Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3) Page 6

  Charlie touched Rachel's hand. It felt solid and full of life.

  “You're not a hero. You never were.”

  “None of us have ever been safe,” he said. He turned back to his wife and paused. She was beautiful again, her body healed, her eyes filled with the same pensive worry she'd carried with her throughout the last year of her life. “I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Sarah.”

  “I know you are.” As she stepped closer, he could smell the vanilla-and-jasmine perfume he'd bought her for her birthday. “But you keep making the same mistakes. The risks are always too much, the prize is always too small. And our daughter is still suffering.”

  Charlie opened his mouth, attempting to say something profound to his dead wife. He reached out for her, but she was already slipping away. The weight on his shoulder grew heavier, and the kitchen, the memories, all started to fade.

  He blinked, recognising the vehicle he was in. There was arguing coming from the front. John? Roxy? He focussed on the weight, on Rachel's hand grounding him in reality.

  “You're gonna be okay,” she said, and he believed her.

  * * *

  Rachel pressed her hand against Charlie's forehead as he slipped back into unconsciousness. The medical supplies she carried were basic, but at least she could patch up most of his cuts and grazes. She dabbed his open wounds with antiseptic as they took another corner. Whoever had beaten him had done a good job. His eye was swollen and black, his lip and chin bruised and split. But it was superficial damage. And that was what was important. As battered as they were, as frightened as they had been, they were now together, and nothing else mattered.

  The fighting on the street was getting worse, drawing on the seemingly endless animosity the people of S'aven had been bottling up. As John pulled up the car, they could see yet another gang readying themselves to assault the shanty town. Sirens wailed, and soon the whole city would be on lockdown. Roxy was right, the safest place for them all was hidden in Lulu's where they could operate under the radar until they were ready to move.

  Despite the riot, the club was full. Any Londoner caught on the wrong side of the gate filled the bar and dance floor, seemingly content to drink away the troubles going on outside. As Rachel followed Roxy through the club, she felt like she'd stepped into a different world. The band on stage belted out another tune while Lulu herself took up the microphone, singing about heartache and loss, troubles and woe. The whores lounged in private booths with wealthy clients, kissing away the noise from the adjoining street. This was like limbo, the border between fear and madness. Rachel whirled around, knowing how out of place she must look.

  The song ended and Lulu took a bow, her feather boa shedding all over the stage as she made her gracious, flamboyant exit. Although she hadn't looked at Roxy once during the performance, she gravitated to him as soon as the spotlight left her. Seizing his and Rachel's hands, she led them towards the more secluded side bar, taking her place on a leather barstool.

  “Wonderful performance as ever, Mother.” Roxy planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “You've seen what's happening?” Lulu asked, as the barman passed her a martini.

  “Oh, we had front-row seats, quite the show. Actually, we were hoping we could lie low here until it quiets down. You know, on the hush-hush.”

  Lulu nodded and toyed with the olive in her drink. “I've got a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.”

  “Nonsense. It's just a little riot. It'll soon blow over.”

  Lulu didn't look convinced. “What do you think, Rachel? You can sense the tension, can't you?”

  She could. The pressure in the city was growing, and the riot seemed to be fuelling the problem, not releasing it. Her powers were traumatised by the panic around her. Even in Lulu's, there was worry the alcohol couldn't sedate. The city was about to implode, and the damage would change things forever. She met Lulu's eye, unable to rose-tint her premonition.

  “Now, Mother, stop being so melodramatic. Look where we are, the safest place in the city. Nothing breaches Lulu's, that's why the place is doing marvellous trade tonight. This is great for business. Now try to enjoy yourself, I'll be upstairs if you need me.” He kissed her again and led Rachel back through the bar.

  “Your mum seems worried,” she said.

  Roxy scoffed. “You should have seen her when she got her first grey hair. The woman loves drama. Don't worry your pretty little head. For once I'm telling you the truth: Lulu's is the safest place in S'aven. Not even the Institute would dare come here.”

  * * *

  Roxy left her in Lulu's private apartment above the club while he helped John carry Charlie upstairs and dump him in one of the spare rooms. Rachel drew the curtains, blocking out the outside world, and collapsed on the circular settee. Charlie was safe, she'd checked him over, and once he slept off whatever sedative they'd given him, he'd be fine. She should have felt happy, but all she really felt was a headache coming. The stimulus from the riot was getting to be too much. When she closed her eyes she was back there, sat in the transporter beside Mark.

  “So when's Charlie-boy gonna wake up?” Roxy asked, startling her. He flopped beside her and kicked off his shoes, poking his toes through the holes in his socks.

  “I don't know. I'm not sure what they gave him. He's probably better off resting now anyway. I'll stick an IV line in him so he doesn't wake up feeling too bad.”

  “Least he deserves.” John was behind her, but he was showing no inclination to make himself at home. “Stay here, I won't be long.”

  “Wait, where are you going?” Rachel grabbed his arm before he could get out of the room.

  “To make sure this place is secure. We're still being hunted, remember.”

  She let him go, despite her better judgement. He was still so tightly coiled. Maybe having some time alone would help.

  “Do you think I should go after him?” she asked, once he was out of earshot.

  “Leave him be, pet. He needs time to cool off.”

  She'd lived with the brothers for nearly a year, spending every day and night on the road together, staying alive. They shared the same room, the same bed, sometimes the same back seat. She could no longer imagine life without them. It hadn't even crossed her mind that Roxy might know them better than she did.

  “You've seen him do this before?”

  Roxy shrugged and found his mother's smokes on the coffee table. “Whenever he gets pissed off with Charlie—which is more often than he lets on—he takes himself off to his quiet place to brood. They're too repressed to actually talk about anything, so the cycle continues.”

  “I don't get it. I know Charlie screwed up, but none of us could've guessed what was going to happen. We didn't know that Charlie was going to get arrested.”

  “It's not that.” Roxy took a heavy drag on his cigarette. “He's pissed off because Charlie scared the shit out of him. If there's one thing John Smith can't deal with, it's the idea of either of them going back to the Institute.”

  Rachel licked her lips. There was still so much about the brothers that she didn't know, but Roxy seemed to have answers. Feeling like she was trespassing, she sidled closer to him, trying not to seem too eager to gossip about her new family.

  “John's not a Reacher,” she said, starting with a fact she had figured out on her own.

  Roxy, seeming to sense a change in her, glanced at the open doorway and then gave her his undivided attention. “You've never asked him, have you?”

  “Asked who what?”

  “Asked John why he was at the Institute, given he isn't a Reacher.”

  She shook her head, leaning in closer. “Have you?”

  “Many, many times, and never got a straight answer once. But I had a spy, someone who knew the brothers better than they realised. I asked Sarah.”

  “Charlie's wife?”

  Roxy nodded. “What do you know?” he asked, clearly enjoying having the upper hand.

  “I know they're not blood brother
s. For a while I thought they might have shared a mother, but they don't, do they?”

  “There was a woman, not a birth mother to either of them, but she took care of them at the Institute. I guess she'd be the closest thing they have to a mother. They don't talk about her, but I think she did some fucked-up stuff to them both.” Roxy checked again to make sure nobody was listening. “They don't talk about anything that happened there. Not to me, not even to Sarah. I figure it was bad, that's why John is so freaked out about them going back. But I know one thing for certain: if they do end up back there, it will be worse for John than Charlie.”

  “Why?”

  Roxy looked at his cigarette, his weary eyes sad. “Because when the Institute murdered Sarah, they didn't do it to get to Charlie. They killed her to get to John. He's more valuable to them than a grade-five Reacher and, even after all these years, they have never stopped hunting him.”

  Rachel sat back, feeling the weight of the information press against her. It was impossible to unravel and make sense of. There were just too many questions. “But why?” she finally asked.

  “I don't know for sure. I guess because of what he is to them.”

  “But what's that?” Rachel said, frustrated.

  Roxy smirked. “That is the big question, isn't it?” He took another drag. “Truth is, I don't even think John knows what he is. And I think both he and Charlie are too scared to find out. They go back to the Institute, it's not just the torture and experiments they face. It's the truth.”

  10

  From the other side of the office, Mark watched Adams trawl through the onscreen records again. Adams drew out a cigarette, smoked it down to the butt, and then lit another. Mark didn't like the new attention his boss was giving the Smith files. Suddenly the enemy—his enemy—was being exonerated. So he may not have killed his wife, that didn't mean Charlie Smith shouldn't be locked up. There were crimes he did commit. He definitely killed the old colonel, he even confessed to it in front of Adams. He had been linked to numerous robberies in the past too. And he was still a Reacher.

  Eventually, Mark couldn't contain his frustration. “What does it matter? He's a Reacher, we still need to bring him in.”

  Adams stubbed out the cigarette. “He's not our killer, though. Which means there's another Reacher out there. And it means more girls are going to die if we don't find out who it is. That's the case we were working, and it's not over yet.”

  Mark stood up and stretched the stiffness from his legs. He was exhausted, and seeing Rachel had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. “I thought you got me out of the work camp to bring the Smith brothers in.”

  Adams turned, meeting Mark face-to-face. He let out a low, wheezy sigh and made to reach for another cigarette, but decided against it. He gestured that Mark should sit back down and leaned forward in what Mark thought of as his “mentor” pose. “There are few people who have interactions with Reachers and even fewer who would talk to me about them. Your experience with Rachel is a big insight, an insight I don't have.”

  Mark shook his head. If that was what Adams truly thought, he was going to be disappointed. “I didn't know she was a Reacher.”

  “I know, but you saw how she behaved. You lived with her for four years. You understand how easy it is for her to hide in plain sight. What makes her different from regular people, what makes her the same. You didn't know, but now you do, and now you can look and see all that she really was away from what she told you, away from what the government tells you. Don't underestimate yourself, Mark. Your knowledge of Reachers is greater than most of the Institute.”

  Mark stared at his boss. He didn't understand. He had never understood, and he never would. Before he could ask more, a buzzing filled the room. The lights started flashing red. Mark backed away, reaching for his Taser. He had visions of rioters storming the building.

  Adams pressed the intercom.

  “Agent Adams, I hear you lost our prisoner.”

  Adams cursed and gestured for Mark to stand down. His hand hovered over the scanner. He surrendered, and seconds later a man and woman were stepping inside. There were only two of them, but they were far more intimidating than any hungry mob. The man was taller and older than the woman, his features severe and sharp, as though he'd been constructed from broken fragments of a person, and his intense focus entirely fixed on Adams. If looks could kill, Adams would be a smouldering heap of ash on the floor.

  Mark backed away, eager to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. He averted his gaze, instead looking at the striking woman standing behind her partner in the doorway. She was dressed in a similar black suit, but she carried it off in a way that made Mark's mouth go dry. She could easily have been a model, or an actress—he would have happily paid a fortune just to stare at her all day.

  Like him, she stayed in the background, allowing her senior and Mark's senior to puff up their feathers and begin a tense stand-off. She glanced at Mark, her eyes full of playful amusement, as though the entire scene had been constructed for her entertainment and she was welcoming Mark into the fold. It nearly worked too, until her partner spoke to Adams and drew Mark back to the impasse in front of him.

  “You lost him.”

  “Have you seen what's happening out there? I followed protocol to the letter. We caught him, and we tried to bring him out, just like we're supposed to. It's not our fault we got ambushed, or that you couldn't get here in time to support us. It's not our fault the whole town has gone to shit.”

  “Tell that to HQ. They'll have your department for this.”

  Adams laughed. “Agent Johnson, if they want my department they can take it. I'll give you the keys now and wish you luck trying to get someone else to take it on. Don't make me promises you can't keep.”

  The man—Agent Johnson—straightened his rigid shoulders. Adams had won, though Mark wasn't sure the prize was going to be worth the effort.

  Johnson pushed past Adams, running his fingers idly over the computer keyboard. It was then Mark realised the screens were totally blank. No trace of the Charlie Smith file anywhere.

  “Did you identify him?” Johnson asked.

  “You don't pay me to identify them,” Adams said. Mark wasn't sure why he was lying. Surely they'd be more sympathetic if they knew it had been Smith in custody. “I reckon he was a category-four Reacher, though. Probably my serial killer.”

  Johnson seemed to be ignoring Adams' comments. “Your transport vehicle has been located and secured. Empty, as you'd expect.”

  “Where?”

  “The industrial estate.” The agent turned his attention to Mark for the first time.

  Mark felt himself freeze. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn't.

  “You, go collect it,” Johnson snapped.

  Mark's mouth flapped open and closed. He fought to contain his nerves. “Eh, we, eh, don't have a vehicle. We came here on foot. I….”

  “Come on,” the woman said, pursing her lips. “I'll give you a ride.”

  He looked to Adams for some sort of guidance, but his boss was too busy watching Johnson. The tension between them was growing once more, and Mark decided he was better off outside anyway.

  He followed the woman back out into the tumultuous streets of S'aven. Several plumes of smoke rose into the city smog; burning buildings, burning cars, burning hope. Sirens reverberated down each ramshackle street, clashing with broken glass and screaming women. It was only going to get worse too. The woman gestured for him to follow her, leading him towards a black armoured van. He climbed inside, immediately in awe of the luxurious leather surroundings.

  “I'm Agent Stone,” she said as she started the engine.

  “Eh, Mark Bellamy.” He still, after all this time, couldn't bring himself to say agent. He didn't earn his credentials, he was awarded them because Adams thought he might be useful. In his heart he was still a beat cop—one way out of his depth.

  “I know who you are, Mark,” she said. “I read your
file when Adams requested we assign you.” She pulled onto the road, ignoring the straggling protestors attempting to get in her way. “HQ make me vet everyone they take on. I think they wanted me to object to you.”

  “Oh.” Mark sank back into his chair.

  “But I knew from your file how useful you would be. What happened to you… well, let's just say I appreciate the situation you were in with that… girl.”

  This was a surprise. “You do?”

  “Reachers are very deceptive. I know people think you should have known what she was, but as soon as she touched you that was it. You were bewitched. It happens to the best of us, I promise you. They might not understand that on the street, but I do.”

  Mark stared at her perfectly pert lips and high cheekbones. “Did it happen to you too?”

  She smiled at him as though they were old friends. “Let's just say that I know how you feel. And I know how you must hate Reachers because of it. That's why you're here. We need people who understand first-hand the danger we're in because of their kind.”

  Her words rolled around in his head and he sat up, growing more comfortable with her. “That's me.”

  “I'm sorry about my partner. He lost his sense of humour years ago. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is being paired with him sometimes.”

  “I'm sorry we lost your prisoner. We did really do everything we could. What happened… well, we were nearly both killed.”

  “We know. You were clearly set up, and they used our own protocol against us. Don't worry, though. We'll get them. I just hope nobody else gets hurt in the meantime.” She took a hard left, cutting off another vehicle. “Johnson gets frustrated with your boss. He thinks Adams is a Reacher sympathiser, but I keep telling him that he wouldn't do this job, or hire you for that matter, if he were.”

  Mark stayed quiet. He was starting to wonder where Adams' loyalties really did lie.

  “You used to live round here, didn't you?”