Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) Page 5

'What's this?' Blake asked.

  'It's what we came here for,' Greg said. 'Your father's stuff.'

  They were looking at him expectedly. He glanced between them both and then finally pushed himself out of his seat. He took slow, steady steps towards the chest, unsure of whether he truly wanted to see what was inside. Opening this will confirm what my dad is. It would also, he realised, deny everything that he had ever thought about him.

  Blake dropped to his knees. He could feel their eyes on him as he ran his fingers over the gold lettering; V.S. The initials felt like an unexplored past–an uncertain future. It was as if these were somebody else's belongings. He drew a breath, sucking up the smell of old leather, unlatched the lock and prised open the case.

  The contents were mostly black, had a feeling of manliness, something foreign to Blake. Each item had a history, a story that needed telling. He reached for the nearest object.

  'That was your old man's gun. Colt 1911,' said Greg from behind him. 'That thing saw a lot of action. Tipped the scales of justice in the world's favour more than once.'

  It was heavier than Blake would have imagined. He held it in one hand, careful to keep his finger away from the trigger. He suddenly pictured this thing going off, the deafening bang it might give. He imagined a bullet flying out of it, ending somebody's life in the blink of an eye. The thing was damn frightening. Blake shuddered, put it down, reached for the next thing. It was long and cylindrical, he didn't recognise it.

  'A suppressor,' Frank offered. 'Or silencer if you'd rather. For the gun.'

  Blake silently nodded his understanding, put it to one side and lifted a solid steel box. He needed both hands for its testing weight. He shook it. Nothing rattled.

  'Now that is something else entirely,' Greg said, strolling across the room and towering over him. 'He dropped that off along with the rest of this stuff. Was in a real hurry. Guess he trusted it being here. See the dials on the side?'

  Blake set it down with a clunk, tilted it and saw the dials; eight numerical bars. 'You don't know the combination?'

  'No clue. I was hoping you could tell us.'

  'I have no idea.' Blake studied it, wracked his brain for anything it could have been. He ran his finger over the studded numbers, trying his dad's birthday. Nothing happened.

  'Nice try, kid, but we already thought of that.'

  It was stupid to think he could be so important to his father, but he tried his own date of birth instead. Everybody held their breath as he fidgeted with the cylinders. When he was finished, he looked to Greg and Frank, then tried to prise it open.

  Nothing again.

  'Maybe we should hang on to this,' Blake said, sliding it to one side. 'When we find him, maybe he could tell us what's inside.'

  'It's a sound idea, lad,' said Frank. 'Greg, you can stay the night with the boy, but I want you up before the sun rises. I'll get you some food and a pack of smokes.'

  'Appreciate it.'

  Blake sat cross-legged, staring at the items in front of him. He couldn't imagine his dad on a job, using these things. Although until today, there were many things he wouldn't have imagined about his father's hidden past.

  'Get some sleep. Tomorrow you'll learn how to shoot,' Greg said when they were alone. He kicked off his boots one at a time, and they landed far away from each other.

  'Shoot?' Blake's heart raced. 'What–why would I need to shoot?'

  'Just in case. I mean we're getting knee-deep in some shit with the professionals. You didn't expect me to do it by myself, did you?' He laughed, removing his jacket and folding it to make a pillow.

  He hadn't thought of that. Me, with a weapon? As a young boy he had always wanted to be an American cop, like the action stars in the movies. To picture himself pulling the trigger and firing a round into a person made his stomach twist. He needed an excuse. A way to get out of this. 'We should save the bullets.'

  'I got plenty,' said Frank, closing the door behind him.

  Shit. 'There's not enough room to practice anything.'

  'That's why we're going somewhere quiet, and far away,' Greg offered.

  'We are? Where?'

  'To your dad's manor house. We can search through his stuff while we're there. Now get some sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.'

  Blake believed him.

  Chapter 9

  Detective Wilkes sat with his hands clasped and his knee tapping.

  DI John Howard had already been inside–The Boss had demanded that he sees to them one at a time. Considering their failure in letting the Salinger boy escape, Wilkes thought that it wasn't looking good for either of them.

  There was no clock to suggest whether he was right or not, but he thought it was over an hour ago that he had made the call. Within minutes they had both been grabbed from behind, a sack was placed over their heads and they were shoved into the boot of a car. Before he knew it, they had arrived at The Agency's headquarters. It was procedure, he knew, and a certain element of fear had dissipated from the routine, but there was still a nervousness each time it happened.

  Now Wilkes waited alone, looking around him; nothing but a dark clay-coloured room with a table in the centre and the awkward wooden chair he was sat in. He held on to his tablet, ready to say all that he could in hope of mercy.

  The door finally screeched open and in stepped a tall man with glasses and a pony tail. Wilkes had seen him here before, and they usually engaged in polite conversation.

  Not this time.

  'Mister Wilkes? The Boss will see you now.'

  The detective took a big gulp as he rose up from his chair and slowly made for the door. His legs felt terribly weak, as if he were gliding along like a ghost. Outside the room, he was escorted through a maze of narrow corridors. He became more tense each time the assistant slowed down. Wilkes felt himself begin to perspire when they finally stopped at a closed door, and the man knocked on it before dimming the lights in the hallway.

  'Yes.' Although muffled through the door, the voice was strong and dominant.

  The assistant opened the door and led Detective Wilkes into the room.

  It was gloomy inside, but had a relaxing atmosphere. From his peripherals, he caught glimpses of a lighted aquarium - could hear the whirr of the purifiers - but he dare not look away from The Boss. He recalled hearing a story about a retired agent who lost a limb for "showing disrespect" and not looking The Boss in the eye.

  The man was sat in his chair which looked like a throne, facing towards the door. The cigar in his hand sent thick waves of smoke licking up at the air. 'Sit,' he instructed, pointing at the chair across from him.

  Wilkes edged forward, heard the door close behind him.

  They were alone now.

  'I hear you have news of the Salinger boy.'

  Wilkes cringed at his boss's voice. Despite the many times he had heard it, he still felt uncomfortable. It was high and clear, and had a snake-like hiss. Rumour had it the accident had affected his vocal chords, but he didn't know if it was true. 'Yes, sir. We pursued them as far as Knightsbridge, but then they got away.'

  The Boss took a long draw of his cigar, looking straight at his employee with a cold, dead stare. It seemed he knew it was his turn to speak, but was in no rush to state his point. After all, he owned his people. Eventually, after rolling the smoke around and letting it fall upwards out of his mouth, he put down his cigar. 'They got away?'

  'Yes, s-sir. But if I may, we think we've pinned their location down to one of three places.' Wilkes slid the iPad from its case and, when the light came on, he gave it a flick and brought up a video-map. 'This is where we left them. We believe they separated; one of them getting out of the car and the other leading us away.'

  The Boss pulled the tablet towards him, the map flickered and shone the light up towards his eyes. 'Dim the screen,' he said, throwing the tablet back at the detective.

  Wilkes fumbled it. 'Yes, sir. Sorry sir.' Fidgeting, he looked desperately for the brightness setting. He h
ad never needed to change it before. But like most things when you do them for the first time under pressure, it made his collar wet and his forehead twinge with a stinging heat. He finally figured it out and handed it back.

  The Boss snatched it again, studied it in silence.

  Wilkes knew not to speak.

  'You've lost them,' he said, as if it was a new discovery.

  'No–not at all, sir. I mean, we did. But we think we might–'

  'Think? Might?' The Boss stood, his chair flew backwards as he rose. 'I'm trying to run a business here. Do you know what the two most important factors are in any successful business?' He began to walk around the table.

  Should I venture a guess? Wilkes often had trouble knowing if his employer was asking rhetorically. 'Um…' His voice shook. 'Loyalty? And I am loyal, sir. I swear to you.'

  'Not loyalty.' He stepped closer, his shadow looming over Wilkes. 'Conviction is important. Everybody needs it; me, you.' He sat on the desk, his knuckles clenched upon his knee, level with Wilkes's eyes. 'Without conviction, there is no passion or dedication. Tell me, Detective, do you think you have conviction?'

  Wilkes didn't know what to say. He caught himself turning his head away, and then quickly looked back up so as not to break his gaze. He felt like a damaged puppy, scared to look at its owner through fear that it will strike him. 'I do, sir. I… I have a great deal of belief in you and The Agency. Your goals are admirable, and what you've achieved is remarkable.'

  Good. That was a good answer, he thought.

  The Boss stared down at him, his eyes cool pools of ice illuminated by the distant light of the fish tanks. His jaw was invert, his hair was short and receded. Suddenly, he stood. Wilkes flinched, but the man didn't hit him–only began to circle the room slowly.

  Wilkes kept turning his head, trying to keep an eye on The Boss. He felt uncomfortable when people stood behind him. He felt that way when anyone stood behind him, but this man… no, he couldn't sit still. Wouldn't.

  'The second and most important of the virtues required to survive as a business,' he continued, still walking but not taking his eyes from the tanks, 'is competence. One's ability to complete a task, for example, could be a fair representation of his usefulness. Would you agree?' He was at the end of the circuit now, sat back in his throne, adjusted his tie.

  It was a test, he knew. He had his back to the wall. If he disagreed he would be labelled as disrespectful, but if he agreed then he would be signing his own death warrant. 'I believe,' he croaked, cleared his throat, 'that a man's usefulness can be proven by his merits and the ones he is yet to achieve.'

  The Boss pressed a button on his desk. 'Get in here, Pimms.'

  The door sprung open behind Wilkes. Light poured into the room. He turned to see what was happening but could only make out the silhouette. He turned back to The Boss whose eyes obviously strained before he gave a nod.

  'Bury him with his partner. Can't give a straight answer to save his life.' The Boss nodded over the detective's head, a signal.

  Wilkes felt a sudden forceful grasp around his arms. His shoulders stung as they were restricted. 'I… sir, I'm so sorry. It was–I can do better. You have my word!' But his words were meaningless. He was being dragged from the room. The pain in his arms wasn't half as bad as what he knew would become of him. 'Sir, I have information!'

  The Boss stood immediately, raised his hand. The room fell quiet for a moment, before he broke the silence. 'It had better be worth your life, Detective.'

  'It is, sir. I know who Salinger's best friend is.' His arms were loosened, but he felt as though that could change again at any second. 'Her name is Rachel Lawrence. I could use her to lure out Blake. Please, give me one last chance to prove myself.'

  He seemed to be considering it, his eyes fixed on the floor with contemplation.

  Wilkes had never been in such a discomforting silence. He could almost hear his own heartbeat. His life hung in the balance, he knew. Who would look after his wife if his offer was declined? He dreaded to think what would happen to her.

  'No,' The Boss finally said. 'Tell us everything you know, and I will guarantee you a quick and painless death. That is all I can do for such a failure.'

  'Wha–'

  'Mister Pimms, make him bleed words. When he's empty, you'll know where to put him.'

  Detective Wilkes kicked and screamed. Everything he had worked for had been for nothing. He hadn't meant to get himself into this mess in the first place–he had only wanted the extra cash to put his daughter through university.

  The door slammed shut as he was dragged through the corridor and towards his death.

  Chapter 10

  It had been a long, early-morning drive. For Greg, anyway–Blake had slept for the entire three hours. It wasn't as if Greg needed directions. He had been there a hundred times before, though many years ago. This time, however, they'd had to park a mile out and take the rest by foot as the sun emerged in its orange glory.

  'You know what I was thinking?' Blake asked.

  They were on a grass verge in the middle of nowhere, though they were high enough to see the manor house. It was all there was for miles, and they were lying on their bellies, watching and waiting for something to happen.

  'Do I look like I can read minds?'

  Blake ignored that. 'I was thinking that even when we get my dad out of the frying pan, I'm still going to be in trouble with the police. Maybe I should call Rachel, my business partner. If anyone could help straighten things out, it's her.'

  Greg lowered his binoculars and looked at him. 'No. She has probably been compromised. You call her, you'll pretty much be walking into The Agency's hands with your pants down and a spank me sign hanging from your neck. You can never go back to that life, to those friends. Understood?'

  'Understood.' He didn't like to admit it, but he was probably right. If everything he had heard about this agency was true, he had best steer clear. But then again… 'So what happens? When the dust has settled on this whole thing?'

  'You can never go back,' Greg repeated, picking his binoculars back up and looking on as if it was nothing. 'You'll be on the run for a while–probably forever. But I'll help you out where I can.'

  Never? The idea made him sick. He had worked so hard to accomplish the things that he had; settling down into work after years of education, struggling through his debts while trying to build a name for himself. It felt like a huge waste of time and effort to let all that fall out from under him, and with no compensation from his father or anyone else.

  Although if Dad won't be using the money…

  'Perk up. Here she comes.'

  Blake stared into the distance. The sun made his eyes water but he could just about make out the figure of someone - probably Marcy - trudging through the gravel and getting into her car. He took the binoculars that Greg was holding out to him.

  'Confirm target,' he said.

  'Confirmed. Alpha Bravo, eagle is leaving the nest,' he mocked, lowering his voice to sound like a brute.

  'Good. Wait until she's out of sight.'

  They kept their heads low, with just enough room to peer over the verge. They watched the Audi pour across the stones and onto the grass track, where it continued until it vanished behind a hill.

  'Alright, let's move. Oh, and kid,' Greg said, climbing onto his feet. 'Ridicule me like that again and I'll castrate you.' With that, he half-walked, half-ran down the hill and made his way towards the house.

  Blake picked up the holdall which they had put his father's stuff in, threw it onto his back, and then set off after him. He struggled to keep up with the additional weight. They were almost at the front door by the time he was within arm's reach. He stopped, looked up, his mouth agape. It's been so long.

  'What's crawled up your bum? Mind on the mission, kid.' Greg turned and knelt by the front door, removing a set of pins from his back pocket and taking them to the keyhole. With an air of confidence he fiddled with the pins, a look of concentr
ation upon his face.

  'Picking the lock? Yeah, right, and then we can–'

  The lock clicked open.

  'Oh, right, you did it.'

  Greg stood, packing his tools back into his pocket and giving a wry smile to his new companion. 'Ready?' he asked, placing a hand on the oversized door knob.

  Before Blake had time to answer, the door swung open and an alarm began to wail. Without thinking, he dropped the bag, cupped his hands protectively around his ears and took a step back. He had totally forgotten about the alarm in this place. He glanced to Greg, noticed that he stood emotionless, staring at him expectedly. Blake soon snapped out of it, darted inside the house and examined the keypad on the wall.

  If memory serves…

  He only had one shot at this. He thought back to his younger years when he had crept downstairs in the night to camp outside in his tent with Rachel. Even then he knew the code, but a simple mistype alerted the police and they were there within minutes. That had always amazed him–their response time had an impressive urgency.

  Now he understood why.

  Blake punched in the code, careful not to let his fingers slip and hit the wrong key. As he came to the last digit, he held his breath tight. The screaming stopped, if only momentarily. Within seconds he would know whether the code was correct or if the police would be on their way. He looked to Greg.

  Still stood there, only watching.

  Blake glanced back at the keypad.

  A green light.

  'We're okay.' The same code for twenty years, huh, Dad? The numbers matched his mother's birthday. 'Why didn't–' Struck by the suddenly obvious thought, he ran back out to the bag, dropped to his knees and retrieved the black box. Without hesitation, he rang his mother's birthday into the numerical lock. If the code was the same…

  He gave it a push.

  Nothing.

  Shit.

  Blake took some deep breaths, thinking about this whole situation. How ridiculous was this? Here he was, back at his childhood home, sneaking around with a spy and hoping the police wouldn't show up. 'Why did you just stand there? You've been here before; you must have known there was an alarm.'