Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3) Page 4

“It means that, as far as London is concerned, she's now under attack and the border has just closed,” John told her.

  “What do you mean the border is closed? Charlie's on the other side?”

  “Yes, he is. And they're gonna want to get him out of London real quick. He's too valuable to keep locked up where the Institute can't get him. They'll get him out in the next hour, before things get bad,” Roxy said.

  “So we can get him as he leaves London?”

  “That's the plan.”

  Rachel felt like laughing. “That's amazing.” Then she paused. “Wait, what do you mean, 'bad'?”

  Roxy put his arm around her. “Well, what Johnny-boy didn't tell you is that the borders have to close until the threat is over. Nobody goes in, not even the prime-fucking-nob-faced-minister if he's on the wrong side. Only authorised government transport can cross over, and even then only heading out of London. Great for us, because it forces the Institute's hand. They're stuck holding a prisoner they desperately need to get rid of, so they move him before they're ready. Not so good for the people needing to get to work today. When we get to the border, it's going to be carnage. I've seen them close the gates before. People get killed.”

  Rachel could see that wasn't on John's mind. He was focussed on getting Charlie back, and a stranger getting caught in the crossfire wasn't his problem. She swallowed as it dawned on her how little her own conscience was affected. All that mattered now was Charlie. “I hope you know what you're doing, love.”

  “I do. The chaos will work to our advantage.”

  6

  Adams was already in a bad mood. He had a splitting headache, he couldn't think straight, and he hadn't had a decent cup of coffee all day. Then his phone rang. Not the department's phone, but one reserved for officials and important people who felt they needed a man like him at their constant disposal. When it rang, both he and Mark jumped. He stared at the screen and let it ring again before he picked it up. Mark tried to make himself look busy, not that Adams cared about confidentiality.

  The person on the other line was nameless. They normally were. He said simply, “London is under attack.”

  There was no more to the phone call, no details about how to proceed or what Adams would need to do, all of which would be impossible anyway if the city really was in trouble. Adams hung up, and the words weighed heavy on his paranoia. For the first time in months he had a high-profile Reacher in custody, and suddenly there was an attack on his city. He didn't like coincidences.

  “We've got to move out,” he said to Mark. “Go get the van ready.”

  Mark gave him a familiar confused-puppy look. “Now? What's happened?”

  “I don't know. Just get the van ready for our prisoner. I'll see if I can figure things out.” He handed Mark a set of keys.

  For the next call he did want some privacy—this was something his apprentice didn't need to get mixed up in. He waited for Mark to leave, then picked up his personal phone again. He punched in a number he regretfully knew by heart and waited for the line to be picked up.

  A cold female voice answered. “Agent Adams, do you have news for me?”

  “I was hoping you'd have news for me,” he said. “Just got the call from the powers that be to move out.”

  There was a pause. Clearly nobody had extended the courtesy warning to the Institute HQ. “What's happened?”

  “London is under attack… apparently. They're going to close the border in the next few minutes, I expect,” Adams told her.

  There was another pause on the line.

  “So can I have permission to relocate the prisoner, or do you want me to let the Home Office know we're staying put?” Adams said.

  “Permission granted. You can move him to the nearest safe house. Have you identified him yet?”

  It was Adams' turn to pause, staring into the long corridor towards the cell. He'd played this game before with the Institute. “Not yet. As expected, he's not talking.”

  “Then make him talk.” The line went dead.

  The Institute treated Adams like an imbecile, and he worked hard to keep up the persona. He was always careful to only give them the essentials. If they wanted prisoners to talk, then they could do the persuading themselves. He wasn't going to break faces to make their lives easier. And the less they knew he knew, the better. It made Adams look incompetent, and that suited him just fine.

  Since Mark was living in the supply closet, most of their equipment was scattered over the office floor, although the place had been a catastrophic wasteland since Adams moved in. He rummaged through the files and supplies until he found a vest he could squeeze his belly into, then found a regular one for Mark. He took a gun with rubber bullets, a Taser, and his radio. They could ask for an armed unit to accompany them, but Adams wanted to slip under the radar. He'd learned, with Reachers, the more you add to the mix, the bigger the explosion. Simple had the best chance of success.

  * * *

  Transporting Reachers was potentially suicidal if you didn't know what you were doing. Adams had made the drive a number of times, mostly on his own—although this was the first time he'd done it with a category five. He was just grateful Charlie Smith was telekinetic. If he were able to control minds, things would be infinitely more difficult.

  They dosed the prisoner with a sedative. Nothing that rendered him unconscious, just an injection that made him more malleable and subdued his powers. His hands were re-bound behind his back with plastic. He wouldn't be able to break them free without a knife. Adams swept the truck until he was satisfied it was safe. Then they marched a groggy Charlie Smith into the back and secured his hands again, this time to a railing in the vehicle's ceiling. Reachers used their hands to control their powers. If they could be restrained in an awkward-enough position they were much less of a threat, at least that's what the Institute intelligence on Reachers insisted.

  Charlie didn't say much as he was manhandled into the back. His face was swelling up nicely from the beating Mark had given him, and the drugs were making his voice slurred. If he knew what was happening, he didn't let on.

  They checked the security of the van twice more, taking no chances. When he was satisfied, Adams jumped into the passenger seat and nodded to Mark.

  “Take it slow and steady. We'll get through the gates and hit the main road. Just try to keep the van moving at all times. We're vulnerable when we're stationary.”

  Mark started the engine, his own expression as severe as Adams' mood. The engine groaned, and they headed towards the gate.

  London's streets were deserted as people hid in their expensive homes, hoping the bombs, or whatever it was that threatened their lives, wouldn't touch them. Suddenly an enclosed city of wealth people couldn't escape from didn't seem like such a good idea. Police vehicles roamed the streets, warning people to stay indoors and keep away from public areas. Those that braved the open were hunting around, their phones out in anticipation of something exciting they could sell to the TV news stations. Adams couldn't remember a time when London was so blissfully quiet.

  They made good time to the gate, but the accomplishment was short-lived. The security guards stopped them at the edge of the checkpoint. The calm city was being bombarded with angry shouts from beyond the concrete walls. Adams lowered his window, and the vehicle reverberated with the noise. A storm was coming, and they needed to drive straight through it.

  “Prisoner transportation,” Adams said, flashing his badge at the guard.

  “Sir, you might want to wait a couple of hours. It's crazy out there.”

  “I thought the threat was inside?”

  “I don't know what's happening where you've come from, but this right here is the gateway to hell. I would strongly suggest you don't go out there.”

  “No can do, we've orders to get the prisoner out of here immediately. Are you prepared to open the gate for us?”

  The guard hesitated. He didn't want to, and Adams couldn't blame him. Opening those gates put every
one at risk. Still, the guard conceded. “Okay, but we're going to hit the crowd with some tear gas so they don't surge in. Keep your windows up, and make sure you clear the barrier quick. We won't be letting you back in.”

  Adams thanked the guard. He was starting to have a real bad feeling about this.

  7

  The concrete barrier separating London and the surrounding Safe Haven was impenetrable. Built to withstand a full militia invasion, it was guarded day and night by trained security officers. On a normal day they would be watching a queue of traffic as the daily commute crossed the open gates, but this wasn't a normal day. A full watch was gathered at the top of the blockade, automatic weapons poised, ready to shoot, ready to kill. The growing crowd being kept out was swelling, spilling over into the surrounding streets like an overflowing drain. The bubbling cesspit of discontentment polluted the atmosphere. Tension climbed as more and more people took up the plight of the immigrant workers, fuelled by fear, isolation, and more hardship. The rioters crushed themselves against the gates, kicking at the barbed fencing; screaming, climbing, falling. Blood stained metal like crimson rust. Things were turning bad and turning quickly.

  John pulled up the car at the junction leading to the main gate. It was farther away than they had originally planned their ambush, but there was no way they were going to get any closer without being swallowed by the crowd. A raucous energy surged through the concrete jungle. Rachel dared a glance behind them. Another tribe of urban warriors was coming towards the gate, and soon their current position would be compromised too. Police sirens were getting louder, a tinnitus in this nightmare. It was going to erupt into a full-scale riot, and in a few minutes all of S'aven would be engulfed.

  She twisted her fingers together, focusing on the closed border, allowing her powers to penetrate the collective feeling of the mob. The concentrated fear and hatred were overwhelming. She could feel their frustration, their utter hopelessness, even as far back as she was. Desperation was winning, and nothing short of a miracle could sate it. Bottles, launched into the air by the protestors, smashed against the fence. Glass rained down on the crowd, and blood started to pour. The police were closing in. Soon the fighting would flood into the surrounding streets. All of S'aven would be consumed. Rachel watched the gate and the air around her seemed to thin. She took a desperate gasp, trying to visualise their rescue attempt in this chaos. Anything leaving London was going to get swallowed up; anyone trying to help would be trampled.

  “What if they don't come out?” she asked.

  “They'll come out.” The certainty in John's voice was unwavering. Nothing about their current view seemed to concern him. His composure was measured, as though he were watching this from a distant window, unaffected by the consequences of the phone call he had made.

  Rachel couldn't understand how he could be so calm. A couple of hours ago he was throwing bottles at a wall like the desperate men and women in front of her. Now he was sitting patient and expectant, waiting for a miracle she couldn't believe in.

  “And what if they do come out?” she said, softer this time. She clasped her hands together. The anguish around her was contagious. She wanted to lash out. To scream. To charge the gate and save Charlie herself. This wasn't fair. This wasn't how people should be treated. The rich shouldn't be locked behind a wall with all the wealth, while people on the other side died in squalor. People shouldn't be punished for wanting a better life. For trying. For being different. They shouldn't be locked up, experimented on, executed.

  “Hey, the gates are opening,” Roxy said, drawing her back before her outrage compelled her to action.

  A shower of rubber bullets and gas canisters rained down on the crowd. Through the chemical mist, a vehicle pushed into the mess. It was unmarked, but it was obviously a government transporter. What else would brave leaving London in the middle of a riot? Before anyone could react, the guards behind it opened fire again. People dropped to the pavement, gasping in the smoke, crying out as feet stomped on their helpless bodies. Rachel could feel the rage surge through the street. If there had been a chance this was all going to pass over, they'd just lost it.

  “Well, that was a good idea,” Rachel said.

  The smoke hissed, making it impossible to see anything. Bloody, bruised people fell out of the poisonous fog, into cleaner pockets of air, but more were coming. Coming from the surrounding streets; healthier, stronger, angrier. And the border patrol continued to fire. Rubber bullets giving way to metal. This wasn't a security mechanism—this was war. The gas was clearing and the gates were once again closed, but that left the van stranded and suddenly the only thing the crowd could retaliate against.

  “Oh God, do you think Charlie's in there?” Rachel said, unable to control her panic. Would the crowd take mercy on a prisoner? She didn't think so. Even if they did, how much damage would they do before they even reached him?

  “He's in there,” John said. Still cool. Still calm.

  The protestors started pounding on the truck, rocking it back and forth. Again and again.

  “Holy shit, they're going to tip it!”

  “Take the wheel,” John told Roxy. “Turn the car around and get ready to move. Do not fall behind. Rachel, you're on crowd duty.”

  “Are you bloody kidding, they're going to rip you apart!” Roxy shouted.

  John gave Roxy a look, half smug, half challenging—I'd like to see them try—and gestured for Rachel to get out.

  Marginally inspired by John's confidence, Rachel took his hand and focussed. If they were going to have any chance, she couldn't let her surroundings frighten her. The people's tension and anger were fuelling the riot. This wasn't going to dissipate. This was years of stored-up fury at the richer classes, at the injustice folk on the wrong side of the border suffered. There was so much hate. Too much to control. The weight of it was oppressive and, as Rachel tried to sway the crowd to her favour, she found herself blocked and unable to push her commands into their one-track minds. Her subtle Let me pass was being ignored, or unheard, or deliberately disobeyed, as though that was the one command they had conditioned themselves to reject. She needed something more, something that suited their mood.

  Red and blue started flashing. The police were encircling them. They were surrounded, unable to go anywhere, and Rachel knew what to do.

  “Stop the police cars,” she said, tapping the nearest man to her. He paused, his hand held up in the air as her words filtered into his brain. Then, like a switch being pressed, he was charging towards the nearest police car. She touched another, giving him the same command. By the third, the crowd had picked up the idea. They covered the police cars like a swarm. There was no escape.

  Rachel squeezed John's hand. She braved a step deeper into the rabble. If her powers failed, if her concentration slipped, they could both be crushed. A shot was fired in the distance. More smoke canisters struck the crowd. John took over. He pulled her towards the truck, somehow able to see what was happening in the frenzy.

  “Get in the passenger's side,” he told her.

  She let him go, and for the briefest moment she was drowning. Smoke stung her eyes, and she had to hold on to the vehicle for support. As her hands touched metal, she could feel Charlie inside. The connection to him steadied her nerves. It was as though he were speaking to her, only there were no words or directions, just a feeling, a knowingness. A tremor passed through the vehicle, and she knew he had unlocked the doors for her.

  She grabbed the door handle and pulled. It flung open, and she nearly went with it. A rioter pushed past her and grabbed a fat man from the passenger seat. As he came hurtling out of the truck, she launched herself inside. She swung the door closed and jammed the lock in place. Another rioter pounded on the glass, ecstatic that she'd breached the vehicle. He cheered, and a bullet hit him in the temple, spattering the window with pink flesh. His body fell out of view, swallowed by the violence below.

  She turned to the driver and froze.

  Ma
rk was staring back at her. His lost brown eyes were wide, his mouth agape. Of all the people to come across. She tried to think of something to say, and then she saw the barrel of John's gun press against his head.

  “Don't do anything stupid,” he said, and hauled Mark from the driver's seat.

  John slammed the door closed. A bullet hit the safety glass, scratching the surface. “We need a route out of here,” he said.

  Rachel nodded and closed her eyes. She pressed her hands on the dashboard. Her heart was racing, but her head was focused. The command was instinctual. Attack the border! Immediately, the crowd was moving, abandoning the vehicle and heading straight to the gate. She didn't watch them go; there was enough on her conscience already. John slammed his foot on the accelerator and hit the road.

  * * *

  They took a left off the main high street and then a sharp right to the industrial estate. Getting away from the border was a priority, but they couldn't run forever. Government vehicles were fitted with trackers, and it wouldn't take long to hunt them down. There was no hiding. They needed to get Charlie out, and fast. John pulled up the van, leaving the engine running.

  “Watch the road,” he shouted as he jumped from the vehicle.

  The people around them were smart. They weren't going to head down to the border, and they sure as hell weren't going to get involved in a hijacked government vehicle. Rachel checked the road they had come from. It was clear, but it wouldn't stay clear long.

  She jumped out as Roxy pulled up alongside them. John stood at the back of the van, pulling at the handle. It was locked. He looked for a keyhole. There wasn't one. Sirens wailed in the distance. Rachel pressed her hand on the vehicle. She could feel Charlie inside. Desperately, she banged on the door.

  “Stand back,” John said, and fired three bullets at the handle.

  Nothing.

  Rachel checked the road again. They were running out of time.

  “Charlie opened the front doors for me. Can't he get these ones open?” Rachel asked.