“When will you come and get us, Daddy?”
“Soon. I was just saying to Mommy that I’ve got a little more work to do, and then I can come and pick you up. I’ll get you a gift too, you know. Anything you like. What do you think of that, huh?”
“You mean for Christmas?”
Christmas. In spite of the freezing air, sweat beaded across his forehead. He’d totally forgotten about Christmas. He’d known it was soon, but he currently had no idea exactly when it was. He wondered if he would ever forgive himself for missing this one holiday with his family. “Sure, for Christmas, sweetheart. And your birthday, and for Easter.”
Cassie giggled, the idea of free toys brightening up her day.
“I have to go, baby girl. But you look after Mommy, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Robbie wiped his eye with a sleeve.
“I heard that,” Sonia said with humor in her voice, taking over from their daughter. “You’d better keep that promise, Robbie,” she teased.
“You know I’ll try. Sonia, when is Christmas? We lose track of time here.”
“Are you serious?” Her tone had dropped into one of disbelief.
“Deadly.”
There was a pause while Sonia breathed hard. “In about eighteen hours.”
Robbie felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. “Oh.”
“Robbie?”
“Yeah?”
“We miss you.”
“I know. Just hang in there. We’re sorting this mess out.”
They said goodbye, and Robbie headed back to the van, crunching through the frost-eaten grass and passing the factory workers once more. He gave a polite nod as they all turned and looked at him.
“All sorted?” Val asked.
Robbie approached the door and playfully flicked his finger under Jackie’s chin. The very idea of the festive season had slightly improved his mood, even if it was just for a few minutes. Jackie looked up and forced a smile at him. He got in the van. “Yep.”
“Are you ready for tonight?” Val asked, climbing into the back again and pulling the door shut. He groaned like it was a struggle.
“I am.” Robbie started up the van, the hot air drifting out of the heating vents once again. “But you’re the one who should be ready.” He drove out of the parking lot and poured down the main road of the industrial estate while Val sat cleaning their weapons. They didn’t have much ammunition left, but it might be just enough to keep them safe from what tonight might bring.
If not, at least they could say they tried.
Chapter Twelve
Rachel lay on the couch, staring over the tops of her bare feet at the window, where the sun was cresting the hill, its edges blinding and bright. She was thinking about when she’d tried to run. It had only been a day ago, yet it seemed like it had been longer.
Despite the man’s desperation to keep her within his sight, she’d returned to him making one thing quite clear: she was to sleep somewhere inside the house and would eat real food (she would later offer to go shopping on his behalf, but first she would make it seem like she didn’t intend to run). He’d shown her around, introducing her to each room as if she was now a welcome guest. It wasn’t until she asked where the stairs were that she was told she was in a cabin. This fascinated her, as she hadn’t noticed it when she’d been outside.
“We will g-go through it properly. But first you need your r-r-rest.” He’d thrown a duvet at her and gestured at the couch, which she accepted with a grunt. She wanted to make him understand that what he was doing was cruel, and it seemed like he would never understand if she were to use pleasantries.
Then there was a whole day during which she barely saw him. Rachel used this time to study the house—or cabin, as she now knew—to figure out exactly what this guy’s deal was. Her first port of call had been the bulletin board, where pictures of her and her friends were pinned up around a set of newspaper clippings, connected by blue strings in a sort of spider-web pattern.
What she read was incredible.
From left to right seemed to be a chronological listing of events, starting from early October and detailing Val Salinger’s obituary. Murdered, it read. Following that was Blake’s timeline and blurry photos of him with a man who looked like Greg. She followed the string with her finger until she got to late November, where there were articles and personal information about a detective named Robert Parker. Rachel didn’t know him.
The rest of the day had been spent exploring the world outside. She walked for over an hour, looking out over the impressive green landscape. Fields and meadows stretched on for as far as the eye could see. Giving up hope, she’d returned to the cabin where she climbed onto the couch and fell asleep right away.
Now, here she was, staring at the sun and contemplating her next move.
Whatever she did, Rachel couldn’t stay still. She got up and went to the kitchen, turning on the electric kettle and raiding the cupboards for something to eat. She took a packet of Ritz crackers and tiptoed around the cabin, further exploring the prison and stuffing the stale snacks into her mouth. She was still wearing her own clothes, as her absent host had failed to provide her with anything clean to wear.
“I thought I heard the k-kettle.”
The voice startled her. Rachel spun round and saw the man standing there, wrapped inside his blanket and shuddering in the cold.
“Sit down. I’ll make you a d-drink.”
She nodded and walked back into the living room but didn’t take a seat. Minutes later, he came in with a tray of hot drinks and a small plate of assorted cookies. She was famished but didn’t quite trust the purity of his food. “Who are you?”
The man looked at her for a second and then fell back into his dirty armchair. “I’m nobody r-really. Just a friend, of s-s-sorts.”
“Friends don’t obsessively keep photographs of people they don’t know.” Rachel took a sip of the scalding coffee, winced, and set the mug down. She took a seat on the couch a safe distance across from him. “What’s this all about?”
But the man only twitched slightly, like he’d heard something outside. She’d seen him do this a few times now, and she would ask him about it as soon as she got the more important questions out of the way.
“Okay,” he said and shuffled so he had his back to her. It seemed like his way of dealing with shyness. “Have you ever heard of the Agency?”
Rachel felt a hot wave flush over her. How much does he know? She had no idea what to say, but the small gasp of air that escaped her mouth seemed answer enough.
“I know there are a lot of c-c-conspiracy theorists, Rachel. I don’t want you to think I’m c-crazy.” He buried his face deeper into the chair’s back cushion. “There are people trying to kill you. And Blake Salinger. And Val Salinger. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Some things were starting to make sense—the clippings, for example. But what she couldn’t understand—what made no sense whatsoever—was how he knew all of this, and why he thought it gave him the right to take her from a car and hold her prisoner. “You are.”
The man stood up, smiling. The blanket fell to the floor, revealing a robe with patches of dirt. “I knew it. See, I’ve been f-following this ever since Val Salinger died.” He disappeared into a back room and returned moments later with a digital camera. “Look.”
Rachel took it, no stranger to technology. It was a Nikon DSLR. She had one of these herself. It was a good piece of hardware.
“The last im-image,” he said excitedly, sitting down next to her. His breath stank of something sour, and he continued to jerk his head.
Rachel tried to hold her breath as she turned on the camera and went to the most recent image. It was a picture of two Asian people—a man and a woman wearing summer clothes. They were sitting on a bench and smiling for the camera. Behind them was a waist-high row of plants. It was a cute photo, but nothing special. “There�
��s nothing here.”
“Look closer,” the man said.
She squinted her eyes and put her face closer to the screen, rather than bringing the camera closer to her. “Oh.” She saw what had gotten him so keyed up. Behind the plant was an airport departure lounge. Seated in a chair on the right of the screen was none other than Val Salinger.
“I’d s-seen a lot about him on the n-news. First, I thought it was a coincidence, but then when I saw him dragged from the p-plane, I figured something was off. So I g-g-got off too and followed him for as long as I could.”
“How long was that?” Rachel asked, feeling as though their privacy—the only thing they’d had between them as a group—had been invaded.
“About a day.” The man leaned over her and pressed a button on the camera. The seventy-six-millimeter screen brought up a picture of Jackie on the bank of a river with a yacht’s mast poking from the water behind her like the neck of a sea serpent.
“You took these?” She asked, surprised at his persistence.
“Uh-huh.” He looked so pleased with himself then. It was the first time he’d come fully out of his shell. For a moment, he didn’t seem so threatening, but Rachel didn’t want to risk changing that by saying the wrong thing.
“Who are you?” she asked for the second time in minutes.
The man looked down at his lap then. It was a sudden movement, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and was trying to play it cool.
“Oh come on,” she said. “I think we’re on first-name terms.”
He looked up, thinking about it, and then said, “My name is J-J-Joseph. But people always called me T-T-Twitch.”
Called, thought Rachel, not entirely surprised that he was speaking in the past tense. It was no wonder he was alone now. But in a way, she felt sorry for him. Underneath the dangerous-looking exterior and the manner in which he’d managed to “save” her, was a sweet and humble man with the passion of a young boy. “Well, Joseph. I think—”
“Twitch,” he corrected.
“You prefer that?”
He nodded and… well, twitched.
“Okay, Twitch…” Rachel lowered her tone, tried to make her point seem reasonable. “It’s really sweet of you to bring me to safety, but I need to get back to Blake Salinger. Can you help me do that?”
Twitch looked at his feet and stretched his legs out. “Agency,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“He’s j-joined the Agency,” he said louder, clearer. “That’s why you’re here, Rachel. When I found you, I just wanted to make sure you got b-back to good health. Now, I want you out of harm’s way until this is o-over.”
Rachel barely heard the latter part, her mind too focused on Blake. That can’t be right. She’d seen Blake become a bit less by-the-book, becoming more confident with the necessity to survive, but she could never have imagined him teaming up with Greg, much less betraying his father. “Are you sure that’s right?”
Twitch nodded.
“Listen to me.” Rachel adjusted her position to look at him, then put a hand on his. “The man who put me in the car—he had silver-gray hair and a burned face. Is Blake with him?”
But Twitch just shook his head and got up to leave. “I don’t know, Rachel. Let’s get cleaned up, and we can talk about it while we m-make breakfast.” He dashed out of the room as if he was ashamed of something.
Breakfast, she thought, realizing this man had no intention of letting her leave. But even if she could, she knew there was no chance of returning to Blake. If what Twitch said was true, and Blake really had joined the Agency, then who else in this world could she truly trust?
Rachel tried to think of someone, but nobody came to mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Blake lay on the bed and stared at the wall, sipping on a protein shake while his world fell apart. He’d been granted a little time to himself, though he had a feeling it wouldn’t do much for his mental state. Although he’d told Charlie he would take out the FBI agent, he still had to convince himself that it was the right thing to do.
Given the option of killing the agent, he wondered if it would have made more sense to take the case in Chicago. What was it? A pyromaniac? Perhaps that would be easier. He’d never been to Chicago, but he’d always wanted to go. So he figured that if he jumped on a plane and headed over there, he could simply return and just say he’d taken care of it. Blake caught himself grinning—he knew he would never get away with something like that.
His other option was the “dirty cop” in Madrid. This one seemed even more dangerous; the idea of another lawman was worrisome to say the least. But Blake knew he was capable of defending himself now. Everything about him was tougher, with the exception of his conscience.
The truth of the matter was that he’d be expected to murder an FBI agent. Though Blake had a little experience, putting a bullet through (Greg) anyone was a horrendous enough thought. It was but a grim memory now. Blood on his hands that he could never wash off. He’d tried to convince himself that it had been absolutely necessary. When the rage had pent up inside him and he’d stood looking at Rachel’s murderer, only a squeeze of the trigger could have brought him to justice.
Blake had felt the power in his hands as he fired a bullet into Greg. He’d tasted the simplicity of how easily he could end a man’s life. But although that little outburst had seemed reasonable, he concluded that murder simply wasn’t for him.
That led Blake to wonder if anybody really enjoyed killing other people—except, of course, deranged psychopaths, who would tend to make a good pastime of it. But Blake had tried it, and he didn’t like it. It was as simple as that—black or white. Yes or no. It was like trying a new kind of cereal and pushing the bowl aside. If he could help it, he would never do something like that again.
That was, until it was expected of him.
There was a bang on the door, a heavy thumping that demanded immediate attention. Blake climbed off the bed and opened it. It was barely open an inch before Charlie burst in, looking as though someone had scratched his car. He was breathing heavily, and as he walked farther into the room, he stopped and looked around.
Blake knew something was wrong. “What’s happened?”
“Close the door.” He waited for the click. “I gave you a choice, did I not?”
“Yes?” Blake wondered if his decision-making time had come to an end.
“You’ll have to put that on hold.”
Blake had never felt so relieved. He thought of how it would feel to just sleep for an entire day, read that novel he’d wanted to read. Take time out, ignoring Christmas and guns and training. Just him and his book for that one lonely day. “Has something happened?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” He took a slow step closer. “I need to hear it right now, one man to another. Are you with us, or against us?”
“I’m…” Do I really have any say in this if I want to stay alive? “I’m with you.”
“Good,” Charlie said, walking toward the door and shoving Blake out of his way. “Then get something warm to wear. There’s something which requires your attention.”
Blake hurried to grab his coat. It was a long black trench coat that fit around his new body shape perfectly. He’d been looking for a good reason to wear this—he hadn’t yet left the building since his training had begun. “What is it?” he asked, locking the door and catching up to Charlie in the hallway.
“You’ve been summoned.”
A heat stole over Blake. “By who?”
“That father of yours. He’s gone through our agents and demanded a meeting with you. I’m giving you a sniper team, but I want you to take him out.” He’d said it as if it was nothing. No big deal, just kill your papa and be home in time for dinner.
“Sir, y-you said that I wouldn’t have to do it.” Could I really kill my own father? Do I have what it takes? He considered that he wouldn’t even be in this situation were it not for his dad’s lies and dece
ption over the years.
“I changed my mind.”
They rounded the corridor into another identical one.
“I won’t do it.”
Blake was caught by surprise when he was stopped dead in his tracks, and Charlie’s hand rocketed at his neck with incredible force. His back was pinned to the wall like a butterfly on a nail. Even if he’d seen it coming, what could he have done?
“You listen to me, and you listen good, you little shit. I am your boss. I own you, and you’ll do exactly what I say, or we can end this right now. What do you think of that?”
Through a tightened throat, Blake managed to gurgle, “Why can’t you do it?”
Charlie let go of his throat, swept his leg into Blake’s knees. Blake dropped to the floor, and Charlie reached into his jacket, producing a gun. He put it against Blake’s forehead. Hard. “You are going to kill Val Salinger, and that is an order. Are you going to disobey that order?”
Blake saw a spark of Greg within this man and wondered if he was what turned Greg so nasty—what made him the monster he’d become. But what were Blake’s options now? What could he really do, if not murder his father? He imagined accepting the order but then running away with his dad before he got the chance to be punished. “I’d need help.”
Charlie moved the gun only an inch from Blake’s head and fired into the wall. Chunks of plasterboard exploded into the air. “Are you going to kill him?”
“Yes!” Blake screamed, his ears ringing. “Yes! Yes!” It was an immediate regret. He didn’t know if he could keep that promise.
As if nothing at all had happened, as if everything was perfectly normal, Charlie smiled and tucked the gun away. He helped a reluctant Blake to his feet and continued down the corridor, his arm around the man he had just threatened. “As I said, I’ll give you a team of snipers, if that’s what you need. Okay?”
This man is absolutely nuts! Blake tried to picture himself giving the signal to shoot his father, but even in his mind he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “All right,” he said, feeling the man’s hot breath down his neck.
The Bloodline Trilogy Page 35