Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (11 page)

He lifted it to his shoulder and looked down the sight, fiddling with the ring around the lens so as Greg and Matthews were both in clear view.

Wait for the signal.

His mind was elsewhere, however, dancing between the security of the back door and Rachel; how he longed to see her again, her gentle lips the perfect promise of safety. She could never be his and he could almost happily accept it. He was just happy knowing that she was being taken care of by someone else, and that it didn't affect his relationship to her.

In the distance, Greg's hands moved to match his words. Blake was waiting, ready, his finger on the trigger of the rifle. He had only had one practice shot with this thing, but he was as ready as he ever would be.

Greg gave the signal, a short wave of two fingers.

There was no time to hesitate. Blake pulled the rifle up and squeezed the trigger. He closed his eyes as he fired, though he hadn't meant to. The gun jolted in his arms, a pain searing through his shoulder in a fiery blaze. It was the warning shot and, according to Greg, it was all that was needed.

One smooth shot to the dirt beside Matthews to let him know that they were in control–that this was
their
territory. Matthews jerked back, obviously startled and embarrassed of his own reaction. Things were going so smoothly. So far, anyway.

And then a deafening bang exploded downstairs. It was everything that Blake had feared. It was one thing to sit in a window and blindly shoot a gun where no one could touch you, but when there's someone in the house, a trained Agent, it's time to start worrying.

Blake's body went stiff. Deep down, he was nothing like his father, the fabled spy. But then a strong primitive instinct stole over him and he jumped to his feet, running out of the room and grabbing the pistol off the dresser as he went.

He stopped at the top of the stairs. He wasn't sure if it was to listen or to give him enough time to bottle it. Regardless, he could hear nothing other than the mechanical ticking of the grandfather clock below him, echoing eerily up through the hall.

How much noise did you really expect him to make?
Whoever it was had already given himself away with the homemade booby trap, and it was unlikely that the intruder would come waltzing up the stairs with a target strapped to his chest.

But why such silence…

It was unbearable for Blake. He was already as nervous as could be. He thought that whoever it was could already be upstairs, could come up behind him and feed a blade into his back. He shuddered, glanced over his shoulder and side-stepped down the stairs bit by bit. He paused halfway, listened.

Nothing again.

It struck him that he was in the perfect position to just run away. He still had the barman's car keys. He could slip out while Greg was preoccupied. If he could get out at all, that was. But the silence was enough to drive anyone mad.

Blake drew his pistol.

Slowly, he traipsed down the last of the steps, half-expecting to be attacked as soon as he hit the bottom, but no such thing happened. He immediately took a right, passing the holdall he had left in the hallway, and poked his head into the kitchen. As an afterthought, he lifted the gun to defend himself. He would have to be quicker next time.

Blake closed the door and crossed the hall to the study. His finger shook around the trigger. His voice seemed to echo up the massive walls, like a desperate man's final wail. There was a sweat coming on as he approached the door. Eyes closed tight, he counted to three and then burst into the room, raising the gun immediately to the face of a man.

The shadows danced across his face in the gloom, but his scars were visible and his build would be intimidating in any lighting. 'You better shoot that thing,' he said.

Blake paused. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer in the man's eye, like he enjoyed this kind of stuff. It was almost as if he
wanted
to be shot. But why would he? He worked for The Agency, he was obviously trained to survive and it didn't take a genius to know that a bullet in the chest would slow you down.

'I'll shoot.' Although it was a lie to himself.

'No, you won't.' The Shadow Man was so confident that he seemed not to care what happened. He took a step back. 'I'm going to give you your chance. You can lower the gun and I'll go easy on you, or you can fire and have done with it. But I promise you this: if you shoot that thing at me, you had better kill me, or I will pin you down and hack you up.'

Blake believed him.

The man took another step back into the shadows. Blake was finding it harder to see him; his eyes played tricks on him and he was losing his nerve. The gun rattled in his hands. He knew he wasn't prepared to take a human life. But for his dad, for Rachel and for himself?

Blake clenched the gun tighter, but by then it was too late.

'You were warned.' The voice was beside him now, as if he had teleported from one end of the room to the other.

Blake could no longer see him, the shadows concealed his enemy. He went for the light switch, his heavy panting even more noticeable in the silence of the room. When he flicked it, nothing happened.
Shit!

'Didn't think the power would still be on, did you?'

The voice shifted again, somewhere indistinguishable. 'I don't understand it, myself. I mean, I've heard of unlikely teams, but what's your game?'

Blake fidgeted, shifted his aim from left to right, unsure of where exactly the man was. 'I…' His voice was weak, quivering. 'He's my friend, and he's helping me find my dad.'

'Ha! Is that what he told you?'

A hand on his shoulder.

Blake recoiled, spun the gun and fired it, but it hit nothing other than the black air. 'You can't turn me against him, so give up now!' It was an obvious ploy, but there was still a little room for doubt. Blake would have to close his mind to it entirely, or succumb to the tale this man was weaving.

'I don't care what you do. Live. Die. It's all the same to me.'

Suddenly a fist flew out. It connected with Blake's already-damaged nose, producing a new kind of pain, flooding new shades of blood. He stumbled back, took two quick steps to regain his balance, but failed. His back hit the cold marble ground, smashing his coccyx. The gun left his open hand, spinning across the room, and the man was on him, gripping his throat like a vice.

'Fact is, he has your head in a mix and you're being used,' The Shadow Man said, his breath hot against Blake's face. 'Ask him, if you don't believe me. Ask him what his name is. Ask him what his real connection to your father is.' His pearly-white grin shone as the sunset seeped through the window. His eyes sparkled with an obvious humour. 'I would tell you myself, but there's obviously no learnin' left in you.'

Blake felt the hand on his throat loosen, and the weight leaving his body.

'You're… letting me go?'

'I'm giving you a chance. I know he's manipulated you. Heck, it was his specialty. But if you leave right now and let the trail go cold, I won't be tracking you down. You have my word on that.'

Blake grimaced, letting out a little huff. 'No,
you
won't. But The Agency–'

'When The Agency has that friend of yours, there's no reason left to chase you. Just let sleeping dogs lie.' The man's hand was extended, an offering of peace in a field of nightmares and war. 'What do you say?'

*     *     *     *

Greg approached Matthews slowly, his arms spread wide with the safety of a warning shot up in the window behind him.

Let's see you try something now, you bastard.

The gravel crunched under his feet until he stopped, considering his first words carefully. It was absolutely imperative that he show off his position of power. 'He isn't yours to take, Matthews.'

Matthews chortled. 'Take? Why do you think we want the boy? You're the problem in all this. We were happy with Val where he was until you stuck your fucking nose in.'

He doesn't want the kid? It could have been a bluff. Having worked for The Agency for most of his adult life, he knew the place held a manifestation of secrets, turncoats, traitors and, most of all, lies. 'You say that, and yet I've not seen him protest.'

'Because he is starting his new life, goddammit! He gave up everything for his retirement. Who the hell do you think you are to intervene?'

'Me?' Greg smirked at him, shot a condescending look. 'Oh, nobody. I'm just the guy with the gun.' And as simple as that, he gave a flick of his fingers, signalling Blake.

A stone exploded at Matthews's feet.

He jumped.

Greg laughed.

'That is exactly who I am,' Greg continued, 'a field agent, having a conversation with a pencil-pusher. But I only want one thing.'

Matthews adjusted his sleeve, unhooked the top button of his plain-white shirt, and then cleared his throat. 'What might that be?'

Greg took a step closer. 'Where is he?'

'Val?'

'Yes, Val.'

Matthews was visibly sweating now. Greg had seen him nervous before, but never this intimidated. 'Look, you can torture me all you want, but I don't know where he is. What I do know is that Canavan is inside the house, and I don't doubt that the kid can't take care of himself.'

A loud explosion echoed on the wind from behind Greg, and he smiled. The trap. Perfect timing. 'It's taken care of.' He reached out at his old colleague and gripped his throat, grinding his teeth but barely noticing it. 'Where is he?'

'I don't–'

Greg pinched the man's nose, tightened the grasp on the neck, forcing him to the ground. 'Where?' His nasty side was coming out. He had tried so hard to restrain it until now but, sooner or later, the monster always came unleashed.

'At Heathrow Airport! He's getting on a plane just now. Probably gone already!'

Greg let go, shoved him into the dirt. 'The Boss won't let him go. Not while there's trouble and leverage behind him. You know that.'

Matthews was gasping for air.

The sun was dropping fast, darkness soon approaching.

Greg shivered, zipped up his jacket. 'We're going inside.'

'I'm going nowhere with you,' Matthews spat, clambering up to his feet. 'I came here to negotiate and all you've given me is one option.'

'That's how I negotiate.' He sneered.

Matthews's eyes shot behind his interrogator, and a fresh confidence crept into his voice.

'But that's not how we do it. Ain't that right, Canavan?'

Greg wasn't given the time to turn around. He felt the bump on his neck, knocking him out of the moment. His feet collapsed beneath him and he hit the ground like a sack of rocks. Lying on his back, he looked up. Shocked and humiliated, he saw his two ex-colleagues towering over him through blurry eyes.

'Nicely done,' said Matthews.

Their voices seemed to be getting deeper as consciousness left him.

'It was nothing really,' the new voice said. 'Thanks for distracting him.'

'Ha. You got the boy?'

'It's been sorted.'

That was the last thing Greg heard before his world faded to a black void.

Chapter 16

When Val Salinger had gone in to hiding, he was simply that–Val Salinger, father, assassin, power to the people who couldn't help themselves. He was a mixed bag of morals with a hell of a paycheque. Days later, when he emerged, he was Oscar Wales, retired Geography teacher with a passport in the same name. His knowledge of the world stood true enough–he could pass off as a teacher just as easily as he had performed other roles in his line of work; postman, poet, preacher. But this time, just like every other time, he couldn't help but let his nerves twinge as he stood at the customs desk at the airport.

'Passport, please,' the pretty young lady was saying to the people at the front of the line.

'Thank you.' And then the next man, woman, or couple would pass through with an uncomfortable embarrassment on their faces, and a fear of the upcoming metal detectors.

Guilt did that to a person. He thought it was funny, trying not to seem like you were up to something was exactly what made it look like you really
were
up to something, and that was why Val always did the opposite.

There were other benefits too, his background in psychology helped him to see the world the way that others do. It was something he could turn on and off. He was manipulative, crafty, and when needed,
very
malicious. But one thing that could never be said for Val Salinger was that he lacked empathy. He had felt horrible for leaving his life behind.

'Passport, please,' the lady said to him with a painted-on smile.

Val stepped forward and handed it over to her, but he did it as Oscar Wales.

'Thank you.' She handed it back. 'Enjoy your flight.'

Yeah, right
, he thought, but smiled and boarded the plane nonetheless.

Every time he had been on a business trip, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder. He knew the shadows that The Agency worked in. They had their ways, like any other business, but if he ever proved to be anything of a problem they would not hesitate to sever the cord. Even now, en route to his own retirement destination, he had that niggling at the back of his mind that something would catch up to him.

How easy would it be for them to slip something into my drink?

He found his seat, right on the wing, and couldn't have been more happy that he couldn't see below him. The last thing he needed right now was the anxiety of flying to poison the vat. But he had his happy thoughts; sun, cash, and his new life, or whatever was left of it.

More people boarded, pushing and shoving and cramming their luggage into the overhead storage, ever mindless of the poor passengers whose faces they were rubbing their crotches in. An old lady - similar to his age but somewhat less well-kept - gently lowered herself next to him and introduced herself as Gloria.