to go after them both. But you're not going to like it.”

  After years together, Charlie didn't even need to speak; sometimes John could just read him. “Oh, for fuck's sake.” John pushed past. It was as close to consent as Charlie was going to get.

  12

  He always woke up afterwards. If he could wake up in the middle, he could stop the other. But it was always after, and it was always him that had to confront the damage done. The girl was young, maybe sixteen, and very inappropriately dressed. Her shorts barely covered her tanned buttocks; her shirt was tied at the ribs and cut low, exposing what there was of her developing cleavage. She had been wearing make-up, although as she died her tears had drained the colours down her cheeks. She was pretty. If she had lived, she would have likely grown into a beautiful woman. A heartbreaker. A whore.

  Jan sat back in the grass, piecing together the hours he had lost. His knowledge of events was coming back to him, like memories, only they weren't his memories. He could see the girl walking down the lane. She was a runaway, although in her pretty shoes and without a jacket she wasn't going far. Jan had seen her through the window of their rented cottage. It was nearing dusk, and she had approached the house, expecting it to be empty.

  The other man accompanying them, Derek, had met her on the porch. They were flirting, despite Derek being at least two decades older than her. After a few minutes they both went around the back of the house. Jan's memory grew hazy after that. He saw flickers of movement as he made his way outside: a door, the steps, the open air.

  Now Jan rubbed his eyes. The pieces still wouldn't fit, but they didn't have to. He knew what happened to the girl. He knew a part of him had killed her. Now her body was being hauled into their stolen ambulance. Derek would dispose of her, but he wasn't happy about it. He slammed the back doors closed and marched over to Jan.