The Running Game (Reachers Book 1)

by L E Fitzpatrick

“The usual.” He had one pistol in his holster that they would find. One snub in his boot which was lazily concealed and a knife they would have to autopsy him to uncover. “Is there a plan?”

  “Leave alive.” The best laid plans, Charlie thought to himself.

  “Sounds good.”

  They walked towards the warehouse as a united front.

  There were goons and then there were trained professionals. Charlie had worked with enough gangsters to know that muscle was just dead weight. Even men as big as houses had no chance of getting one over on his brother. So, if he walked into the warehouse with a slight swagger to his stagger, he felt that he had justification. Only these men weren't goons. They were soldiers. Sure, their uniforms were just standard issue street armour but these men had seen conflict. Their eyes betrayed the cold, calculating nature of their violent lives. These men didn't have families, or morals, or hopes, or dreams. These men had orders, they lived on orders, they died on orders.

  Charlie flicked his eyes across them. Fourteen men, two women, and a cage of dogs. It was overkill even against John. Charlie's confidence faltered. He stumbled forward. Hands reached out for him, holding him steady. Holding him still.

  He turned into a fist, feeling his cheekbones crack on impact. As he hit the floor his back wailed in agony. Before he could catch his breath he was lifted into the air and smacked across the face again. His teeth sliced into his tongue and smashed against each other. Then a fist in his gut commandeered his thoughts. He dropped to his knees but had the foresight to throw a return punch. Whatever he hit, he hit it hard. His hand was in agony. He spat blood onto the floor and tried to stand. Where was the crutch? He reached out, but it was too late. The barrel of a sawn off shot gun was pressed to his head. There'd be nothing left of his skull when it went off.

  “Mr Smith, that's enough.”

  Charlie thought it was directed at him and he was fairly happy to concede defeat. But the comments were meant for his brother. John stood, a gun outstretched in either arm, neither belonged to him. He had Charlie's assailant covered and every other barrel in the warehouse pointing his way. There were two men by his feet, and he didn't have a scratch on him.

  John didn't take orders. He only really took suggestions from Charlie. He looked at his brother. After all, it was his brother's life hanging in the balance, it was only fair that Charlie decide what to do. Charlie gave him the stick to the plan nod and watched with relief as his brother lowered his weapons.

  “You should keep your brother on a tighter leash, Charlie.” Pinky Morris was unarmed; he wasn't even wearing a vest. He stood in the centre of the warehouse daring Charlie to do something about it.

  “Guess we didn't expect such a warm welcome.”

  “Two of my men are dead.”

  It didn't matter that Pinky had his suspicions. Throwing punches and asking questions later was a lousy way to conduct business. Charlie's body was throbbing in places he'd forgotten could hurt. The agony in his back was overshadowed by something more pressing–he was pissed off. He wiped the blood from his mouth. It had already poured onto his coat.

  “What the fuck is going on?” He growled, suddenly matching his brother in fierceness.

  He got a foot in the back of his knee and dropped down. John twitched. A tell-tale sign someone was about to die. Charlie raised his hand. He could tolerate pain; this was nothing compared to trying to get out of bed in the middle of the night.

  Pinky moved closer to Charlie, keeping his distance from John. He had Charlie lifted to his feet.

  “Did you kill them?”

  “Did we kill who?”

  “My men?”

  “Why would we kill your men?”

  “You were with James Roxton last night.”

  “What's he got to do with anything?”

  “I ask the questions.”

  He got another beating for his trouble.

  “Okay! Yes, I bumped into Roxy. We had a couple of drinks. He's an old friend of ours. What the fuck does that have to do with anything? We just came for our money.”

  “Your services are no longer required.”

  Guns cocked in every direction. “You fucking bastard. We did a good job. Call yourself a fucking business man!”

  Pinky's hand slapped Charlie across the face. Charlie spat more blood on the floor, spattering it over Pinky's shoes.

  “When I do business, Charlie, I get what I want.”

  “We gave you what you wanted. We did everything you asked for. What's the matter, can't you afford it?” The punches barely hurt anymore.

  “Your information was lousy. Kill them,” he ordered.

  Charlie lurched forward. “Bullshit! Our work was solid. You tell me what you want and I'll get it for you!”

  “I want Rachel Aaron.”

  “We found her for you.”

  “And then my boys were killed.”

  “I don't know how your boy's were killed, but what if we bring you the girl, how about that? You give us our money, just what we agreed, and we get to live. How does that sound?”

  Pinky paused, his tongue licking at his lower lip like he was tempted. Charlie could see the man was desperate; he wouldn't be toying with them like this if he wasn't, and all Charlie needed to do was make sure the bait was right.

  “Give us a week. We'll track her, get her for you. We can do it. Hell, if we knew that was what you wanted we'd have done it for you straight away. It doesn't have to be like this.”

  Charlie knelt forward helplessly. “Please, Pinky. We need the money. We need it to find my little girl. As soon as we get paid we're out of here, heading for the North, you'll never see us again.”

  Pinky knelt down so he was level with Charlie, his heart strings seemingly un-pulled. “You bring her here in two days, Mr Smith, or I'll see to it that your priest compensates me personally for his bad recommendation.”

  Charlie ground his teeth, pressing into his already sore gums. This was not how good businessmen operated. Either Pinky didn't have the money or he was too stupid to hand it over. It didn't matter either way because after this, after the threats, the beatings, the total lack of hospitality, Charlie would take everything he could. He would take Rachel and the money and Pinky Morris would rue the day he decided to cross the Smith Brothers.

  “We want our money,” Charlie told him.

  “Payment on completion of the job.”

  “He's bullshitting,” John said. “He's not got the money.”

  “You boys aren't in a position to argue. And don't think about getting your priest out of the city. I've already got him under watch.” Pinky smiled as though he had won. “Keep me posted, boys. Get them out of here!”

  Charlie felt a tug at his collar before he was dragged from the warehouse. The soldiers were too smart to do the same to John. The entourage of gun barrels glared at him until he stepped free of the warehouse. Charlie retrieved his crutch, not that he needed it, he was so mad he wanted the pain to calm him down.

  Blood was drying on his cheek. His knuckles stung from that one lucky punch. This was what life had been like. And he loved it.

  “So?” John asked.

  “So, that bastard is going to regret the day he decided to piss me off.”

  20

  Rachel had held off for as long as she could but in the end she had to go.

  She opened a crack in the door to the lockup and peered out. Heavy smog was settling into the maze of containers and garages surrounding her. She had no idea what time it was but the district was already pulsating with heavy machinery. Figures moved like ghosts throughout the mist, workers readying themselves for a hard slog, or trudging back home to sleep and starve.

  Using an ornate brass jug to keep the door open, she slipped into the fog, pandering to the call of nature and looking for a discreet cranny she could slip into. It was easy to go unnoticed. She passed a group of shadows not even drawing a glance from them. She wondered what they actually saw when they looked at her. Was she
a shade? Maybe she wasn't even there at all. Either way it worked, sometimes when she didn't even realise. Being part of the shadows was as natural to her as breathing in and out.

  When she returned to the lock up the door was wide open. A flicker of excitement ran through her when she realised John and Charlie were back. Only it wasn't John or Charlie. It wasn't even Roxy. A man and a woman, wrapped in worn work clothes, were rummaging through the boxes. Rachel swallowed nervously. Her instinct was to leave them to it; there was nothing worth dying for in the lockup. But John wouldn't run and if she wanted to work with them she needed to think like them.

  She stepped inside, hidden from them both. They were opportunists, looking for anything they might sell quickly and getting annoyed at the pointless spoils. Until their attention turned to the car. Rachel swore to herself, the keys were still in the ignition.

  “What are we going to do with a car?” The woman snapped.

  “I don't know, go somewhere?”

  “Where we gonna go, huh?” She pushed his shoulder. “You can't even drive.”

  “We could sell it. I know a guy.”

  “What guy?”

  The man pushed her back. “A guy I know. Reckon we might even get a hundred for it.”

  The woman's eyes lit up. Rachel stepped behind her.

  “Not today,” Rachel said as she unveiled herself.

  They both leapt backwards, yelping like frightened puppies. It took the woman a moment to recover. She was obviously the driving force of their idle operation. She was bigger than Rachel, brimming with muscles from years of hard labour. Her face was black, her head shaven just like her friend.

  “I counts two of us, sweetie-pie,” the man said.

  “See, darling, everything I said about these backwater inbred drones–not a brain cell between them.” Roxy stepped into the lockup. He casually placed a tray of steaming paper cups on the car bonnet and then took in the intruders disapprovingly. “Can't even do simple maths. Let's try a question from left field to see if you can redeem yourself. If four people are standing in a lockup, how many guns do they have among them?”

  The man caught on quicker. His jaw wobbled pathetically.

  “We didn't mean nothing by it, the door was open,” he babbled. “We's just hungry, looking for food is all, with winter coming. We don't want no trouble.” He held up his hands, backing away towards the door.

  Eventually the woman followed. Roxy waved at them as they went and then slammed the door shut.

  “So, the door was open?”

  “I needed to pee,” Rachel said in her defence. “Would you rather I do it in the car?”

  Roxy shrugged. “You could have closed the door.”

  “Then how would I get back in? I don't know what your problem is. It's not like there's anything in here worth stealing. I mean, the porn is so benign it's practically PG.”

  “Yeah well, buying pornography off the Samaritans wasn't my greatest idea,” Roxy conceded. “But that doesn't mean you leave the door open. I might have something in here worth stealing and not even realise.”

  “I'm sorry,” Rachel said, pathetically pouting at him. “I promise to never do it again.”

  Roxy waved his hand dismissively. It was already forgotten. “I liked the way you materialised out of nothing though, pretty sweet move there, pet.”

  She felt a pang of panic. Obviously he knew what she was, there would be no reason for Charlie to keep it a secret, but it was terrifying having him talk to her about it.

  “With a talent like yours you're wasted in a deadbeat hospital. Hey, where's the handsome bodyguard?”

  “He went to meet Charlie.”

  “That was very trusting of him, leaving you here all on your own.”

  “Why do you think he can't trust me?”

  Roxy flashed a devilish grin at her. “I meant trusting me, sweetheart.” He gave her a wink and then reached for a paper cup. “Here. I got you the works, with real cream and sugar.”

  She had tasted coffee once, when Mark brought home his spoils from a raid at the docks. Most of the officers grabbed a stash of coke, but not Mark, he grabbed one of the confiscated bags of coffee and totally forgot about the sugar. Rachel remembered the thick, bitter tasting tar burning the back of her throat and the heart palpitations that followed. She almost considered handing the coffee back to Roxy, but it was a commodity and it would have been rude not to drink it. Gingerly, she placed the coffee to her lips, dreading the sensation. Her mouth filled with creamy, syrupy liquid. When she pulled the cup away it was empty.

  “Wow … that was nice.”

  Roxy handed her a paper bag. “Muffin?”

  “Oh my God, where did you get these?”

  “Didn't John tell you? I'm a magician.”

  She stuffed a muffin into her mouth whole. It had been more hours than she could remember since she last ate. Her stomach protested as the rich, sweet food started to tantalise a constitution built on protein bars and soya. She fought against it with another muffin. Any doubts she had about the crazy situation in which she found herself were obliterated with the blueberry that burst into her mouth. Real fruit! She hadn't tasted real fruit for months.

  “This is amazing,” she tried to say with her mouth bulging.

  Roxy shrugged, pretending to be indifferent and failing. His eyes were animated and excited, clearly he was enjoying having an audience to impress and if that meant she could finish the bag of muffins by herself then she would happily indulge a show off. Roxy was an egotist, a man who lived only for himself. It didn't mean he would hurt her, or even try to cause her harm, but she would never be able to trust him. No matter how many cakes he bought, or how many times he flexed his broad muscles as he inspected his useless stock. No matter how much he pursed his thick lips or hummed in his soothing, suggestive tones, he was not reliable. Not like John. Not like Charlie.

  “I wouldn't let it persuade you into a life of crime. It's not all fluffy cakes.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Everything suits me.”

  He had an infectious smile and when he looked at Rachel she felt like just the two of them were in on some secret joke. Quickly, she glanced away. He could not be trusted, pretty eyes or not.

  “Question of course is: what would a little thing like yourself be thinking, joining forces with the beautiful but deadly Brothers Smith?”

  “I want to live,” she replied honestly.

  Roxy started to laugh. “Then I repeat the question. Charlie doesn't have the best track record at keeping people alive.”

  “He'll look after me,” she assured him.

  “He couldn't look after his wife, what makes you think he'll be different with you?”

  “Because of what happened to his wife. I know he will do everything in his power to keep me alive. John will too.”

  “How can you be so sure? We're criminals, not exactly the most trustworthy of people.”

  Rachel stepped forward; it was her turn to show off. “I'm a Reacher, all I had to do was touch Charlie and I could read his mind.”

  Roxy smirked mischievously. “Where'd you touch him?”

  “I kissed him.”

  “You kissed Charlie?”

  “It's the best way of reading someone's thoughts. Well not the best way, but it's intimate enough to tell me what I need to know. I kissed Charlie and I saw everything I needed to see.”

  “And what about John?”

  “I had to be sure I could trust them both.”

  Roxy's face was dumbstruck. “Which was better?” He finally said.

  Rachel shook her head and nudged him with her elbow. “None of your business.”

  He licked his lips. “So what about trusting me?”

  “Trusting you?”

  “Yeah, I mean, we're here, all alone. Don't you want to know if you can trust me?” He flexed his broad shoulders like some kind of stallion readying himself for a jump. It was a façade. Kissing her, even flirting with her, was some
thing to pass the time. Roxy liked attention and he liked to have fun. That was why Charlie liked him and why John mistrusted him. Rachel found herself in a strange medium. She wanted to take a stance and found herself just staring at his thick lips and wondering how far out of her comfort zone she wanted to dive.

  Eventually, she laughed at herself. “I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you.”

  “And you know this even without a little lip action?”

  “You ooze dishonesty. I can smell it all over you.”

  Roxy leaned towards her. He was so close she could smell the coffee and tobacco on his breath. “Smells delicious, doesn't it.” He gave her a winning look.

  Rachel pursed her lips, certain that he wasn't going to get the upper hand on her, ever. She leaned in closer. “I'm sure it tastes even better.”

  His smugness faltered. There was a bang at the door and still he gawped at her. Rachel: score one.

  The banging grew louder. Roxy rolled his eyes and backed away. He pressed himself against the door.

  “Who is it?” He teased.

  “Open the goddamn door!” John shouted back.

  “What's the password?”

  “I'm going to shoot you!”

  “Now, that's not really an incentive to let you in.”

  “Damn it Roxy! Open the door!” Charlie demanded.

  Roxy unlocked the door for John to kick open. Behind him Charlie staggered inside. His face was bruising with each shaky step. Before she could even ask what had happened John had grabbed Roxy.

  “What the fuck have you done to Pinky Morris?” John looked close to mauling Roxy and this time Charlie wasn't stepping in to break them up.

  “What makes you think I've done anything to that old bastard?” Roxy glanced at Rachel and winked. It was all just a big game.

  But it wasn't, not for John, or for Charlie.

  “How about that kiss, Roxy–then you won't have to tell us,” she said. Score two.

  He knew when he was beat. Roxy patted John's hands until his feet were set comfortably on the floor. His eyes flickered to each of them, full of innocence.

  “Okay, I'll be straight with you. I may have lifted a few items that possibly, maybe, belonged to someone who could have been Pinky Morris. I guess he's pissed about it.”