The Bloodline Trilogy Read online

  The contents were mostly black and had a distinct feeling of manliness, something foreign to Blake. He reached for the nearest object.

  “That was your father’s gun. Colt M1911,” Greg said from behind him. “That thing saw a lot of action. Tipped the scales of justice in the world’s favor 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 terrifying bang it might give. He imagined shooting it, ending someone’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 recognize it.

  “A suppressor,” Frank said. “Or silencer. For the gun.”

  Blake nodded his understanding, put it to one side, and lifted a solid steel box. He needed both hands. 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 the correct code. 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 anyway. Everybody held their breath as he fidgeted with the cylinders. When he was finished, he looked to Greg and Frank and tried to pry 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.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Frank said. “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 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. “Why would I need to shoot?”

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

  He hadn’t thought of that. As a young boy, he’d always wanted to be a heroic 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 and turn. He needed an excuse. A way to get out of this. “We should save the bullets.”

  “I got plenty.”

  Damn. “There’s not enough room to practice anything.”

  “That’s why we’re going somewhere quiet and far away,” Greg said.

  “We are? Where?”

  “To your dad’s home. 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 Nine

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

  Detective John Howard had already been inside—Charlie had demanded to deal with them one at a time. Considering their failure in letting the Salinger boy escape, 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’d made the call. Within minutes they’d both been grabbed from behind, a sack was placed over their heads, and they were shoved into the trunk of a car. Before he knew it, they’d arrived at the Agency’s headquarters.

  Now Winters waited alone, looking around him: nothing but a dark, clay-colored room with a table in the center and the awkward wooden chair he was seated in. He held on to his iPad, 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 ponytail. Winters had seen him here before, and more often than not they engaged in polite conversation.

  Not this time.

  “Mr. Winters? The boss will see you now.”

  The detective took a big gulp as he rose up from his chair and edged toward the door. His legs were weak, as if he were gliding along like a ghost. Outside the room, he was escorted through a maze of narrow corridors. His body tensed up more each time the assistant slowed down. Winters felt himself begin to perspire when they finally stopped at a closed door. 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 Winters into the room.

  It was gloomy inside but had a relaxing atmosphere. From his peripheral vision, he caught glimpses of a backlit aquarium—could hear the whirr of the purifiers—but he dare not look away from Charlie. He recalled hearing a story about a retired agent who lost a limb for “showing disrespect” and not looking Charlie in the eye.

  The man was sitting in his chair, which looked like a throne and faced 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.

  Winters edged forward and the door closed behind him.

  They were alone now.

  “I hear you have news of the Salinger boy.”

  Winters cringed at his boss’s voice. Despite the many times he’d heard it, he still felt uncomfortable. It was raspy and had a snake-like hiss. Rumor had it torture had affected his vocal chords, but he didn’t know if it was true. “Yes, sir. We pursued them as far as Crenshaw, but they got away.”

  Charlie 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 he was in no rush to state his point. After all, he owned his people. Eventually, after rolling the smoke around and letting it fall upward out of his mouth, he put down his cigar. “They got away?”

  “Yes, sir. But if I may, we think we’ve pinned their location down to one of three places.” Winters slid the iPad from its case and, when the light came on, he gave it a flick and brought up a 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.”

  Charlie pulled the tablet toward him. The map flickered and shone the light up toward his eyes. “Dim the screen,” he said, throwing it back at the detective.

  Winters caught it in clumsy hands. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Fidgeting, he looked desperately for the brightness setting. He’d 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.

  Charlie snatched it again and studied it in silence.

  Winters knew not to speak.

  “You’ve lost them,” he said as if it were a new discovery.

  “No, not at all, sir. I mean, we did. But we think we might—”

  “Think? Might?” Charlie stood, his chair sliding backward 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 desk.

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

  “N
ot loyalty.” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over Winters. “Conviction is important. Everybody needs it: me, you.” He sat on the desk, his knuckles clenched upon his knee, level with Winters’s eyes. “Without conviction, there is no passion or dedication. Tell me, Detective, do you think you have conviction?”

  Winters didn’t know what to say. He turned his head away and then quickly looked back up so as not to break his gaze. He felt like an abused puppy, scared to look at its owner through fear that it will be struck. “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.

  Charlie stared down at him, his eyes cool pools of ice illuminated by the distant light of the fish tank. His jaw was had an underbite, his hair short and receding. When he raised a hand to scratch his chin, Winters flinched, but the man didn’t hit him—only began to circle the room slowly.

  Winters kept turning his head, trying to keep an eye on Charlie. 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 tank, “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. He sat back in his throne and adjusted his tie.

  It was a test, he knew. He was on the ropes. If he disagreed, he would be labeled as disrespectful, but if he agreed, he would be signing his own death warrant. “I believe,” he croaked, clearing his throat, “that a man’s usefulness can be proven by both his past merits and the ones he has yet to achieve.”

  Charlie nodded once, then he leaned forward casually and pressed a button on his desk. “Get in here, Grover.”

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

  “Bury him with his partner. Can’t give a straight answer to save his life.” Charlie nodded over the detective’s head, a signal.

  Winters felt an abrupt, 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!”

  Charlie shot up from his chair and 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 Blake 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 Blake out. Please, give me one last chance to prove myself.”

  He seemed to consider it, his eyes fixed on the floor in contemplation.

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

  “No,” Charlie finally said. “Tell us everything you know, and I will guarantee you a quick and painless death. That’s all I can do for such a failure.”

  “What—” Winters thrashed his head from side to side. “I won’t do that. Please, just—”

  “Mr. Grover, make him bleed words. When he’s empty, you’ll know where to put him.”

  Detective Winters kicked and screamed. Everything he’d worked for had been for nothing. He hadn’t meant to get himself into this mess in the first place—he’d only wanted the extra cash to put his daughter through college.

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

  Chapter Ten

  Blake had slept for the entire three hours while Greg drove. He’d awakened to a bumpy, uphill ride as Greg stopped the car on a grass verge. They’d had to stop a mile away from their destination and take the rest of the journey on 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 his father’s house. There was nothing but homes 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’s 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 Greg was probably right. If everything he’d heard about the Agency was true, he thought it best to stay away from his previous life. Except for Rachel, perhaps, but Blake wasn’t about to admit that he longed to see her 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 continuing 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’d 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…

  “Now pay attention. 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 climbing into her car. He took the binoculars Greg was holding out to him.

  “Confirm subject,” 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 track, where it continued until it vanished behind a hill.

  “All right, let’s move. Oh, and kid,” Greg said, climbing onto his feet. “Ridicule me like that again, and I’ll abandon you.” With that, he half-walked, half-ran down the hill and made his way toward the house.

  Blake picked up the backpack, which they’d put his father’s stuff in, threw it onto his back and set after him. He struggled to keep up with the additional weight. Greg was almost at the front door by the time he caught up. He stopped and looked up, his mouth agape. It had been so long.

  “What’s gotten into you? 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, his brow raising as he concentrated.

  “Picking the lock? Do we even have time for—”

  The lock clicked open.

  “Oh. Good job.”

  Greg stood, sliding the tool 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
’d totally forgotten about the alarm in this place. He glanced at Greg, noticed that he stood emotionless, staring at him as if he were waiting for something. 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’d 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 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 for a moment. 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.

  The wailing stopped.

  “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.

  Damn.

  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 cops wouldn’t show up. “Why did you just stand there? You’ve been here before; you must have known there was an alarm.”

  “I wanted to make sure your head was in the game. Not bad reflexes though.”