Border Lines (Reachers Book 2) Page 9

  “Ready?” he asked her.

  She nodded. The initial success made her more confident. She went to the guard waiting by the stairs and touched his bare hand. His cautious eyes became captivated by her. She wasn't speaking but he was nodding as though she were. Suddenly he stepped forward and led her towards the guard room.

  “We're on,” Charlie said.

  He and John got up to follow them. They crossed the lobby with purpose and waited outside the door.

  In a few seconds it opened for them. The guard was sat staring at a wall of screens, a dopey grin fixed on his face. But Rachel didn't share his euphoria. She beckoned them in and closed the door.

  “He says Harvey O'Connor hasn't been in for over two weeks.”

  “But he lives upstairs,” Charlie said.

  “I know, but the security office hasn't heard from him in a fortnight. This guy is pretty worried about it. He thinks the Voice is going under and O'Connor has done a runner.”

  “So his office and his apartment are empty?” John asked.

  “But if we don't know where O'Connor is, he could come back at any time.” Charlie checked his watch. “Okay, Rach' you need to stay here and watch the cameras for us.”

  “Get the footage deleted,” John said, already at the door.

  “What? How?”

  “Ask him?” he said, gesturing to the guard.

  “You want to throw a please in there, charmer,” she muttered, but went to the guard anyway.

  “Call us if there's a problem. If not walk out of here after ten minutes. We'll meet you in the graveyard.

  She gave them both a 'get-a-move-on' look. That was their cue.

  They took the elevator. Charlie checked his watch again. Now they weren't going to have to avoid Harvey O'Connor they had more time. He exhaled and started to recalculate. They had planned to break into O'Connor's office, or if he was still working, his apartment. Now both were empty.

  “I'm going to go for the apartment,” he told John. “You hit the office.”

  “Don't you want back up?”

  “For an empty apartment? I think even I can cope with that.”

  The lift doors opened. John stepped out. He moved quickly through the corridor towards Harvey's executive office. The doors closed and Charlie was alone. A brief panic started to stir in his chest. He was responsible now – if it went wrong it would be his fault. The doors opened before he had time to launch himself into a full blown nervous breakdown.

  He stepped out into a small hallway. There was a broom closet to his left, the only other door had to belong to Harvey. There was a defunct scanner fixed to the side, but it had been unhooked from the main lock, probably after a power cut shorted everything. Instead it had been replaced by a reliable keypad. Charlie pressed his palm against the pad and felt the lock slip free. He pushed the door open and listened – just because they said Harvey was missing it didn't mean he wasn't still hiding out in his apartment.

  Charlie stepped inside. The first room was a large lounge littered with stray coffee cups. Behind the lounge was a kitchen. It was as messy, cluttered with the signs of a single man. The first bedroom he got to was empty and, aside from a few boxes of paperwork, pretty much untouched. The next was totally different.

  A computer had been left on one of the armchairs. Charlie quickly plugged in the dupi, but his eyes fixed on the main wall. He stepped back so he could take it in properly. There were pictures, hundreds of them. Each from different angles at different times – a leg, an arm, a face. Night, day, sunny, wet. He looked closer, making out faces painted in rouge. Dead eyes fixed at nothing. Skin grey. He counted four girls, piecing them together from the gallery they had been dissected in.

  A map of the London/S'aven border was just about visible in the centre, with notes scribbled on every spare piece of wall there was around it. On the floor there were autopsy reports, police statements, everything connected with the murders of the women. It was disorganised and frantic. Abbreviations and symbols clogged up the sense of every note. This was insane.

  The air around him shifted. He wasn't alone. He turned and felt the carpet against his face before he lost consciousness.

  17

  John was coming down in the lift in the middle screen. Rachel checked her watch. They had less than a minute to go and there was still no sign of Charlie. She tapped the guard's desk impatiently. John was in the lobby. Still no Charlie. Her phone alarm buzzed. She hesitated, but this was the plan as they all agreed. She patted her companion guard on the shoulder.

  “You won't remember me,” she whispered in his ear and left the room.

  The building was starting to empty. Staff were busily making their way downstairs, bundling their paperwork with them. There were no checks for leaving the building. There was no such thing as sensitive information in journalism. The flow of people flooded the lobby. Subtly, she joined John's side.

  She took hold of his hand, pushing her thought into his head. Charlie's not back yet.

  John glanced back at the lift. If they went after him they would draw attention to themselves. She waited for him to make the decision. John was a professional. He kept walking towards the door.

  “He'll be okay. Let's get out of here.”

  They joined the tail end of the work force, eyes focused on the exit. Two doors stood side by side to create a two-way flow of traffic, but at this time of day everyone pushed out as quickly as they could through both doors. John tightened his grip and pulled her through the mash of bodies, but she hit one going the other way and was knocked back. She kept her balance and was ready to stick the idiot with an angry elbow.

  Then she froze.

  Mark. He hadn't really been looking at her, but the moment their eyes met she watched him recognise her in utter bewilderment – his ex–girlfriend. He was as surprised as she was. He started to move, as though to grab her, and she ran. Her tiny frame pushed through the bottleneck at the door. Let me through! Suddenly a wave passed through the crowd. They all side stepped and for a brief moment the exit was clear. She made a dash for it.

  The hot air hit her face. She struck the pavement with her feet, finding John's silhouette in the darkness ahead. She grabbed his hand while still running, dragging him into the graveyard entrance.

  “Cops,” she panted.

  John looked back. “Two of them. Take a left.”

  There was a small dip in the wall around the graveyard. They climbed it with ease and dropped out to the other side. More commuters were joining the pavement. John took her hand again and this time she made sure she didn't let go. He took another sharp corner which opened up into a wider stretch of road. The traffic grew heavier. They slipped down a back alley. Rachel recognised it only by the car parked where they had left it.

  She jumped in the passenger seat, trying to swallow the vomit rising in the back of her mouth.

  “Gun in the glove box,” John said, starting the engine.

  He started to pull the car away joining the traffic with impatient urgency. A few horns blasted at them and then the drivers found something else to be annoyed with. She pulled Charlie's Glock from the glove box and held it tightly, all the time wondering if she would actually be able to use it on him.

  “Keep it down by the door, like I showed you,” he said, fixing his eyes to the road.

  “It was Mark,” she said, as though that made a difference – a cop was a cop.

  “Mark?”

  “My Mark.”

  “He recognise you?”

  “I'd say so.”

  “Shit.”

  “What if he finds Charlie?”

  “Then we'll have eight hours before they ship him off to the Institute.”

  Rachel didn't even want to know how he knew that. Her hands were shaking. She tightened her grip on the gun and tried to control herself. If she kept breaking at the first signs of trouble, there would be no chance of them finishing the job. But it wasn't trouble, it was Mark, and that face brought back a
whole world of guilt.

  They were driving away from their hotel towards the station. From the inside London didn't seem that big at all. She frowned – how had Mark got across the border? Even as a cop he had no right to cross over. She glanced at John and knew instantly he was thinking the same thing.

  “Do you think he's looking for us?”

  “He is now.”

  “We should get out of London,” she said, more to herself than to him.

  “Or he should.”

  The threat lingered in the air. Killing Mark would mean nothing to him. She just couldn't work out what it would mean to her.

  It was her. His whole head was swimming but that was the one thing he could be sure of. Rachel had been in front of him. She'd changed her hair, her clothes, but it was still her. And he'd seen her part the waves of people like a prophet then disappear into the darkness. She was a Reacher. There was no denying it now.

  He called out to Adams before he ran after her, shouting something unintelligible that he hoped Adams would understand. He couldn't wait. The most important thing was to find her and she was already ahead of them. But what would he do when he found her? Arrest her? For so long he'd wanted to see her, to ask her why she walked out, what had he done that was so wrong. He wanted some kind of explanation. He wanted to see her suffer like he had and at the same time he wanted to hold her again, breathe in the scent of her hair and go back to the way things were.

  When he got out onto the street he saw her disappear into the graveyard across the road. And he saw that she wasn't alone. He could only make out the frame of the man she was with, but that was enough. He couldn't forget that shadow – John Smith. Before he could go after them Adams caught up with him.

  He rested his hand on Mark's shoulder and wheezed. Running after someone half his age was tough. “What is it?” he panted.

  “Rachel was inside. She ran out here, then into the graveyard. She was with John Smith!”

  Adams wasn't a runner. He was barely a walker. Mark had already decided he was going alone and it didn't scare him as much as he thought it would. He might get himself killed and that would be that, but they would never be able to say that Mark Bellamy was a Reacher supporter again.

  “Bellamy!” he heard Adams shout as he ran across the road. He didn't sound happy but Mark didn't have time to care. He ignored him and leapt through the iron gates. The paths were filled with people making their way home, clustering together while walking independently. They avoided the darkening rows of headstones and that was where Mark concentrated his attention. He stepped off the path, pausing to look up in the trees – because he'd never live it down if that was how they escaped. The people passing by looked at him like he was crazy and maybe he was. But he was going to find them – whatever it took.

  A hand clamped his shoulder again. He turned, ready to strike, and stopped just in time.

  Adams, red faced and panting, was shaking his head. “There's no way we'll find them here.”

  “They only had a few minutes' head start,” Mark said – the longer they dawdled the less chance they would have.

  “Bellamy,” Adams snapped, his tone unusually stern. “You don't catch Reachers by chasing them through open areas. Trust me.”

  He was right, of course he was, but it didn't stop the desperation Mark felt. If he could just bring Rachel in, he was sure some of his old life would return. Adams' hand was still fixed on his shoulder, holding him in place in case he took off for a third time, trying to deter that notion altogether. Things wouldn't go back, they would just go on.

  “Mark,” Adams said firmly. “We'll get her son, just not today.”

  Mark nodded and encouraged the rest of his body to agree. However he felt, whatever lingering affection, he would bring her in – he had to. That was his job, in both his old and new life. He would bring her in and maybe after that things would get better.

  “They won't be here now. We'll take the car, see if we can spot them in the area, find out where they're hiding,” Adams offered and for the moment that would have to do.

  18

  It felt like a come down. Like he was waking up on some bench in the middle of a frozen city, his body recovering from whatever he had taken the night before. But he hadn't taken anything. He was sober. The ache in his back was from his hands tied behind him, contorting his body. When he focused he realised he was still in Harvey O'Connor's spare room. And he wasn't alone.

  “Who the hell are you?” It was a woman standing over him. He glanced up at her, taking in her bare legs, the oversized man's shirt covering her thighs, the baseball bat in her hand and her terrified, exhausted expression.

  He frowned, pulling himself slowly into a sitting position. His crutch was behind her and well out of his reach if he wanted to get it and still maintain his dignity.

  “You hit me across the back of his head.” He was still trying to piece things together. “And you tied me up.”

  “Who are you?” she said again.

  “Hey, I'm the one compromised, you tell me who you are first.”

  She clearly wasn't expecting back chat from him. Her lips quivered nervously, but she did answer. “I'm Jess O'Connor. Now who are you and what are you doing in my husband's apartment?”

  Husband? He stared at Jess O'Connor and then started to laugh.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Sorry. My name is Charlie and I'm looking for your husband.”

  “Why?”

  Charlie smiled at her. “Fancy untying me and I'll tell you.”

  She lowered her bat. She was clearly used to dealing with difficult men. Her shoulders shifted, her eyebrow raised, and she pursed her lips. It was then Charlie realised that she was a very, very attractive woman.

  “How about you tell me and I'll consider untying you.”

  His smile widened, trying to be as friendly as a compromised burglar could be. “I came to speak to him about a vote he's about to make.”

  There was a hint of relief in her eyes. Charlie wondered what she had been expecting.

  “A vote?”

  “For the border lines.”

  She frowned, crinkling her nose. “Border lines. You're here about the border lines. You broke in to speak to him about the border lines?”

  Charlie laughed, it did sound absurd when she said it like that. “Hey, if I knew I'd end up like this I'd have knocked. Look, to be honest I came to find something to blackmail him with.”

  This got her attention.

  “It is very important that he votes the right way,” he said. “I came to find something I could use, but you've stopped me, so I'll just have to charm him into making the right decision instead.”

  “Is it that important?”

  “To some people.”

  “What were you going to blackmail him with?”

  “That would depend on what I could find. I was hoping for an affair, maybe a lovechild. Or something criminal, that's usually a winner.” He tried his best to look unthreatening. “I don't suppose you could untie me. I have a disability and my back is killing me.”

  She wasn't sure and he couldn't blame her for being wary.

  “Okay, how about this, you give me a hand up so I can at least straighten out my legs. I'm not going to be able to get out of here without my crutch.”

  That did it. He was disabled and that meant he was vulnerable. Charlie winced again for dramatic effect.

  “What's wrong with you?”

  “Nothing serious,” Charlie assured her – playing the bravery card because all the girls swooned for a martyr. “Just an old wound.”

  “Hold up.” She knelt beside him and unfastened the silk tie around his wrists.

  He flexed his shoulders gratefully. “Thanks,” he said and allowed her to get up and retrieve her weapon.

  Charlie stretched himself out and sighed in relief. When he looked up she was holding out his crutch. He took it and wanted to tell her off for being so stupidly trusting. As he stood u
p he could see how tired she was and realised she was probably not even thinking straight. She was edgy, her blue eyes flicking to the door as though she were expecting someone to run through.

  “I didn't know Harvey was married.”

  She pushed her tangled blonde hair from her face. “Well we're separated. Have been for a long time.”

  “I guess there's no point in me trying to find out if he's having an affair then. Hey, I don't suppose you have anything that might sway your husband's vote do you? Save me a job.”

  She shook her head seemingly bewildered. “You want me to help you?”

  “Look the outcome of this vote is not going to affect your husband and he's only voting one way to be an ass.”

  She nodded – obviously that was a trait of Harvey's. “Harvey isn't going to be voting on anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he's dead.” Her bottom lip started to quiver. She fought back her tears.

  “Dead? How did he die?”

  She shook her head and backed out of the room. If she still felt threatened by Charlie she was no longer showing it. This was his chance. He swiped the dupi and stuffed it into his pocket. He gave her a head start and then went after her. She was in the kitchen, filling up a glass of vodka and blue ice. She'd somehow managed to find a clean glass in the assortment of dishes piled up over the granite worktop. She glanced at him after her first sip.

  “Want one?”

  “I'm shaky enough on sober legs,” he said. “You said Harvey was dead, but everyone downstairs thinks he's alive.”

  “He's dead, I know he is,” Jess replied. “I know Harvey and he just doesn't disappear.”

  “Have you reported this to the police?”

  She glared at him and he could appreciate why. Cops didn't solve crimes, they solved problems. If Harvey O'Connor was dead, the best they could do is sign off on the insurance documents for his wife.