Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3)

by L E Fitzpatrick

  Mark stood on the station platform looking for Adams while local militia and families tried to barter their way to safety. He spotted Adams with another man. Adams flashed his badge and turned to wave Mark over. Adams' face was blotchy and red. Sweat streamed down his temples and had soaked his shirt. He fished out a bottle of water from his bag and took a generous slug.

  “Those carriages are lethal,” he said, wiping his forehead. “Spoke to the powers that be here. They're calling the sheriff back to his office, we're going to meet him there and see the body.”

  18

  He stared up at the sky. Without the lights of the city a billion stars lit up the darkness. Charlie knew he was supposed to look up and feel insignificant; feel that, amid everything, he was a tiny fragment of a huge, expanding universe. But he didn't. Instead he stared at the blanket above him and felt powerful. He felt entitled to each and every one of those glimmering diamonds. They were his. They belonged to him. For years he'd lived with his brother under that canopy. Just them and the universe. It was a divinity beyond any doctrine. A promise beyond sin and redemption.

  He felt John standing beside him. They'd spoken of it in the past; of the world that had been theirs when they were children. There had been no one to stop them. They'd lived like animals outside the reach of the Institute. But adulthood had grounded their ambition, and now it was less about the world and more about their future. It was no easier a feat, but they were finally close to reclaiming what they wanted: total freedom. Charlie could feel it in his fingertips. The Reacher power his sobriety had reconnected with was ready to take control. He glanced at John, seeing the same purpose mirrored in his brother's dark eyes. This was their chance, and, although the circumstances could have been better, only a fool would let it slip away.

  “Time to move out,” Charlie said. “Start the car.”

  He turned, marching back to the others. Roxy was subdued. The past few days' upheaval had wrecked the man, and Charlie couldn't be sure he'd ever be the same. The quick smirks, the darlings, the innuendos were replaced by a sombre expression whenever his guard was down. He looked tired, older, but more than that: he looked wise. As Charlie met his eyes, he saw with certainty that Roxy would never betray them again. Money would no longer tempt him, and his ambition—his fate—was now forever tied with the brothers', whether he liked it or not.

  Rachel was similarly quiet. Only the usual determination he expected from her was missing. While Roxy renewed his confidence, Rachel's pensive chewing on her lower lip made him rethink his sudden decision to head into enemy territory. He was relying on her and her powers to help them, but something was wrong. She'd been quiet since they'd left S'aven, only before he'd been too busy trying to keep them all alive to notice.

  “Rox, we're going to head out in a minute. Check the car over with John, I don't want any nasty surprises when we hit the road.”

  Roxy frowned, then looked between the two of them. The old Roxy would have made some sort of snide remark, but instead he shrugged, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and made his way over to John.

  “He's not doing so good,” Charlie said, knowing concern for their friend would stir her.

  She blinked, then frowned too. “Can you blame him? He has had one hell of a week.”

  “We all have.”

  The smile she gave him was weak.

  He wasn't great when it came to heart-to-hearts, but he had to say something. He owed it to her to at least try to help. “You've been through the wars too. You okay?”

  “I'm fine.” She was lying.

  Charlie dared a step closer. “You know if you need to talk….”

  “I'm fine,” she said again. “Shall we get going?”

  Living on top of each other for months, he'd seen Rachel in a bad mood. He'd seen her tired, irritated, fed up. He'd seen her scared, disappointed, worried. But this was new. He'd never seen her look so uncertain before. It was as though each passing minute was filled with doubt. But unlike her worries about their safety on the road or on a job, she didn't want to share this with him. And if she wouldn't tell him what was wrong, he wouldn't know how to make it better.

  Unable to think of anything else to say, he watched as she walked back towards the others. Whatever was bothering her, he hoped she'd be over it before the trouble really started.

  * * *

  More refugees flocked away from the crumbling capital, filling up one side of the motorway and gridlocking sections of roadway. The militia from the north and west filtered down the other half in a regimented fluid line, encouraging those fleeing to move faster. The checkpoints on the main roads were overrun, but it was safer queuing than taking a back road and running into the bandits stalking the terrain. The trouble in S'aven was too good an opportunity for those in the sticks. Weary, frightened travellers were foolish and naïve. They took wrong turns, carried too many possessions, brought their pretty wives out with no protection. The shadows of Britain were alive with nocturnal predators waiting to prey on the weak.

  Rachel was no longer apprehensive at checkpoints. Her identity papers were flawless, created as an apology for selling her out by the man she had brought back to life. It was a fair trade in hindsight. Roxy had given her freedom, the ability to travel across the country with the brothers, and even make it to London. Although now she'd crossed those pearly gates, the allure of the capital was nothing more than a blemish in her memory. And it wasn't the only one.

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get Mark out of her head. Since hitting the road with the brothers, she'd barely thought about her old boyfriend, and her lack of interest was playing on her conscience. She'd been with Mark for four years before getting out of S'aven and, although she'd been living a lie, it wasn't all horrible. If anything, sometimes Mark had made it bearable for her. On those rare occasions they got a night off together, they would sit, huddled up in their tiny flat, sharing some of the spoils Mark could get as a policeman, and watch old cop shows on their battered TV. Mark was a good guy, but he was gullible—too gullible to stay untainted in a place like S'aven.

  But it wasn't S'aven that corrupted him in the end. It was her. When she'd touched Agent Adams she took the opportunity to explore inside his head, recalling his memories like they were her own. She saw Mark in a work camp, sentenced for a crime she had committed. She saw him hunting her, saw the pain in his eyes, the betrayal on his face. It made her feel sick. She had broken him, and she hadn't even spared him a second thought.

  She thought about telling Charlie. If anyone knew what it was like to feel guilt, it was him. But she didn't want him or the others to know she was worried about Mark. As far as they were concerned, he was just another cop, and they wouldn't be happy to know, in some way, she still cared about him. Instead she kept to her brooding self, trying to reconcile the damage she had done.

  The first rays of sunlight slanted across the motorway. She looked to the left and, in the distance, could see a train hurtling over a bridge and away. The cars were starting to thin, some branching off to head towards the surviving towns from Old England, others preferring to head towards newer colonies. They were making their way to the latter, taking refuge in a place known locally as Blackwater.

  Blackwater was an industrial hub built around a large train terminal that had reconnected the north and south after a terrorist group supporting the guerrilla movement in Red Forest had taken out the primary line thirty years ago. The town was a collection of recycled buildings and reclaimed materials. Metal, wood, and rock, pressed together to make practical living spaces and workshops. It was ruled by a local committee that kept the balance between the unruly north and the uncompromising south. Most of the people here were born and raised in the area. And, despite the lifeline running through the town, few locals left to seek refuge away from the rough bleakness. Better the devil you know, Rachel thought.

  The town was protected by a high fence, nothing that would withstand a full-scale assault like the border around Lon
don, but enough to ensure thieves and crooks were forced to declare themselves before entering. Their car passed through the checkpoint slowly, hitting the main road a couple of minutes later. John drove with purpose towards the other side of town. The ramshackle buildings started to fall away, until they turned into wider, larger warehouses and storage lots. John took a left into a compact yard filled with old vehicles and machinery. At the back of the lot was a tin workshop attached to two static caravans and a decaying wooden shed. Sparks flew from an open window, and smoke billowed from a pipe in the roof. Someone was home.

  “What are we doing here?” Rachel asked, inspecting the yard from the back seat—they'd stayed in worse places that summer.

  “We're going shopping. Come on. I want you to meet someone important.” Charlie got out of the car and opened the door for her. He tipped his head at John. “Get whatever we need.”

  “Oh, this is going to be like watching a kid in a candy store,” Roxy said and followed John through the yard.

  Instead of perusing the junk as well, Charlie led Rachel towards the workshop. There was a screeching coming from inside, like a machine cutting into something. The metal door was ajar, and Charlie entered as though he was returning home. Inside was a replica of the outer yard. More junk, machinery, and scrap was piled on shelves and in boxes throughout the space. Amid the wires and bolts she could make out a figure moving on the floor beneath some sort of stripped engine. Charlie struck the metal-plated floor with his cane, and the figure emerged.

  The woman sat up, her eyes concealed by heavy-duty goggles that pinned her thick curls to her head. She regarded Charlie, and her face cracked into a warm, welcoming smile. When she got to her feet, she towered over Charlie and Rachel. The woman was tall, balancing on a bionic, oil-covered leg attached to her upper thigh. Her torn, filthy overalls exposed ebony skin streaked with dirt and grime. She lifted her goggles up, and Rachel saw that her left hand was also bionic.

  “And there was me thinking you were dead, Charlie Smith,” she said.

  There was an unmistakable quiver in Charlie's stance. This woman meant a lot to him, although he had never mentioned her before. Rachel wondered if they had once been lovers, but as he wrapped his arms around her Rachel could see there was a connection running deeper than romance.

  Charlie pushed the woman back so they were face-to-face. He signed something to her, and her smile turned to sadness. She signed back and glanced over at Rachel, her wide brown eyes full of empathy.

  This time Charlie spoke, slowing his words and moving his lips so she could read him. “This is Rachel, a good friend of mine.” Charlie turned to Rachel. “This is Hannah, the best engineer England has ever seen.”

  The women shook hands. Rachel didn't know how to sign, but she had something better. She focused on the connection between them as their skin met.

  Nice to meet you.

  Hannah's eyes opened wide. “You're a Reacher?”

  Rachel nodded, and Hannah seemed delighted. She pushed back her hair and turned on her cochlear implant. “I don't like the noise when I'm working,” she explained. “Where's John?”

  Charlie nodded to the door. “Roxy's here too.”

  Hannah frowned and made a few inappropriate hand gestures.

  “Yeah, that Roxy,” Charlie said. He took her hand. “But Hannah, before we get ahead of ourselves, we need your help.”

  * * *

  London documents 2016 as the year the People's Republic Party seized power in government. Cities like Leeds, Sheffield, and Hull document it as the year the Noro V strain virus took control everywhere else. With political turmoil—coupled with geographically driven indifference—the virus claimed over twenty thousand people in one year. Hannah's mother had been one of them. The virus was ruthless and indiscriminate, but not fatal in all cases. Hannah had contracted it at the same time as her mother, but she survived. Aged six, she lost her lower arm, part of her leg, her hearing, and her mother. Her father—lead engineer of the Yorkshire Farming and Industries Centre—retired from his position and took it upon himself to try to repair some of what the virus had taken.

  With his daughter at his side, he built his own workshop, funded his research by offering a repair service to the surrounding communities, and set to work developing robotic appendages that would change his daughter's life. His breakthrough came when he started working with Reachers. They could control complicated mechanics like they were muscles, and he became convinced that, with the right equipment, he could replicate the Reacher process to allow his daughter to move her limbs by herself. And he found that Reachers were happy to undergo a test or two for a good cause, a warm bed, and a hot meal. He made friends with them. And because of this, he also caught the attention of the state.

  In the summer of 2026, a Reacher was captured and, while she was being questioned, gave away vital details of the research being conducted. It was enough to stir the Institute's interest. It was enough to see Hannah and her father arrested.

  But instead of being thrown into a work camp, the father was given the option to continue his research under the Institute's direction. Father and daughter were locked away, treated like Reachers themselves. While her father worked, Hannah schemed. She'd been his apprentice for as long as she could remember and was as skilled as he was when it came to their work. But the Institute mistook her disability for dumbness, all but ignoring her presence in the lab.

  When her father died six months later, nobody at the Institute had any interest in a crippled girl, and she was shipped to a work camp with a life sentence for being insignificant. She was sixteen years old.

  Charlie and John had pulled her free of her confinement. And that year they spent the winter together with Darcy before the brothers got the urge to move on. But Hannah stayed with Darcy until she found independence and a purpose of her own.

  Charlie didn't like to visit her. She continued to work on Reacher technology, and if the Institute ever discovered her it would be bad news for everyone. Even now, as she embraced the others, he felt the urgency to be away from her. She wasn't like them, and she didn't need to get mixed up in their trouble. Of course, she didn't see it like that.

  “Stay here.”

  Charlie took her hand. “No. We're not staying.”

  But there was a desperate look in her eye that made him second-guess himself.

  “Please, Charlie.” Hannah grabbed his arm. “I've got something for you.” She moved around some boxes and pulled one clear of the shelf. Proudly, she pulled out a contraption Charlie hadn't seen in years. The last time he'd encountered the leg brace, it had belonged to Hannah's older brother, and as far as Charlie could remember, it had stayed with him when he died outside the work camp.

  As though she'd read his mind, she told him, “He wasn't the only one who needed one of these. I made a fortune off them. Here, let me see if it fits.” She carefully strapped the metal brace around his leg and hip. It was a snug fit, but she adjusted the mechanism to Charlie's shape. A sensor fitted around his waist and spine—the only part of the device that touched his skin. When she moved away, the change was instantaneous. He had balance, he was steady on his feet, he was strong.

  “I can improve it in time, but it's good enough for now.”

  It was more than good enough. He felt righted and in control again.

  Before he could thank her, the back door to the warehouse opened. Charlie flinched, squinting to make out the wiry man's shape in the dusty gloom. The guy lifted his head, the light from outside reflecting off his thick-rimmed glasses.

  “Oh fuck, what are you doing here?” Jay said.

  19

  The late-summer heat was starting to suffocate the cottage. A heavy, humid blanket had fallen in the Midlands, tightening the air oppressively. Sweat soaked Jan's clothes until he could bear the dirty feeling no longer and retreated upstairs to change. As he made his way up the stairs he could hear a voice coming from behind the closed door to the master bedroom. It was Marie,
presumably speaking on the phone. Jan pressed his ear up against the door, eager to make out the words. Since the other Reacher had left them, Marie had kept to herself, watching him from afar, impossible to read.

  “No, I'm fine on my own. It's just… when they come… you're sure I'll be okay. I know you did…. Of course I trust you, Sol…. You're right, you're right.”

  Jan felt the other tugging at him, clawing at the back of his mind, offering up information for a brief spell of freedom. There were things going on, secrets that the other had agreed to. The temptation to understand was as overwhelming as the heat. But Jan refused. He would find things out on his own. Staying in control was more important than the truth.

  Marie finished her call, and he waited for her to come out of her sanctuary. When she pulled back the door she flinched in surprise. She was scared of him, although she tried to hide it. Her stature was nothing compared to his, and, if he wanted to, he could overpower her. The other wouldn't see her harmed, but he too wanted to dominate her, to steal her from Sol. It was another hunger Jan was trying to supress. He pressed his hand against the door frame, blocking her path, concentrating only on the phone call and not the desires burning in his subconscious.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “That's none of your business.” Marie made to move past him, and he stretched out his arm, keeping her caged in the hallway. “Sol. I was talking to Sol.”

  “Is he coming back here?”

  “No. He's waiting. And he says we should be waiting too.”

  “For what?” He lowered his arm and backed away from her. There was too much he didn't understand. Somehow Sol had all the answers, but getting them from him was a dangerous game. The old man was cunning and clever, and Jan, in his current state, was no match for him.