Ahead of them, Blake stopped dead in his tracks, looking around with an eyebrow crooked. He didn’t even flinch, only looked back at them with a cold, hard stare that suggested disbelief and betrayal. He looked hurt, like someone had destroyed something that had taken him ages to create.
Val looked down at his feet, still too scared—or too smart—to move. Greg’s gun flickered between both him and Robbie. He reached into his pocket, retrieving a small silver ball. Val had seen these things before. They were smoke pellets, and they were effective.
As Greg’s hand began to swipe toward the ground in slow motion, Val covered his eyes to protect them. Robbie must have seen that something bad was about to happen because he did the same, the stricken look of fear creasing up his face.
Val heard the pellet crack on the concrete and then the gentle hiss of the gas as it leaked from its silver capsule. He tried to run but couldn’t move fast enough—the smoke covered a great distance in such a short space of time.
The gas reached his eyes, the burning sensation strong, like shampoo being rubbed into them. His lungs filled with the toxic smoke. It felt like they were on fire. It wouldn’t kill him—that wasn’t what worried him—but these things hurt like hell. He’d been caught in one of these before, when Greg had rescued him from a similar situation in Iraq. Oh, how the tables turn, he thought as he reached out with one wild arm, desperate to get a grasp on Greg.
But he was gone.
In his wake was only the smoke, which wafted into the air and smelled the way club smoke does. Val coughed hard as the sense-killing muck spewed from his lungs. He spat it into his hand. “Detective?” he tried calling to Robbie, but the smoke breached his mouth.
“Here,” Robbie replied, gagging only little less than Val was. Maybe he’d gotten away quick enough to only suffer a small dose.
Val felt a hand on his shoulder, from the same direction as the voice. As the gas dissipated, carried away on the gentle breeze of the cold winter air, he could see clearer, the images clarifying in the way that steam clears off a window.
Robbie was stood right beside him.
Greg had vanished from sight.
“Blake,” Val said.
He tried to sprint toward the alley but only made it three steps before his lungs had another coughing fit. His eyes still burned like they’d taken a hit of pepper spray. He dropped to his knees, coughing into the crack in the sidewalk. Robbie’s hand was on his back, patting it like a concerned parent, though he was still coughing himself.
“Do these things kill?” Robbie asked, his voice dry and crackled.
“No, but we lost Greg.” Val clambered to his feet and tried again to make it to the alley. When he got there, he saw that Blake had gone. He could feel his heart sink into his stomach, where the awful smoke still lingered.
“What does this mean?”
“This means…” Val tried to steady his blurred gaze onto a piece of trash in front of him. He’d picked up this trick long ago.
“Just focus,” Greg had told him. “You need to tell your eyes what they’re looking for, and your sight will return much faster.”
Val craned his neck and stared at Robbie. “This means we’re screwed.”
The gunshot startled him.
Blake spun on his heel toward the source of the gun blast. It took seconds for him to see anything coherent. His eyes scoured the crowd, where there were people running in all different directions, like ants fleeing from a boiled kettle, the steaming water burning away their homes in a scorching tidal wave.
He then saw something else. Something he thought he would never see again. Farther down the sidewalk, a man was on his knees, and two men were standing over him, causing some kind of commotion.
Dad.
Was that where the gunshot had come from? Blake was horrified by the sudden realization that the banker would’ve heard it too. He turned toward the van, which sat at the far end of the alley, not quite blocking the way for pedestrians to walk through. In front of it, the banker was staring right at him, a look in his eye like cats get when they’re deciding whether or not to run.
Blake’s hand tightened around the grip of his gun as he ran down the alley, holding it out and shouting. His gunshot wound tore with every slight movement, but his instincts took control of his priorities, and he elected to ignore the pain. “Don’t move!” he screamed. “Don’t you dare move!” The cold bit his skin, but that didn’t stop him from breaking into a sweat.
The banker stood still for a second and then began to run.
He was surprisingly fast for his size. He wasn’t fat, as such, but he was carrying a little extra. The amount that should have stuff wobbling as you sprinted for the bus. The banker passed the van, and Blake followed in hot pursuit.
As he approached, the van door squealed open, and Jackie popped her head out. “What the hell happened? Where is he?” Her eyebrows curved inward with confusion.
Blake ignored her. He couldn’t speak. Not now. Not while he was running so fast and gasping for breath. He shot past the van like a bat out of hell. The banker was at the far end, the mouth of the alley where it led onto the crowded street, and then he disappeared from sight. Blake picked up speed, praying to God that he hadn’t missed his chance. The gunshot had come too close to ruining everything.
Parked half on the curb was a sleek, silver Mercedes, its windows wound down. Something about the car stood out, but Blake shrugged it off. Behind him, people still ran for their lives, selfishly thinking the bullet had been fired at them, like it had sung out their names, summoning them to death. Meaningless self-importance.
Panting, his skin blazing like fire, Blake paused and surveyed the street.
Gone.
He couldn’t believe his luck. What would he do now? A part of him didn’t want to go back to the van, to face Jackie and tell her it was all over. He could run now and never have to see that disappointed look in her eye. And his dad? And Rachel? He was beginning to feel responsible for all of this. Deep down, he knew it was Val’s fault, really. If it hadn’t been for him, Blake would probably be marketing a new line of cereal bars to a table of buyers before returning home to kick off his shoes and sink a beer.
“Make a move. I dare you.” A voice from behind him sounded as something hard pressed into the small of his back. “Drop the gun.”
Blake let go of the pistol. It was empty anyway, a persuasive prop. He tried to turn, but a hand clapped onto his shoulder and led him down the street. They stopped at the Mercedes, and Blake caught a glimpse of the man’s reflection. He didn’t recognize him. He could feel his hands balling into fists, tightening with rage. What could possibly go wrong now, he thought. Cut me some slack!
He was shoved into the back seat, where it smelled of leather and cigarette smoke, masked with a pine-needle scent. An odd combination.
The man climbed in front, the car tilting under his weight.
Then the passenger door opened.
Blake could see the figure of a man outside before he climbed in. As the face came into view, Blake’s nerves twisted inside him, feeling like a fire spreading through a cornfield. His blood boiled, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
“Welcome back, kid.” Greg grinned at him, his face terrifying enough to leave a mental scar. It would give him nightmares for years to come. Providing he lived that long.
“What are you doing here?” the man from the driver’s seat asked. “This is my bounty.”
Greg pulled a gun up to the man’s forehead. “Nice try, Houston. But I set this whole thing up. This is the result of my hard work. But I’ll tell you what.” He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his arm. “You drive us there, and I’ll tell Charlie you helped.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, during which Blake made a mental note of the man’s name. Houston.
“Where’s Rachel?” Blake asked, breaking the silence. Greg just ignored him, making him want to shake him, hurt him, and do anything he could until he got
his answer.
Houston slid the key into the ignition and brought the car to life. “Fair enough,” was all he said as he pulled onto the street and drove off down the road.
Greg moved the gun over to Blake and sat smirking at him the whole way there like a creepy painting whose eyes followed you wherever you went.
But paintings don’t have guns, Blake thought as he stared at the barrel. He contemplated opening the door and rolling out of the car. It would scratch and tear at his skin, probably hurt like hell, but it sounded far more appealing than being a captured bounty.
Whatever he chose to do, Blake knew he couldn’t win.
All he could do was wait and see what they had planned for him.
Blake swallowed, praying for this nightmare to end.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The journey wasn’t nearly as long as he’d thought it would be. He couldn’t tell for sure, but it felt like less than an hour. Blake almost found it funny that all this time they had been so close to the Agency’s headquarters, and he hadn’t known a damn thing about it. He wondered if Val knew, or if he’d communicated with them by other means. Then again, even if he had known, there wasn’t a whole lot they could have done about it.
The car slowed down under a multi-story building. A shutter trembled open, screaming the sounds of scraping metal as it provided passage. As they drove in, large men who looked like bodybuilders tipped their heads in greeting at Houston, their rifles clutched in their hands. Blake was still not comfortable around guns, despite everything. It reminded him of his first vacation when he was a kid. The airport was the first place he’d seen that many weapons on hips. Only back then it had seemed cool. This definitely wasn’t.
“See, normally we’d throw something over your head, make sure you don’t see how to get into the building. But I don’t think that will be a problem after you meet Charlie,” Houston said, his eyes catching Blake’s in the rear-view mirror.
“Shut up,” Greg told him.
It was surprising how quickly his demands were met.
They parked in the far corner of the garage. When the engine died, Houston got out, then Greg came around, opened Blake’s door, and pulled him out by his collar. It was rough enough that it felt personal, as though Blake was being held responsible for something. He wished everyone would see things the way he saw them; that he was the victim in all this. He only wanted his life back.
Blake was soon shoved into an elevator, where the agents stood on each side of him until the bell pinged. When the doors drew open, they each took one of his arms and escorted him through a hallway. Blake didn’t put up a struggle. Didn’t even try to fight them off.
Some of the doors they passed had small round windows at head height, and he tried to catch a glimpse of what was on the other side but was told to keep looking forward.
He was in no position to argue.
Blake was taken into a room. As the door opened, they let go of his arms and pushed him forward. He took small, unsteady steps, observing his surroundings as he stepped through the kitchen. It led into a larger, barely lit room where a long table reached to the back wall. A small man sat at the far end, sucking up a rattail of spaghetti with a slurp. It smacked his chin and painted it red. When he saw Blake, he mopped it up with a napkin, and his eyes lit up.
“Mr. Salinger!” he cried, but didn’t get up. “Take a seat.”
Blake was reluctant. Who the hell was this guy? He wondered if this was the Charlie he’d heard so much about. But he didn’t look old enough to be in charge of anything. He was young, the same age as Blake, perhaps, but there wasn’t nearly enough pain in his expression—the kind of pain that changes your eyes as you slowly acquire knowledge of what the world was really like.
“Move,” Greg said, shoving him again.
Blake stumbled and then scuffed toward the chair across from the man. As he lowered into his seat, he found himself shivering. He wasn’t cold, just frightened.
“Can I get you something to eat? Some spaghetti?” was all the man said.
“Who are you?” Blake cut straight to the point, seeing the smile fade from the man’s face in an instant.
“That’s very rude, Mr. Salinger. You should be more polite to your hosts.” He set down his fork and dabbed the napkin at his thin lips again.
Blake could smell the sauce. His stomach groaned, but he couldn’t take food from these people. He folded his arms over his belly. “You’re not a host. This is kidnapping.”
“Oh, please. Spare me the technicalities.” The man looked at Greg and Houston, who were standing beside Blake as if to make sure he didn’t try to run. “Leave us.”
They both made their way toward the door.
“Not you,” he said to Greg, stopping him in his tracks. “You take a seat, too.”
Blake looked over at Houston, who looked hurt. He was staring at his employer like a child who desperately craved approval and had failed to obtain it. He huffed, crossed the large room, and walked out. The door slammed behind him.
Greg sat next to Blake, far too close for comfort.
“Now,” the man said, “you can call me Charlie. It’s very nice to meet you at last, Mr. Salinger.” He fussed with the cuffs of his sleeves, looking around the room rather than into his eyes. When he finally looked at Blake, he frowned. “It doesn’t please me. What all of this has come to.”
“Then you should blame him.” Blake aimed an accusing finger at Greg, who rocked his head back and let out a one-syllable laugh. Blake felt childish, like two naughty brothers had been dragged in front of their father for fighting. But they weren’t brothers. Far from it, in fact. He resented this man for a hundred different reasons.
“Whatever he did, Mr. Salinger,” the man—Charlie, as he’d introduced himself—said, “I’m sure he’s very sorry. It was mostly under orders, you see. My orders. I only needed done what needed done. Your situation is… not good. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”
“You can help me by making him give up Rachel!” Blake screamed. There was no way he was leaving here without knowing she was safe, even if it cost him his life.
“Rachel?” Charlie crooked an eyebrow.
“He doesn’t know,” Greg interjected. “I was working off an impulse at the time. Sir, I took his girlfriend. The girl who shot Grover.”
“Oh.”
“That’s a lie!” Blake yelled, his blood boiling. “She didn’t kill anyone. It was him! Rachel would never hurt a fly!” Blake couldn’t get his head around how twisted this guy was. He’d known Greg was dangerous, vindictive, tough. But it was becoming apparent that he was nothing short of a monster.
“Is that true?” Charlie turned to Greg, a fire in his eyes ready to burst out and enflame the pair of them. It was evident that even he’d had enough of this infantile feud.
“Not at all,” Greg told him, still grinning with a mischief-laced smirk.
“Where is she?” Blake kicked back his chair and pointed a finger at Greg’s face. He could feel anger coursing through him. There was a touch of fear, too. He knew he could be killed at the snap of Charlie’s fingers, but he was acting on his primal instincts. He only wanted his friend back, and he would do anything—anything—to see her home safe.
But where was home now? Blake felt like a drifter these days, no real purpose and no real goal. He was simply surviving.
“Woooh-hooo-ho!” Charlie broke into hysterics, wiping his eyes. He slapped a palm onto the table, excited by the drama. The cutlery shook. “This is priceless. Truly! Mr. Salin—uh, may I call you Blake?”
Blake was shaking as he stepped back. He was ready to put his fist through a wall. Instead, he put his hands on his head and let out a deep breath. “Whatever.”
“Okay, Blake. Does this man really have this… Rachel girl, or was that a lie too?”
Greg sat up then, resigned, though the smile was still on his lips. “All right, look. I took her. It was for good reasons, but I took her. Just… sit
down, kid.”
Blake trembled, picked the chair up off the floor, and sat in it. His eyes never left Greg’s, who was still insistent on talking.
“You understand what we’ve all been through,” Greg went on. “It hasn’t been easy for anyone. Especially me.” He waved briefly at the scar tissue that blanketed one side of his face. His smile dropped into a frown of disgust at the sound of his own reminder. “Fact is, kid, Rachel is dead. I’m sorry, but I had to do it.”
Blake felt as if he was in a nightmare. The time he’d spent on the run, since the very first moment he’d met Greg, he knew there was an ongoing danger. That he would have to keep running. He’d heard stories about the Agency, had been taught things he never knew he could learn. But now the head of the company was in front of him, and he had suffered the loss of Rachel, it all felt like a distant world. One he was watching with horror, rather than experiencing.
He sat up straight. His blood was at boiling point. He could feel the moisture emanating from his forehead, a result of the scalding steam. No, no, that’s not true. It can’t be true. Rachel is always a part of my life. Always! Blake thought of Rachel, pictured her smile, heard the words she’d whispered in his ear that night as she confessed her feelings for him. “You’re…” He was trying not to cry. He needed to look like a grown man now, in the company of other men. “You’re lying.”
Greg stood, traipsed behind him, the soles of his shoes making an echoing sound across the floor tiles. And then he put a hand on Blake’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, kid.”
Blake shrugged the hand away. He was in a daze, staring at the floor, trying to soak in the information he’d never wanted to hear.
Then Greg leaned in close, a creepy whisper in his ear. A warm breath down his neck. “But she gave up the goodies before she died, and she was perrrfect.” It was a taunting sound, the way he lingered on the r like a devious tiger.
The Bloodline Trilogy Page 28