Blake froze, trembling, unable to make sense of it. Too much had happened, and too soon. Was this man an attacker or a savior? Why was he here? Whatever the reason, he was obviously highly trained in hand-to-hand combat, and he was jeopardizing Blake’s case of appeal. Blake wouldn’t have a hand in this and wouldn’t want it to appear that way. As soon as he got out of here—if he got out of here—he would report it to the nearest officer.
The silver-haired man pointed at him, panting heavily. He was bigger and scarier now that he was standing. He looked like a fighting machine. “You’re Val’s kid.”
Was it a question? Blake didn’t know but found himself nodding frantically anyway.
The mysterious attacker removed the fire extinguisher from the wall and threw it into Blake’s chest. Blake clumsily wrapped his arms around to catch it. The solid metal banged against his ribs. He had never been good at handling pain.
“Keep to my side, use that whenever I say.”
“Use it? For what?”
The man wasted no time, rushing around as if nothing had happened. As if this was an everyday thing for him. He grabbed the fountain pen from the table and dragged Winters up from the floor, an arm around his neck, restraining him like a hostage. He put the pen to his neck, holding it there while pricking his skin.
Winters groaned, drifting in and out of consciousness.
“I said stay close,” the man snapped.
Reluctantly, Blake moved closer.
Silver Hair sprung open the door and dashed through, dragging the semiconscious detective with him. Blake caught a glimpse of the main hall. He didn’t know why, but his eyes fixed onto a young man who looked to be a junior officer: the way he spun around on his chair and saw what Silver Hair was doing. It was as though his eyes were scanning the situation and, when they registered understanding, made him hide under the desk.
Blake fumbled for the fire extinguisher, picking it up again. He hadn’t ever thought that one of these would be so damn heavy.
“Beside me!” the silver-haired man yelled.
Blake caught up, fidgeting. Was he really doing this? He scurried to the man’s side, edging along the outer wall with their backs to it. Cops turned to the commotion one by one, each with a unique look of confusion and alarm. He would have found it funny if he’d seen it on TV, but the reality of it made him shudder. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t give to wake up from this nightmare, warm in his bed.
“Listen up!” Silver Hair screamed. The room grew quiet. “Anyone touches an alarm, this young man takes a pen to the neck.” He stopped underneath a security camera, feeling around with each foot before he placed it. Blake almost walked into him. “See that above me?” he whispered. “Spray it.”
Blake barely had time to blink before Silver Hair lunged forward, cutting across half of the room. Blake squeezed the trigger on the fire extinguisher, hosing the camera with a white blast of cloudy foam. He stepped back, still spraying. He understood now—it kept their faces off the camera. Eliminated any further evidence of their escape. Blake almost admired it, though he didn’t know how much it would really do to help them.
Who the hell is this man?
Blake caught up, and they kept moving. One officer tried to take a dive at them, but Silver Hair yelled quick enough for Blake to turn and spray the extinguisher again, right into the cop’s eyes. Man, that must have stung. I’m so sorry. Still, he knew that it had to be done.
“Keep it facing forward,” Silver Hair barked, nodding up at another camera. This one was above the door that Blake had come through a while ago, where the sour-faced receptionist had buzzed them in. She was gone now, God only knew where—probably cowering behind the desk.
Silver Hair let go of Winters. His semiconscious body hit the ground with a thud.
Blake’s hands were shaking. Whatever was about to happen, he didn’t know if he could go through with it. It was clear to him now that this man was here to help him—to save him—but the question was, why? He sure couldn’t go back to his normal life. Not now.
Not ever.
Chapter Five
The room was as dark as it had ever been; the bulbs from the main light had long since been removed, and even the desktop lamp was kept at its dimmest. It had to be like that—he had been sensitive to bright lights for as long as he could remember. The doctors called it photophobia, though it was more of a pain than it was a phobia.
The security screens behind his desk were set darker than most, making it hard to see details. But at least it didn’t hurt to look at them anymore. The aquarium, which had been built into three of the room’s walls, had a backlight that was almost too much to bear. But at least the feature offered some calm comfort.
As Charlie sat at his desk, flicking through the newspapers and trying to keep ahead of current events, the buzzer shook violently beside him. It was a disruptive noise that pissed him off every time he heard it. He slapped his paper onto the desk and pressed the button on the intercom. “I told you I was not to be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s a problem with the Salinger project.” The voice came through the speakers, clear as daylight. That was what all the money in the world could afford.
“Very well.” He took his finger off the button and flicked the switch beside it, buzzing the assistant into the room. As the door opened, he could see that the lights had been switched off in the hallway. It was a relief that his right-hand man was getting used to how things should be done around here.
The tall man stepped inside, his thinning gray hair tied back behind his head. His glasses were too large for his face, comically so, and they kept slipping down his nose. Charlie had always found this man amusing, especially the nervous way that he would creep on eggshells whenever he got near. But all pathetic mannerisms aside, the man was devoted and knew exactly what he was doing. That was why Charlie trusted him.
“What is it, Mr. Grover?” The last thing he wanted today was bad news.
His assistant closed the door behind him and crept across the room before dropping a small collection of files on his lap. He sat across from his employer.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he said. With a shaking hand, he fidgeted with his glasses. “You asked me to keep you well informed of the Salinger case.”
Charlie sat back in his chair, cracking his knuckles. This didn’t sound good. “Well?”
“Well, I…” Grover looked down at the floor, up at the glass wall, and then into Charlie’s eyes. It was clear he didn’t want to deliver the news. “The boy was taken into custody just one hour ago. We believed he was taking the fall for it.”
Take a deep breath. “Is he not?” Charlie sighed, rubbed his eyes with the curves of his gloved knuckles, and sat back in his chair. “You assured me everything was taken care of. Were you lying to me?”
“No! Sir, I—”
“Then where is he?” Charlie ground his teeth. His dentist had warned him not to do that—another bad habit he was trying to break free of.
Grover shook out of control, rapping his fingertips on the paper in his lap. Even his leg was bobbing up and down on its heel. “He was at Northeast Community Police Station.”
“I asked you where he is, not where he was.”
“Yes, s-sir. I’m sorry. It… seems that he had a little help. From one of our own.”
Charlie looked at him and crooked an eyebrow. “Our own? You mean—”
“Yes, sir. We believe he’s turned. Last we heard they were heading through the city. The police should… I mean, they will take care of it.”
“They better. It’s what I pay them for.” Charlie rose from his chair, took slow, steady steps around his office. This is supposed to be a place of Zen. “I want some information. Think you can handle that?”
The assistant craned his neck, looking paranoid, frightened, and small. “Anything, sir.”
Charlie wasn’t a big man. In school, they had given him the nickname Titch, and like most nicknames, the reci
pient didn’t like it. Only a few short months ago somebody had made a mockery of his build in a restaurant. Charlie’s associates taught the man some manners, and soon he came crying, humbled to Charlie. That man was now on the payroll, though his new disability left him unable to work anywhere but at a desk.
Trying to remain calm, Charlie stopped at the fish tank and watched the peaceful animals that he envied; their entire lives were tranquil and serene. They didn’t have to work or worry. Feeding time would come, and they would be fed. It was as simple as that. No stress, no anxieties, no failures. “How are you staying updated?”
“Winters checked in,” Grover’s voice came from behind. “He was beaten up pretty bad.”
Charlie chortled. “By Salinger?”
“No, sir. It seems our man did some damage before he broke out of there.”
He could feel his blood boil. His hands balled into tight fists. Charlie was grinding his teeth again. “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” He turned back to his assistant, staring at him and waiting for answers.
Grover began to tremble. His voice clarified his intimidation. “I don’t know, sir. But we had eyes on him for as long as the police did. Salinger, too.”
Charlie took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He could feel his face growing red. The doctor had warned him about his blood pressure becoming a problem now that he was forty. Until now, he had started to keep it in check. Breathing fiercely through his nose, he took a seat at his desk, tucked one hand under the other, and rested his chin on them. “I want them finished. Now.”
“Finished, sir? Both of them?”
“Dead. Gone. Done for.”
Grover fussed with his glasses, apparently unsure of where to rest his hands. “There’s still a chance that our agent has an agenda that benefits—”
“Then he should have asked for my permission!” He slammed his fist on his desk, making his assistant jump. “Get out of my sight. And get the detectives over here as soon as you can. I want a word with them.”
“Sir.” Grover stood, turned, and scurried away as quickly as he could.
“Grover,” Charlie said, stopping him dead in his tracks. “Don’t fail me again.”
His assistant nodded and closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with his thoughts, his fish, and a brand-new headache. This was terrible news for the Agency, and he would have to tend to it quickly. How hard could it be to keep eyes on a damn businessman? He owned half of Los Angeles, for Christ’s sake. His employees were becoming an embarrassment that he could no longer entertain.
Charlie picked up his pen, tore a fresh sheet of paper off his pad, and began to conjure up some fresh ideas on how to punish his agent when he reacquired him. Creating pain for people was what he had always been good at. Weak spots had a way of showing themselves to him, which was precisely how he managed to own the politicians.
The ones that mattered, anyway.
Chapter Six
They had used Winters’s keys to get into his personal car. Silver Hair had pretty much thrown Blake into the back seat like a package and then climbed into the front and brought the car to life. It was an expensive-looking car—a black Mercedes, shiny and clean—but Blake had the feeling it wouldn’t stay that way.
The tires screeched, kicking up puffs of white smoke. The engine roared, slinging them out of their spot, and sent them speeding away from the police station.
The police cars followed close behind.
Blake sat forward in the back, clinging onto the passenger seat as if it were his long-lost child. He had never been comfortable in fast vehicles, least of all in an uncontrollable environment. It seemed like half of LA was on their trail, and he was heading in an unknown direction with a lunatic.
“Who are you?” he tried to ask, slipping from left to right at the sharp turns. It was difficult to stay upright. “Why are you helping me?”
“Listen,” Silver Hair said, pulling desperately at the steering wheel. “We’ll talk as soon as we’re out of here, but for now I’m going to need your help. Look behind us, tell me exactly what you see.”
He wasn’t sure if he could do it. Turning his head meant letting go of the seat, and that was far too dangerous. The odds were not in his favor, and he always considered the odds. “I don’t…” Blake threw up a little in his mouth. Swallowed it. “I don’t know.”
They skidded around the corner and came onto a long, busy stretch of road. They picked up speed, swerving between other drivers. Drivers were leaning on their horns as sirens wailed in the background. Blake could hear people yelling their complaints, but he and Silver Hair were long gone by the time they could finish.
“How many?” Silver Hair screamed at him.
The terrifying bellow kicked him into gear. He spun his head around, tried to be as informative as possible. After all, this didn’t seem like a man he’d want to upset. “Six cars,” he said, unsure if the last one he counted was the same one he’d seen behind a station wagon only a few second ago. “Two bikes, catching up,” he added.
“Good. Now I need you to do something. Hold on tight and get ready to open your door.” He spun the wheel again, flinging the car around a group of pedestrians who were crossing the road. He put his foot down, and they picked up speed.
Blake flew forward in his seat, catching himself on the parking brake. Open my door? Is he crazy? “Nuh-uh.” He shook his head, biting down on his lower lip. “There’s no way I’m jumping out of a moving vehicle. Not at this speed.”
The man turned his head for a second and raised an eyebrow at Blake. “You’re not rolling out anywhere,” he said. “Just do as I tell you.” He turned his eyes back to the road, where he continued to maneuver between the other cars.
Blake felt a flash of embarrassment. What was he expected to do? This man, whoever he was, was a damn sight smarter than Blake was, that was for damn sure. Doing as he was told, he put one arm on the edge of the headrest and wrapped his fingers around the handle for support. His left hand clutched the door handle, ready to pull on it.
Silver Hair swerved to the left, maintaining his speed. He had obviously done this before. Hell, he had fought before, used tactics to escape hot situations before. He must have—his unfazed expression had showed such confidence back at the police station. It only made sense that this man knew what he was doing.
A cop on a motorcycle caught up to them, swerving between the other drivers with remarkable precision. He slowed behind a van and swung around on the other side, pulling up on their left. Blake watched with wide eyes, wondering what the police were hoping to do when they caught up to him and his partner in crime.
Do people have partners in crime? Sure they do, and now I do too.
In particular, what was this cop hoping to achieve? At least the police cars could try to pin them in. Blake wondered if they would try to get ahead of the car, cause them to slow to a stop.
It dawned on Blake what he was expected to do.
The bike came closer.
Silver Hair pushed his foot down harder. There were no more cars ahead of them—none in their direct path, anyway. “Now!” he yelled, his voice booming and godlike. He slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. The tires screeched across the tarmac.
The car jolted and Blake kicked open the door, then desperately retracted his foot to avoid the collision. The officer on the bike crashed into the door, and a powerful smashing sound rang in the air. The door came off its hinges, missed Blake’s foot by less than an inch.
The bike fell onto its side and slid along the road, crashing into a parked car at a frightening speed. Blake and Silver Hair went zooming on ahead.
“Good. That’s one down,” Silver Hair said.
Blake felt as though he was about to throw up. He’d never intentionally hurt a human being before, much less knocked one off a speeding bike. What worried him the most was that there was still another bike and six more cars. He wasn’t expected to do the same thing again, was he?
>
Before he could answer his own question, one of the cop cars hit their back bumper, nudging them. Blake’s neck lashed forward, and his face hit the headrest in front of him as the car slowed. It all happened too quickly to think.
They rocketed off again. The car that drove into them sped up and raced alongside them, only this time it was on the passenger side. Blake’s vision went blurry. He felt even more vulnerable without a door beside him, like he would be flung from the car at any second. He clutched harder onto the seat with his face pressed into it.
Silver Hair yanked on the wheel with both hands. They swerved and smashed into the police car. The driver regained its momentum, and swung around again to avoid a civilian vehicle. Seconds later, it rejoined their left side.
Another car came up to the right of them. Blake watched them both pull away, about to try to pin them in. Both cars would crash into them, killing their speed in a heartbeat. It could hurt them, kill them. And if it didn’t? He would still be in some serious shit with the law.
“Hold on!” Silver Hair screamed.
The engine roared, the tires gobbling up the road as they sped on.
The cop cars caught up to them. In the blink of an eye, they swung inward, working as a team to pin them in. Blake thought it was the end. His fingernails dug deeper into the seat. He closed his eyes, mouthed a prayer, quietly saying his goodbyes and hoping he would survive this.
Silver Hair slammed on the brakes.
The pursuing cars, still driving inward, crashed into each other. Their hoods folded, collapsing on themselves. Their back ends soared high into the air before dropping back to the ground with a deafening crunch.
Silver Hair ploughed the car into one of the police vehicles, stopping dead.
Blake was bruised, beaten up. Everything hurt. His ears rang like a damn cathedral bell. He looked to his driver, who was glancing in every mirror, observing his surroundings.
Clean Kill Page 3