Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1)

by Adam Nicholls

  'Fuck you,' the big guard said, and then spat at their feet.

  'Get out of 'ere, boy.'

  Blake's nerves shook him. He could only bluff this for so long, and it looked like they were about to make a move. Looking the bigger guard dead in his coal-black eyes, he pulled the hammer back on the gun. A simple statement. 'I'm getting tired of–'

  Fast as lightning, Greg reached over his shoulder and took the gun.

  Pulling Blake forward with it, he pulled the trigger, almost catching a finger under it.

  As time seemed to slow down, the first guard took the bullet right between the eyes. The other, less than a second later, took two silenced pops to the chest. It happened so fast that they both hit the floor at the same time, while Blake stood frozen, his mind still catching up to what just happened.

  'Get down!' Greg screamed as he took Blake by the arm and pulled him around like a ragdoll, and then threw him through the gatehouse door.

  Blake tumbled straight to the ground, his breathing feeling tight as he panicked. A loud pang hit the ground next to him, and the tranquiliser dart that caused it recoiled, then rolled across the room. His eyes followed it as Greg fired deafening gunshots towards where the sniper was. As the dart rolled to a stop across the room, he saw it. He saw them.

  The male officer had his back to the door, but he was on the floor and handcuffed to the unconscious policewoman whom Val had saved from a concussion. Blake paused, wondered if he should help them or run, but was unable to move.

  'I said snap out of it!' Greg's voice roared in his ear. He was knelt beside him now, using the gatehouse wall as cover. Another dart whistled through the open window, but it overshot by a metre or so.

  Blake snapped out of his trance, tried to take in what he was being told.

  'You have a spare weapon in your bag, right?'

  'Yes.' His eyes levelled on Greg.

  'Just like we talked about, then. Get it out. I'll cover you while you make it to the boat. Keep low and stick to the shadows. Kid…' He stopped for a moment, placed a hand on his shoulder. 'You can do this.'

  Blake broke his gaze. His hands shook as he slipped off the bag and rummaged through it for the spare firearm. Not that he would ever be prepared to use it, but he felt safer having the thing in his hand, no matter how dangerous it was.

  'Ready?' Greg waited for confirmation.

  Blake nodded.

  'Go!'

  More nervous than he had been in his entire life, Blake jumped to his feet and, staring straight ahead at the yacht, ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He was out in the open. The sound of Greg's gunfire sang from behind him. When he was out of the lights, he stuck to the wall and ran alongside it, until it ran into another wire fence.

  He was sprinting now, thinking of Rachel and how she would find a way to cope without him. She had lost her mother too, and now only had her boyfriend left to turn to. But could she even turn to him without The Agency breathing down her neck?

  The gunfire slowed down. Maybe Greg had run out of bullets. That didn't stop Blake, though–his orders were clear and he would stick to the plan. After all, he knew he would probably screw up if he were to improvise again.

  Blake's feet hit the jetty, his rubber soles slapping against the solid wood. He was almost there. The incline of the gangway was the hardest part. His lungs were on the verge of collapsing. But he was almost there. His legs hurt, his lungs strained, his mind weak, he made it onto the boat, raising the pistol as he peered each corner. He wouldn't shoot anybody else, but it was leverage. Could be, anyway.

  Then, the gunshots stopped entirely.

  Utter silence.

  Blake figured that either Greg had taken out the sniper and the rest of the team, or worse… The Agency could have shot him. Praying that it was the former, he made it to the captain's cabin. It was eerily quiet in the hallway, but he felt as though he wasn't alone. Pistol still raised high and aimed in front of him, he flung open the oaken doors and continued his search.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he might run into more Agents, although Greg had assured him that all of their firepower was focused on the gate and, if he needed protection, they would have escorted Val away from the scene earlier.

  But that couldn't quell his undying fear.

  Inside, the empty room offered an unsettling silence. The floor rose and fell as the yacht rocked gently on the water. It was peaceful, tranquil.

  Until he saw the shadow rushing along the wall.

  Blake wrapped his hands tight around the gun, his finger steady on the trigger. Without having chance to look, he spun around to catch the man in front of him. His arms tensed, his heart racing, he was ready to take a life. To kill the man in front of him.

  Until…

  'Put the gun down,' the man said, tapping his ringed finger against the glass in his hand. He took a sip of his drink, winced at its potency and set it down. The moonlight broke through the window and illuminated his smile. 'You won't need it.'

  Blake could feel his lip tremble. Stifling his tears, he slowly, cautiously lowered the gun to his side. He could feel a thousand words dancing on his tongue, but only the one could make it through–only one could slip through the joy in his heart. 'Dad.'

  Chapter 24

  Blake's heart was caught in his throat like a burning coal.

  It had been different seeing his father from afar. Looking through the lens was kind of like looking through a TV screen; he could take it as a work of fiction. But right in front of him, right at this instant and in the flesh, was Val Salinger–father, husband… spy.

  'We're–' The words barely came out of his dry throat. 'Dad.' He cupped a hand to his mouth, a tear teasing his eye. It had been years since this man had seen him, and even longer since he had seen him cry.

  'It's okay, son.' His voice was deep, yet, assuring. The way God might sound when he answers your prayers personally. He was looking at Blake as though a memory had come back to visit him. But this memory was here to stay.

  Blake sniffed. It sounded wet. 'We're here for you,' he said to his dad, trying to sound comforting, trying to take control. 'We'll get you out of this mess.'

  'Ah, yes. We. Listen to me, son. Where is the man you came here with?'

  'He's…' It was a good question. Blake moved to the window, squinted out into the darkness. In the far distance, where Greg had been, there now was nobody, and even the sniper's position was now vacant. 'I don't–look, we have to leave. You're in more danger than you know.' Blake put a hand on his shoulder and began to lead him out.

  But Val didn't move.

  'Come on,' Blake said, confused. The backpack strap slid from his shoulder and he pulled it back up. 'We have to go.'

  Val stood up straight, his shoulders held back. He wouldn't look his son in the eye. 'We're not going anywhere.' He lifted a radio to his mouth and spoke into it. 'Report in.' The machine crackled and hissed in his hand. It beeped, but no voices came through. 'Report in.'

  Nothing.

  Blake didn't understand what was happening. From what Greg had told him, his father was an experienced fighter with an outstanding firearm record and wits to envy… so, why did he seem so afraid to leave the boat? 'It's safe out there, you know. Greg will keep us safe. It will all be okay.'

  Val let a small smile escape his lips, despite the odds. 'You would make a fine father, you know. Better than I ever was. Though that isn't saying much.'

  Blake hesitated. 'What are–'

  Suddenly, the familiar voice sounded from the hallway. Only it was different now; where it had sounded trustworthy, it now sounded sly, a little maniacal. 'Yeah, yeah. Val loves his son. Blake loves his dad–yada yada yada.'

  Both Salingers turned to the doorway, where the voice had come from.

  Stunned, astounded, and totally unbelieving, Blake laid eyes on Greg, who stood with his face coated in blood and a gun in his hand. It was aimed at Blake.

  'It's all very emotional,' Greg teased. 'Like the end
of a movie. Oh, except in the movie you boys would have a happy ending.' He leaned in close, whispered in a mocking tone and grimaced. 'I just don't want you to get your hopes up.'

  Blake's knees went weak. His head spun. What exactly is going on here? He felt as though there was a secret that had been kept from him, like the whole world was laughing. Like this whole thing had been a joke and he had been the pun. 'Greg…' He didn't know what to say. But he did know that he also was holding a gun, and that he had come too far to lose his father now.

  'Greg?' Val questioned, looking lost. 'Who's Greg?'

  Blake pointed. Surely he should know? 'Him.' Just as he had finished saying the words, he realised what had happened. He had always known that Greg wasn't the man's real name, but after three days of barely leaving his side, it had begun to feel right.

  'Oh.' Val's mouth opened. The look of sudden enlightenment. 'You mean–'

  'Shut up, Val.' Greg threatened. Then, as if from nowhere, he pointed the gun at his old partner and fired it. The sound echoed through the room.

  Blake squeezed his eyes shut–a protest to seeing what he didn't want to see. He could feel his lungs getting tighter. It was becoming difficult to breathe as he wondered, feared, whether Val had just taken a bullet. Slowly, one at a time, he opened his eyes.

  Val was still standing, a gaping hole of splintered wood in the cabinet beside him.

  Blake let out a breath, suddenly feeling the weight of the gun in his hand. He hadn't had the courage to use it until now. Maybe Greg knew that he wouldn't, and maybe that was the whole point. But he would prove him wrong.

  He raised the gun.

  'Oh, that's adorable.' Greg laughed. 'You didn't think I would give you a loaded gun?'

  Blake doubted it but squeezed the trigger anyway.

  Click. Empty. 'Just what exactly are you doing?' he asked, lowering his tone. 'We're your friends.'

  'I don't keep friends, kid. It leads to bad things. Ain't that right, Val?' Greg turned his attention to Blake, aimed a finger at the ceiling and whirled it like a whisk while letting out a soft whistle. 'Turn.'

  Blake froze for a moment, not understanding. When it made sense to him, he turned around. He felt his backpack lighten as Greg took the black box from it, and then turned around to look at him once more. Greg the Traitor, he thought about the man who had been his friend. Greg the Turncoat, Greg the Snake.

  Blake stared down at it. He was as eager to know what was inside as Greg had ever been, but the look in Val's eye suggested it was better for the lot of them that it remained closed. Some secrets, he supposed, were best kept that way.

  'The combination.' Greg demanded from Val.

  'That's all you wanted?' Val asked, confusion plain across his face. 'But you don't even know what's inside. I thought you were worth more than that little mystery.'

  'Oh, I want a whole lot more than that, old buddy. I want the deed to your estate, your retirement fund, and a bullet in your head for the woman you killed.'

  Val seemed furious, the way he had looked when Blake was young and in revolt. He spat his words out. 'We killed. You had just as much a part in that as I did!'

  Whatever they were talking about, Blake let them at it. There was obviously a past that he didn't know about, and he had the feeling that it was bigger than him. Quietly, he clenched the gun in his hand, ready to use it, but only if he absolutely had to.

  'But you led the operation!' Greg was screaming now, a vein bulging at his neck. 'You made the decision! I was just following orders from a superior. Well, who's the superior one now, huh?' He pulled back the hammer of the gun. 'The combination. Now.'

  Val shook his head. 'No.'

  All at once, Greg turned and squeezed the trigger.

  Blake heard the bullet long before he felt it piercing through his flesh.

  He stumbled backward, fell onto the desk behind him. The gun fell to his feet. Looking down, he saw the wound in his stomach, oozing a red water. His head felt weightless, his vision like looking through a waterfall. All he could think about as the world grew paler was the cotton taste in his mouth. He wondered if this was the taste of death.

  'The combination,' Blake heard Greg say again. Though this time it was deeper, hazed.

  The light in the room faded, and Blake suddenly lost all power in his arms. No longer able to support himself, he slumped to the floor. His hand fell away from the bleeding wound, the life leaking from him like a flood.

  In his final moments, Blake could just about hear the voice of his shooter. Of the man whom he had trusted to lead him back to his father.

  Blake had been used.

  * * * *

  Officer Barbara Lang sat on the floor, her hands cuffed to the man behind her.

  They hadn't hurt her - Val had kept his word - but while guns had been blazing outside the office, she had been unconscious and Benny had sat silently attached to her. She imagined that his head was cowered down as he mouthed silent prayers.

  Barbara was feeling groggy, waking from the effects of the dart. Her neck still stung from where it had punctured her but she would live. She had been through far worse.

  At her feet was the corpse of a man dressed in a guard's uniform, a look of shock upon his lifeless face. He had taken a bullet to the temple–the wound made that quite clear.

  Although she had seen many dead people before, it never got any easier. The British military was a huge part of her past, but she'd been Technical and had little work in the field. Nonetheless, bodies had been rushed past her on their gurneys at the camp; some with terrible burn marks, some with limbs missing, and others with a black sheet respectfully covering their faces. Barbara was able to cope with the sight of them, but she would rather not have to. After all, nobody wanted to be looking into the eyes of a dead man. That's why she now shifted her gaze.

  'We need to get backup,' she said to Benny. He was actually her commanding officer, but she was more suitable to wear the pants. So she had done, since day one.

  'There's no point.' His voice sounded weak, broken.

  Is he crying?

  'What do you mean there's no point? Have you forgotten your duty?'

  'Fuck you,' he blurted out. 'I never wanted to respond to this one in the first place. You knew who he was. I'm not messing around with The Agency if I can help it. But it's too late now, huh?' The sound of his feet kicking at the hard wall. 'It's too. Fucking. late.'

  'I recognised him, sure. But if we were all to act like cowards, we would never get anything done.' She had known of his cowardice from the second she met him. They had gone out for drinks before their first shift as partners, to get acquainted, and he had spent the whole night blabbering about how his wife was cheating on him and he was too much of a pussy to do anything about it; his words. Not hers.

  'Think what you want.' He sniffed. 'I'm not going anywhere. There's nowhere we can go where they won't find us. We're practically dead already.'

  There was something in the way he said it that sent a chill wavering down her spine. Perhaps it was the illusion of The Agency as an untouchable entity, an organisation that could see you, but you could never see them. Big Brother is watching you.

  Barb cringed and looked around her, her eyes scanning around for anything that could help. She had always fancied herself as resourceful, and now was her chance to prove herself… to herself.

  Her eyes landed on the dead man's trousers, where something shiny protruded from his pocket. 'I think I see something that can help. a penknife, maybe.' She looked around her. 'You still with me?'

  'Yeah,' he said feebly.

  'Look, I know you've pretty much given up, but don't you dare take me down with you. You got it? Now, we need to shuffle over to that guy. You're going to help me do that.'

  'I s'pose, yeah.'

  'Alright. On three, I'm going to lift my bum off the ground and push my back against yours. I need you to do the same, but push me forward. Got it?'

  'Uh-huh.' It sounded noncommittal.
/>
  The first attempt was useless–she hadn't accounted for how much pressure she would be placing on her legs. They both dropped to the ground almost immediately, her arse hitting the cold concrete with a thud. She could feel the pains shooting straight through to the bone.

  'Again,' she barked, her fingers mere inches from the man's pocket. It went smoother then, shifting them forward. They repeated the manoeuvre once more, and they turned to help her reach the item.

  Barb slid it from his pocket and worked the point of the blade. She had picked locks before - a part of her training - but she had never done it behind her back. For just a moment, she was worried she would cut Benny's wrist. Slice it right open. But then she dismissed it as unnecessary worry. He seemed eager to die, anyway.

  The cuff fell open with a clink.

  The sound of freedom.

  As soon as she was free, she shook the metal off her wrists and clambered to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly after the work she had just put them through. She was slipping out of physical fitness, she thought, and silently assigned herself some running time for the next day. If she got out of here alive, that is.

  'You're not coming?' she asked, seeing that Benny was still lying on the floor with his knees against his chest and his hands upon his head.

  'To do what? You'll die if you go in there. Best you can do is just call for backup and pray they don't send Agents to garrotte you.' His face was red as he spat the words. It felt like he was holding Barbara accountable for what had happened.

  'You think this is my fault?' She towered over him, but he wouldn't look her in the eye. 'You think I wanted any of this? Well, I don't. I have a dog to go home to, a sister to visit and a niece to take care of. You think it was my intention to kick up a shit storm?'

  'Yes!' he cried.

  Barbara looked down at him with pity, but it was pity for his wife, not for him. No wonder she was sleeping around. If Barb had been lumbered with him 'til death do them part, she would probably be shopping for an upgrade too. 'You're wrong. I was just doing my job. I was doing your bloody job too. Prick.' She stormed off, rummaging through the pockets of the dead bodies and checking their belts for a radio. She found a phone on the last body. As she knelt down to pick it up, he spat red bubbles of blood, springing to life for a moment. He looked at her with pleading eyes.