Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1)

by Adam Nicholls

  The fat man licked his lips. 'That one is eighty-nine-ninety-nine, sir. Can I interest you in any insurance?'

  'No, thank you. Just the phone. Take the money and bag it.'

  'No problem. If you like I could make a package deal, give you–'

  'Just the phone,' Blake almost screamed at him. He was desperate to make the phone call, and wasn't about to wait any longer for it.

  The fat man's eyes spread wide, and then he slumped back, sulking. He took the money, doing as he was told, and almost threw the bag at him. 'Thanks. Bye.'

  Blake huffed, surprised at how quickly the man's temper had altered. If he had been through what Blake had been through, he wouldn't have come out the other side. But sure, thought Blake, lose your fucking patience with a paying customer.

  He left the shop and found a quiet alley. The packaging ripped off and glided to the floor, the box dropping after it. While he waited for the phone to boot up, he tried to recall her phone number. But before he had remembered it, he had automatically typed it in and hit the dial button. It amazed him how quickly the subconscious could take over.

  The number phoned through okay, and began to ring.

  Blake began to pace up and down the alleyway, barely noticing he was doing it.

  A click. A familiar voice.

  'Hello?' It sounded like Rachel, only… it didn't. There was a stress in her voice that usually wasn't there. A knotted hurt, laced with worry.

  'Rachel, it's me.' He didn't want to say his name. He had no idea who was listening.

  'Oh my god, are you okay?' There she was, warm, loving and understanding.

  It had been over twenty-four hours since the events had taken place. He realised that to her it must seem that he had gone rogue, hurt those policemen of his own accord and been on the run ever since.

  'I've seen better days,' he told her, trying to keep it simple and short. 'Listen, can we meet?'

  There was a pause–a silence that he had never felt with her before. They had always got on like a house on fire. And if that was still the case, then why did he feel uncomfortable asking for her help?

  'Blake, I'm… I'm trying to get you out of this, but you're not making it any easier on yourself. What you did–'

  'It wasn't me, Rachel. My father isn't even dead.'

  'What?'

  'Listen to me. His death was faked and I was taken from the police station by someone he knew. They could be listening, so I'll explain it when I see you.' Hearing his own voice, he realised just how desperate he must have sounded.

  Blake heard her sigh, and then say: 'Okay.' Although she had said it, it didn't seem okay. Something was off. Could he trust her? Blake didn't know if he could trust anybody anymore. But if he could, then Rachel would be the one person he could turn to.

  'Okay?' He had to think of somewhere. Somewhere public where he could fit in as a tourist. Somewhere in a wide-open space where he could disappear into a crowd if things got real bad. 'Can you get to Trafalgar Square?'

  'Sure. Give me thirty minutes.'

  'Make it an hour,' he said, knowing he would need time to prepare. If the feeling he was having at the back of his mind meant anything at all, then he would have to do some things first. That's how his father would have done it, he figured.

  Blake said goodbye and ended the call. He would have to hurry if he wanted to set everything up on time.

  Chapter 18

  It had been years since he had been beaten like this–maybe as far back as the Gulf War. He had almost missed the feeling, the rush of not knowing what was going to happen, or which of the men he was going to kill first.

  'Take his toe,' said Matthews. He was looking wired now, the strain of torture taking its toll on his dreary eyes.

  Greg had options, but most of them resulted in him losing something or having something broken. What he wanted was a way out that involved turning the torture their way.

  'Consider it done.' Canavan shuffled forward and lifted the knife to his waist, the blade pointed outwards and ready to strike.

  'Wait,' Greg said, stalling. Each word was its own exercise now. His own eyelids were getting heavy and his body felt like it had been through a minefield.

  Both men paused.

  'What?' Matthews asked.

  'Don't you…' His head dropped, and he brought it back up. 'Don't you want to know where Val hid his stash?'

  'Stash of what?' from Canavan, clearly missing the point.

  'Stash of cash, dumbass,' Matthews bit at him. 'Stash of cash, baby.' He turned his attention back to Greg. 'How much are we talking about?'

  Greg made up a number–a believable one, he hoped. 'Twenty thousand in the house, and more where that came from.' He tried to keep them talking, still considering his escape route. The worst part would be the handcuffs, and he was working on dislocating his thumb.

  The men looked at each other, as if trying to assess what the other was thinking.

  Matthews shrugged.

  Canavan nodded.

  'Pray tell, what do you want out of this? I can't let you go. My head is worth more to me than some bits of flashy paper.'

  'I know that.' Greg gripped on tight to his thumb, grateful that his hands were behind his back, out of sight from these two. 'Just a bit of leniency. You know, maybe stop with the dismemberment. Maybe even tell The Boss that I turned myself in.'

  'You know…' Matthews knelt down and leaned in close. 'He might not even want to kill you. Life in prison can't be too bad, can it? I hear the soap is slippery this time of year.'

  They both laughed but their faces dropped when Greg laughed with them. He wanted to get punched again. He could use the noise to cover the sound of what was coming. 'I might get felt up, like your wife does when you're not home.'

  Matthews's eyes lit up for a flicker of a second before he lunged at him.

  Greg snapped his thumb, dislocating it. A fire shot up through his hand so bad that he had barely felt the sting of the punch. Matthews must have seen him wince, but probably thought it was because of him.

  'This stash…' he prompted, cutting back to the point.

  'Yeah, alright. Okay.' Greg lowered his head, slowly and painfully sliding his thumb out from the cuff. It caught around his hand, tore up a flap of his skin. Still, it was either that or suffer what would happen if he didn't. 'Outside this door is a panel. Up against the stairs. Just push on it.'

  Matthews seemed to be considering whether he was telling the truth or taking him for a ride. 'Bullshit. You think I'm stupid?'

  'I do, yes. But humour me, will you?'

  Matthews gave him a questioning look, breathed deeply and finally decided to trust him. 'Canavan, keep an eye on him. I'll be back.'

  'Sir.' He saluted sarcastically, but Matthews grabbed him by his shirt. A button popped off as he was pulled forward.

  'Don't get too close to him. This ain't a fucking Bond movie where you become friends before he turns on you. Eyes and gun on him at all times. Got it?'

  Good, thought Greg. Looks like I'm not the only one who thought he was stupid.

  Matthews turned, obviously suspicious of Greg, and left the room. As the door swung shut behind him, Canavan stepped forward and raised the gun.

  'Such a prick.' He snickered, flipping his head back towards the door.

  'Tell me about it.' Greg was actually starting to like this guy. It would be a shame to do what he was about to do.

  There was an excited scream coming from outside the door, and then the unmistakable clunk of the bolt sliding across the door. 'Guess he found it then,' said Canavan.

  Greg smirked, said nothing.

  'You know, this is my first field assignment in five years.'

  'You don't say?' It was useless chit-chat really, but it kept things mellow while he waited for Matthews to distance himself. 'Why so long?'

  'Actually, I disobeyed an order. I was told to bring someone in alive but I lost my rag.' He grinned down at Greg, who now understood that this man was all abo
ut the theatrics.

  'Well, you're back in the game now. How does it feel?'

  'Actually I don't like killing people any more than I have to. That's why I let the boy go. You didn't have to drag him into all this, pal. I remember him to be knee-height with his old man, running round with that bloody toy fire engine. Remember?'

  Greg thought hard, recollecting something. 'Vaguely.'

  Canavan paused, rubbed his chin. 'Why did you do it?'

  'Do what?' He was paying more attention to his timing, finally sliding his hand out from the cuff. There was a little jingle as the chain dangled towards the floor. Though Canavan seemed not to notice.

  'Why did you take the boy?'

  'I needed him.' Greg said it like nothing else mattered.

  'And that's okay with you, is it? You need something and you'll just ruin somebody's life, despite the consequences?' Canavan lowered the gun, a sign of comfort in a distressed moment, but it was still gripped tightly in his hand.

  'We're professionals. We do what we need to do.'

  'Even if that means going rogue?'

  'Especially if that means going rogue.' As his voice raised, he slid his hand out from behind his back. In an instant, he shot to his feet and tackled Canavan. He stumbled under the damage that his knees had taken, but his hand reached the man's throat. With his other hand, he knocked the gun away.

  Both men tumbled to the floor. The gun went sprawling across the room.

  Canavan tried to wriggle free, a stunned expression on his face. He drew his knee back and dug his heel into Greg's gut, kicking him away.

  Greg fell back, the pain in his flesh scorching like fire. But he had no time to think about it if he wanted to survive. He clenched his fist and drove it into the man's throat–a dirty move that he was fond of using. Canavan made a gurgling sound but, instead of reaching for his own neck, wrapped his hands around Greg's head and dug his thumbs deep into his eyes.

  Greg recoiled, delivered a jab to the man's ribs, but stumbled back onto his injured knee.

  His leg could barely take the weight. He fell back into the chair and hit the floor again. He scurried to his feet and was just getting back up when the man was coming at him, trying to rush at him. Greg took his elbow, twisted it to contort his body, got two good punches back into his side. A third cracked against the man's hip.

  Then Canavan squirmed around, wailing as he took out Greg's leg.

  Greg dropped to his other knee and blocked an incoming right hook. He was in trouble but, using the last of his energy, he jumped up and slammed the heels of his hands up at his attacker's face. While he was dazed, Greg wrapped his hands around his throat.

  The life was leaving Canavan's eyes. His legs became weak and useless while he scratched at Greg's hands. As his body drooped to the floor, his resistance lessened.

  The man's body made a thud as it hit the ground.

  He was dead.

  Greg rose in the new-found silence, his cuts stinging, his lungs exhausted. If he had been in better shape, it may have been easier for him, but his wounds were too deep.

  He turned to the door, was about to walk through it, and then remembered the gun. He scrambled for it in the dark, eventually finding it under the oven's vent. When he picked it up, he felt in control again. He felt complete, as if the weapon was an extension of his own body.

  His thumb bent oddly around the butt, throbbing wildly. Greg put the gun on the kitchen counter, held his breath. Then, he gripped his thumb with his other hand, closed his eyes and counted.

  3, 2… click.

  He stifled his own scream as his thumb snapped back into place. Every time he had done this in the past, it had left a tingling numbness for a matter of days. But the lasting of the effects seemed to get easier each time.

  Matthews, he suddenly reminded himself.

  Furious at The Agency and everyone who worked for them, Greg slid out of the kitchen, gun dropping slightly between his finger and broken thumb. The panel was open, and the door was too. There were rays of sun shooting in through the glass panes.

  Limping, he crossed over to the door, hugged his back to the wall and peered around the corner. His finger was firmly on the trigger. It had been a while since he'd had to use his left hand to fire a weapon, and he found it a little intimidating.

  From the basement, a light was cast up the stairs and across some of the hallway. A shadow danced across the room as if it was looking for something. Metal clunked loud and repeatedly.

  Greg stopped to ponder whether it was possible to descend the steps with his knee the way it was, but decided it would be safer to wait it out.

  Presently, heavy footfalls sounded up the wooden steps.

  Greg clenched onto the gun, took a soft step back.

  The steps got louder. The shadows grew larger across the floor.

  When Greg could hear the unhealthy wheeze of the out-of-shape desk jockey, he raised the gun to Matthews's head.

  'What the–' As the man's eyes locked onto the end of the gun's barrel, his eyebrows raised in a look of horror that Greg found amusing.

  'Your protégé is okay.' He couldn't keep the smile off his face for long though. 'Oh, no. Wait–he's on the floor in a bloody heap. Put up a good fight though. The little fucker.'

  Matthews hesitated, his eyes cold black stones in the dark of the hallway. Then he clenched his fists, talked through his teeth. 'I was helping you, you fucking fool!'

  'What?'

  'He wanted to kill you. I was just letting him torture you to make him believe I was on his side.' He took a step closer.

  Greg tensed his arm. 'Don't.'

  Matthews raised his arms in surrender, instantly realising that his ploy had fizzed and fallen to the ground like a moth as it kisses the flame. 'Please, don't kill me. I… I'm sorry.' His voice cracked and a tear glistened in his eye. 'I have a family. Please understand. I was just following orders. Please.'

  It surprised Greg to find that he had ever hesitated. When he pictured the man's wife, whom he had met once at a barbeque, he began to empathise. But empathy, as he had always said, was a poison; let it enter your system and it will be the death of you.

  'It's my daughter's birthday,' Matthews went on, desperately. 'Let me go and I can–'

  'Where is Val Salinger?'

  'You know I can't–'

  Greg thumbed the hammer of the gun.

  Matthews began to whimper. 'Okay! Okay, alright. Last I heard, he was being pulled off a plane. I don't know where he is but–'

  'Guess.'

  'Uhh…' Matthew wiped his eyes with his sleeves, his hands trembling like balls of dust caught in a strong wind. 'I know he owns a boat. Yeah.' He looked up excitedly now, as if the knowledge had just saved his life. 'He probably won't come here, so he might go there.'

  'Where is it?' Greg was growing impatient, his body filled with pain.

  'It docks by the Thames. At Bishop's Harbour.'

  'Thanks.' The gun went off with a pop, the bullet a swift, gracious mercy.

  A red blotch appeared at Matthews's forehead and he fell to the floor.

  The house was silent now, save for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging predictably as it minded its own business, echoing through the hall. In an indeterminate amount of time, more Agents would arrive to collect him, and Greg didn't want to be here for that. Hopefully, he would have just enough time to patch up his wounds before making his way back to the city.

  After all, he had a friend to find.

  Chapter 19

  It had always seemed easier in the movies. The hero would stand on a rooftop and scope out the scene. If anything seemed fishy - an FBI agent who was too stupid to take off his earpiece, for example - there would be a clear indicator to cut and run.

  The reality, however, was a stressful struggle. Blake had had to lie his arse off to get into the hotel without signing in, avoiding cameras on the way. There was no elevator, so he'd had to haul a duffel bag up fourteen flig
hts of stairs and, when he reached the top, the wind froze him through to his bones.

  On the bright side, though, he had a clear view of Trafalgar Square, and his father's binoculars were becoming quite useful. He used them every few seconds, alternating between that and his watch. She is due here any minute, he noted, worried that he could see no sign of her. Not even one Agent or policeman to confirm that she would come.

  It didn't make any sense. From the way she had sounded on the phone, somebody had been to visit her. It would have to have been a pretty ineffective police force to not think about her, or be tapping her calls. And then The Agency… how far ahead were they? From what he had heard, and the awful things he had seen, they should have been all over this.

  In spite of the cold, he felt the first warnings of sweat.

  Minutes later, Blake spotted Rachel stepping up from the Underground system. As she reached street-level, she looked around her as if she was expecting somebody. Maybe she was. Maybe they had gotten to her somehow.

  Blake had to get down there. If the coast was clear, he could get down there in time to talk to her. But he would have to move fast, or she would give up and go back to work.

  And then he saw them.

  It really was as obvious as he had expected. One man, far too big and brutish to blend into the crowd, stood at a burger table with an earpiece hanging off his ear, an expensive-looking shirt, and - the most clarifying of all - he wasn't eating anything. Nothing in his hand, nothing in his mouth. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Rachel.

  There was another one sat on the brim of the fountain, the water spraying cold flecks of water onto his back. Blake wondered why the man hadn't moved, but maybe he knew that it would draw too much attention to himself.

  Rachel looked both ways. As if she hadn't seen it, she stepped out in front of a car. Slamming on its brakes, the driver leaned on his horn and shouted some abuse at her. It almost struck her down but she barely noticed. Her mind must have been elsewhere.

  Blake let out a breath, scared; scared for her, scared for himself. Across the square, Rachel took a seat on a step which stretched around the outside of the square. He could see perfectly here, except for the occasional passer-by blocking the view with their fat, touristy heads. Nobody stopped for long though, and he probably wouldn't get a better view than this.