Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (19 page)

Val let a small smile escape his lips, despite the odds. 'You would make a fine father, you know. Better than I ever was. Though that isn't saying much.'

Blake hesitated. 'What are–'

Suddenly, the familiar voice sounded from the hallway. Only it was different now; where it had sounded trustworthy, it now sounded sly, a little maniacal. 'Yeah, yeah. Val loves his son. Blake loves his dad–yada yada yada.'

Both Salingers turned to the doorway, where the voice had come from.

Stunned, astounded, and totally unbelieving, Blake laid eyes on Greg, who stood with his face coated in blood and a gun in his hand. It was aimed at Blake.

'It's all very emotional,' Greg teased. 'Like the end of a movie. Oh, except in the movie you boys would have a happy ending.' He leaned in close, whispered in a mocking tone and grimaced. 'I just don't want you to get your hopes up.'

Blake's knees went weak. His head spun.
What exactly is going on here?
He felt as though there was a secret that had been kept from him, like the whole world was laughing. Like this whole thing had been a joke and he had been the pun. 'Greg…' He didn't know what to say. But he did know that
he
also was holding a gun, and that he had come too far to lose his father now.

'Greg?' Val questioned, looking lost. 'Who's Greg?'

Blake pointed.
Surely he should know?
'
Him.
' Just as he had finished saying the words, he realised what had happened. He had always known that Greg wasn't the man's
real
name, but after three days of barely leaving his side, it had begun to feel right.

'Oh.' Val's mouth opened. The look of sudden enlightenment. 'You mean–'

'Shut up, Val.' Greg threatened. Then, as if from nowhere, he pointed the gun at his old partner and fired it. The sound echoed through the room.

Blake squeezed his eyes shut–a protest to seeing what he didn't want to see. He could feel his lungs getting tighter. It was becoming difficult to breathe as he wondered, feared, whether Val had just taken a bullet. Slowly, one at a time, he opened his eyes.

Val was still standing, a gaping hole of splintered wood in the cabinet beside him.

Blake let out a breath, suddenly feeling the weight of the gun in his hand. He hadn't had the courage to use it until now. Maybe Greg knew that he wouldn't, and maybe that was the whole point. But he would prove him wrong.

He raised the gun.

'Oh, that's adorable.' Greg laughed. 'You didn't think I would give you a loaded gun?'

Blake doubted it but squeezed the trigger anyway.

Click. Empty.
'Just what exactly are you doing?' he asked, lowering his tone. 'We're your friends.'

'I don't keep friends, kid. It leads to bad things. Ain't that right, Val?' Greg turned his attention to Blake, aimed a finger at the ceiling and whirled it like a whisk while letting out a soft whistle. 'Turn.'

Blake froze for a moment, not understanding. When it made sense to him, he turned around. He felt his backpack lighten as Greg took the black box from it, and then turned around to look at him once more.
Greg the Traitor,
he thought about the man who had been his friend.
Greg the Turncoat, Greg the Snake.

Blake stared down at it. He was as eager to know what was inside as Greg had ever been, but the look in Val's eye suggested it was better for the lot of them that it remained closed. Some secrets, he supposed, were best kept that way.

'The combination.' Greg demanded from Val.

'That's all you wanted?' Val asked, confusion plain across his face. 'But you don't even know what's inside. I thought you were worth more than
that
little mystery.'

'Oh, I want a whole lot more than that, old buddy. I want the deed to your estate, your retirement fund, and a bullet in your head for the woman you killed.'

Val seemed furious, the way he had looked when Blake was young and in revolt. He spat his words out. '
We
killed. You had just as much a part in that as I did!'

Whatever they were talking about, Blake let them at it. There was obviously a past that he didn't know about, and he had the feeling that it was bigger than him. Quietly, he clenched the gun in his hand, ready to use it, but only if he absolutely
had
to.

'But
you
led the operation!' Greg was screaming now, a vein bulging at his neck. '
You
made the decision! I was just following orders from a superior. Well, who's the superior one now, huh?' He pulled back the hammer of the gun. 'The combination. Now.'

Val shook his head. 'No.'

All at once, Greg turned and squeezed the trigger.

Blake heard the bullet long before he felt it piercing through his flesh.

He stumbled backward, fell onto the desk behind him. The gun fell to his feet. Looking down, he saw the wound in his stomach, oozing a red water. His head felt weightless, his vision like looking through a waterfall. All he could think about as the world grew paler was the cotton taste in his mouth. He wondered if this was the taste of death.

'The combination,' Blake heard Greg say again. Though this time it was deeper, hazed.

The light in the room faded, and Blake suddenly lost all power in his arms. No longer able to support himself, he slumped to the floor. His hand fell away from the bleeding wound, the life leaking from him like a flood.

In his final moments, Blake could just about hear the voice of his shooter. Of the man whom he had trusted to lead him back to his father.

Blake had been used.

*     *     *     *

Officer Barbara Lang sat on the floor, her hands cuffed to the man behind her.

They hadn't hurt her - Val had kept his word - but while guns had been blazing outside the office, she had been unconscious and Benny had sat silently attached to her. She imagined that his head was cowered down as he mouthed silent prayers.

Barbara was feeling groggy, waking from the effects of the dart. Her neck still stung from where it had punctured her but she would live. She had been through far worse.

At her feet was the corpse of a man dressed in a guard's uniform, a look of shock upon his lifeless face. He had taken a bullet to the temple–the wound made that quite clear.

Although she had seen many dead people before, it never got any easier. The British military was a huge part of her past, but she'd been Technical and had little work in the field. Nonetheless, bodies had been rushed past her on their gurneys at the camp; some with terrible burn marks, some with limbs missing, and others with a black sheet respectfully covering their faces. Barbara was able to cope with the sight of them, but she would rather not have to. After all, nobody wanted to be looking into the eyes of a dead man. That's why she now shifted her gaze.

'We need to get backup,' she said to Benny. He was actually her commanding officer, but she was more suitable to wear the pants. So she had done, since day one.

'There's no point.' His voice sounded weak, broken.

Is he crying?

'What do you mean there's no point? Have you forgotten your duty?'

'Fuck you,' he blurted out. 'I never wanted to respond to this one in the first place. You knew who he was. I'm not messing around with The Agency if I can help it. But it's too late now, huh?' The sound of his feet kicking at the hard wall. 'It's too. Fucking. late.'

'I recognised him, sure. But if we were all to act like cowards, we would never get anything done.' She had known of his cowardice from the second she met him. They had gone out for drinks before their first shift as partners, to get acquainted, and he had spent the whole night blabbering about how his wife was cheating on him and he was too much of a pussy to do anything about it;
his
words. Not hers.

'Think what you want.' He sniffed. 'I'm not going anywhere. There's nowhere we can go where they won't find us. We're practically dead already.'

There was something in the way he said it that sent a chill wavering down her spine. Perhaps it was the illusion of The Agency as an untouchable entity, an organisation that could see you, but you could never see them.
Big Brother is watching you.

Barb cringed and looked around her, her eyes scanning around for anything that could help. She had always fancied herself as resourceful, and now was her chance to prove herself…
to
herself.

Her eyes landed on the dead man's trousers, where something shiny protruded from his pocket. 'I think I see something that can help. a penknife, maybe.' She looked around her. 'You still with me?'

'Yeah,' he said feebly.

'Look, I know you've pretty much given up, but don't you dare take me down with you. You got it? Now, we need to shuffle over to that guy. You're going to help me do that.'

'I s'pose, yeah.'

'Alright. On three, I'm going to lift my bum off the ground and push my back against yours. I need you to do the same, but push me forward. Got it?'

'Uh-huh.' It sounded noncommittal.

The first attempt was useless–she hadn't accounted for how much pressure she would be placing on her legs. They both dropped to the ground almost immediately, her arse hitting the cold concrete with a thud. She could feel the pains shooting straight through to the bone.

'Again,' she barked, her fingers mere inches from the man's pocket. It went smoother then, shifting them forward. They repeated the manoeuvre once more, and they turned to help her reach the item.

Barb slid it from his pocket and worked the point of the blade. She had picked locks before - a part of her training - but she had never done it behind her back. For just a moment, she was worried she would cut Benny's wrist. Slice it right open. But then she dismissed it as unnecessary worry. He seemed eager to die, anyway.

The cuff fell open with a clink.

The sound of freedom.

As soon as she was free, she shook the metal off her wrists and clambered to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly after the work she had just put them through. She was slipping out of physical fitness, she thought, and silently assigned herself some running time for the next day. If she got out of here alive, that is.

'You're not coming?' she asked, seeing that Benny was still lying on the floor with his knees against his chest and his hands upon his head.

'To do what? You'll die if you go in there. Best you can do is just call for backup and pray they don't send Agents to garrotte you.' His face was red as he spat the words. It felt like he was holding Barbara accountable for what had happened.

'You think this is my fault?' She towered over him, but he wouldn't look her in the eye. 'You think I wanted any of this? Well, I don't. I have a dog to go home to, a sister to visit and a niece to take care of. You think it was my intention to kick up a shit storm?'

'Yes!' he cried.

Barbara looked down at him with pity, but it was pity for his wife, not for him. No wonder she was sleeping around. If Barb had been lumbered with him 'til death do them part, she would probably be shopping for an upgrade too. 'You're wrong. I was just doing my job. I was doing
your
bloody job too. Prick.' She stormed off, rummaging through the pockets of the dead bodies and checking their belts for a radio. She found a phone on the last body. As she knelt down to pick it up, he spat red bubbles of blood, springing to life for a moment. He looked at her with pleading eyes.

This was the stuff that hurt her. Not punches of knives or bullets. But looking into the eyes of a human being as all of his memories - all of his hopes and dreams - fleeted from him, floating into nothingness as his eyes closed over.

'Steady,' she told herself. Had she said it out loud? Who knew? Who cared? She unhooked the phone and dialled for backup, her eyes now fixed on the yacht. A woman's voice came through the speaker, but she sounded so calm that it was aggravating. When she promised that units were on their way with armed officers, she cut her off. The phone smashed against the ground as she dropped it, and her eyes landed on the handgun that lay beside the crumbled plastic components.

Barb bit her lip in consideration. How long had it been since she had used one of those things? Four years? She could almost feel the weight in her hand, the same way that a person can almost taste the food that they craved. She knew that she shouldn't take it–couldn't. She might have a chance at bringing in the famous Val Salinger, of putting things right.

She pictured the Armed Police that would come. Barb could imagine it; them walking Val down the gangway with pride, after
she
had made the discovery.

No.

She wouldn't accept that. Barb
had
to be the one to take him in.

Without looking back, she snatched the gun off the floor, and headed towards the yacht.

Chapter 25

'My son.' Val's eyes began to fill with a wetness that he hadn't felt in years. He had never been a crier, which had proved to be quite frustrating sometimes. Especially when watching emotional movies. But that problem seemed to be over now; the tears came flooding. 'That's… my son.' He felt as though every fibre of his being had been stripped from him, that his entire life's work outside of The Agency had counted for nothing. All those home tutors. All those holidays with the boy. They were nothing but memories now.

'He
was
your son. Now he's just a dying man. And if you don't give me the
bloody
combination, he'll be a thing of the past. Just like that precious wife of yours.'

'Marcy–' Val stepped forward, his fists clenched and seeing red, but stopped when he caught sight of the dark and threatening barrel of the gun.
Has Marcy really been hurt or is he just saying that to anger me?

'The combination. I won't ask again.'

He really wasn't sure if it was such a good idea. Giving him the combination could cause more trouble than it was worth. But on the other hand, although he would give his own life with no quarrel, the life of his son was not for him to submit. Unless…