Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1)

by Adam Nicholls

  Greg seemed to study him for a moment, his eyes questioning and curious, and then a light flickered in his eyes. One that said I understand but that's no excuse. 'Listen,' he began, a sniff at the air and a stretch of his back. ' I don't want to be out here any more than you do. Fact is, your old man is in trouble. You want to save him, don't you?'

  Blake spat it out before he had chance to think about it. 'Yeah.' It surprised him; he'd had no idea that he gave a shit about his father. And maybe he didn't. Maybe it was just his responsibility to do the right thing.

  'Well then, pucker up. In under an hour, an agent will be pulling up to that drive, and I promise you, it will not be as simple as exchanging a few words and waving buh-bye. When the shit hits the fan, you need to be ready. You got it?' He didn't wait for an answer, only pushed the gun into Blake's chest and jolted his head in summon. 'So come on.'

  Blake looked down at the heavy, black pistol, supposing he was right. But no matter how right, wrong, or down-right bloody ridiculous something may seem, he felt as though nothing could prepare him to fire this thing into a human body.

  Even if it meant his own survival.

  Chapter 15

  Dusk was approaching fast, and they were knelt in position from the old bedroom. Blake could almost see the funny side; he was probably going to die right where he had been raised.

  They were watching the horizon, where the driveway started and the gate resided. Earlier, they had taken Marcy's phone - a job Greg decided to take upon himself on a count of chivalry - and placed it on a rock next to the intercom system by the gate.

  The back door, however, was a different story, wired up with a spray can of gas, a Zippo lighter and a few feet of chicken wire. It wouldn't hurt any intruders, but it would alert Blake & Greg to someone's presence and, if nothing else, scare the living shit out of anyone brave enough to attempt breaching the house.

  'You ready for this, kid?'

  He didn't know the answer to that question, but he didn't have time to worry about it either. All he cared about was whether or not he could fire a gun if he needed to, and if his aim was good enough to hit the poor son of a bitch that he was aiming for.

  It was almost an hour before a car came slowly into view. It was a British racing green Jaguar, something that Blake imagined only the Wall Street types could afford. The car slowed at the gate and Blake pulled the binoculars away from his eyes. 'I feel sick.'

  Greg was peeking through a scope that he had slid off a rifle earlier on. Blake didn't habitually watch action movies, but even he had seen that manoeuvre once or twice. In the films, of course.

  'Man up. Keep your head about you.'

  'What kind of advice is that?' He returned to looking at the car, his nerves rattling him through to his core. He had a plan - they had made it together - but if it would work was an entirely different matter, and that also didn't change the fact that he was absolutely scared shitless.

  On the driveway, a man leaned out of the car window and pushed a button on the intercom, hoping to reach someone. Greg hit a set of numbers into the landline phone and lifted the handset to his ear, his eyes still trained on the distant visitor.

  The man scowled with confusion, looked around him, and then stepped out of the car, looking at the ground as if it had insulted him. When he got to the rock, he saw the phone, picked it up and raised it to his head. His voice rang through the speaker next to Blake.

  'Hello?'

  'Come on, Matthews,' Greg said, 'you should know the drill by now.'

  Blake saw the man smile and his lips move almost in sync with his voice.

  'What–no trust between friends?'

  'No honour among thieves, and no trust among spies,' Greg jested. 'Off with the jacket.'

  Matthews didn't hesitate in setting the phone back on the rock and sliding off his expensive-looking jacket. He then spread his arms like an angel and spun like a spinning-top toy.

  Before long, he picked the phone back up. 'Happy?'

  'The peashooter strapped to your leg.'

  At first Blake didn't understand what he meant, but when the man lifted his trouser leg and pulled a small pistol from a holster, it registered with him. He almost chuckled at how clever his company was; it was like seeing Jason Bourne in all his glory.

  'Can I come in and play now?' asked Matthews.

  Blake didn't like this guy. Something seemed off about him. Something slimy. Like a lawyer, with a sly grin that read you're going down whether you like it or not.

  'Gate's unlocked. Hands on your head as you walk through it,' Greg instructed with a cool confidence. 'Take ten steps in and stay exactly where you stop. Wait with your hands right there or we will fire.' He pushed the hang-up button on the phone and shuffled to his feet, placing a hand on Blake's back. 'You've got this, kid.'

  'What if I miss?' Blake suddenly panicked at the responsibility. The weight on his shoulders was scarily real.

  'You don't have to hit anything. Just be careful not to hit me. I trust you.'

  It was reassuring to an extent; he could almost wild-fire to his heart's content. He couldn't hit a stationary target if he tried, so if he did try, maybe everything would go as smoothly as planned. But then there was the rest of the plan to worry over…

  Within minutes, Greg appeared outside, his walk clear and confident, but his arms outstretched to offer a mutual absence of hostility. He kept strolling on, getting smaller and smaller the farther he went, and then stopped a few metres from Matthews.

  Blake stayed knelt at the window, stressed and anxious. His foot tapped rapidly against the carpet and his knees were cramped. He put down the binoculars and looked down at the rifle. He sucked in a deep breath and then slid the scope back onto it. For a moment, he froze, almost long enough to ponder whether he could go through with this. But he didn't let it dissuade him. He couldn't, not when lives hung in the balance.

  He lifted it to his shoulder and looked down the sight, fiddling with the ring around the lens so as Greg and Matthews were both in clear view.

  Wait for the signal.

  His mind was elsewhere, however, dancing between the security of the back door and Rachel; how he longed to see her again, her gentle lips the perfect promise of safety. She could never be his and he could almost happily accept it. He was just happy knowing that she was being taken care of by someone else, and that it didn't affect his relationship to her.

  In the distance, Greg's hands moved to match his words. Blake was waiting, ready, his finger on the trigger of the rifle. He had only had one practice shot with this thing, but he was as ready as he ever would be.

  Greg gave the signal, a short wave of two fingers.

  There was no time to hesitate. Blake pulled the rifle up and squeezed the trigger. He closed his eyes as he fired, though he hadn't meant to. The gun jolted in his arms, a pain searing through his shoulder in a fiery blaze. It was the warning shot and, according to Greg, it was all that was needed.

  One smooth shot to the dirt beside Matthews to let him know that they were in control–that this was their territory. Matthews jerked back, obviously startled and embarrassed of his own reaction. Things were going so smoothly. So far, anyway.

  And then a deafening bang exploded downstairs. It was everything that Blake had feared. It was one thing to sit in a window and blindly shoot a gun where no one could touch you, but when there's someone in the house, a trained Agent, it's time to start worrying.

  Blake's body went stiff. Deep down, he was nothing like his father, the fabled spy. But then a strong primitive instinct stole over him and he jumped to his feet, running out of the room and grabbing the pistol off the dresser as he went.

  He stopped at the top of the stairs. He wasn't sure if it was to listen or to give him enough time to bottle it. Regardless, he could hear nothing other than the mechanical ticking of the grandfather clock below him, echoing eerily up through the hall.

  How much noise did you really expect him to make? Whoever it was had a
lready given himself away with the homemade booby trap, and it was unlikely that the intruder would come waltzing up the stairs with a target strapped to his chest.

  But why such silence…

  It was unbearable for Blake. He was already as nervous as could be. He thought that whoever it was could already be upstairs, could come up behind him and feed a blade into his back. He shuddered, glanced over his shoulder and side-stepped down the stairs bit by bit. He paused halfway, listened.

  Nothing again.

  It struck him that he was in the perfect position to just run away. He still had the barman's car keys. He could slip out while Greg was preoccupied. If he could get out at all, that was. But the silence was enough to drive anyone mad.

  Blake drew his pistol.

  Slowly, he traipsed down the last of the steps, half-expecting to be attacked as soon as he hit the bottom, but no such thing happened. He immediately took a right, passing the holdall he had left in the hallway, and poked his head into the kitchen. As an afterthought, he lifted the gun to defend himself. He would have to be quicker next time.

  Blake closed the door and crossed the hall to the study. His finger shook around the trigger. His voice seemed to echo up the massive walls, like a desperate man's final wail. There was a sweat coming on as he approached the door. Eyes closed tight, he counted to three and then burst into the room, raising the gun immediately to the face of a man.

  The shadows danced across his face in the gloom, but his scars were visible and his build would be intimidating in any lighting. 'You better shoot that thing,' he said.

  Blake paused. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer in the man's eye, like he enjoyed this kind of stuff. It was almost as if he wanted to be shot. But why would he? He worked for The Agency, he was obviously trained to survive and it didn't take a genius to know that a bullet in the chest would slow you down.

  'I'll shoot.' Although it was a lie to himself.

  'No, you won't.' The Shadow Man was so confident that he seemed not to care what happened. He took a step back. 'I'm going to give you your chance. You can lower the gun and I'll go easy on you, or you can fire and have done with it. But I promise you this: if you shoot that thing at me, you had better kill me, or I will pin you down and hack you up.'

  Blake believed him.

  The man took another step back into the shadows. Blake was finding it harder to see him; his eyes played tricks on him and he was losing his nerve. The gun rattled in his hands. He knew he wasn't prepared to take a human life. But for his dad, for Rachel and for himself?

  Blake clenched the gun tighter, but by then it was too late.

  'You were warned.' The voice was beside him now, as if he had teleported from one end of the room to the other.

  Blake could no longer see him, the shadows concealed his enemy. He went for the light switch, his heavy panting even more noticeable in the silence of the room. When he flicked it, nothing happened. Shit!

  'Didn't think the power would still be on, did you?'

  The voice shifted again, somewhere indistinguishable. 'I don't understand it, myself. I mean, I've heard of unlikely teams, but what's your game?'

  Blake fidgeted, shifted his aim from left to right, unsure of where exactly the man was. 'I…' His voice was weak, quivering. 'He's my friend, and he's helping me find my dad.'

  'Ha! Is that what he told you?'

  A hand on his shoulder.

  Blake recoiled, spun the gun and fired it, but it hit nothing other than the black air. 'You can't turn me against him, so give up now!' It was an obvious ploy, but there was still a little room for doubt. Blake would have to close his mind to it entirely, or succumb to the tale this man was weaving.

  'I don't care what you do. Live. Die. It's all the same to me.'

  Suddenly a fist flew out. It connected with Blake's already-damaged nose, producing a new kind of pain, flooding new shades of blood. He stumbled back, took two quick steps to regain his balance, but failed. His back hit the cold marble ground, smashing his coccyx. The gun left his open hand, spinning across the room, and the man was on him, gripping his throat like a vice.

  'Fact is, he has your head in a mix and you're being used,' The Shadow Man said, his breath hot against Blake's face. 'Ask him, if you don't believe me. Ask him what his name is. Ask him what his real connection to your father is.' His pearly-white grin shone as the sunset seeped through the window. His eyes sparkled with an obvious humour. 'I would tell you myself, but there's obviously no learnin' left in you.'

  Blake felt the hand on his throat loosen, and the weight leaving his body.

  'You're… letting me go?'

  'I'm giving you a chance. I know he's manipulated you. Heck, it was his specialty. But if you leave right now and let the trail go cold, I won't be tracking you down. You have my word on that.'

  Blake grimaced, letting out a little huff. 'No, you won't. But The Agency–'

  'When The Agency has that friend of yours, there's no reason left to chase you. Just let sleeping dogs lie.' The man's hand was extended, an offering of peace in a field of nightmares and war. 'What do you say?'

  * * * *

  Greg approached Matthews slowly, his arms spread wide with the safety of a warning shot up in the window behind him.

  Let's see you try something now, you bastard.

  The gravel crunched under his feet until he stopped, considering his first words carefully. It was absolutely imperative that he show off his position of power. 'He isn't yours to take, Matthews.'

  Matthews chortled. 'Take? Why do you think we want the boy? You're the problem in all this. We were happy with Val where he was until you stuck your fucking nose in.'

  He doesn't want the kid? It could have been a bluff. Having worked for The Agency for most of his adult life, he knew the place held a manifestation of secrets, turncoats, traitors and, most of all, lies. 'You say that, and yet I've not seen him protest.'

  'Because he is starting his new life, goddammit! He gave up everything for his retirement. Who the hell do you think you are to intervene?'

  'Me?' Greg smirked at him, shot a condescending look. 'Oh, nobody. I'm just the guy with the gun.' And as simple as that, he gave a flick of his fingers, signalling Blake.

  A stone exploded at Matthews's feet.

  He jumped.

  Greg laughed.

  'That is exactly who I am,' Greg continued, 'a field agent, having a conversation with a pencil-pusher. But I only want one thing.'

  Matthews adjusted his sleeve, unhooked the top button of his plain-white shirt, and then cleared his throat. 'What might that be?'

  Greg took a step closer. 'Where is he?'

  'Val?'

  'Yes, Val.'

  Matthews was visibly sweating now. Greg had seen him nervous before, but never this intimidated. 'Look, you can torture me all you want, but I don't know where he is. What I do know is that Canavan is inside the house, and I don't doubt that the kid can't take care of himself.'

  A loud explosion echoed on the wind from behind Greg, and he smiled. The trap. Perfect timing. 'It's taken care of.' He reached out at his old colleague and gripped his throat, grinding his teeth but barely noticing it. 'Where is he?'

  'I don't–'

  Greg pinched the man's nose, tightened the grasp on the neck, forcing him to the ground. 'Where?' His nasty side was coming out. He had tried so hard to restrain it until now but, sooner or later, the monster always came unleashed.

  'At Heathrow Airport! He's getting on a plane just now. Probably gone already!'

  Greg let go, shoved him into the dirt. 'The Boss won't let him go. Not while there's trouble and leverage behind him. You know that.'

  Matthews was gasping for air.

  The sun was dropping fast, darkness soon approaching.

  Greg shivered, zipped up his jacket. 'We're going inside.'

  'I'm going nowhere with you,' Matthews spat, clambering up to his feet. 'I came here to negotiate and all you've given me is one option.'


  'That's how I negotiate.' He sneered.

  Matthews's eyes shot behind his interrogator, and a fresh confidence crept into his voice.

  'But that's not how we do it. Ain't that right, Canavan?'

  Greg wasn't given the time to turn around. He felt the bump on his neck, knocking him out of the moment. His feet collapsed beneath him and he hit the ground like a sack of rocks. Lying on his back, he looked up. Shocked and humiliated, he saw his two ex-colleagues towering over him through blurry eyes.

  'Nicely done,' said Matthews.

  Their voices seemed to be getting deeper as consciousness left him.

  'It was nothing really,' the new voice said. 'Thanks for distracting him.'

  'Ha. You got the boy?'

  'It's been sorted.'

  That was the last thing Greg heard before his world faded to a black void.

  Chapter 16

  When Val Salinger had gone in to hiding, he was simply that–Val Salinger, father, assassin, power to the people who couldn't help themselves. He was a mixed bag of morals with a hell of a paycheque. Days later, when he emerged, he was Oscar Wales, retired Geography teacher with a passport in the same name. His knowledge of the world stood true enough–he could pass off as a teacher just as easily as he had performed other roles in his line of work; postman, poet, preacher. But this time, just like every other time, he couldn't help but let his nerves twinge as he stood at the customs desk at the airport.

  'Passport, please,' the pretty young lady was saying to the people at the front of the line.

  'Thank you.' And then the next man, woman, or couple would pass through with an uncomfortable embarrassment on their faces, and a fear of the upcoming metal detectors.