Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (13 page)

Maybe the Shadow Man was telling the truth.

If Greg had been twisted enough to kill a defenceless old lady, he must have been more than capable of telling a lie to get what he wanted.

Why is it so hard to get the truth?

It didn't matter now, he kept telling himself. He was not far from London's city centre, where he could make a phone call and try to resolve this whole thing. Greg was long behind him and if he couldn't take care of himself, then… well, it was
his
mess, not Blake's.

When he found somewhere to park, he slept for a few uncomfortable hours. When he awoke, the first thing he did was abandon the car and find a disguise for himself. This time he had the money from the holdall to pay for a tacky blue hoodie and a pair of flared jeans. He thought about picking up a pair of sunglasses, like detectives used to do in the old noir movies, but then quickly dismissed the idea. For early winter, he would feel too out of place. Besides, if he ran the risk of being identified then he could simply put up his hood and scurry out of there.

He wondered just how many of the police knew about him. Was it just the ones from the station he had escaped, or was it national news by now? It must have been a big deal to the press, what with the chase through the city. Blake recalled opening the door on that motorcycle policeman, and his stomach knotted.

The change from buying the clothes gave him enough to use a payphone which, to his surprise, he had a lot of trouble finding. It seemed almost like most of them had been removed to fit in with the twenty-first century. He supposed that everyone had mobile phones now. When he got that idea, he went straight into a phone shop and approached a salesman, thinking that it couldn't hurt to stay connected.

'Hi. I'm looking for the cheapest phone you have that comes pre-charged.'

'Okay, sir,' the fat four-eyed salesman stood, showing him a line of phones. 'Most of them come fully charged now. Are there any particular features you're looking for?'

'No, just something to make calls with.' He wondered just how safe this was. Would the police know that the number was his? Would The Agency? Would either of them be able to track it? It didn't matter, he had no choice. 'That one will do fine.' He pointed to a small, light-looking black phone. 'How much is it?' He rifled through a big bunch of twenties, careful not to drop any.

The fat man licked his lips. 'That one is eighty-nine-ninety-nine, sir. Can I interest you in any insurance?'

'No, thank you. Just the phone. Take the money and bag it.'

'No problem. If you like I could make a package deal, give you–'

'Just the phone,' Blake almost screamed at him. He was desperate to make the phone call, and wasn't about to wait any longer for it.

The fat man's eyes spread wide, and then he slumped back, sulking. He took the money, doing as he was told, and almost threw the bag at him. 'Thanks. Bye.'

Blake huffed, surprised at how quickly the man's temper had altered. If he had been through what Blake had been through, he wouldn't have come out the other side.
But sure
, thought Blake,
lose your fucking patience with a paying customer.

He left the shop and found a quiet alley. The packaging ripped off and glided to the floor, the box dropping after it. While he waited for the phone to boot up, he tried to recall her phone number. But before he had remembered it, he had automatically typed it in and hit the dial button. It amazed him how quickly the subconscious could take over.

The number phoned through okay, and began to ring.

Blake began to pace up and down the alleyway, barely noticing he was doing it.

A click. A familiar voice.

'Hello?' It sounded like Rachel, only… it didn't. There was a stress in her voice that usually wasn't there. A knotted hurt, laced with worry.

'Rachel, it's me.' He didn't want to say his name. He had no idea who was listening.

'Oh my god, are you okay?' There she was, warm, loving and understanding.

It had been over twenty-four hours since the events had taken place. He realised that to her it must seem that he had gone rogue, hurt those policemen of his own accord and been on the run ever since.

'I've seen better days,' he told her, trying to keep it simple and short. 'Listen, can we meet?'

There was a pause–a silence that he had never felt with her before. They had always got on like a house on fire. And if that was still the case, then why did he feel uncomfortable asking for her help?

'Blake, I'm… I'm trying to get you out of this, but you're not making it any easier on yourself. What you did–'

'It wasn't me, Rachel. My father isn't even dead.'

'What?'

'Listen to me. His death was faked and I was taken from the police station by someone he knew. They could be listening, so I'll explain it when I see you.' Hearing his own voice, he realised just how desperate he must have sounded.

Blake heard her sigh, and then say: 'Okay.' Although she had said it, it didn't
seem
okay. Something was off. Could he trust her? Blake didn't know if he could trust anybody anymore. But if he could, then Rachel would be the one person he could turn to.

'Okay?' He had to think of somewhere. Somewhere public where he could fit in as a tourist. Somewhere in a wide-open space where he could disappear into a crowd if things got real bad. 'Can you get to Trafalgar Square?'

'Sure. Give me thirty minutes.'

'Make it an hour,' he said, knowing he would need time to prepare. If the feeling he was having at the back of his mind meant anything at all, then he would have to do some things first. That's how his father would have done it, he figured.

Blake said goodbye and ended the call. He would have to hurry if he wanted to set everything up on time.

Chapter 18

It had been years since he had been beaten like this–maybe as far back as the Gulf War. He had almost missed the feeling, the rush of not knowing what was going to happen, or which of the men he was going to kill first.

'Take his toe,' said Matthews. He was looking wired now, the strain of torture taking its toll on his dreary eyes.

Greg had options, but most of them resulted in him losing something or having something broken. What he wanted was a way out that involved turning the torture their way.

'Consider it done.' Canavan shuffled forward and lifted the knife to his waist, the blade pointed outwards and ready to strike.

'Wait,' Greg said, stalling. Each word was its own exercise now. His own eyelids were getting heavy and his body felt like it had been through a minefield.

Both men paused.

'What?' Matthews asked.

'Don't you…' His head dropped, and he brought it back up. 'Don't you want to know where Val hid his stash?'

'Stash of what?' from Canavan, clearly missing the point.

'Stash of cash, dumbass,' Matthews bit at him. 'Stash of cash, baby.' He turned his attention back to Greg. 'How much are we talking about?'

Greg made up a number–a believable one, he hoped. 'Twenty thousand in the house, and more where that came from.' He tried to keep them talking, still considering his escape route. The worst part would be the handcuffs, and he was working on dislocating his thumb.

The men looked at each other, as if trying to assess what the other was thinking.

Matthews shrugged.

Canavan nodded.

'Pray tell, what do you want out of this? I can't let you go. My head is worth more to me than some bits of flashy paper.'

'I know that.' Greg gripped on tight to his thumb, grateful that his hands were behind his back, out of sight from these two. 'Just a bit of leniency. You know, maybe stop with the dismemberment. Maybe even tell The Boss that I turned myself in.'

'You know…' Matthews knelt down and leaned in close. 'He might not even want to kill you. Life in prison can't be too bad, can it? I hear the soap is slippery this time of year.'

They both laughed but their faces dropped when Greg laughed with them. He wanted to get punched again. He could use the noise to cover the sound of what was coming. 'I might get felt up, like your wife does when you're not home.'

Matthews's eyes lit up for a flicker of a second before he lunged at him.

Greg snapped his thumb, dislocating it. A fire shot up through his hand so bad that he had barely felt the sting of the punch. Matthews must have seen him wince, but probably thought it was because of him.

'This stash…' he prompted, cutting back to the point.

'Yeah, alright. Okay.' Greg lowered his head, slowly and painfully sliding his thumb out from the cuff. It caught around his hand, tore up a flap of his skin. Still, it was either that or suffer what would happen if he didn't. 'Outside this door is a panel. Up against the stairs. Just push on it.'

Matthews seemed to be considering whether he was telling the truth or taking him for a ride. 'Bullshit. You think I'm stupid?'

'I do, yes. But humour me, will you?'

Matthews gave him a questioning look, breathed deeply and finally decided to trust him. 'Canavan, keep an eye on him. I'll be back.'

'Sir.' He saluted sarcastically, but Matthews grabbed him by his shirt. A button popped off as he was pulled forward.

'
Don't
get too close to him. This ain't a fucking Bond movie where you become friends before he turns on you. Eyes and gun on him at all times. Got it?'

Good
, thought Greg.
Looks like I'm not the only one who thought he was stupid.

Matthews turned, obviously suspicious of Greg, and left the room. As the door swung shut behind him, Canavan stepped forward and raised the gun.

'Such a prick.' He snickered, flipping his head back towards the door.

'Tell me about it.' Greg was actually starting to like this guy. It would be a shame to do what he was about to do.

There was an excited scream coming from outside the door, and then the unmistakable clunk of the bolt sliding across the door. 'Guess he found it then,' said Canavan.

Greg smirked, said nothing.

'You know, this is my first field assignment in five years.'

'You don't say?' It was useless chit-chat really, but it kept things mellow while he waited for Matthews to distance himself. 'Why so long?'

'Actually, I disobeyed an order. I was told to bring someone in alive but I lost my rag.' He grinned down at Greg, who now understood that this man was all about the theatrics.

'Well, you're back in the game now. How does it feel?'

'Actually I don't like killing people any more than I have to. That's why I let the boy go. You didn't have to drag him into all this, pal. I remember him to be knee-height with his old man, running round with that bloody toy fire engine. Remember?'

Greg thought hard, recollecting something. 'Vaguely.'

Canavan paused, rubbed his chin. 'Why did you do it?'

'Do what?' He was paying more attention to his timing, finally sliding his hand out from the cuff. There was a little jingle as the chain dangled towards the floor. Though Canavan seemed not to notice.

'Why did you take the boy?'

'I needed him.' Greg said it like nothing else mattered.

'And that's okay with you, is it? You need something and you'll just ruin somebody's life, despite the consequences?' Canavan lowered the gun, a sign of comfort in a distressed moment, but it was still gripped tightly in his hand.

'We're professionals. We do what we need to do.'

'Even if that means going rogue?'

'
Especially
if that means going rogue.' As his voice raised, he slid his hand out from behind his back. In an instant, he shot to his feet and tackled Canavan. He stumbled under the damage that his knees had taken, but his hand reached the man's throat. With his other hand, he knocked the gun away.

Both men tumbled to the floor. The gun went sprawling across the room.

Canavan tried to wriggle free, a stunned expression on his face. He drew his knee back and dug his heel into Greg's gut, kicking him away.

Greg fell back, the pain in his flesh scorching like fire. But he had no time to think about it if he wanted to survive. He clenched his fist and drove it into the man's throat–a dirty move that he was fond of using. Canavan made a gurgling sound but, instead of reaching for his own neck, wrapped his hands around Greg's head and dug his thumbs deep into his eyes.

Greg recoiled, delivered a jab to the man's ribs, but stumbled back onto his injured knee.

His leg could barely take the weight. He fell back into the chair and hit the floor again. He scurried to his feet and was just getting back up when the man was coming at him, trying to rush at him. Greg took his elbow, twisted it to contort his body, got two good punches back into his side. A third cracked against the man's hip.

Then Canavan squirmed around, wailing as he took out Greg's leg.

Greg dropped to his other knee and blocked an incoming right hook. He was in trouble but, using the last of his energy, he jumped up and slammed the heels of his hands up at his attacker's face. While he was dazed, Greg wrapped his hands around his throat.

The life was leaving Canavan's eyes. His legs became weak and useless while he scratched at Greg's hands. As his body drooped to the floor, his resistance lessened.

The man's body made a thud as it hit the ground.

He was dead.

Greg rose in the new-found silence, his cuts stinging, his lungs exhausted. If he had been in better shape, it may have been easier for him, but his wounds were too deep.

He turned to the door, was about to walk through it, and then remembered the gun. He scrambled for it in the dark, eventually finding it under the oven's vent. When he picked it up, he felt in control again. He felt complete, as if the weapon was an extension of his own body.

His thumb bent oddly around the butt, throbbing wildly. Greg put the gun on the kitchen counter, held his breath. Then, he gripped his thumb with his other hand, closed his eyes and counted.