Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (14 page)

3, 2…
click.

He stifled his own scream as his thumb snapped back into place. Every time he had done this in the past, it had left a tingling numbness for a matter of days. But the lasting of the effects seemed to get easier each time.

Matthews,
he suddenly reminded himself.

Furious at The Agency and everyone who worked for them, Greg slid out of the kitchen, gun dropping slightly between his finger and broken thumb. The panel was open, and the door was too. There were rays of sun shooting in through the glass panes.

Limping, he crossed over to the door, hugged his back to the wall and peered around the corner. His finger was firmly on the trigger. It had been a while since he'd had to use his left hand to fire a weapon, and he found it a little intimidating.

From the basement, a light was cast up the stairs and across some of the hallway. A shadow danced across the room as if it was looking for something. Metal clunked loud and repeatedly.

Greg stopped to ponder whether it was possible to descend the steps with his knee the way it was, but decided it would be safer to wait it out.

Presently, heavy footfalls sounded up the wooden steps.

Greg clenched onto the gun, took a soft step back.

The steps got louder. The shadows grew larger across the floor.

When Greg could hear the unhealthy wheeze of the out-of-shape desk jockey, he raised the gun to Matthews's head.

'What the–' As the man's eyes locked onto the end of the gun's barrel, his eyebrows raised in a look of horror that Greg found amusing.

'Your protégé is okay.' He couldn't keep the smile off his face for long though. 'Oh, no. Wait–he's on the floor in a bloody heap. Put up a good fight though. The little fucker.'

Matthews hesitated, his eyes cold black stones in the dark of the hallway. Then he clenched his fists, talked through his teeth. 'I was helping you, you fucking fool!'

'What?'

'He wanted to kill you. I was just letting him torture you to make him believe I was on his side.' He took a step closer.

Greg tensed his arm. 'Don't.'

Matthews raised his arms in surrender, instantly realising that his ploy had fizzed and fallen to the ground like a moth as it kisses the flame. 'Please, don't kill me. I… I'm sorry.' His voice cracked and a tear glistened in his eye. 'I have a family. Please understand. I was just following orders. Please.'

It surprised Greg to find that he had ever hesitated. When he pictured the man's wife, whom he had met once at a barbeque, he began to empathise. But empathy, as he had always said, was a poison; let it enter your system and it
will
be the death of you.

'It's my daughter's birthday,' Matthews went on, desperately. 'Let me go and I can–'

'Where is Val Salinger?'

'You know I can't–'

Greg thumbed the hammer of the gun.

Matthews began to whimper. 'Okay! Okay, alright. Last I heard, he was being pulled off a plane. I don't know where he is but–'

'Guess.'

'Uhh…' Matthew wiped his eyes with his sleeves, his hands trembling like balls of dust caught in a strong wind. 'I know he owns a boat. Yeah.' He looked up excitedly now, as if the knowledge had just saved his life. 'He probably won't come here, so he might go there.'

'Where is it?' Greg was growing impatient, his body filled with pain.

'It docks by the Thames. At Bishop's Harbour.'

'Thanks.' The gun went off with a pop, the bullet a swift, gracious mercy.

A red blotch appeared at Matthews's forehead and he fell to the floor.

The house was silent now, save for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging predictably as it minded its own business, echoing through the hall. In an indeterminate amount of time, more Agents would arrive to collect him, and Greg didn't want to be here for that. Hopefully, he would have just enough time to patch up his wounds before making his way back to the city.

After all, he had a friend to find.

Chapter 19

It had always seemed easier in the movies. The hero would stand on a rooftop and scope out the scene. If anything seemed fishy - an FBI agent who was too stupid to take off his earpiece, for example - there would be a clear indicator to cut and run.

The reality, however, was a stressful struggle. Blake had had to lie his arse off to get into the hotel without signing in, avoiding cameras on the way. There was no elevator, so he'd had to haul a duffel bag up fourteen flights of stairs and, when he reached the top, the wind froze him through to his bones.

On the bright side, though, he had a clear view of Trafalgar Square, and his father's binoculars were becoming quite useful. He used them every few seconds, alternating between that and his watch. S
he is due here any minute,
he noted, worried that he could see no sign of her. Not even one Agent or policeman to confirm that she
would
come.

It didn't make any sense. From the way she had sounded on the phone, somebody had been to visit her. It would have to have been a pretty ineffective police force to not think about her, or be tapping her calls. And then The Agency… how far ahead were they? From what he had heard, and the awful things he had seen, they should have been all over this.

In spite of the cold, he felt the first warnings of sweat.

Minutes later, Blake spotted Rachel stepping up from the Underground system. As she reached street-level, she looked around her as if she was expecting somebody. Maybe she was. Maybe they had gotten to her somehow.

Blake had to get down there. If the coast was clear, he could get down there in time to talk to her. But he would have to move fast, or she would give up and go back to work.

And then he saw
them
.

It really
was
as obvious as he had expected. One man, far too big and brutish to blend into the crowd, stood at a burger table with an earpiece hanging off his ear, an expensive-looking shirt, and - the most clarifying of all - he wasn't eating anything. Nothing in his hand, nothing in his mouth. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Rachel.

There was another one sat on the brim of the fountain, the water spraying cold flecks of water onto his back. Blake wondered why the man hadn't moved, but maybe he knew that it would draw too much attention to himself.

Rachel looked both ways. As if she hadn't seen it, she stepped out in front of a car. Slamming on its brakes, the driver leaned on his horn and shouted some abuse at her. It almost struck her down but she barely noticed. Her mind must have been elsewhere.

Blake let out a breath, scared; scared for her, scared for himself. Across the square, Rachel took a seat on a step which stretched around the outside of the square. He could see perfectly here, except for the occasional passer-by blocking the view with their fat, touristy heads. Nobody stopped for long though, and he probably wouldn't get a better view than this.

This would be so much easier with Greg.
The silver-haired man had helped him so much to a point, but he was alone now; alone with the guilt of having left him to die.
Maybe he won't die,
Blake kept assuring himself, unconvincingly.

Trying to focus on the task, he turned his thoughts back to Rachel. He would have to play this real smooth and, worst of all, he would have to leave right now. His nerves rattled like he was in school and it was his turn to give a presentation. He had always tried to avoid confrontation where possible, but too much was at stake.

Risking losing sight of her, he dropped the binoculars into his duffel bag and retrieved the mobile phone he had bought earlier. He got the number ready on the screen, his thumb hovered over the green dial button. This was one of the moments where he felt so proud that he had thought to get the number of the payphone across the street–he hadn't imagined he would have thought of it. But now the reality struck him. Now, when he dialled the number, he would be opening a can of worms that he wasn't sure he could digest.

Blake pressed the button, snatched up his binoculars, and climbed to his feet while raising both devices up to his head. In another world he might have felt in control. But as ready as he was, this could go south really fast.

Rachel's face didn't move when the phone in the square began to ring.

Blake panicked.
Please answer.
He envisioned his whole plan hitting the ground before it even got the chance to run. But then it seemed to register with her. She glanced around, then approached the phone and picked it up.

'Hello?' She sounded wary.

'Rachel, it's me.' He had thought of everything except how to phrase this, and whether or not she would go along with it. 'Do you know you're being followed?'

'I…'

'Don't lie to me, Rachel. Our lives are in the red here. Trust me and I can help you.'

There was a long pause.

The black handset looked huge against her tiny pink ear, which was reddening in the blistering winter air. 'I think there are people here, Blake.'

'What people?' he pressed. 'Police?'

'No, I don't think so.'

Blake took his eyes off her for a second, looked over to the guy by the fountain. He was stood now, his eyes fixed on her. He began to take small, unsure footsteps, like a lion ready to pounce if the gazelle looked ready to run.

'Okay,' said Blake, both proud of himself and terrified that his guess had been correct. 'You have to do exactly as I say, no matter what. Do you understand?' He saw her nod and her lips move, but he didn't hear the words. 'On my say-so, go straight up the steps to your right and get on the 88 bus. As soon as you get on, move to the back and get ready to step off. They will follow you but
don't
panic.'

For just a moment, she looked like a frightened little girl.

Blake fell in love with her all over again, but he couldn't think about that now.

'Go, Rachel. Go and don't look back.'

She dropped the phone onto its cradle but missed. It fell and began to swing on its cord.

Blake threw the phone and binoculars into his bag, zipped it up and left it there. There was no way he could carry it with him now. He just hoped that kids wouldn't find it, rummage through and find the gun.

Sprinting back inside, the door swung and hit the wall as he burst through it. He took the steps two at a time. When he reached the lobby, Blake darted for the exit, receiving some dirty looks from the middle-class as he went.

Outside, he caught sight of the bus he had told her to get on.

The crowd was thick. He couldn't see her.

Greedy pedestrians struggled amongst themselves to be the first onto the bus, pushing and shoving where they needed to. Blake couldn't see Rachel. But he wouldn't lose her now. He ran towards them, screaming and squeezing between them. 'Get out of the way!' His own voice surprised him.

People turned and sneered down at him as if he was something they had stepped in.

'Move!' he yelled, sliding his arms between them with hopes to separate. He had to move fast, but he was probably making too much noise. If the Agents - or police, whoever they were - saw him then it would be game over.

Then he saw Rachel, stepping up onto the bus.

Behind her, the man who had been leaning on the fountain.

Blake hoped he wouldn't turn around. He quieted himself, swallowing his words, then took a step back and watched Rachel board the bus. Through the glass, he saw her moving straight to the back, just as he had instructed.

Please, Rachel. Please, please get off.

The man followed closely behind her, not paying his way onto the bus.

Blake stepped back, blending into the crowd. From there he watched them both, silently hoping, barely noticing that he was mouthing a prayer.

Rachel sat down.

No!
Blake felt this entire attempt fall flat. He would no longer be able to help her–probably wouldn't be able to save himself either. He watched the man scowl as he was forced to sit in front of her. Blake's heart sank, and he was no longer sure of what to do.

Rachel had been the only person he could trust in this whole mess. Without her, he would be a rolling stone forever, and now it would be impossible to get in touch with her. All eyes would be on her, just waiting for him to make contact. That was if -
if
- they didn't punish her for trying to get away.

The bus's engine grumbled, the door hissed, and it slowly began to move.

Rachel stood, swung around, and dove off the low step of the moving London bus.

Blake rushed towards her, a sudden excitement springing new life into him. As Rachel stumbled, he caught her arm. For a second he studied her; her face a beetroot colour as she thrashed around before realising that he wasn't an Agent.

'Blake.' She looked as though she hadn't seen him in years.

'We have to move,' he told her, watching the man hurry to the back of the bus as it drove away. It was going too fast now, and there was no chance of him jumping off it without landing on his face.

Rachel nodded, pushed her arm through the loop in his. Together, they stalked away from the crowd and moved along the wall of the nearest building. Blake hadn't thought this far ahead. He was improvising, but had no idea what he was doing.

'There are more of them,' he told her. They rounded a corner and took the steps back into the Underground. A train was lurking there, filling up and getting ready to zoom off into the blackness of the tunnel. 'In case they're still following,' he nodded at the train, 'it might help if they think we're on that.'

As soon as the doors closed and the train began to pick up speed, they marched across the platform, still arm-in-arm, and took the next set of steps up into the daylight. Blake was leading her, trying to keep his cool and walking at a normal speed. But his fear occasionally caught up to him, and he picked up his speed to get away.

He glanced around, making sure they weren't followed.

Nobody up here,
he was relieved to find.