“If you're not going to tell anyone why do I have to leave the city?”
“Because people are looking for you already. You won't be able to hide here anymore. Not now that they're looking. I have to go,” Charlie said.
“Wait–you just came here to tell me to leave?”
“Actually I came for my prescription. If you don't mind.”
Her face tightened and she looked like she was about to argue, to try to convince him that popping pills wasn't going to solve anything, but the longer they were together the less time she had to get to safety.
“You still want the drugs, even though they're causing you more harm than good?”
He shrugged, feeling even more pathetic than usual. “I can pay.”
“I shouldn't give it to you.” Shaking her head she handed him his prescription. Their hands brushed and they both felt the connection surge. Charlie closed his eyes; the familiarity between them was instantaneous, as though their powers were magnetic. The urge to protect her would just get stronger, and she was probably feeling the same for him. He had to push his instincts aside if he was going to make it out of the hospital.
He put his pills in his pocket and dared to glance at her one more time. She was so young, but already the world was taking its toll. He'd warned her, but that would never be enough. Eventually she would stop running and they would catch her. She would die alone; they always did. Taking his crutch he left her at the bed, feeling like a coward.
He found John three streets down from the hospital, eyeballing the car that was trying to reverse park in front of their rented vehicle. If John had the power the driver's head would have exploded already. Charlie got into the passenger seat and assessed John's mood. His younger brother was clenching the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were going blue. Charlie sighed, it couldn't get any worse.
“We've got a problem,” Charlie began.
John turned his head, and if his eyes kept darting back at the offending driver, Charlie ignored it.
“She's a Reacher. I guess that explains why they want her.”
John scowled. “They hired you, why would they want her?”
“I'm not sure.”
John's fingers rapped against the wheel. “A Reacher … that complicates things. Gives you one hell of a moral issue too. What do you want to do?”
Charlie pursed his lips awkwardly. “I may have told her to get out of the city.”
“I see,” John was using his restrained I'm trying to suppress the urge to kill you voice. “So you made contact with her?”
“Only after you did, asshole.”
John wasn't laughing. “And you told her?”
“I was unspecific. I said she was in danger and she had to leave.”
“Okay, so when we meet Pinky in,” he checked his watch, “forty minutes, what are we going to do?”
Charlie folded his arms. “I'll think of something. Always do, don't I?”
“We're not going to get paid, are we?”
“We'll get paid, I promise.”
“We're not going to get paid,” John groaned.
“John, listen to me, man, we will get paid. And if we don't I'll give you my share.” Charlie winked.
John started the car, grumbling to himself. “First shitty job we do and we don't even get paid for it.”
Charlie decided to ignore him. He had forty minutes to come up with something. As long as Rachel was moving she would have enough time to get out of the city. He just hoped she was as smart as she looked.
7
The night before a bullet tore through her father's back he had sat Rachel down with her sister Isobel.
She was six years old, it was snowing and they were never going to see home again. He told them both about the running game. It was a game of strategy – to stay alive you needed to know when to run and where. Every room, every house, every city had its exits, each taking time, each with their own set of obstacles. To win you needed to pick the best escape route. The prize – you got to stay alive.
Rachel had got complacent, she'd allowed herself to settle, to let her guard down, used her powers in front of others, but she had never stopped playing the game. She was scared – it was a game of luck as much as skill – but she kept a cool head. As casually as she could manage she walked through the hospital, her pace no different from the rest of the staff hurrying to keep people out of the morgue. She slipped by them unnoticed, made her way to her locker, grabbed her bag and headed for the fire exit.
The bitter air slapped her face, reminding her of the winter threatening the city. She could run now, head out of the city on foot, make it to the country in a couple of hours, but with no food, no money, how long would she last? Charlie had given her time and if she wanted to live she had to use it wisely. That was how to play the game properly – never panic, always think one step ahead.
The side exit backed on to an alleyway cutting a path towards the open market. She hurried, her feet smashing puddles of trash and slurry into her trouser legs. The buildings around her, concrete coffins from another century, started to fall away and the first open market shacks came into view. Dubious meat hung from poles around her, circled by flies and hungrier children. The crowd was heavy and lazy, scrutinising and succumbing to the array of oddities the tradespeople procured. This was S'aven as it had been at the start – a shanty town bazaar, built up of tin shacks and cobbled together houses. Over the years the city had grown, but the market had never changed – some things just don't.
Rachel put her head down and slipped through the masses unseen. There were cops up ahead, they circled the market like carrion birds, picking up what they could with a flick of their badge. There were always more men in blue at the start of the week when the produce was fresh, but supplies were starting to dwindle, leaving the runts of the force picking up the scraps. She passed by the two of them, they didn't give her a second glance.
The market abruptly finished at the edge of the canal. Children swarmed the waterway, poking at the slurry ditch, looking for bodies. The autumn sun seemed to focus all its efforts here, sweating the layers of shit and putrefying the air around. Rachel held her breath and quickened her pace.
The city was getting dirtier, it was growing in size but not in space. Another square of columns was being mashed together from the offcuts of another of London's architectural wonders. Towers of houses littered the skyline, obliterating the horizon and the world beyond.
S'aven wasn't London, it wasn't anything more than a consolation prize for the poverty stricken, but for four years it had been Rachel's home. She marvelled at it now as though she were arriving for the first time. It had delivered its promise to her, it had been her safe haven since the moment she had arrived. She found a job, a flat, it was more than most. When she left it would be gone. She had no papers, no credentials she could rely on. Once her feet crossed the border she would never be able to return. The thought weighed heavily.
Rachel turned the corner, reaching Nelson Square. She stared up at her tower block. They could be waiting for her, watching for her. She had to move quickly, her thoughts racing with the rest of her.
The north of the country was barren and impenetrable in the winter. If the snow hadn't arrived it would be on its way. Even if she could find somewhere safe to stay in time, there were still guerrilla gangs moving into the towns up there, commandeering their own little piece of England.
The door to her building was clear. She took the stairs two at a time, then ran through her corridor until she reached the front door.
The south was where the money was. Sandy beaches in summer, turbine powered heating in the winter. The only thing between her and a retirement in the sun was a couple grand and some authentic identity papers. She dismissed the idea altogether. The law enforcement was sharper down there and on the lookout for her kind.
She opened the door and stopped in her tracks. Mark was asleep on the bed. He started to stir. She reached out and touched his head
, letting her fingers massage his skull.
“Sleep,” she commanded and waited for him to settle back down. He started to snore.
It left the west. If she kept to the countryside she might make it as far as Wales, head southbound and find a small hospital willing to take her on. She could lie low there, let the winter pass and move on in the spring. It wasn't great, but it was the winning play.
She stripped off her scrubs, pulled on her best trousers, a thermal vest and sweater. She had to travel light – if she couldn't wear it she would leave it behind. Under the sink, in an old bleach bottle, was three hundred pounds in used notes. She stuffed the money into her bra and grabbed her empty rucksack. She filled the rucksack with as many protein bars as she could carry, clean underwear and a bar of soap, then headed out of the door.
As it closed she paused. This would be the last time she would see Mark. They'd been together a long time and, although they weren't the best years of her life, he was still a good man. He'd be so lost without her too. Would he try to find her? Probably, but he wouldn't succeed. And then what? Would he find someone else or would the heartache be too much? He loved her deeply and, even though she didn't feel the same, she didn't want to hurt him. But what choice did she have? If they found her she was as good as dead anyway. At least this way he had a chance to move on. She pressed her hand against the door apologetically and then continued down the corridor.
There was no point leaving him a note, there was nothing she could say that he would ever understand.
8
The Cage was S'aven's hotspot. Anyone with any money spent it on the cage fights or at the tables, night after night. The bar was owned by Pinky's wife, but the undercurrent of crime happening in the back office was all Pinky's. It wasn't much of an empire, nothing compared to what it had been when Frank Morris was working his magic, but there were rumours that it was growing.
The club was closed, but the door was wide open. Two women scrubbed at vomit stains splattered over the door frame. They spared Charlie and John nothing more than a glance. It was a common sight to see men like them. There were no windows inside the building and most of the lights were off. Charlie could just about make out the edge of the cage that drew in the punters and of course the bar, which was lit up like a welcoming beacon.
A woman in her late forties toyed with a stock list, watching them approach without looking up. In her day she had been a stunner and even now she could outshine most women twenty years her junior. As they reached the bar she lifted her head and beamed at them. It was infectious. Charlie grinned back. John was immune.
“Let me guess, the infamous Smith brothers.” She held out her manicured hand and shook Charlie's. “I'm Pinky's wife. It's nice to meet you boys, I've heard a lot about you. Pinky's just finishing up some business and he'll be right with you. Can I get you boys something to drink? We've got the real stuff here.”
“Thanks, we're good. Nice place you've got here Mrs Morris,” Charlie lied.
“Call me Riva, Mrs Morris was my mother-in-law – it's not a flattering comparison. You sure I can't fix you up something? I used to be a mean cocktail waitress in my day.”
There was a side door behind the bar. It opened as Pinky's meeting finished. Charlie recognised some of the faces from years gone by. It was funny, their skin wrinkled, their hair fell out, but the clothes stayed the same. He picked out Pablo immediately, he was Pinky's right hand and as old school as they came, still wearing the same green fedora he had when he used to work Frank Morris' girls on the streets. Behind him was Fat Joe – the money man – in a white shirt stained with pasta sauce, as classy as he had ever been. They walked out with a younger guy, one Charlie didn't recognise. He walked with a swagger, eye-balling Charlie and John as he passed as though he could easily take them out.
Then came Pinky. He had the body of frail old man, but there was nothing diminishing about him. His wiry arms were still strong. Beneath his thick rimmed glasses his eyes were still sharp. And the yellow cardigan he was wearing was concealing his fully armed gun holster. He didn't acknowledge Charlie or John but with a flick of his head gestured for them to follow him.
“You got a plan yet?” John murmured under his breath.
Charlie didn't. “Of course I do.”
The room was brightly lit, with each wall shining a light on a memorial of the Morris family history. Charlie scanned his eyes quickly across the pictures. So many faces, so many judgemental eyes, Charlie wondered how a man could stay sane in such a strong shadow of his past. They were offered a seat and it was straight to business. Pinky secured himself behind his desk and pressed his hands together, gathering control of the room in the tips of his fingers.
“You boys got good news for me.”
John removed the file from his bag and pushed it across the desk.
“Rachel Aaron, twenty-four, doctor at St Mary's. We've got her current address, she's got no other places in the city she's likely to be. We've included her work schedule and the routes she usually takes. I've verified her personally. She's the girl who wrote the letter,” Charlie assured him.
“All of this in just two weeks.” Pinky was unconvinced.
“We're very good at what we do.” Charlie leaned forward, trying to be as friendly as possible, playing the only card he could. “One complication I should tell you about though. Her boyfriend's a cop, and they share the apartment. We found her in two weeks but we didn't have time to run any checks on him–just a name. Now if you want to give us another week I can get you a whole second file. If you think you need it, that is.” And that was his plan, to play for more time.
Pinky looked to be considering it. He rested forward on the file and examined his guests. “I like you boys. And this is good work. If all my men were like you I'd still have hair on my head. You boys have talent, talent I could use. I could put a lot more work your way, if you're interested.”
There was a pause. A dangerous pause.
Charlie cleared his throat. “Certainly something we'd consider Pinky,” he lied. “If the money's right.” But it wouldn't be right. All Charlie wanted was the cash they were owed and they would be out of S'aven before sunset – he hoped Rachel would be doing the same.
“Well boys, if you want to come back tomorrow I'll have your money for you, maybe even another job.”
“Tomorrow!” Charlie exclaimed. “We were under the impression we'd be paid today, given we've handed over everything. You know, on time, as instructed.”
Pinky shifted in his seat, ensuring what little weight he had was evenly thrown around the room. “I've got an old priest's word that you two are the real deal. You've come up with a name when six other guys failed. And you did that in two weeks. When your work pays off so will I. After that consider your trust earned and your name in this city to be worth gold. Can't say fairer than that.”
Charlie sat back and dared a glance in John's direction. The younger Smith was even less amused.
“That's not how we do business,” John said and the mood in the room shifted.
“This isn't up for negotiation, son. You want to keep on my good side, and believe me you do, you'll humour me.”
John was furious. Charlie quickly interjected, “So we come back tomorrow and we get the price we agreed?”
“Same time tomorrow and you walk away with the cash you deserve. I appreciate your patience Charlie. You boys get yourselves a couple of drinks tonight, on the house.”
Their cue to leave was underlined in his tone. And despite the handshake there was nothing amicable about their meeting. Pinky had them over a barrel and there was nothing Charlie could do about it.
They left the club in silence. John unlocked the car, claimed the driver's seat, and waited for his brother. Charlie closed his door and waited. And waited. And waited. Until eventually his brother broke the silence.
“So the plan, did it work?” John sneered.
“What do you think?”
Charlie's head was poundi
ng so hard he had to close his eyes. His fingertips danced on the hem of his pocket. Inside his pills were calling to him, promising to take the edge off and make the world bearable again. He thought about just taking one subtly. Slowly his fingers slipped inside his pocket and his phone snapped at him.
He fished it out. “Dad” flashed up on the screen. Charlie sighed and took the call.
“Darcy,” he groaned, adding another notch to his bad day.
“Hey Charlie, just checking everything went okay. You get the job done?”
“Not really. We've got a problem.”
“That sounds ominous. John didn't upset Pinky did he?”
“No, John was on his best behaviour.” Charlie ignored the look he got from his brother. “Turns out the mark is a Reacher.”
Darcy didn't say anything.
“And I told her she was in trouble and that she should get out of the city.”
“What did you say to Pinky?”
“Nothing, just handed him the file, only now the bastard won't pay us until he gets his pay off, which probably means we're not going to get our money.”
“You gave him a Reacher's file!” Darcy's outrage came as no surprise.
“What else could I do? If she's smart she'll have disappeared already.”
“Only now he has her picture and a breadcrumb trail. Charlie this is serious. She could be in real danger.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“You get that girl and you bring her to me.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“You don't retire from helping God's people. Get her to me Charlie, I still have contacts in convents in the south, I'll see her safe. Can you do this?”
“What about the money?”
“This is more important than money.”
He hung up the phone as John pulled up the car.
“So it looks like we're going to save Rachel,” Charlie explained and rubbed his temples rigorously.
The Running Game (Reachers Book 1) Page 4