Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (16 page)

Pimms disappeared into the alley.

Greg reached up the inside of his t-shirt, ready to grab the gun that was tucked into his jeans. With his thumb the way it was, he wondered if he could hold it right. But there was no time for a trial run. He took a breath and headed towards the alley. He pressed his back to the wall and peered around the corner. Two Agents, two helpless kids, and the kiss-arse himself.

It always helped to know what he was up against.

He removed the gun, drawing a terrified look from a passing teenage girl, who darted across the road as if she was being hunted by The Terminator.

Greg snorted.
Silly girl.

She would probably tell someone what she saw, so he had to move quick.

3, 2…

He rounded the corner, extended his arm and shot a bullet right into the temple of one of the Agents. Greg kept walking towards them.

The other Agent drew his gun, and Greg fired a couple of shots into his chest.

Pimms turned, saw the commotion and dropped his gun in surrender.

Shit. I didn't know he had that.
Greg was getting careless in his old age–unintentionally inviting a premature death.

'Step away,' Greg shouted at him.

Pimms hesitated.

'I said step the
fuck
away. Right now!'

The metal clunked to the floor as the man raised his shaking hands above his head. He stepped to his left, away from Blake and the girl. He was clearly trying to express that he wasn't any kind of a threat.

Blake looked up, the girl's head buried into his lap. 'G-Greg.' There was a strain in his voice; a cocktail of surprise, guilt, and concern.

'I'll deal with you in a second.' Greg turned back to Pimms. 'You have five seconds to explain why I should let you live. Convince me.'

His glasses fell from his face and his eyes darted between the three of them. 'I…'

'1,' Greg started the countdown.

'Well. Some… I mean–'

'Two.'

'Don't do it,' the girl suddenly screamed.

The tension was high and Greg was enjoying his moment. He had waited years for this.

'Five.' He squeezed the trigger. The sound of the gunshot rang through the alleyway.

Pimms tumbled back, a red growth appearing upon his white shirt and growing.

'
No!
' the girl screamed.

Greg had a sudden feeling that he had done something wrong. It wasn't that The Agency would want vengeance. It was like these two knew something that he didn't. He turned to look at her, his thirst quenched by the long-anticipated killing shot. 'What?'

'My mum.' She wept. 'They'll kill my mother!'

Suddenly, Greg understood why she had yelled at him. They must have had some leverage over her to get this far. But it wasn't until now that he figured out what the leverage was–or
who
it was. Though all the time in the world wouldn't have changed the outcome; there were bigger things at stake than a girl's mother. 'She's already dead.'

Rachel sulked into Blake's arms, while he stared up at Greg with a look of mistrust, fear, and somehow, condescension.

Probably,
thought Greg.

It wasn't exactly a lie; it would happen soon enough, but there was no harm in bending the truth here or there. Besides, there were bigger lies in his life right now, and there were many more to come.

Chapter 21

Although the rescue had been daring and heroic, Blake had detected a new emotion lurking behind Greg's eyes. Something hostile. It was like an inactive bomb had been given a fuse. When he had demanded that Blake go back to the hotel and retrieve the bag, his tone of voice had only confirmed that hostility.

'The bloody black box was in that bag, you idiot!' he had screamed.

'What's the big deal?' Blake felt his face redden. 'We don't even know what's inside.'

'Exactly! It could be anything. It could be the key that sets off a bloody nuke for all we know. Get your skinny little arse back up to that roof and meet me outside the hotel.'

Blake had run all the way back up the stairs, sweating profusely and wondering what Greg would do about the fact that he had left him back at the manor. He had left him with Rachel now too, and he wasn't sure that he should have; not with her fragility and his temper.

He got the bag and ran back outside, but they were nowhere to be seen.

A car's horn sounded, startling him.

Looking over, he saw Greg in the driver's seat, waving him over with the look of irritation deeper than it had been a few moments ago. Blake threw the bag into the back seat next to Rachel and then climbed up front.

'Nice car,' he told Greg. He didn't really think that much of it - it was okay at best - but the silence was awkward and he wanted the conversation to flow. 'Where did you get it?'

'Borrowed it,' he said matter-of-factly, and pointed to the wires swinging from the ignition. He shifted the gears and they pulled out, heading into God-knew-where.

'You
stole
it?'

'I
borrowed
it, kid. I should probably teach you how to do this at some point. It Could come in handy.' His eyes never left the road.

Come in handy?
For a moment he wondered what he had meant by that, but then he quickly understood that he was a fugitive, and it was likely that he would be for a very,
very
long time. Blake peered over his shoulder at Rachel, who was sobbing in the back seat with her head down, sniffing and swallowing in big wet breaths. 'Are you alright?'

She looked up at him with pleading eyes. They were practically screaming
let me out
. He couldn't let her do that though–as Greg had told her, The Agency probably had eyes all over the hospital, and that was probably where Rachel would head first.

'Where are we going?' Blake turned back to Greg, accepting Rachel's blank expression in place of a real answer.

'You'll see.'

It was like that for about thirty minutes, the three of them sat in utter silence, the engine's gentle hum sending Blake into a drowsiness. His eyes started to close over, but in what felt like seconds later, they sprung open and he was immediately awake.

Where are we?

Studying his surroundings, he figured out the answer. It was a shipping yard. Wet gravel spat under them as they drove slowly around the maze of containers. A grey veil of clouds cloaked around them, threatening rain, and there was not a person in sight.

Greg stopped the car but didn't shut off the engine. He raised his hand - almost black with dirt - to his face, rubbing at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He sighed. It sounded like a huff. 'Alright, this is where we get out. Bring the bag.' He slammed the car door behind him and stormed off into the darkness.

Blake hurried to climb out and grabbed the bag from the back seat. Rachel sat there staring wide-eyed, hysterical. 'We have to go, sweetheart. You're safe with us, okay?'

She turned to look him right in the eye. 'You p-promise?'

Blake swallowed. It felt like a cactus squeezed its way down his throat. 'Of course,' he lied, and then offered his hand. He eased her from the car, slipped off his jacket and slipped it over her shoulders, though she seemed not to notice. Blake threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and put his spare arm around her. It surprised him that he would be the nurturing one in this situation–it was usually the other way around.

The stench of fish hot in the air, they followed Greg through the yard. They kept losing him as he slipped between containers, disappearing into the maze. It would have been hard enough to walk, even
without
the weight on his back. Playing cat and mouse only made it seem a whole lot more like torture.

'Over here, kid.' Greg's voice to his right, and then he rapped against the container door.

There was a profound silence, the song of seagulls echoing through the tranquillity, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. Rachel shivered in his arms, and he held her closer. It
was
pretty damn cold out here.

'What are we doing here?'

Greg stood silent, waiting.

There was a metallic clunking sound and the container door sprung open, a young black boy pushing it from the inside. He was garbed in a collection of rags, mostly with the theme of black and grey, though it looked more like he was wearing them for warmth than fashion. The coat was three sizes too big and the black hat covered most of his tiny head. It looked like he had been spat out of Victorian London. As soon as he spotted Greg, his eyes lit up.

'Mister Daniel, sir!' he cried, throwing his arms around Greg.

It amused Blake to hear the man be called by yet another name. He wondered if he would ever learn his
real
name, but quickly dismissed that as a fantasy. Still, curiosity got the better of him.

'How you doing, Ron?' Greg asked, smiling for the first time since they had left the manor. There was obviously a connection between these two.

'Very good, sir. Very good-mmm.' The boy added a humming noise, like he was clearing his throat to speak.

'Is it ready?'

'Exactly how you left it,' he said excitedly. 'This way-mmm. Watch your step.' The boy, Ron, led them into the container and pulled the door closed, bathing them in darkness. Blake felt a threatening sensation of claustrophobia, but at least it was warm in here.

Lights flicked on, getting brighter as they grew warmer, It looked no different from what Blake presumed a normal container would look like, until the boy slid his finger under a piece of weather-worn cloth and pulled the flap back to reveal some stone steps.

Ron led them down there and Greg shortly followed, leaving Blake and Rachel arm-in-arm at the top. The lights went on as the boy descended, hovering above the steps with an orange glow. It looked far too much like a crypt, and Blake would have had trouble trusting it if the circumstances were different. He could barely imagine how alien this whole situation felt to Rachel. 'Come on,' he told her, guiding her down carefully. He took her hand so as he could lead her in single file.

When they reached the bottom, Blake could barely believe his eyes.

All around him, row after row of rotten mattress lay on the cold stone ground. Poor-looking people lay there, some coughing, some sleeping, some quietly playing cards with others. Under the ground and by the river, the entirety of the room was graced only by candlelight, glowing in the hollowed alcoves.

'What is this place?' Blake asked, catching up to Greg and Ron.

'This is our home,' said the boy, his eyes wide and white. 'It's warmer than outside, yes-mmm, and we look after each other.'

For the first time since they had been inside the car, Rachel finally spoke. 'You're just a kid. Where are your parents?'

The boy removed his hat. 'My ma died giving birth to me down here, but Papa–he right over there-mmm.' He darted into the back of the dungeon-looking basement, like he was eager to introduce them.

Greg looked at Blake. 'This is their way of life, kid. Whatever you do, don't insult them. They actually prefer to live this way.'

'Why? Why don't they live in houses, or at least on the street?' Blake looked around him, feeling horribly sympathetic.
How can a kid grow up in this?
It didn't seem right to him.

'It's the only life they've ever known,' Greg explained. 'Would you take a penguin from the cold and throw him into the desert to warm him?'

Blake thought about that, also marvelling at Greg's empathy.
Daniel,
he reminded himself.
He's known as Daniel down here.

They followed the boy to the back, where he lifted a black sheet to reveal a starved-looking old man, whose beard was long and grey.

'This is my papa, Junior,' said Ron.

'Junior?' Rachel asked, while Blake raised his hand in greeting. 'But
you're
the young one. Shouldn't he be
Senior?
' It looked like she was trying now; trying to create a distraction for herself. Trying to forget about the real world.

'Yes ma'am. This is Ronald Wyatt Junior. His father, my grandpapa, was Ronald Wyatt Senior. Which makes me Ronald Wyatt the Third. I'm the third Rowboat Ron, but I never been on a rowboat. Seen one though, I did! Mmm.'

Blake felt sorry for the boy–it was like he was stuck in his own personal hell but he actually
wanted
to be there. Like he didn't know there was a bigger, better world out there.

'Good to see you again, Junior,' Greg said as he patted the old man on the shoulder. 'Come on, Blake.' He tilted his head and stalked off into the darkness.

'Where are we–'

'Leave the girl. We have business to attend.'

Blake looked to Rachel, worry slightly parting her lips.

'We'll be okay, won't we Miss?' said Rowboat Ron, tugging on her hand. It was probably a rarity that he - or any of the others - would see a woman. One in a business suit and knee-high boots anyway.

'It's alright,' Blake assured her, and then watched the kid lead her off to his mattress. He stood for a moment, admiring the boy's excited expression as he showed Rachel his playing cards, as if they were his prized possessions.

He caught up to Greg.

'So… Greg,' Blake began. 'Or is it Daniel? I forget.'

'You're supposed to.' He led them to the back of the room, pulled the Zippo from his pocket and lit the candle on the wall. Orange light hazed over a big blanketed structure in front of them. Greg ripped the sheet from the object, a mushroom cloud of dust puffing upwards as the sheet dropped to the floor. It revealed a wooden crate.

'What's inside?' Blake asked, nervously wondering if he had been forgiven for abandoning him at the mansion yet.

'Your old man had a small chest of treasures.' He flipped a couple padlocks off the chest and prised up the heavy-looking wooden lid. 'I keep a heavier cache.' He lifted out an object and tossed it to Blake, who knelt to catch it just before it hit the floor.