He shook his head. “No. I stop serial offenders. I hunt you down and bring you in to stop you committing crimes. The Institute cleans up the mess.”
“Very impressive, Agent,” Charlie said. “And there was me embarrassed to be arrested by some run-of-the-mill PC Plod, when it turns out I've actually been brought in by the best in the business.”
“The only one in the business,” Adams replied. “And you, Mr Smith, have quite the reputation yourself.”
Charlie looked at the measly file, fighting another smile. “You clearly don't know half of it.”
Adams withdrew six photographs. Six murdered women. They were images Charlie recognised; he'd seen them on Harvey O'Connor's computer screen. All apart from photo number six: Jess' lifeless corpse. That one was new.
“I know I've barely scratched the surface with you. I know that there are things I am never going to understand, things I probably don't want to understand. But these here, these are what I want to talk about. You're going to tell me why you killed them and you're going to tell me if there are any others I'm missing.”
Charlie frowned at the pictures. He'd encountered the murders in passing when he was working on manipulating the border lines vote. Aside from Jess and the murdered friend she had identified, he had no idea who the girls were and, until now, he hadn't been particularly interested.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Adams asked.
“Why do you want to know? I'm here. The Institute are going to take me away. What's the point in asking for more?”
Adams clenched his jaw. “The point, Mr Smith, is these girls lost their lives. They had families and people that need to know why it happened to them. They want answers. I want answers.”
Charlie leaned back in his chair. He wasn't sure what to make of the agent, or how to play him. Most cops liked to act with their fists. This guy just wanted to talk—it was like being on a bad date. “And what if I don't give you the answers you want?”
“All I want is the truth. You've said it yourself, the Institute are coming. These next few hours will change nothing. You've got nothing to lose.”
“You want to close your case, right? Even though it counts for nothing?”
Adams nodded.
A part of Charlie could understand. He was a perfectionist himself. When he did a job he wanted it done properly, and he could respect Adams' integrity. It was a rare quality in a cop. And at least in this case he had nothing to hide.
“The truth? Okay. The truth is I didn't kill those girls.”
Adams pulled out another photograph, one that had been taken from CCTV. It showed Charlie, John, and Rachel leaving their London hotel earlier that week. The faces were blurry but recognisable.
“Then which one did it? Your brother, or the girl?”
“Neither.”
“You expect me to believe that there is another Reacher in London capable of this?”
“I don't care what you believe. You wanted the truth, that's what I gave you. If you don't like it, that's your problem.” He gave Adams a stern stare, daring him to argue.
“I'll tell you what I think, Mr Smith. I think one of you was responsible, and I will bring you all in and make sure you are all brought to justice.”
Charlie started to laugh again. “Agent, haven't you figured it out yet? I'm the broken one. The loose link. You only managed to get me because I'm off my game.” He patted his dud leg with his bound hands. “My brother is the best of the best. He's already hours ahead of you, and you won't even see him coming. You haven't got a shot in hell at getting him or Rachel. You think this is all about control… well, if I was you I'd be looking for a place to hide, because my brother is the one who is in control of this situation. John Smith is always in control.”
3
Rachel flinched as John threw another box at the wall. Glass bottles shattered on the concrete floor. Since arriving at Lulu's club on the outskirts of the London/S'aven border, he'd lost control of his temper. His brother was on the wrong side of the fence, in police custody, and the Institute were coming. It was clear he was scared, and John Smith didn't get scared. He grabbed an empty bottle and launched that next. If he didn't stop soon he was going to hurt himself—or somebody else. And none of this was helping Charlie.
Behind him, Roxy had slumped on the floor. He looked exhausted, his thick, matted hair hanging over his bloodshot eyes. He seemed to be content letting John smash up his mother's basement without comment. But then he probably had more pressing things on his mind. A couple of hours ago Roxy had been as good as dead, and Rachel still didn't understand how she had managed to bring him back. But she had, and if they could raise Roxy from the dead then they could rescue Charlie from the other side of the wall. She just had to calm John down first.
She grabbed his hand as he went to snatch another bottle. He glared at her, but she wasn't going to back down. Though John's eyes were wild and fierce, he didn't frighten her. Despite being a tightly coiled killing machine, he was still a man, still her friend, her family. And he needed to get a grip. She had no idea how to get Charlie back, but John did. He just had to start thinking straight.
“This isn't helping,” she told him, her own heart racing at the possibility that maybe he was too far gone. She'd never seen him lose control like this before. His temper was always short, but this was different—this was unrestrained rage. She refused to be intimidated. He was her friend, as good as a brother to her, and right now she was the only one that could snap him out of this.
“You've got to calm down.” Her hand touched his bare wrist. She could use her powers and subdue him. For a second she even considered it—getting into his head and pushing her own thoughts into him—but that would be crossing a boundary, and afterwards their relationship would never be the same.
As if he suspected she might be compelled to break their trust, John dropped the bottle. His fingers wrapped around hers. There was an unfamiliar desperation in the act.
She cupped his face, staring into his dark, brooding eyes. “We'll figure it out. We brought Roxy back from the dead, Charlie's only across the border. Eight hours until the Institute comes, that's what you said, right?”
He nodded.
“There's a lot we can do in eight hours, but we need to stop with the wanton vandalism.” She released him. “We need to calm down, okay?”
His shoulders tightened, and she could see a wall being built inside him. He was returning to his repressed self, which probably wasn't healthy but was exactly what they needed.
“I know Charlie normally does the planning, but you've been with him long enough to know what he would do. Think about it. If it was you or me that were missing, where would he start? What would we need?”
And instantly she could see he knew exactly what to do. “I need to get our things from the car.”
She squeezed his arm and let him go. The relief made her dizzy. She hadn't even started to worry about Charlie yet. God, if anything happened to him…
“You did good, pet,” Roxy said from the floor. He held out his freshly lit cigarette—a beacon in the storm—which she took a grateful drag of before handing it back.
“I've never seen him like that before.”
Roxy shrugged, a sad smile creeping in beneath his dirty stubble. “This was nothing. You should have been there when they got Charlie the first time. At least he listens to you, more than he ever would to me, anyway.” He blew a determined, smoky breath into the air.
“I'm scared, Rox. I have no idea how we're going to get Charlie back. And without him…. God, I don't even want to think about it. This is ridiculous, we finally get a great payoff and—”
He held up his hand. “You just concentrate on keeping John focused. We'll figure the rest out. Like you said, we've got plenty of time.” He brushed the mess of hair from his face and groaned.
His eyes were streaked with burst capillaries, although not as bad as they should have been, considering what had happened to
him. Even now she could see his lifeless body lying on the gravelled drive, strangled to death, or so they thought. She knelt beside him and lifted his head. “What about you, how are you feeling?”
His grin was more forced than usual. “Like a new man.”
“Roxy,” she warned.
“Okay. I have a banging headache, my chest hurts, and so does my throat, surprisingly. I'm bloody shattered, and I need a goddamn shower. But hey, I've had Monday mornings ten times worse than this, so don't you worry about me.”
“I should examine you,” she said, her doctor's instinct kicking in.
Roxy laughed. “As much as I love doctors and nurses, I promise you, sweetheart, that I am good, and we have more important things to worry about. Let's do it when we're both in a position to enjoy it, eh?”
She still wasn't sure what had actually happened to Roxy. He'd found himself on the wrong side of a lunatic Reacher who had tried to kill him, but how he had done it was beyond her. When she found Roxy he wasn't breathing, and she couldn't find a heartbeat. She started CPR out of desperation rather than optimism, and somehow he pulled through. She didn't know if there would be any lasting damage, and he was right: there was no time to find out.
John kicked open the basement door, startling them both. He had a heavy case in each hand and cleared a workspace for himself in the centre of the junk room. Roxy got up and pulled out a broken table he could assemble for John to spread out his computer and kit. They were both focused now they had something to do.
“What's the first step?” she asked.
“We find out who has him, and where.”
“Then what?”
“Then we figure out how we're going to get him back.”
They made it sound so easy. In eight hours it would all be over. One way or another.
4
Ten months ago Mark Bellamy had been serving a life sentence in a work camp for a murder he didn't commit. Ten months of digging up beets under the blistering sun to fuel a country that had deserted him. Ten months of being one of the most hated inmates in that godforsaken place. Ten months of sleepless nights, of starving, of pain, of suffering. And it was all down to the man on the opposite side of the mirror. Charlie Smith and his psychopath brother had broken into his world, stolen his girlfriend, and killed his partner. Mark's life had been left in ruins. And for ten long months he didn't even realise why everything had gone so wrong for him. He hadn't known Rachel was a Reacher and, even now he did, he still couldn't believe it. Somehow he had been dragged from the relative stability of his policeman's life into this chaos. He was way out of his depth and barely keeping afloat.
It had been Agent Wade Adams that had thrown him a lifeline. The older man had wanted information from Mark and then, for reasons Mark still didn't understand, he had pulled him out of the work camp and expanded his one-man department to two. PCU—the Paranormal Crimes Unit—was a long way from the local police station in S'aven. But although the PCU had authority over most of the UK police force, they were generally regarded as a joke. It was a dummy promotion and, even if it beat the work camp, Mark still wasn't convinced his new status was a good thing. Since he'd arrived they'd only worked a dozen cases, and all were overshadowed by the man in the interview room. The prize, Adams said. The big catch. The one that gave them some sort of purpose.
He watched as Adams questioned their prisoner, and still the world he was embroiled in made his head spin. Their other cases were all fake reports, men and women who had been shopped by disgruntled neighbours or colleagues. But the man in custody was a genuine Reacher and possibly the most powerful and dangerous they had on record. This should have been a big deal. And yet the events unfolding seemed so very uninspiring. So very ordinary.
Adams didn't raise his fists, and Charlie didn't use his powers. From the outside, as far as Mark was concerned, they were just two men chatting. This wasn't how they did things back at the station in S'aven. If Charlie was across the border he would at least be missing some teeth by now. And it was no less than the bastard deserved. Mark clenched his fists, longing for the opportunity to dish out a few blows.
He watched as Adams heaved himself up and left the interview room. A few seconds later he was standing by Mark, a frustrated look on his blemished face.
“He's not going to tell us where the other two are.” Adams fumbled for his packet of cigarettes. “Something doesn't feel right.” He fished the packet out victoriously, then resumed the same dance to find his lighter.
“Is he using his powers on you?” Mark asked.
“He's telekinetic, wouldn't make a difference if he was. He can't get inside my mind.”
Mark had never got his head around the differences in Reacher powers. Telekinetic, telepathic—it was all abnormal and dangerous. It all needed to be stopped.
“No, there's just something about it, about him, that doesn't make sense. He didn't have sex with the other women, but he did with Jess O'Connor. He strangles O'Connor using his hands and not his powers. He stays with her, too, long after she's dead. It's not right. And it doesn't fit the profile, either. O'Connor doesn't match the other deaths.”
“So he killed O'Connor and the brother did the others?”
“Maybe.”
“The brother is a psychopath,” Mark said. He still had nightmares about meeting John Smith in that warehouse last year. There was something about the younger Smith that chilled his blood. His eyes were too cold, too calculating. He was a killer, Mark had no doubts about that. If anyone was capable of murdering those girls, it was him.
“You want to have a crack at it?”
Mark frowned. “Eh, at what?”
“At interrogating the prisoner? You could ask him about Rachel one on one, see if he lets anything slip.”
There was an art to getting a good confession, and while Mark had never led an interview before and only sat in on a few, he'd seen enough through mirrors to understand what was expected of him. He glanced at Charlie Smith and knew the opportunity was too good to pass up.
* * *
Outside the cell, Mark had a routine all planned out. He'd switch from good cop to bad cop, tying Charlie Smith up in knots until the Reacher finally cracked and confessed everything. He'd be clever and a bit witty, like those American cops on TV. Smith would start off being unbreakable and, by the end, he'd be in tears, begging for the interrogation to be over.
Inside the cell, the routine fell apart.
Mark opened his mouth, and all his bravado failed him. He met the prisoner with an uncertain, wavering silence. Smith stared up at him, expectant and clearly amused. Mark put his hands on the chair in front of him before his shaky legs gave out. In his plan he had sat down, leaned back with a nonchalant air, and made Smith perspire with anticipation. In reality the opposite was happening. Smith's eyes bore into him and Mark felt fixed in place, hot sweat already dripping down his back and pooling at the waist of his trousers.
“Don't suppose you fancy turning that box off, do you?” Smith asked, gesturing to the case against the wall. “My head is banging.”
The box interfered with a Reacher's powers and was one of the few things they could use against Smith while he was locked up. The effect was getting to Mark, too, a ringing headache already forming at the base of his skull, but he'd endure it—especially if Smith was suffering more. “Good,” Mark replied, his top lip curling with malice.
“You're PC Mark Bellamy, right?” Smith said. “I don't think we've ever had the pleasure. I'd shake your hand, but…” he gestured to his restraints.
Mark tried to think of an answer, something about not shaking the hand even if it was offered, but he couldn't form it into anything coherent or clever.
“No, I'm wrong. It's not PC any more, is it. Well, Agent Mark Bellamy, looks like you've done well for yourself. Not often a S'aven beat walker can make it across the border and take up an agent position in His Majesty's government.”
Well for himself! He lived in the office st
oreroom, his clothes were from the clothes bank, his food canteen leftovers. He had nothing. He had no one. What good was living in London if he was little more than a sewer rat? This was as much a hell as the exposed fields in the Midlands. And Charlie Smith and his psychotic brother had put him here. But Smith would realise his mistake soon enough. He'd see that Mark Bellamy wasn't a man to be trifled with.
“You're going to die,” Mark said before he realised what he was doing.
Smith started to laugh. “Yes, I am. But not for a long, long time. They don't let ones like me slip away without making sure they've got their money's worth. I'm very special, Agent. I'll probably outlive you.”
No you won't, I'll make sure of it.
Smith leaned forward, his red-rimmed eyes gleaming. “I can see it now,” he said. “I can totally see why she chose me over you.”
Mark's lips tightened. He didn't want to hear about Rachel leaving him. He didn't want to hear Smith's smug voice talking about the woman he loved. What right did Smith have to be cocky? He was tied up, a prisoner, a man on death row. What made him so sure of himself?
“When we found Rachel she begged us to take her. She would have done anything to not stay with you. Anything.”
The anger bubbled away inside Mark. His hands trembled. He loved Rachel. And she loved him too—didn't she? The moment they met, moving in together, it wasn't all just him, it couldn't have been. Could it? Was she with them now? Was she sleeping with one of the brothers, like she'd slept with him? Did she love them?
“It was tantamount to rape, you know. What you did to her—she didn't want you. She never wanted you. But she couldn't say no, you wouldn't let her. Do you know what that makes you?”
Mark's fists were already flying. He caught Smith with a sloppy blow, followed by one strong enough to knock him out of his chair. He grabbed Smith's collar and hauled him against the wall.
“It wasn't rape!” he yelled, slamming him again and again. “It wasn't rape!”
“Hey! Bellamy, get off him!” He felt Adams behind him, pulling him back. “Bellamy! Let him go.”
Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3) Page 2
