Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (20 page)

'It's not as simple as that, old friend.' Val was reluctant.

Greg crooked an eyebrow at him. He looked as though he had been through Hell and back; blood spatter on his face, grubby skin and a five-o'clock shadow made him look like a maniac. Though if The Agency had got to him first, he would probably be looking a damn sight worse right now.

'What do you mean,
it's not that simple
?'

'I mean,' Val cleared his throat, tried not to look at where Blake lay on the floor, dying. 'Not only do I need to put in the combination–I also need to call the number from a phone.'

Greg paused, the gun still trained on Val. He looked to be weighing his options.

Val caught sight of Blake, who was weakening as more and more blood seeped from his gunshot wound. Even if Val could get him out of here, there was no guarantee that he could save him. If he died, he would never forgive the man who had shot him.

'You're bluffing,' Greg said, finally.

'What possible reason could I have to lie? You're going to kill me regardless of what I do, so I may as well open that stupid bloody box for you.'

Greg shrugged, and then studied the thin black box once more as if it had changed in the few seconds since they had been talking. 'Why don't you just tell me what's in there?'

Val shook his head.

'Then it must be something valuable. It
must
be!' Greg looked at it excitedly, licked his lips with anticipation. 'Alright,' he finally said. 'But I'm not giving you the phone. You must think I'm completely stupid.' He scratched his head with the gun and then aimed it back at Val. 'Tell me the code.'

This was turning out worse than he had hoped. 'Fine,' he said. 'Give me the damn box and I'll tell you the code.' Val didn't really want to be the one to open it–it was only reverse psychology.

Greg laughed out loud.

Val hadn't heard that sound in years, but now it sounded false.

'What, and let you take whatever's inside? What is it, Val, a weapon? You want to shoot me? Is that it? I ain't fucking
stupid!'

'I can see that.' And he could. Not that he needed to prove himself, but this man had made it this far. Anybody who could survive more than a day when The Agency was on their arse must have had a strong helping of intelligence. Sadly for Val, that made it almost impossible to outsmart him…
almost.

Greg gripped the gun, straightened out his finger and then coiled it back round the trigger. He was clearly tense. Setting the box down by his side, his eyes darted between Val and Blake. Finally, he looked back at Val and outstretched his open hand. 'Give me your phone.'

'I don't have one,' Val lied.

The gunshot echoed in the confines of the sheltered room. Val reached to cover his ears, almost biting his tongue as he hoped he hadn't been shot. He looked down at his body, with hairs raising on the nape of his neck.

Nothing.

A warning shot.

'Alright, alright,' Val gave in. Every bit of resistance now was key. Every time he acted like he didn't want to do something, even if his life was at stake, it would come across all the more genuine. Slowly, he slid only his thumb and forefinger into his pocket, retrieving the mobile phone that he had pick-pocketed from some thuggish-looking kid in the centre of London earlier that day.

Greg inched forward, took the phone from him. 'The combination?'

'One-four-zero-four-one-nine-five-seven.' He said reluctantly.

While he fiddled with the digits, Greg kept a slack eye on him. 'Cute. Your birthday?'

'Yes.' It wasn't, though–it was Marcy's birthday. The thought of her brewed up a new storm of emotions, but he couldn't let it get to him now. She may not even be dead. For all he knew, she was safe and sound at home with her feet up and a cat in her lap.

'Nine, five…' Greg mumbled, still fidgeting, '…seven.'

A clicking sound.

Giving him the combination had been suicide, but what other choice did Val have? If he didn't give it, he would be killed on the spot. At least this way he would go out like a man.

'And now dial the same number?' Greg brought the phone to his face, balancing it between the box and his fingers. It looked awkward, and maybe that would have given Val an edge if he was younger, nimble, more agile.

'Yes,' said Val. 'But please let me open it. It would really be better for–'

'Shut up, for the love of God. It doesn't look like you call the shots in here, does it?'

'…No,' he said, resigning.

'Well then…' Greg tapped the number into the phone.

Val counted the key presses, anticipation raging within him like a fire. Terrified of what was about to happen, he shuddered, closed his eyes. He bit down hard, grinding his teeth.

Greg pressed the final button.

Val heard the bleep coming from the box, and caught a glimpse of panic in the man's eyes. They widened, stricken with fear and realisation. In a desperate attempt to get free, he launched the box out of the closed window.

But it was too late.

The explosion was deafening. A cloud of fire ballooned at the glass. The yacht was thrown sideways. Val, Greg, and an unconscious - perhaps dead - Blake were all launched against the wall. Val hit his head. His shoulder and elbows smashed against the hard wood.

He let out a groan.

For a brief second, Val thought he heard Blake cry out, though he may have only been hearing things. But there was always hope.

The yacht croaked in a long, creaking whisper as it began to capsize.

Stunned, frightened, pain playing on his aged body, Val had to make it out of here. If he could, he would try to save his son, too. Otherwise, he thought in those few speeding moments, there was no point in surviving this nightmare.

*     *     *     *

Barb had barely made it onto the yacht when she heard the explosion. To her, it was little more than a soft pop in the air, but the force dropped her to the deck and she rolled to the side rail. She held at her hip as it smashed against something metallic, the pain shooting up the left side of her body. She cried out in both surprise and agony.

The pistol fell from her hand and sprawled out in front of her, before going overboard and falling into the Thames with a splash.

What the hell?

The deck swayed beneath her, threatening to flip over, and then eased its way back into a level position. But then it went too far the other way. The yacht began to tip towards the dock, and she rolled that way with it, putting pressure back onto her hip. She put a hand out to help regain her balance–a feat that seemed impossible while she was being thrown around like a human pinball.

Using the cold white railing for support, Barb climbed to her feet.

Could I make it onto the dock?
She considered making a jump for it, but fear weighed down her feet like breeze blocks. And then it occurred to her… there were others on the boat. Inside, locked up. They would drown. She couldn't just leave them there. But with her hip the way it was, she wasn't sure she was going anywhere anytime soon.

Slowly, she stumbled through the door which led inside, unsure if she should continue.

The boat was sinking, there was no doubt about it. Time was running out fast. She looked back at the dock, and then down the long, dark corridor, where the lights were blinking on and off. Whatever she did, she had to do soon, before everything below her plummeted to the bottom of the river.

Chapter 26

Cold, muddy water rushed in through the smashed window, pinning them against the wall.

Val placed a strong grip around Blake and squeezed as tight as he could. He wouldn't let him go now. Not after everything the poor kid had been through. There was still so much left to tell him, he realised. So much left to share. Val couldn't lose him, even if his life depended on it. Which it did.

He couldn't see what had happened to Greg. Everything had happened so fast; from the first moment he hit the dial button, to the last, where the box crashed through the glass and met the outside air with an enormous explosion. Now, the water was a shockingly cold rush of flooding rapids, and Greg was lost within it.

Maybe the blast caught him
, thought Val, and then:
I hope he's dead.
Whatever had happened, he would leave him to drown, even if presented with a choice.

The muddy water was forcing pressure onto his chest, weighing him into the wall where he clutched tightly to his son. He felt for a pulse. Relieved that it was still there, Val let out a sigh of relief that his son was still alive. But with the water rapidly filling the room, they had to move–fast.

The first thing Val did was let go of Blake. It was an action that hurt him inside, but he had to do it if they were to make it out alive. With the strength of the water against him, he forced his head under the rapids and tried to peer around the room. Everything blurred. The water stung his eyes in the sudden tranquillity.

Nothing.

He couldn't see a damn thing. The water was too thick, brown, cloudy with wet and dirty mud. Then he remembered the footlocker that had sat in the corner of the room. He rushed to it, having to paddle with one arm and press his free hand against the wall for leverage. When he reached the locker, the water level helped him raise it. The water stung at his eyes and he had to open the box as if he was a blind man. To his surprise, it fell right open. Val shook it around to empty its contents, and could vaguely see files and folders floating from it.

With a sudden burst of strength, he lifted the metal box over his head - base-side up - and lowered it back into the water, creating an air pocket around his head. He hadn't really expected it to work, which was why it made him so extraordinarily happy when it did. Right on time, too; he could feel the boat sinking lower into the river.

Val swam back to Blake, trying to keep the box level so as not to break the pocket. The room was completely submerged now. Everything seemed slow, peaceful. Like he was in outer space.

Still unable to see, he groped for Blake's clothes, hoping it would offer more chance in getting a good grip. When he pulled the body up and into the locker, fear took over him as he looked right into the eyes of Greg. Only it wasn't Greg–it had just seemed it in the thrill of the moment. He could see that it was Blake now, and he was slipping into consciousness.

'Dad,' he mumbled, his voice frail and his eyes searching for him in the dark. His cold nose was red and his black hair was matted to his forehead.

Val embraced him, knowing that they didn't have long to live, if any time at all.

We need to go.
It was like a voice in his ear.

Carrying Blake on a shoulder made manoeuvring difficult, but he gave it his all, regardless. Keeping the box level was the hardest. When they made it to the door, which Val thanked God was open, he could see lights flickering in the hallway. They were blinking on and off, the fuses clearly struggling under the water.

That must mean we're not entirely submerged.
It was a relief, but there was still an uphill climb through the corridor. For both of them, too.

'Listen, son,' Val told him, hoping he could fully understand. His son was looking weak. 'I'm going to bob your head under the water. You need to take a deep breath and move straight in this direction.'

'It hurts to–'

'I know it does. I know. But you need to be a man and fight through it, alright? It's just like when I taught you to swim, look. I'll be right behind you.'

Blake nodded.

Val tensed. Was he prepared to give his own life to save his son if it came to that? He thought so.

'Deep breath,' he instructed. Reluctantly, he pressed down on Blake's head and guided him forward with his hand, until he couldn't feel him anymore. As soon as he lost touch, Val took a breath of his own, ducked under the water and pushed the box behind him as he squeezed through the door. He couldn't see a thing, even with the lights on the other side. With his arms stretched out, feeling around, he couldn't feel anything–not a wall, not the floor… not even his son.

His breath was running out. He could feel his lungs burning, desperate for another fix of air. Those old things weren't what they used to be, back in his days as a field agent. The effects of too many cigarettes over the decades were definitely taking their toll. Val suddenly found himself regretting having ever smoked.

The life was fleeting from him now. His body was giving up. There was no way out of here alive. He only hoped that Blake had made it to safety.

But then his shirt was grabbed.

Suddenly, he was pulled forward. His lungs gave in and his mouth widened. Just as his mouth was filling with river filth, he was pulled from the water. His head came splashing out first. He gasped for air, sucking it up greedily like a hungry dog with its food.

The water level was rapidly rising in this small space too, Val could see. He tilted his head back, planting his nose into the small, empty space. 'Blake?' he sputtered, muddy water still falling from his mouth. It tasted foul. 'Blake, where are you?'

'He's here.' A woman's voice, strong and dominant. Familiar, even.

'Is there a way out?'

The yacht groaned and titled as it took a sudden jolt downward, plunging deeper into the Thames. The water covered them again, but only for a second this time. Val breast-stroked forward, taking a blind chance. His head came up in the next small gap, the next remaining space where there was still air. Though he had a feeling he was running out of those;
this
gap was also filling up fast.

'Are you hurt? Can you make it?'

Val recognised her voice now. As he turned around, he could see her crouching on a dry slope, which used to be a wall. He knew her face; the officer whom he had detained outside.
What was her name? Lance? Long?
He had no idea how she had escaped from the office, but he was damn-well pleased that she had. 'Blake–'