“Have you seen my mother?” Roxy asked, poking his head up to scan the club. “And where the fuck is your dead-shot brother when we need him?”
It was a good question. The last time Charlie saw his brother he'd been at the back of the club, but that was before the shooting began. He had to hope John had got out, although if he had it did mean he had left them all stranded in the middle of a war zone.
Another explosion burst from the bar. The flames were spreading, stretching upwards, threatening the first storey. And like moths, the police were drawn to the light. More were coming, to take cover from the rioters or to take control of the club, Charlie wasn't sure.
He stretched out his arm, feeling the objects around him: tables, chairs, bodies. His powers sensed the guns, the truncheons, the knives. Everything at the touch of his fingers. He wasn't fast enough; if he ran with the others he'd slow them down. But he could cover them.
“Move,” he told Rachel and Roxy. “Move, and don't look back.”
“Charlie…” Rachel warned.
“Hold the door open for me.”
The hardest move would be getting up. After that, everything got easy. His knees creaked, his back throbbed, but he was standing. He raised his hands and let the power roll through his veins. Bullets fizzed past his head. The cops were pointing at him, raising their weapons. He saw Rachel lunge towards the stage. And he sent the furniture flying. Chairs hurtled towards the police force, knocking them down like pins. Tables flew up against the exposed windows, taking the brunt of the firing from the outside street. He felt for the weapons in the room, working his mind around the mechanics, disabling those in the hands of the police wedged in the doorway.
He swiped left and the burning counter blocked the entrance, buying the club precious minutes.
Rachel was yelling at him. “Charlie, quit showing off and move it!”
He turned to make a break for it.
“Wait!” Adams called from the floor. “What about us?”
“You're on their side, remember.” Charlie said and made a dive for the stage.
Clumsily, he shimmied up the platform. On his hands and knees he crawled forward, pressing his cane to his armpit. He looked ridiculous, and if the club weren't filled with dead people he'd be self-conscious. He could see the exit, but he needed to check the club first. He rose and scanned the debris. A part of him was expecting to see his brother shaking his head at him in embarrassment. But if John was still in the club, he wasn't able to stand. The possibility made Charlie's heart quicken. His concentration slipped, and the tables fell from the naked windows. He dived at the door as shots started to fly again. Roxy grabbed him, pulling his straggling body to safety.
“Bloody hell, these near-death experiences are getting boring,” Roxy said, holding Charlie up. “Mother might be upstairs.”
Charlie stopped him going. “We've got to get out of here. You go up there, you're not coming back.”
It was a hard ask. Charlie felt a pull himself. His brother could be trapped or hurt. But the fire was roaring, consuming one side of the building, and the only way to go was out.
Rachel wound her hand around Roxy's. “She's not in here,” she said. “But we are, and we really shouldn't be.”
Snapping back to some of his pragmatism, Roxy gestured towards a deserted corridor. “Out the back, then,” he said and led them to a small, unused exit. He gave the club one last despairing look and gestured for Charlie to take point.
Charlie pushed open the door, and the night threatened to swallow him up. The carnage in the club was echoing throughout the city. Streets had become a minefield they would need to cross if they were going to make it out into the city. Suddenly the open didn't seem so inviting, and Charlie was about to step back, when a barrel was pressed into the back of his head.
“You step out into the open with the Institute breathing down your neck, and you don't even have your fucking weapon drawn. I should just shoot you now and end the embarrassment.”
Charlie cursed and turned, making out two figures in the dim light. “You're not funny, you know that, right?”
John didn't agree.
“Mother! Oh, thank God.” Roxy flung himself at Lulu.
They were standing in the alleyway behind the club, one of the few nooks uncorrupted by the growing violence.
“You missed all the fun,” Charlie said. It was a low jibe, but Charlie wasn't used to being the one who got them out of trouble.
John raised the rucksack he was holding in his left hand. “You forgot the money. We get the biggest payout of our lives, and you fucking idiots try to leave without it.”
It had been one hell of a day, but Charlie couldn't help himself. He started laughing. John's eyebrow arched. He shook his head and tossed the bag at Rachel.
“Where's the car?” Charlie shouted over the noise.
“This way.” Roxy took a cautious step towards the end of the alleyway. He pointed across the street where their vehicle awaited them. The strength of the riot had moved on, leaving the car dented but intact.
“Bring it over,” Charlie told John. It was too big to pull over with his powers alone. “It'll be easier than us all trying to get over there.”
“Cover me.” John tipped his head at Roxy, and together they moved out into the open. Charlie hated these moments. He knew his brother was capable, if anyone could step out into a war zone it was John Smith, but watching it made Charlie's breath hitch.
John's movements were quick and elegant—he would never be seen shuffling across a stage on his hands and knees. Roxy was more cautious, keeping an eye on the disappearing police force tackling a group at the end of the street. Charlie watched their backs, making sure the darkness didn't betray them. But nobody looked up. Not until it was too late.
“Get down!” Rachel screamed.
The sky rained fire. A mortar hit the street, slicing up the tarmac. Roxy and John dived as the road lit up orange. The shot hit the car, and their escape went up in flames. The disappearing police line turned, seeing John and Roxy amid the freshly scorched road. If they tried to make it back to the alley now, they'd all be seen. John nodded at Charlie. Splitting up was their only chance, although doing so left Charlie's odds weaker. He nodded back and watched as Roxy and John started running, drawing the cops' attention.
Rachel pulled Charlie close. She wrapped her arms around him. “They can't see us,” she whispered. “Just be quiet, and don't move.”
The sound of batons beating against police shields was deafening. Charlie stared, waiting for one of them to turn and see the three of them wedged there. But they didn't. In seconds the police were advancing towards the burnt-out vehicle and a new mob intent on fighting to the death. Charlie dared a final look. His brother and Roxy were somewhere beyond the carnage—hidden or on the way out of the city already.
“I guess we'll have to make our own way out,” he said.
* * *
They kept to the shadows, moving quickly through the swarms of gangs that now dominated S'aven. Rachel kept them safe, using her powers to allow them to go towards the edges of the city unnoticed. Charlie's back was aching under the strain of the walk, but his senses stayed sharp. Towards the domestic towers where he'd first found Rachel, he spotted a row of unblemished cars that had somehow been overlooked by the rioters. They broke their cover to cross the street; there was life at the end of the road, but it was preoccupied with violence and death that didn't concern them. Charlie pressed his hand against the first car's lock and felt the mechanics. A surge of power passed through his palm, and the car unlocked. He did the same to the engine and checked the car had gas. “Okay, get in.”
They pulled out onto the road, and it was Rachel's turn to press her hands against the vehicle. She closed her eyes and, although Charlie couldn't see anything happening, he knew she was keeping the crowd uninterested.
The road widened, and in a few minutes they were free of the city. Rachel sat back and sighed, holding the bag o
f money tightly to her chest. Charlie cursed himself for forgetting it in the first place. There were other things they'd left in the club—weapons, clothing. Not a lot, but then they didn't travel with a lot. Still, the city's instability made Charlie nervous about hitting the wilderness with no real supplies.
“Where are we going?” Rachel asked.
“S'aven isn't going to be safe for a long time. And this is only the start. This is going to spread like herpes throughout the country. Charlie, you're going to need to lie low somewhere safe,” Lulu told them. “What about James, where will he be?”
“John and Roxy will be ahead of us by now,” Charlie said. “Don't worry, John knows where to go.”
Charlie tightened his grip on the steering wheel. They had no weapons and no John. And they were about to enter shark-infested waters, covered in S'aven blood.
15
The last time Mark had occupied a prison cell, he was accused of the murder of his partner. This time he was accused of breaking curfew with the other surviving partygoers from Lulu's club. When the police had stormed the place he and Adams had kept quiet, allowing themselves to be arrested instead of showing their badges. The police brought them to his old stomping ground, only briefly finding amusement in his predicament once they realised who he and Adams were. The cops—his old friends—treated him like a common criminal even though he now outranked them. But then, according to his record, he was a criminal: a murderer, in fact. He was the enemy, not just for his crimes, but for his new station as a member of PCU. The elevated position put him even lower in their esteem. And as he sat in the communal cell, watching the boys in blue recover from a rough night of quashing rioters, he would have given anything to erase the past year of his life and join with them again.
Beside him, Adams was brooding. He'd barely spoken to Mark since they arrived at the station, and his attention seemed to be elsewhere. It had been from the moment he had kissed Rachel. Even as they dodged bullets and truncheons, Adams had been preoccupied. It was like he was in a different world. He didn't even try to make a break for freedom. And once again, Mark was behind bars because of Reachers.
He was drawn back from his worrying by the opening of the cell door. A familiar suit stood in front of them.
“So, a brothel, that's what you decided to do here?”
Adams shrugged, stretching his chubby arms behind his head, thick sweat patches lapping at his ribs. “We were off duty. It's not a crime.”
“Actually, it is,” Agent Johnson said. “It is when there's a curfew in effect. Both of you, come with me.”
Johnson led them out through the station, past the battered officers coming back from the riot. He told Mark to sit in the waiting area and then took Adams into an interview room. Mark wasn't waiting long. Agent Stone tapped him on the shoulder the second they were alone.
“Mark, are you okay?”
He was too embarrassed to answer, but he managed a nod.
“Follow me,” she said. She led him to a viewing room from which he could see his boss taking a torrent of abuse from the Institute agent.
“You did well,” Stone said, flashing him a proud smile.
Mark felt a wave of dread at the praise. The message had been unplanned, and now, seeing Adams getting torn into, he couldn't help but feel guilty.
“They got away, though. We couldn't stop them.” We didn't even try.
She didn't seem concerned. “I know. It's not your fault. We screwed up too. We thought we could trap them inside, but the local police force got overzealous. By the time we managed to secure the place, they weren't there. They must have had an insider in the club. Don't worry, though. We'll tear that place apart and find out who it is.”
“I know who it is. It was the singer. The guy on stage. He was working with John Smith when they set me up last year. He's been in with them from the start.”
Stone looked surprised. “So there are four of them?”
“At least.” He turned to face her, unable to hide his concern. “Rachel kissed Agent Adams in the club. She said she'd show him who killed the girls, and he…. Since then he's been distant. He's a good man. I don't think he would have let them get away if he was himself.”
“You think she got in his head?”
He nodded. “What do we do? How do we make him better?”
“I don't think we can.” She chewed on her lip and moved closer to Mark. “Why did they want to meet with him?”
“They said they wanted the killer brought to justice. That he had a friend of theirs.”
Her breath was shaky. She touched Mark's arm, steadying herself. “I don't know what to say. This is what they do. They get in your head and make you confused. Did she touch you?”
“No. I wouldn't let her.”
She smiled. “I should have known you wouldn't be that stupid.”
“Not now, anyway.”
“You wouldn't have been before if you'd known what she was. Don't tell Johnson what you've told me. I don't want to get Adams into trouble. Like you say, he's a good man. But if he's been compromised, we need to watch him. Maybe the brothers will be in touch. If they think he's under their control, they might try to use him.”
“You want me to spy on him?”
“Not spy. Protect him. The Institute may think he's working against them. You have to make sure he doesn't do anything that could see him come under fire.”
Mark agreed. It was the least he could do.
“I'm really glad you contacted me. I know it must be hard for you to trust someone after everything that has happened.” She glanced at the mirror. “If we look after each other, things will work out for both of us. I want the Institute to be closer with PCU, to really make a difference to this country. You've seen it out there. They need us. And we could bring stability to London again. We could be heroes. I will protect you, Mark, I promise.”
He thought she might kiss him, and, if she leaned in, he already knew he'd welcome it. It had been too long since he'd felt comfort from another human being. But, before she could do anything, her partner was swapping rooms. As soon as he arrived she backed away, nodding at his barked orders, as intimidated as Mark was. He wondered whether, if they were able to bring the Smith brothers in, she'd get her job back. He liked the thought of her being in charge, of her shouting orders at Johnson. As if she had the same thought, she shared a small, private smile with him.
* * *
An hour later Mark sat with his partner, back in their home-from-home safe house. Their case, as far as the Institute was concerned, had come to an abrupt, embarrassing end. But Adams seemed undeterred by the state of affairs or his ruined reputation. If anything, he seemed unusually chipper as he navigated himself through the computer. Mark watched him as he scanned through a file on Dr Janus Curtis, looking like an excited child on Christmas morning.
Mark couldn't muster the enthusiasm for another fruitless hunt, especially when they'd discovered Curtis was already missing. Even if he was the killer, he was gone. Just like Charlie Smith. Just like Rachel.
Instead, Mark's mind drifted back to Agent Stone and the way her eyes lit up whenever she looked his way. Their hatred of the Smith brothers united them, but he was hoping there was a deeper attraction growing too. He fantasised about the possibility of asking her out, or even just working a case with her at his side. If he brought Charlie and John Smith in, helping her reclaim her old position, then she would be able to keep in close contact with him. Maybe that would be enough for things to happen between them.
“Bellamy. Bellamy!”
Mark blinked. He hadn't even realised Adams was talking to him. “Sorry.”
“You all right? Didn't hit your head or anything at the club?”
“No. I'm fine. Just tired. What were you saying?”
“Curtis' father was a preacher. And he was in a work camp. Sentenced to life for killing his wife. Strangled her to death, right in front of their son, about twenty years ago. Claimed she was terminally sick, bu
t the coroner found nothing wrong with her except a mild dose of the clap. Guess Mrs Curtis wasn't much of a God-fearing wife.”
“Was he a Reacher too?”
Adams shook his head. “No. But Curtis was adopted. The family money and the religious fanatics that supported the preacher took care of the boy after his incarceration. They put him through medical school while his father served his time. Then the father dies, and two weeks later the killings start. Here, look.” He showed Mark a printout of Curtis' ID card. “He was authorised to cross the border whenever he liked. The curfew didn't apply to him. He could easily move back and forth, killing at whim. He's got opportunity and history. It's him. I can feel it in my gut.”
Mark turned away from the papers. “What does it matter? We're off the case.”
The crease in Adams' brow deepened. “'What does it matter'? More girls will die until this man is stopped. You heard what Rachel said. He got away. He's still out there!” He slammed his fist down on the desk. “We let him get away. We got distracted and stupidly preoccupied with Charlie Smith when the real danger was right here. In a goddamn hospital.”
“Smith is still a Reacher. Bringing him in was the right thing to do.”
Adams turned to him, a pensive look on his blotchy face. “Did those agents spook you? Believe me, they're all bark. They don't want to lose us any more than we want Curtis to get away. Our job is to keep the people safe.” He pointed at the picture of the doctor on the screen. “Our job is to get this man. Whatever it takes. Whether we get a pat on the back or not. This is what we do. And I will bring him in, or I will die trying.”
“What about the Smith brothers? They're still dangerous.”
“Curtis first,” Adams said. “Then we'll worry about them.” He went back to his computer with purpose, but Mark didn't believe him anymore. They were going after a consolation prize, and that just wasn't acceptable.
Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3) Page 9