The Running Game (Reachers Book 1)

by L E Fitzpatrick

  “She was from the Institute?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “I shouldn't have behaved like I did, Charlie. I mean we were friends, good friends, weren't we. Jesus, Sarah used to moan that I got on better with you than I did with her.”

  “We're still friends, Rox'.”

  Roxy looked up, his face changed. The mask he usually wore slipped, and he gave Charlie a genuine smile.

  “I'm going to do everything I can. You can always count on me to help you get Lilly back.”

  “I really appreciate that,” Charlie was feeling a little choked.

  “Just don't tell John, okay. I wouldn't want him changing his bad impression of me. Not when I've been working so hard to piss him off.”

  Charlie laughed. He couldn't even imagine what John would say if he had heard what Roxy had said.

  “I mean it, Charlie. Whatever happens in the future, when you find her you call me, and I'll drop everything to get her out. Whatever it takes.”

  That was why they worked with Roxy, because despite everything, they could count on him to do what needed to be done.

  Rachel and John were downstairs waiting for him. His two-man assault on the rest of the world had become a team again. He dared himself to hope that maybe, if misfortune was turning a blind eye, things might be starting to turn around. But that would depend on the next twelve hours. It would depend on the four of them being able to work together. It would depend on the quality of their opponent. There were too many variables to make this a sure thing. And so much had gone wrong before.

  Charlie couldn't believe their luck would change without a fight.

  31

  Pinky waited in his office, watching the seconds rolling away on the clock. His brother watched him in every photograph. Pinky rapped his fingers on the desk. There was still no news. Something in his gut didn't feel right. He couldn't put his finger on what it was. Charlie wasn't late yet. It could still be all right.

  Riva sat on the couch beneath the photographs. She toyed with her mobile, passing it from one hand to the other. The purple bruise on her face was well covered. Pinky stared at it, trying to remember where she had got it.

  “You look tense,” he said.

  She jumped with the sound of his voice. She glanced up at him, wide-eyed. “Tense?”

  “Yeah, you look worried.”

  “I am. Aren't you?”

  “What's there to worry about?”

  Riva frowned. “What's there to worry about? I don't know, maybe the Smith Brothers double-crossing us. What about Donnie Boom? Jesus, Pinky, what is there to be calm about? And where the hell is Joe? He should have been here by now.”

  They had a safe full of takings and Joe was supposed to be dealing with it. It wasn't like the guy was always on time; he was heavy and slow and there were a lot of pie shops en route. It was more that Fat Joe was on borrowed time. His heart wasn't good, and one of those pie shops would finish him off any day now. Maybe Fat Joe was in cardiac arrest. The clock kept ticking.

  Pinky seemed to be contemplating everything she had said. He stretched and lifted himself away from his desk to sit beside his wife. As he lowered himself onto the sofa he caught Frank's eye again.

  Riva tensed up. He reached out and stroked the damaged side of her face.

  “You worry too much,” he said tenderly. “Charlie Smith isn't stupid. If he doesn't deliver I will make sure Donnie blows up that sad excuse for a church, and then I will hunt him and his brother down. He'll give me the girl–you know I've heard about what they've pulled off before, they're professionals–nothing to worry about.”

  He pushed the strands of loose hair from her face. Riva froze.

  “And Donnie, well he isn't going to do anything until he sees the girl and the girl is coming home with us, so he wouldn't be putting any bombs anywhere. And Joe…” Pinky looked once again at the black and white faces of his memory. “Pablo will cover him.”

  “Pablo?”

  “Yeah, call him in. He'll sort the money out.”

  Riva frowned. She touched her husband's hand with uncertainty. “Pablo's dead.”

  Pinky thought about it. Why was Pablo dead? Then he remembered, of course Pablo was dead. He clapped his hands. “So he is.” He started to laugh. “Honestly, what was I thinking? Call Lee in. Good old trusty Lee. We should get a picture of Lee for the wall.”

  Pinky poked his finger at the faces in the photograph nearest to him. “You know in this picture I'm the only one still alive. Isn't that something? We had it all back then, honey.”

  “I know.”

  “No worries back then. You know I hated him, Frank. I hated the fucker.”

  “I know.”

  Pinky smiled. He leaned over his wife. “It's going to be all better soon,” he whispered, caressing the blemish he had inflicted. His hand shifted to her leg, creeping up her thigh to the edge of her dress.

  “Pinky,” she warned, but he wasn't listening.

  Pinky's phone went off. His hand hovered in the air. He glanced at Riva, excitement flooded his eyes. He looked wild. Fumbling for the phone he snatched it up.

  “Yes?”

  “We have her,” Charlie Smith said. “Where d'you want us?”

  Pinky licked his lips. He felt his world beginning to settle. He felt power at his fingertips. “The warehouse,” he said. “Bring her there; make sure you're not followed.”

  “Our money going to be there?” Charlie said.

  Pinky's lips pinched into a smirk. “Don't worry, you'll get everything promised to you.”

  Riva was already at his side. “Do you want me to send my men back to the warehouse?”

  He shook his head, “No, keep them at the house. I want to make sure Donnie doesn't get in until I'm ready for him.” He sat back in his chair like a rightful king. And he started to laugh.

  32

  The cop had fucking disappeared. He wasn't answering his phone. He wasn't at home. His goddamn wife wouldn't talk no matter how much Donnie hit her. A sinking feeling in his gut told him that Pinky had already found the girl. That she'd been locked away and he'd never get to ask who did it. That was all he wanted. Seven years of searching and the truth was still an enigma to him.

  Someone had killed Frank Morris and Izzy, the two people he loved most in the world. Someone had told him to place that bomb, to set that timer. Someone had sent that text. He was pacing the threadbare carpet of his third storey bed-sit. The phone was silent.

  For seven long years he had searched for her, picking clues out of the scrap piece of letter. Finding nothing but dead ends everywhere he searched. Approaching Pinky was his last resort and now his second biggest regret. Pinky didn't seem interested in finding his brother's killer. The old man had accepted that Donnie wasn't to blame, but the urgency to find the truth was suddenly secondary to what the girl would bring him.

  It didn't make sense to purposefully keep Donnie hidden away like some dirty secret. If there was a traitor, wasn't it better to expose them, to put the pressure on the boys and find out who knew something? Someone would know. Someone sent that text. It went around in his head, over and over, a track caught on repeat, as though the scarring had created a scratch over that one thought in his brain.

  Donnie clutched at his hair frantically. The damage to his head had left him with a perpetual headache and tinnitus, and it made thinking difficult.

  His phone went off. It was just a message. Not from the cop. This was from Pinky. Donnie's scarred face cracked into a smile. He had her. This was it. He rushed out, forgetting his jacket. The cold wouldn't matter when he got to Riva's. Everything would be righted.

  33

  “Two minutes to get in the building. Three to get into the office. Four to open the safe. Two to get out.”

  It didn't give them a lot of time. Rachel tried to control her nerves as Charlie pulled up the car. The edge of London was a short walk away and its wealth was leaking through the cracks of the mesh barrier into the edge of S'a
ven. The stretch of road was bustling with life from S'aven's affluent and London's trendy youth, slumming it for the night. They were all drawn to the rows of clubs, bars, and takeaways filling every square inch of the street. The Cage pulsated in the centre. It was the darkest, dirtiest of the buildings and drawing the biggest crowd.

  The queue into the Cage was swelling into the street the more dusk fell. Inside the party was already raging. Music bellowed out through the small doors, into the street, hitting their car ferociously. Rachel swallowed, her anxiety was growing. She had never seen anything like it and in less than a minute she was going in.

  Roxy checked his reflection while John checked his weapons. She just fidgeted, keeping her eyes on the entrance and the two men guarding it. It was her job to get them in, and they were her first obstacle.

  “Rach', you sure you're ready for this?”

  And she was ready. She wasn't totally confident but she was definitely ready.

  “Ready when you are. Two minutes to get in, right?”

  Charlie gave them the nod. The countdown started.

  John got out the car first. Then Roxy. She sucked in the air around her, embracing the smell of Chinese food and tobacco. If Pinky Morris was waiting for them there was a chance he would see through her mask. But there was also a chance he wouldn't. She looked to John, but he didn't seem worried. She could do this. She had to do this. Five seconds to get to the door.

  The bouncers were big men, but more fat than muscle. They were on the door for show, more interested in the exposed legs and cleavages on display than any potential intruders. She sized them up and felt tiny, but she wasn't alone. She reached out for John, hooking her arm in his and then did the same with Roxy. Ten seconds.

  She could do this. She could get them in. Twelve seconds, two more steps. The bouncers looked up, confused by the plain girl, wrapped up like she was about to cross the Arctic. Rachel stared at them. Fourteen seconds. This was it. We are important. You're pleased to see us. Open the door, let us in.

  Roxy started to waver, she felt him start to pull away. He didn't think it was going to work. John was steadfast. Drawing on the confidence he had in her she broke free of them both. Twenty seconds. She reached out, allowing her fingers to brush over each bouncer. Even beneath their thick jackets she could feel their blood pumping. She smiled and instinctively they smiled back.

  “Great to see you,” the one on the left suddenly said.

  “Come on in,” the other added.

  “Thanks,” Rachel replied as she passed them. You feel great about this.

  They beamed at her, happier than they had ever been. Thirty seconds. They were in. She did it.

  Her smile grew with her confidence. She turned to John for praise, but he was already on the move. As she went to follow him she walked into a dancer, and the world materialised around her. The club was wild. Crowds gathered around the band thrashing their weapons against the cage barrier. The music was lost in the distortion but nobody cared. People climbed the tables, the cage, the walls, desperate to get closer to the band or away from the riot erupting on the dance floor. Fights burst from the dancing, and bouncers dived in to deliver concluding blows. Card tables were still dealing hands, roulette tables still spinning. Alcohol flowed like a river and everyone was having a good time whether they liked it or not.

  Rachel was pushed into the brawl. She turned, lost amid the faces until a hand pulled her free. John kept tight hold of her.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, this place is crazy.”

  Roxy laughed. “You think this is crazy you should see it on a Saturday night. Wait here,” Roxy shouted. “I'm going to see who we're up against.”

  Two minutes. Rachel stayed close to John, drawing him into her mask and drawing herself into his protection. He was concentrating on the bar, counting down the minutes in his head. Two minutes, twenty seconds.

  Roxy weaved his way through the crowd, twisting and turning with what Rachel assumed was the music. The door behind the bar opened and a woman stepped out. Rachel guessed it was Riva Morris leaving. The woman grabbed a set of keys from behind the bar and made her way out the back.

  “It's just Riva in,” Roxy told them. “Anyone would think luck was on our side tonight. Shall we?”

  Rachel took another deep breath, it stank of sweat and blood and beer. Three minutes. It was her turn again and she was starting to get cocky. She led them to the bar.

  “Wait here,” she told John.

  The bar was small and overwhelmed by the onslaught of punters. One barman tried to fend off the customers. He didn't even notice when Rachel slipped behind him. She trailed her fingers over the back of his neck and he stopped dead.

  “We're going into Pinky's office,” she told him. “It's absolutely fine.” She smiled, he smiled, and they had their clearance.

  She opened the door to the office as though it was her own and stepped aside to let John and Roxy in. Roxy tapped her on the chin impressed.

  “Nice work, rookie.”

  “We're on the clock,” John snapped. “Get moving.” But he gave her a look, sharing Roxy's sentiments.

  Roxy removed a washed out watercolour from the wall, exposing the safe. He flexed his shoulders and got to work. John closed the door, guarding it and keeping his eye on Roxy's fingers.

  “Are we on time?” Rachel asked excitedly.

  “Ahead of time,” Roxy replied.

  “Concentrate on the safe. You've only got three and a half minutes left,” John snapped.

  “You just keep your eyes on the door, Mr Smith, I have everything under control.”

  It suddenly dawned on Rachel that her sister had been in this room, and this was probably the closest they had been since she came to S'aven. Seven years late, but finally in the right place. She looked for her sister's face in the rows of photographs pinned to the wall. There was no sign of her, just the faces of the men who had abused her. All those men who had had their secrets stolen.

  “In ten, nine, eight,” Roxy started and winked back at them. “Three, two, one. And who is the greatest safecracker in the world?”

  “Fill up the bag and let's go,” John said, tapping his foot.

  Roxy sang as he worked, stuffing the bag with the wads of cash. There was so much money Rachel couldn't take her eyes off it. Just the sight of it inspired greed in her–if it was this easy they could do it again and again–bags and bags of money…

  “Heads up!”

  Rachel snapped to attention in time to dodge the bag thrown at John. It bulged with wealth.

  “Let's go,” John said.

  Roxy was still by the safe when Rachel saw the door open. She was too slow and the man standing in the doorway saw her. His eyes met hers and he frowned in confusion until they rolled over to Roxy and the empty safe.

  “What the hell are you…?” He was too distracted to notice John at his side. John grabbed his collar and pulled him inside, fixing his hands around the man's mouth and pinning him in place.

  “Go!” John ordered them.

  Roxy snatched Rachel's hand. He yanked her through the office door. She was about to call out, to tell him they had to go back and help John, but then the music hit her. They had to move. Time was running out. She made them invisible. It was all she could do. Roxy led her away from the exit towards the back of the club. She pulled him back but he insisted.

  When she snatched her hand back they were already outside in the alleyway behind the club. Rain had started to fall, dampening the music as soon as the door closed on them.

  “What the hell, Roxy? We were supposed to go out the front.”

  But he wouldn't look at her. There was a gun in his hand; she hadn't even seen him pull it. It hung in his hand, as heavy as the silence between them. He didn't point it at her because he didn't have to.

  “Roxy,” she reached out to touch him but he backed away.

  “Don't Rach',” he murmured.

  “What's going on?”


  “This way.” From the way he said it she knew she didn't have a choice.

  Around the corner of the building Riva Morris was standing by her running car. She was waiting for them. Beside her was a tall, scarred man, eyeing Rachel with unnerving enthusiasm.

  And Rachel knew exactly what was going on. “You sold us out, didn't you?” She hissed at Roxy.

  “Rachel,” he said. “I had to, sweetheart.”

  “You motherfucker! John is going to kill you!”

  “Get her in the car,” Riva ordered.

  The scarred man grabbed her arms, tying her wrists together. He pulled on the restraints until they cut into her skin. She yelled at them. If she yelled loud enough John might hear her. She was bundled into the boot of Riva's car, but the scarred man didn't let her go. His hands pinched into her arms. There was a manic look in his one good eye.

  “Frank Morris,” he growled, spraying spittle at her. “Who killed him?”

  She kicked out at him. “What?”

  “Tell me who killed Frank, and this will all be over.”

  So this was why they wanted her, the whodunit to be solved. All this effort, all this trouble for one stupid murder mystery. She was furious with them.

  She leaned forward, drawing him closer. “Fuck you!” She spat at him.

  He made to hit her and stopped. The barrel of Roxy's gun was pressed to his neck. The scarred man swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously against the weapon.

  “Don't you dare touch her,” Roxy warned.

  He glanced at Rachel wedged in the boot and for the briefest moment she thought he was going to save her. But he didn't. He turned away, unable to meet her eye to eye.

  “If it's all right with you, Riva, I'll be taking my payment now,” Roxy announced.

  The scarred man dropped his hand. He turned in confusion, understanding about as much as Rachel did. Then it dawned on her what was going on–the scarred man was the payment. Roxy smacked him across the side of the head, dropping him to the floor. As he bent to pick him up he dared a final look at Rachel. His eyes were haunted, as though he didn't really want to leave her, but he did anyway, taking the unconscious scarred man with him.