Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (12 page)

'Oscar,' he said and shook her hand. It was easy for him to turn on the charm, whether he wanted anything from her or not. Sometimes it was just fun to feel that power over someone. How funny a thing lust really was. 'That's a beautiful necklace, if I might say so myself. My granddaughter has one quite similar, though she doesn't wear it as well as you do.'

The lady blushed, playfully slapped his arm and giggled like a young girl. 'How old is your granddaughter?'

'She's twelve now.' He pulled the wallet from his trouser pocket, unfolded it and showed her the photograph.

'Oh, she's beautiful,' said Gloria, not knowing that she was complimenting a magazine snipping that he had taken from the airport cafe.

'Thank you. although I've seen equal beauty. Recently, in fact.' He smiled at her and she smiled back before lowering her head. He never knew, she might come in handy sometime.

The system beeped above their heads, indicating that they should attach their seatbelts, though Oscar had done it as soon as he sat in his seat. There was no way he was risking that.

The stewardesses lined the aisle and demonstrated the plane's exits while a voice rang through the speakers above them.

'What is your business in Geneva?' he asked Gloria, shifting the topic straight onto her. Knowledge was always power, as his tutor had drilled into him throughout his career, and so he always tried to acquire as much as he could and as soon as possible.

'My daughter owns a timeshare,' she said. 'Lets me stay in a lovely apartment whenever she isn't using it. Though I don't like to fly too often.'

The stewardesses equipped lifejackets, demonstrating the blow-pipes and tag procedures. He had seen it a thousand times, so much that he knew it backwards and it made him sickeningly bored each time he heard it. As soon as they finished, they disappeared behind a curtain and Oscar was left with Gloria, nervously anticipating their departure.

The engines began to hum, indicating their ignition. The plane slowly began to move.

Oscar gripped onto the arm rest. His back stiffened and his eyes shot from one end of the plane to the other. This had always been the worst part for him, though as soon as the wheels left the ground he would be safe in knowing that The Agency, and his entire career, was behind him for good.

The airliner slowed and then turned around to face a long runway. Oscar began to hyperventilate. His breathing became fast, sudden, unexpectedly restricted. The engines roared to life and they began to pick up speed. The back of his head hit the headrest.

Gloria giggled, then placed her wrinkled hand on his. Comfort from a stranger.

But then they slowed down.

'What's going on?' asked Gloria, as if he would knew the answer.

Everyone else around him were doing similar things, fidgeting with panicked faces. The plane stopped entirely and some passengers removed their seatbelts, and the stewards and stewardesses rushed over, politely asking them to clip them back on and to remain in their seats.

Oscar - though at this point he was still only Val - looked out of the window, squinting to see in the dark. He had to push his face up to the cold glass to try to see in front of the plane. When he did, he felt a sudden black cloud looming over him.

They've come for me.

A number of black cruisers sped up the runway, their orange lights flashing urgently.

Val counted them unintentionally, memorised the number plates as a force of habit. It was a curse, really–walking into a room and immediately evaluating everything you see. It made relaxing seem a whole lot like a challenge.

He had that feeling, like when you knew it was too good to be true. Gloria was saying something to him but she no longer mattered. The facade was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Men dressed in smart black suits leapt from the vehicles as soon as they stopped, and Val watched as a stair truck pulled up to the plane, locking itself onto the aircraft.

'Why have we stopped?' one obese man almost stood to question a stewardess.

'Is there something wrong with the plane?' asked a concerned mother from the row in front.

But Val knew exactly what the problem was; they were coming for him.

'Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats,' the speakers buzzed at a startling volume. 'There has been a slight mix-up with a boarding procedure and we ask for your patience and cooperation while passports are inspected. Again, we ask you to remain in your seats.'

Val stood, kindly asked Gloria to move aside so as he could use the bathroom. But before he got anywhere, a stewardess gestured him back into his seat with pleading eyes. He shoved past her gently. 'It's okay,' he said. 'They're here for me.' he tried to shuffle past but she seemed not to hear him. Over her shoulder, he could see four Agents boarding the plane. Two of them hung back, their hands clasped together in front of them. The rest marched down the aisle towards him, an aura of superiority and self-importance surrounded each of them. Val craned his neck, spotted another three behind him. It was exactly the kind of unnecessary bravado that pissed him off, especially since he had stood to offer himself over without a fuss.

'I'll come quietly,' said Val, raising his hands in submission.

The stewardess stepped aside, crowding a seated passenger as she stumbled back into their row of seats. One Agent came forward and took Val by the arm with an unneeded force.

'Take your hand off me,' he ordered, his temper rising, 'or I'll break every bone in it.'

The Agent obeyed, retracting his hand but smiling gingerly, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment.

Val walked towards the door and left the plane in the escort of these many men. He was shown into one of the cruisers. Surrounded on each side of his seat, they closed the door from the inside and they sped off towards the hanger.

Val thought he recognised one of them. 'Conway, right?'

'Yes, sir.'

"Sir." So, I'm the authority here. But then… why go to such trouble?

'John?' Val asked, trying to recall the kid's first name.

'Jack, sir.'

'Ah.' The boy was like a baby to Val, and reminded him a little of Blake. He thought back to when
he
was that age; he had already killed over six people, and all for the good of The Agency. Some of those he was not proud of, and others… well, let's just say there was a reason he stayed in the business for forty years.

The car pulled into a hangar, where a black limo sat at the back, surrounded by more Agents. It surprised him just how used to this kind of scene he was. What felt oddly different, he thought, was being on the wrong side of The Agency. More often than not, he had been the one they would send to get a job done, and one person was often enough.

The car stopped and the engine shut off. Val looked around him, eager to see who would exit the vehicle first. It wouldn't alter his situation or lend benefit to his cause, but he always found it interesting to see how the new recruits turned out.

'Follow me, sir,' said the Conway kid.

He was led out of the car and across the hangar. As they approached, the limo's door opened to him–a welcome into the seat for a business discussion. Val climbed in, his expectations set and his dreams of retirement put on hold.

'Salinger.' The Boss was sat across from him and the door closed as he sat.

'Sir, I was promised a retirement. A way out.' Off with the formal greetings.

The Boss removed his scarf. Pulled his gloves off one at a time, exposing scarred hands. 'I apologise for the interruption, but your presence is well required.'

'I'm not working anym–'

'I said your
presence
is required. Not your dispute,' he raised his voice, the infamous anger cracking through with a bit of a squeak. 'It seems that boy of yours is running wild.'

Oh, no.

They could have deprived him of his retirement, even beaten him black and blue if they would have liked, but he had feared that Blake would prove a complication. Was it too much to dream that he would fly off into the sunset without any kind of repercussions from the family?

The newspaper slammed onto his lap with a
flump
and the headline hit home in its bold text:
Salesman Loses Mind - Escapes Police Custody
. Val picked it up and studied it, not really taking in the words. 'What is this?'

'He knows you're alive, Salinger. This can't stand.'

'Of course not.' Val paused for consideration. This was probably the hardest situation of his entire career, and he felt like a solution was expected of him. 'He can't be convinced otherwise?'

'I doubt it. You see, he's not alone.'

For some reason, that struck Val. There was something in the way it was said that told him that his son was with someone that Val knew. 'Who?'

'Let's just say your ex-partner has gone turncoat. You deal with him,
then
you can get on with your retirement. Do we have an understanding?'

He thought about it. He was far too old to be running around, taking lives and covering his tracks. That was why he had wanted out in the first place. And to kill his partner - his friend - no less. But he knew The Agency, and they didn't present him with much of an option. Val tipped his head and climbed out of the limo, but felt a grip tighten around his forearm.

'Don't let me down.' There was spite in The Boss's voice, one that suggested no room for failure, and even less time for courtesies.

Never mind,
Val thought to himself
, at least you get to see your son one more time.

Chapter 17

The punch hit him like a brick. His mind went foggy and weak, like a rock being thrown at a wet sheet of paper. He had taken hits before, even laughed it off on some of those occasions, but it always had a way of stinging after the twentieth go.

'That hurt, arsehole?' Matthews said, kneeling in front of him with a large smile across his face. 'The Boss wants you alive, you know. Personally I think that's a little too generous, so I suppose we can take him on a technicality. What do you think, Canavan?'

'Oh, I agree.' The voice came from behind Greg.

How long has he been there?

'See, he didn't say a damn thing about whether he wants you slapped around a little. Might even appreciate the extra effort.'

Although he had not long been conscious, Greg was getting sleepy. They had done all sorts of things to him so far; dragged him through the dirt, taken an electric stun gun to his balls, and now he was tied to one of Marcy's dining room chairs. On the bright side, he thought, she won't be moaning at him to mop up the blood.

'Bet you're wondering where your little friend is, huh?' The voice from behind.

'No.' Blood and spit dripped from his mouth as he said it, and it was a lie, on some level. He had a rough idea where Blake might have gone.

Matthews took a Swiss army knife out of his pocket. He flicked it open, the metal shimmering as he held it under the dining room light. 'He took off as soon as we told him the truth about you. About how you beat on his old man and forced him to retire.'

'He doesn't believe you,' Greg said. 'You're a piece of–'

The knife came down, piercing the flesh of his leg, burning like fire just above his knee.

'You were saying?' They were both laughing at him, and nothing had felt more cruel. 'I could pop your knee right out of there. What do you think of that?'

'Where's the boy?' Greg spat.

They laughed again. It began to feel like they were a couple of teenagers sharing a joke, though he was the brunt of it. An uneasy feeling, whether there was a knife in his knee or not.

'You're ballsy, I'll give you that.' He slid the knife out, making a scratching sound as the tip of the blade left his leg. 'Listen, forget about the boy. He's halfway to London, probably seeing that girlfriend of his. We'll take care of him from there, so don't worry.'

Greg's mouth opened as if to speak, but more blood spooled onto the floor. He wasn't sure why it happened, but he began to laugh.

Matthews crooked an eyebrow. 'What? You think this is funny?'

'I–I do.' He couldn't keep from hysteria. 'You only had one chance to kill him and you even fucked that up, you pussies.' And then he spat in Matthews's face. Blood refilled his mouth immediately, and soon he would choke.

Canavan came out from behind Greg. Matthews stood up and they both towered over him. 'How long do we have?'

'Long enough,' said Matthews, clearly losing his temper. 'Want to cut him a little?'

'Don't mind if I do,' said Canavan, taking the knife from his partner and wiping it against Greg's trouser leg. 'Don't mind if I do,' he repeated, slower this time.

Greg closed his eyes tight, preparing for another bout of agony, and hoped that they would keep him alive long enough to find a way out of here. If he was lucky, he wouldn't be too late to help the boy.

*     *     *     *

Blake had sprinted the whole way back to the car, with the heavy bag strapped to his back. He hadn't been able to keep his hands off the straps though–the thing had a tendency to fall from his shoulders, causing grave irritation, not to mention friction burn.

The hills had been tough, climbing up over the mounds with all that weight. The worst part of all, however, was the tremendously vile sensation of guilt that overrode his feelings.

How the hell could you do that to the man?

There was the flicker of an idea that the man in the shadows had told him the truth. The problem was, even
if
he had managed to evade said Shadow Man and run to Greg's aid, he would forever be questioning whether it had been a lie or not.

Blake had got back to the car, thrown the duffel bag into the back seat and hightailed it out of there without stopping to think. During the entire drive back to London he had shivered, cried, shook, and then cried some more. This whole thing seemed stupidly out of perspective right now; first his father's death, then the accusation coming his way. Shortly after, he had been abducted by a man claiming to be a member of some agency, who had said that his dad was still alive, and then that
same
man had murdered his stepmother–who, apparently, had pinned the crime on Blake.