Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (10 page)

'Then what do you–'

Without warning, Greg slammed the phone down into its cradle.

'What are you doing?'

'This anti-tracer only does so much.' He pointed to a device stuck to the side of the phone like a magnet. 'I don't want them knowing where we are until I know what we will get out of it. This means I need to sever the trace before it's completed, which is about every thirty seconds or so.'

'And then what?'

'And then it has to start all over again.' Blake could tell the man wanted to smile before he picked the phone back up and dialled the number again.

Only one ring this time, and the voice sounded a little more desperate, if not pissed off. 'Don't hang up. We will figure something out. What is it we can do for you, Mister–'

'I want to see an Agent.'

The man on the other end made a noise like he was punched in the belly. Small wonder–it probably struck him as a surprise. 'An Agent? Okay, I'll send you Richards. But where would I send him? We'll need your location sooner or–'

'I want Matthews.'

There was a pause again, probably stalling to complete the trace. Finally, it was Greg who spoke. 'I want Matthews,' he repeated.

'Ah, Matthews. Okay. Anything–'

The phone came crashing down, cutting the connection once again. It startled Blake, who felt a bit like a child overseeing a father's work with both unbroken concentration and intimidated curiosity. He pictured the face of the man on the other end, and how agitated he must be. He couldn't help but smirk.

Greg picked up the phone once more and Blake almost didn't hear it ring.

'Matthews,' the voice butted in early, presumably so as not to miss its opportunity. 'No problem at all. Question is, what will
you
do for
us
?'

'This is the deal,' he stood unwavering, 'you send me Matthews. He comes alone, he comes unarmed, and he comes no farther than the front gate. I want to talk to him. If what he says works for me, I will give you the Salinger kid.'

'You–' Blake spat but was cut off by Greg holding out a finger to him. He had known he couldn't trust this son of a bitch. Everything about him had spelled trouble since the get-go.

The man's laugh cackled through the loudspeaker. 'Just like that?'

'Just like that,' Greg confirmed, grinning at Blake.

What is he up to now?

'And what do you expect of Matthews?'

'That's between me and him.'

The voice took a second before coming back. 'Fair enough. But where are you?'

'Val's house. You'll have the details within a few seconds, once your tracer has worked its magic.'

The man laughed again. Harder this time. 'That's fucking poetic! Holed up in the home of the partner you stabbed in the back.'

Blake's ears pricked.
What was that he said?
He wondered if this was something buried long in the past, or if it was something more recent, something connected to all this. Greg shot him a look that said
cool your horses
, and he did. For now, at least.

'You have my terms. Break them, it's your head.' For the last time, he dropped the phone onto its cradle and turned to Blake. 'He knows you're here. He said that for your benefit, hoping to turn you against me.'

'What if I don't believe you?' Blake continued to shake. He had never been good at confrontation, but wasn't especially confident around spies.

'I don't care what you believe. Fact is, an old pal is on his way and he is going to give us everything he knows about where your old man is. He's a spiller. Always has been. He hands out secrets like they're leaflets.'

'And if he betrays you?'

'Oh, he will. I'm absolutely counting on it.' He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, obviously exhausted but not letting it affect his performance. 'Now go get the bag. I said I would teach you how to shoot, and I want you ready.'

Chapter 14

Blake had never held a gun before, and the very idea of it threatened him. They were outside, in the cool October air where the greenery extended for miles and birds squawked around in the blue skies. If the gunshot wouldn't frighten them, then what would?

'How loud is this going to be?' he asked, trying to postpone his imminent training.

'It won't be.' Greg nodded at the silencer on the end of the gun. 'What–you never watched an action movie before? It suppresses the gunshot.'

He pretended he understood and even paused to put on his what's-that-noise-face but, sooner or later, he would run out of ways to stall. 'It's heavy.'

Greg grunted, marched up close and lifted the gun with his finger, guiding Blake's arms upwards. 'There you go,' he said, moving Blake's arms and legs to where they should be. 'Now put your weight into that leg. Dig your heel in. Lock your shoulder to take the kick.'

His mind was elsewhere and he didn't truly understand. How could he? In the house behind him, his stepmother was laid on a workshop table in his spy dad's secret basement, and the man who had killed her was stood here teaching him to fire a weapon.

'Take a deep breath,' he went on, snapping Blake out of his thoughts, 'and as you exhale, gently squeeze the trigger. Now strengthen your shoulder. More. More.'

'Yes, alright! I get it! Shoulder! Dammit…' His words carried off with his confidence when he saw the offended look that Greg was giving him. He felt his face flash a scarlet red and urgently played on. 'Aim for the bottle, right?'

Greg gave a short, sharp nod of his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Blake turned, aimed down the barrel of the pistol. He wasn't fond of this whole idea. Didn't see any need to learn. Nonetheless, he closed his eyes tight, counted to three for confidence, opened them and then drew a deep breath. Like he had been told, he exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The gun made a pop and flung back, collapsing his arms and smashing his nose with the hot metal.

'Ow! Son of a–ow!' He dropped the gun and cupped his bloody nose, irritated by the sound of Greg's laughter. 'It's not funny!'

'It actually is.' He snorted. 'I told you to lock your shoulder.'

'I did!'

'No, you didn't. If you did,
that
wouldn't have happened.' He pointed to the bloody patch upon his face, still beaming wide. 'Go clean that up and get back here real fast.'

Blake ran inside the house, his head tilted back.
Thank God I know where I'm stepping.
He headed straight to the kitchen sink, ran the tap and drowned a tea towel under it before pressing it to his nose. Nothing had ever stung quite like it. To him, this was a clarification that he wasn't cut out for this business. Still, Greg was pushing him on and he wanted nothing other than to run home to Rachel and curl up on the sofa with her.

But that was a dream for another day.

When he was all cleaned up he went back outside. although the blood was gone, his nose and the skin surrounding it stung like hell. This, though, was nothing compared to the damage done to his pride.

'You done fart-arsing around?' Greg said with no hint of a warm welcome.

'Thanks. Thanks a lot. Let's just do this and go find my dad.'

Greg stood up and approached Blake. He had a look in his eye that read shame, pity and unimportance. 'You think this is a game?'

'I didn't–'

'This isn't something you can just
do
or
get on with
. Your heart needs to be in this, and so does your head, so clear up that noggin and pull your finger out of your arse.' He turned and stepped away, moving back to where they were supposed to be shooting.

'Why though?' Blake felt his own defiance as soon as his tutor stopped dead in his tracks. When he turned, Blake braved up and continued. '
You're
the hitman-spy-assassin, whatever you are.' It came out in one desperate breath that sounded like a moan. 'I'm just a bloody salesman. I make presentations. I make coffee for my boss and go home in the evening hoping to read my book before I go to bed. I'm not cut out for this!' As he said the words, he was beginning to realise it for himself. His voice cracked under the threat of tears. 'I just want to go home and see my friend, return to my job. Dad can do whatever he wants.'

Greg seemed to study him for a moment, his eyes questioning and curious, and then a light flickered in his eyes. One that said
I understand but that's no excuse
. 'Listen,' he began, a sniff at the air and a stretch of his back. ' I don't want to be out here any more than you do. Fact is, your old man is in trouble. You want to save him, don't you?'

Blake spat it out before he had chance to think about it. 'Yeah.' It surprised him; he'd had no idea that he gave a shit about his father. And maybe he didn't. Maybe it was just his responsibility to do the right thing.

'Well then, pucker up. In under an hour, an agent will be pulling up to that drive, and I promise you, it will
not
be as simple as exchanging a few words and waving buh-bye. When the shit hits the fan, you need to be ready. You got it?' He didn't wait for an answer, only pushed the gun into Blake's chest and jolted his head in summon. 'So come on.'

Blake looked down at the heavy, black pistol, supposing he was right. But no matter how right, wrong, or down-right bloody ridiculous something may seem, he felt as though nothing could prepare him to fire this thing into a human body.

Even if it meant his own survival.

Chapter 15

Dusk was approaching fast, and they were knelt in position from the old bedroom. Blake could almost see the funny side; he was probably going to die right where he had been raised.

They were watching the horizon, where the driveway started and the gate resided. Earlier, they had taken Marcy's phone - a job Greg decided to take upon himself on a count of chivalry - and placed it on a rock next to the intercom system by the gate.

The back door, however, was a different story, wired up with a spray can of gas, a Zippo lighter and a few feet of chicken wire. It wouldn't hurt any intruders, but it would alert Blake & Greg to someone's presence and, if nothing else, scare the living shit out of anyone brave enough to attempt breaching the house.

'You ready for this, kid?'

He didn't know the answer to that question, but he didn't have time to worry about it either. All he cared about was whether or not he could fire a gun if he needed to, and if his aim was good enough to hit the poor son of a bitch that he was aiming for.

It was almost an hour before a car came slowly into view. It was a British racing green Jaguar, something that Blake imagined only the Wall Street types could afford. The car slowed at the gate and Blake pulled the binoculars away from his eyes. 'I feel sick.'

Greg was peeking through a scope that he had slid off a rifle earlier on. Blake didn't habitually watch action movies, but even he had seen that manoeuvre once or twice. In the films, of course.

'Man up. Keep your head about you.'

'What kind of advice is that?' He returned to looking at the car, his nerves rattling him through to his core. He had a plan - they had made it together - but if it would work was an entirely different matter, and that also didn't change the fact that he was absolutely scared shitless.

On the driveway, a man leaned out of the car window and pushed a button on the intercom, hoping to reach someone. Greg hit a set of numbers into the landline phone and lifted the handset to his ear, his eyes still trained on the distant visitor.

The man scowled with confusion, looked around him, and then stepped out of the car, looking at the ground as if it had insulted him. When he got to the rock, he saw the phone, picked it up and raised it to his head. His voice rang through the speaker next to Blake.

'Hello?'

'Come on, Matthews,' Greg said, 'you should know the drill by now.'

Blake saw the man smile and his lips move almost in sync with his voice.

'What–no trust between friends?'

'No honour among thieves, and no trust among spies,' Greg jested. 'Off with the jacket.'

Matthews didn't hesitate in setting the phone back on the rock and sliding off his expensive-looking jacket. He then spread his arms like an angel and spun like a spinning-top toy.

Before long, he picked the phone back up. 'Happy?'

'The peashooter strapped to your leg.'

At first Blake didn't understand what he meant, but when the man lifted his trouser leg and pulled a small pistol from a holster, it registered with him. He almost chuckled at how clever his company was; it was like seeing Jason Bourne in all his glory.

'Can I come in and play now?' asked Matthews.

Blake didn't like this guy. Something seemed off about him. Something slimy. Like a lawyer, with a sly grin that read
you're going down whether you like it or not
.

'Gate's unlocked. Hands on your head as you walk through it,' Greg instructed with a cool confidence. 'Take ten steps in and stay exactly where you stop. Wait with your hands right there or we
will
fire.' He pushed the hang-up button on the phone and shuffled to his feet, placing a hand on Blake's back. 'You've got this, kid.'

'What if I miss?' Blake suddenly panicked at the responsibility. The weight on his shoulders was scarily real.

'You don't have to hit anything. Just be careful not to hit me. I trust you.'

It was reassuring to an extent; he could almost wild-fire to his heart's content. He couldn't hit a stationary target if he tried, so if he
did
try, maybe everything would go as smoothly as planned. But then there was the rest of the plan to worry over…

Within minutes, Greg appeared outside, his walk clear and confident, but his arms outstretched to offer a mutual absence of hostility. He kept strolling on, getting smaller and smaller the farther he went, and then stopped a few metres from Matthews.

Blake stayed knelt at the window, stressed and anxious. His foot tapped rapidly against the carpet and his knees were cramped. He put down the binoculars and looked down at the rifle. He sucked in a deep breath and then slid the scope back onto it. For a moment, he froze, almost long enough to ponder whether he could go through with this. But he didn't let it dissuade him. He couldn't, not when lives hung in the balance.