“So why is Pinky after the girl?” Roxy said when the silence got too much.
“I don't know.”
“What do you mean you don't know?”
“I mean I don't know. Do you want me to write it down in big letters for you?”
“What the hell are you thinking taking on a job without knowing the details? Who is she?”
John gave him a warning look.
“You don't know that either. Jesus Christ, what happened–you guys decided the leg work just isn't worth the effort? Come on, this is Charlie's speciality. Guy used to know every card on the table before he even looked at his own hand. Hell, he really has lost it.”
“Shut up.”
“And you are in total denial, aren't you? John, your brother has screwed up and now you're in deep shit. And that girl is probably going to end up dead. Jesus, get angry for crying out loud. Do something instead of just sitting there.”
“It's not his fault.”
“No, of course not. It's never Charlie's fault. He's Mr Fucking-Perfect. Just like it wasn't his fault that Sarah died.”
“It wasn't.”
“Tell me how in the hell it wasn't his fault. He lets that harlot into his bed, and the next thing he knows she's cutting up Sarah in his kitchen. You tell me who I can blame for my best friend's death if I can't blame it on him?”
John looked up; his eyes were piercing. “You can blame it on me.”
Roxy scoffed at the suggestion. It was just like John to carry all of his brother's burdens.
“They were looking for me,” John suddenly confessed. “That was why the girl got to Charlie in the first place and then she cut up Sarah to get him to talk. They wanted to know where I was.” John paused; every now and again his humanity would betray him. He glanced at Roxy, looking at his most vulnerable. “He never said a word. After everything they did to her. Would you have kept your mouth shut?”
Roxy was craving another cigarette. He'd always thought the bitch had just lost her head and started attacking her lover's wife for the fun of it. Charlie had met her; he'd had his affair, broken his marriage, and to put the icing on the cake, allowed his wife to get hacked into bits by his mistress. Now with John as the culprit Roxy couldn't quite muster up the same bitter hatred he'd been saving for Charlie.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
John shrugged. “Charlie didn't tell me. Not until he was better. We knew they'd catch up with us eventually, we just let our guard down.”
“It's not your fault,” he told John, meaning it.
“You were quick to blame Charlie, why not me?”
“Well, you're better looking. That helps. Seriously, I didn't realise. I don't know, maybe Charlie should have given you up, but it probably wouldn't have saved Sarah. And you think they took Lilly?”
“They're from the Institute; they were hardly going to leave her. We have to get her back, which has always been the plan. Charlie just needs to get back to form. Then we can think about going after her.”
“All the more reason to run the job,” Roxy murmured.
“Anyone connected with us is in danger. If Rachel comes in with us it's not just Pinky Morris that she will have to deal with. The Institute will stop at nothing to get to her because of me.” John spared a glance at the car. “That goes for you as well.”
“That girl is going to be on the run for the rest of her life. She's a Reacher, worse still, she's a Reacher with ambition. And although I appreciate your touching concern for my safety, I have no regard for my personal welfare so there is no reason for you to.”
John scowled. “I don't.”
“Good, 'cause I'd sell you out for half a pint. So what are you going to do now?”
“Wait for Charlie to come back.”
Roxy laughed. “That's taking charge.”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey, you're the one who's so dependent on your brother you can't even take a shit without his go ahead.”
“It's called loyalty. Learn it and people might start covering your back again!”
“Here's a wakeup call, John, you're nothing without your half-crippled brother!”
There was a muffled shout from inside the car; Rachel telling them to shut up.
“You know I really like her. She's a lot feistier than she looks.”
“Touch her and you're a dead man.”
“Someone has a soft spot for her,” Roxy teased. “You know I could find out who she is. Maybe even find out why she's so valuable to Mr Morris too.”
“How?”
“You know me, pet, I have my ways. All you have to do is ask. Come morning I'll have all the answers and if you're very lucky, breakfast.”
“Bullshit.”
Roxy stood up and brushed the dirt from his clothes. “Prepare to eat your words, Johnny Boy.”
“You're going now?”
“I'll give you and Miss Shout-At-Me-In-My-Own-Car a little alone time. Don't make a mess.”
18
Donnie was in his lounge when Pinky made it home. Sitting in Pinky's armchair like he was a made man with nothing to worry about.
Pinky never understood why his brother kept the guy around. Donnie was wired on a different frequency to the rest of the world. He was a violent sociopath like the rest of the boys, but there was something else about him, something unsettling that Pinky had never been able to put his finger on.
Once he had Rachel he'd get rid of Donnie as quickly as he could. Let the girl inside Donnie's head for anything of worth and then blow it to pieces. Pinky smiled at his guest. Donnie was inspecting the only picture of Frank in the room. It was a photograph of Riva, sitting in the garden under a warm sun, but Frank and his girl just made it in the shot. Pinky couldn't remember ever sitting out in the back with his brother. He guessed it must have happened when he was away, clearing up his brother's mess while Frank played happy families in the sunshine.
“What brings you out here, Donnie?”
“You're picking her up tonight. I thought I'd be here,” Donnie replied. His leg was twitching on the carpet, it was either out of excitement or nerve damage, Pinky couldn't tell.
“Is Riva here?”
Donnie shook his head. The next question: how the hell did you get in here, hung in the air. Pinky poured himself a drink. The doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was probably Jackie coming to explain what the hell had gone wrong. Pinky didn't want to have to kill him as well.
“Get the door,” Pinky said.
As he did, Pinky picked up the picture Donnie had been looking at. There were times when he hated Frank and his whore. Especially towards the end. It was funny, Frank's death had been a relief more than anything.
“It's a cop,” Donnie announced, showing the officer inside.
Only it wasn't. It was a dirty cop. It was one of Pinky's dirty cops.
“Gary,” Pinky said. It seemed this was the night for unwanted guests, Pinky topped up his drink–he was going to need it. “I take it you've got a reason for showing up here.”
Gary, still in his uniform, shifted awkwardly. “Eh yeah, I'd thought you'd want to know straightaway. Jackie Walters and Mickey Walters are dead.”
Somehow the news wasn't a surprise. Pinky took a seat, leaving the other two standing. His gaze drifted off to the far wall. A crack was starting to run through the paint. Riva had filled it countless times, but there it was again. The rest of the walls were papered, hiding the structural weakness of his home – his castle. He swirled his drink and stared at Gary.
“How?”
“Shot, both of them. Their van was parked outside block eight. Cops thought there was a bomb or something in it. When they opened it up they found the bodies inside.”
“Any witnesses?”
“None.”
“Did they have a girl with them?”
Gary shook his head. “Not that we found.”
Pinky finished his drink. He held it out to Donnie for a refill.
“Yo
u came all this way to tell me this, Gary?”
“I thought you'd want to know.”
“You don't have my number?”
Gary paused, suddenly not so self-assured. “Well the signal's down again and I thought, eh…”
“You didn't think,” Donnie corrected. “Just showed up at the boss's house like you were somebody.”
“Ignore him. I appreciate it, Gary.” Pinky reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. He gave Gary a donation, one large enough to shut Donnie up. “You keep this news to yourself.”
He didn't like Gary. A dirty cop was a snake, it didn't matter how many favours he did. And Gary was one of the really bad ones, a man you wouldn't trust with your daughter. The guy was a creep and a stupid one at that. If he wasn't winding Donnie up so much, Pinky would have kicked him out already.
“You want a drink, Gary?”
“Sure boss. That'd be great.” Gary looked like he was about to get all his Christmas presents at once. He's probably been dreaming of this moment all his life, Pinky thought with a shake of his head.
“Fix him up, Donnie.”
The look on Donnie's face was worth the hundred he'd given Gary.
“This is a great place,” Gary said, settling himself into the room. His eyes wandered, admiring the lounge as though he knew everything about good taste. “Really nice.”
Donnie shoved a drink at him angrily.
“Thanks. No, I mean it, Pinky. This place is awesome. My wife would kill for these carpets. Oh, wow, is this Riva?” Gary picked up the picture, looking at Pinky's wife like she was a lingerie model. Looking at her like her husband, a known killer, wasn't watching his every move.
Then his ogling shifted. He squinted at the scenery in confusion. “Rachel?” He asked himself aloud and shook his head when he took a closer look. Of course it wasn't Rachel. The picture was ten years old at least.
“What did you say?” Donnie hissed.
“Oh, just the girl in the picture. Looks just like my partner's piece.” Gary chuckled to himself.
“What did you say her name was?” Pinky asked.
“Rachel.”
“Rachel?”
“Aaron, I think. Yeah, Rachel Aaron.” Gary smiled. “Right stuck up cow.”
“Could she have killed Jackie Walters?” Pinky said.
“Rachel?” He laughed.
“What about her boyfriend? Your partner? Does he have a gun?”
“He might have, but I can't see Mark taking down anyone. Kid is soft as anything.”
“Not even if two men were trying to haul his sweetheart away?”
Gary paused. “I don't know. Maybe. I guess he could have if he thought he had no choice.”
Slowly questions where starting to form in Gary's head. Pinky could see the ideas morphing in the cop's slow, stinted expressions. He was putting pieces together; they just weren't making a picture yet.
“Sit down Gary, another drink?” Pinky poured another generous helping and watched as it filled Gary's cheeks with colour. “Have they started giving you cops guns yet?”
“No, only special forces. Cut backs.” Gary leaned forward, ready to let his boss in on a big secret. “But we got a load off that shipment the Japanese got busted for.”
“So you and your partner are armed?”
Gary nodded. “Yeah.” He gave Pinky a worried look.
“Good to know you're protected,” Pinky replied dismissively.
So Rachel's boyfriend had access to a weapon. But did he pull the trigger? Maybe she did it herself, she was a Reacher, and they were capable of everything. Then again it could have been the Smith Brothers, or Roxy. Too many names were getting tangled up in his business. Now Gary was embroiled in the unravelling disaster. It should have been a simple kidnap–bag over her head and all their problems were over. Now there were suspects, there were enemies, and he wouldn't be surprised if they were all out to get him and stop him taking back what was his. Well he'd show them, he'd get the girl and then they'd all be at his mercy.
Headlights beamed in through the open curtains, a two-minute warning that their business was coming to an end. Even Gary picked up the sign and downed his drink with gratitude. Pinky slipped him another hundred before he left. At least Gary could be paid off.
As he left Donnie shuffled forward. “Why didn't you ask him to bring in Rachel?”
“Him? I wouldn't ask him to clean my windows. The man's a fucking imbecile, he shows up at my home in his uniform!” Pinky shook his head. “I want you to follow him.”
Donnie grunted.
“He doesn't know who she is. I want it to stay that way. Keep your eye on him; make sure he keeps his distance. Once we have her, we'll cut him loose.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
The front door opened. Riva was home. Pinky gave him the nod. Business was over.
* * *
Gary skipped out of Pinky's house. He counted the money greedily. With it he could pay his rent, maybe even get some fresh fruit in for the kids. But if he took it down to the betting shop he could double or maybe even triple it. In his head he was dividing up his winnings, he could buy a lot of girls, maybe even afford a night in Lulu's.
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
“Hold up. Boss has a job for you,” Donnie told him.
Gary couldn't believe it. His day was just getting better and better. If he got two hundred for just passing on a message, how much would he get for doing an actual job? Maybe two nights in Lulu's–his mouth salivated at the thought.
“That girl, Rachel. Boss wants you to get her. Bring her to me tomorrow night.”
“Why does the boss want Rachel?”
The Scotsman grabbed him by his jacket. “You don't think and you don't ask no fucking questions, you hear me? You get me that girl, you understand.”
Gary nodded, his lips were quivering.
“There's a good lad.”
“What about my partner? He won't let me just arrest her.”
“Kill him. Who's gonna care about one dead cop? You've got the balls to do that, right?”
“S-sure, sure I can do it.”
Donnie smiled. It was one of the scariest things Gary had ever seen.
19
He thought his head had hurt before, but it was nothing like the pain he felt now. Charlie rolled over and vomited down the side of the bench. The pain struck again, stabbing him behind the eyes and at the back of his neck. There was a ringing in his ears. He groaned and tried to remember where he was. The ringing persisted. It was then he felt his phone jostling him awake through his trouser pocket. Charlie checked the caller ID and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. It was Pinky Morris, the last person he wanted to deal with.
He considered letting it ring off. They weren't due to meet Pinky for another… he checked his watch and cursed. It was nearly noon. If he didn't take the call it would be as good as confessing to killing Pinky's men. He hit answer.
“Mr Morris,” he said. “We were just getting ready to come over. I take it we're still on for today.”
There was a pause, as though Pinky was contemplating his words carefully. “Change of venue, Mr Smith. I have a warehouse on the docks. Block four, number nine. Be there in an hour.”
“Wait, a warehouse? You've got the money, right?”
“Don't be late.” He hung up.
“Shit.” Charlie put his head in his hands. What could be more inviting than a warehouse by the docks, with Pinky Morris picking out two pairs of concrete boots in their size? They would have to go, even when his head told him to run. Pinky suspected them now, and if he was smart he would already be trying to track them down. Even if they made it out of S'aven, how far would they actually get? He had no choice; he was running from too many people as it was.
Dialling John's number was harder than he expected. He loved his brother, but since Sarah's death their relationship was getting difficult. They weren't the type to sit down and talk, or offer manly hugs a
nd words of encouragement. Much better to keep quiet, let things fester and corrode, that was the Smith way, tried and tested.
“Pinky's changed the time and the location,” was all he said when John answered.
“Where?” John asked.
“The docks.”
The silence said it all. “Great. When?”
“One hour. I'm not far.”
“I'll meet you there. What about Rachel?”
“Keep her at the lockup.”
John wouldn't ask what they were going to do afterwards. That decision was Charlie's, if his brother disagreed, well maybe that would be the moment their relationship broke down. There had been so many fights along the way and so few apologies. That would mean admitting fault, expressing feelings. It was easier to just pretend everything was fine, bandage up the old wounds and hope infection wouldn't set in. When it did he would let John go without a fuss. No drama, it was the least he could do. But when it happened, and he was sure it would, he had no idea how he would cope without his little brother watching his back.
They met at the edge of the docks, where the smell of fish and sea collided with the sulphuric fumes of the neighbouring factories. John stood like a tall mast protruding out of the harbour. When he made himself visible he was impossible to miss. Wrapped up in his thick black trench coat he was an immovable figure against the harsh breath of the ocean. He was immaculate, despite a night in the lockup, which was more than could be said for Charlie.
The elder brother hobbled forward like some kind of decrepit swamp creature. He stank of sweat and vomit and grime. There were stains down his coat, dirt clogged to the thick layer of stubble against his face. And he felt worse than he looked. He nodded at John, marking the start and end of their apologies.
“You armed?” Charlie asked.
The Running Game (Reachers Book 1) Page 11