Derek was a tall man, full of violence and anger. But when he made contact with Jan, he became weak and small. It felt as though Jan could, if he wanted to, take him. But he didn't. Instead he took the beating, feeling it was the least he deserved after what he had done.
“Stop it!” a female voice screamed from inside the house.
The girl they were with was different than those Jan had killed. Marie was a Reacher, and a part of Jan was drawn to her. She reminded him of Rachel, although he did at least like Rachel. Marie stepped between them, pushing Derek off. He raised his hand, ready to strike her, but couldn't. Jan had learned this quickly. The Reachers couldn't hurt each other, and they could only hurt him when he was himself, not the other. Sometimes he wondered if he could hurt them, but he was too afraid to try.
“He's gone too far. She was from Blackwater. They're gonna come here looking for her.”
“You should have thought about that before you fucked her. Dump her body away from here. Somewhere she can be found. Throw them off the scent. And go back to Sol.”
He scowled. “You want to be alone with him?”
Marie straightened her back. “I want to make sure no more young girls are having sex behind the house. This place was rented for a married couple. There have been too many people here already. You're not needed for the plan. Tell Sol I'll get it done myself.”
“Fine, it's your funeral.”
Derek leaving was a blessing, although Jan would have preferred to be left entirely alone. He watched the ambulance go with Marie at his side. Despite protecting him, it was clear she didn't like him. From what he'd seen, she didn't like anyone other than Sol. She pointed to the doorway like he was a naughty child and she was his governess.
“The priest is awake. Go see to him.”
The old man had been taken at the same time as Jan, but so far had not achieved any lucidity, drifting in and out of consciousness while his body recovered from severe exposure. They wanted him alive, like they wanted Jan alive, but their contempt for him was overwhelming. Whoever he was, his fate was entwined with Jan's now.
They had set up a makeshift room on the ground floor for the patient. Jan entered, stopping when he heard the door behind him close and lock. He couldn't blame the girl. He would lock himself up too, if he could.
At the noise, the old man lifted his head. He was still hooked up to the medicom and still relied on the machine to ensure his survival. His grey eyes ran over Jan without prejudice or scrutiny. Jan couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him like that.
“Good evening, sir, can you tell me your name?” It was easy to slip into his doctor mode. He felt himself stretch into the familiar, safe skin.
“Darcy,” the man croaked. “Water?”
He helped the man drink and raised him to a more comfortable sitting position.
“Where am I?”
Jan turned away, examining the shell of someone's former home. They had made a space for the patient in what used to be the old dining room, but any trace of comfort had faded away with the floral wallpaper. “I don't know. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere. There are trees as far as I can see.”
Darcy took the news better than expected. “And who is in charge here?”
“I'm in charge of your care,” Jan said, taking the old man's frail hand and giving it a light squeeze. It had been a long time since he actually took care of someone. His position in the hospital had been a bureaucratic battle with very little hands-on work. It had taken Rachel's arrival to remind him of his natural instinct to heal and help people. Looking after Darcy steadied his erratic mind and gave him a sense of purpose in his lucid moments.
“And you are here by choice?” The old man asked the question as though he already knew the answer. “Who is in charge of you?”
“A man called Sol. He has left, and I don't know when he will return. But it doesn't matter who is in charge. I won't let anything happen to you. My job is to see you fighting fit again.”
“I'm eighty-four, my fighting-fit days were over before you were born,” Darcy said. “This machine is keeping me alive?”
“Yes. You're not ready to be taken off it yet. There was damage to your liver and kidneys. It will be manageable, even repairable in time.”
“Turn it off.”
“But—”
“Son, I'm not in need of extra time. Especially not to appease that wretch Solomon. I know why he wants me, and I would rather die than see him succeed. You look strong. If you're wise you'll get away from here.”
Jan shook his head. “I'm afraid I can't do that.”
“Of course you can.”
But he couldn't. The other part of him wouldn't let him. The other wanted to stay. It wanted to be with the Reachers and fulfil Sol's schemes. He could feel it tugging at him, begging him to indulge more, to surrender. And Jan could feel himself slipping. He was losing control. How long did he have before the next blackout?
“You are a priest? My father was a preacher,” he said to distract himself.
“And you, doctor, are you God-fearing?”
“More than ever. I fear that God will not be kind when it comes to my judgement.”
It was Darcy's turn to squeeze his hand. “Do you know, my son, there are many roads in this country. I have walked most of them. And they all lead to the same place.”
“Where's that?”
“Where we're all going. We take different routes, and sometimes we lose sight of our path, but He is always there. He will steer us to where we need to be. I am a man ready for death, and yet here I am. Alive and here, in the care of a capable man. For what purpose?”
“If you knew what I had done, you would probably not call me capable.”
The old man gave a knowing, forgiving smile. “Then perhaps we will keep the machine on and indulge Him upstairs. Tell me, what demons are on your conscience, doctor?”
And Jan began to talk, but not of demons, or consciences, but of the devil and the burning hell inside him.
13
Mark had been to Lulu's once before. He'd just started dating Rachel, and his squad were celebrating the bust of the year. The men had ploughed into Lulu's like they were teenagers, downing bottles of cheap liquor and making fools of themselves with the whores. Mark had sat with them, clasping a single bottle of beer and keeping his eyes on the floor. It felt wrong being there, though he couldn't figure out why. Most of the other guys were married, and they were indulging without a second thought. He'd only started seeing Rachel, and he couldn't even bring himself to look at the topless barmaids. He realised, in a room where he could have whatever he wanted, he only wanted Rachel. He decided that night, as his sergeant pushed a redhead under the table, he would ask Rachel to move in with him.
Now, four years later, he was outside Lulu's again. He stood under the neon lights, the swing music inside loud enough to dampen the sound of the riots in the nearby streets. In many ways the club was a sanctuary, offering him somewhere to hide from what was happening in the city. But inside, amid the debauchery, was Rachel, and seeing her again scared him more than any riot. Adams, ignorant of Mark's conflict, crossed the threshold, forcing Mark to follow.
The corruption in the club was rivalled only by depravity and sexual deviance. But at the same time, Lulu's maintained a purity unseen in the rest of S'aven. Mark understood, even when he was a beat cop, that Lulu's was something special to the city. Otherwise why would so many influential Londoners come over to spend hours here?
Mark's body vibrated from the abrasive acoustics of the brass band on stage. He liked music, but this was like an assault on his ears. The trumpet screeched in fury; the bass guitar throbbed like a dull ache in his head. People were dancing, seemingly enjoying the noise. Mark couldn't understand it. A low, gravelly voice dominated the song, and Mark's attention fixed on the dishevelled singer taking over from the trumpeter. The man, in his clumsy tux and dirty hair, met Mark's eyes and winked.
Ten months ago,
that man had been parading in Mark's apartment as an agent, not a singer. And, like a fool, Mark had believed every lie the bastard told him. He'd taken the special job, sitting in a cold, abandoned warehouse while the false agent and Rachel made their way out of S'aven. He'd been set up. And now, with this imposter on stage, he could see this was another deception. Unless he did something, they were going to be set up again. Mark pulled out his phone. He punched a message in and sent it to Agent Stone. He was done playing the fool.
He'd lost Adams in the crowd and went to find him, his eyes darting around the swarms of people, looking for more familiar foes. There was too much noise, too much skin, too much everything. And then, in one of the booths, he saw her. His Rachel. Only she wasn't his Rachel. As he took her in, he realised she didn't even look like his Rachel any more. She looked good, really good, and he hated himself for even thinking about her like that again.
His stomach lurched. He was going to have to sit at the table with her. She would see him, and he was no different. He would be the same old Mark, the same second-hand clothes, the same acne-prone skin, the same shit haircut. Had she ever loved him? How could he have ever been enough for her?
He couldn't.
That honour went to Charlie Smith. And he was sitting beside her, grinning like he understood every jealous thought Mark was having. The only consolation for Mark was the bruising on Smith's face. He hoped it still hurt, and he clenched his fists, feeling the pull of the broken skin on his knuckles, knowing Smith must feel worse.
Adams was already sitting. He'd missed the danger they were in. But then his obsession with the murders was blinding him. Mark sat beside him. Soon the Institute would be here. And he wouldn't be alone any more.
“Agents.” Smith spoke like a smug businessman, and Mark yearned to hit him again. “I take it I don't need to introduce you to Rachel.”
“Agent Adams,” she said, and then turned to Mark. Her soft eyes met his—dare he even fantasise remorse in them?—and she gave him a slight smile. “Hello, Mark.”
His mouth opened, but he couldn't get the words out. What could he say to her? “Hey, thanks for leaving me to die in a work camp. Hope you're happier with your new boyfriend.” Nothing would do justice to the ache in his chest, and he knew he wouldn't be able to deliver anything eloquent or smart in front of Smith. Instead he just gawped at her, trying to convey some of his pain and accusation, and getting lost in her new image. Her clothes were well made, probably bought from a London store with stolen money. She was wearing a touch of make-up, not much, but enough to change the shape of her eyes and brow, as though she was trying out a subtle disguise. It was like she was a new person, but then maybe this was the person she had always been, and she'd just kept it hidden from him.
“Sorry for running out on you,” Smith said, drawing Mark's attention back to the rest of the table. “But you'll appreciate I really do not want to go back to the Institute.”
“You should have said something.” If Adams was concerned or threatened by the danger they were in, he didn't show it. Mark glanced up at the stage. The fake singer was still warbling at the crowd. Somewhere, John Smith would be lurking too. This was an ambush. Why couldn't Adams see it?
“I imagine you won't be winning employee of the month any time soon.”
“I've still got time to bring you in.”
“Then we'd better get down to business before you raise your game.” Smith leaned back; he was a cocky son of a bitch. “You told me you wanted the truth. I figure, given I screwed up your plans, it's the least I can do.”
“You want to tell me the truth?”
“I want to tell you everything I know to be true, and possibly a bit of speculation, to help you close your file.”
Adams shuffled forward, hooking himself on the line Smith was dangling. “Okay. Tell me what you know.”
“We had nothing to do with those girls. None of us. Not me, not my brother, and not Rachel. We're no angels, but none of us are your killer. But we were in London working for Riva Morris, and we stumbled across the killer in the process.”
Smith was lying. Mark knew John Smith had murdered Pinky Morris ten months ago. Why would Riva employ her husband's murderer?
“Part of the job involved Dr Janus Curtis, the head of Great General Hospital. Rachel went undercover to work him. We didn't suspect anything. Not until the night I was arrested. Rachel followed Curtis to Riva Morris' place, and… well, you tell them what happened, Rach.”
Once again her eyes met Mark's, and she paled. “I didn't know he was a Reacher,” she said, her soft voice just audible over the music. “I didn't know because he didn't know.”
Adams was frowning. “How could he not know he was a Reacher?”
“It would be easier if I show you.”
“Show me? You mean….”
It was Mark's turn to frown. What did she mean?
“I got in his head. I could show you exactly what I saw, then you can make up your own mind, because I'm damned if I can figure it out.”
Adams squared his shoulders. “You're kidding me, right? You expect me to trust you?”
“It's up to you. Charlie said you wanted the truth. I saw it all. And what I saw will haunt me for a long time.”
Mark was certain Adams would refuse—any sane man would—but after chewing on his lip a moment, he nodded. “How do we…?”
She scooted closer to him in the circular booth. Her delicate fingers reached up towards Adams' pockmarked face. Mark's heart lurched. He watched, aghast, as she leaned in to kiss his boss. Their lips met and Adams' eyes closed, his body tensed beside Mark, but he didn't break away. This was how she gained control—how could Adams be so stupid? Mark made to pull Adams free, but Smith stopped him. He was trapped, and Adams had been compromised.
But it wasn't over. A drumming started to overpower the music; the approaching beat of truncheon on plastic. The riot squad were coming, pounding their arrival like a Norse army. Smith flashed a glance at the stage and touched Rachel's arm with an intimacy way beyond a manipulated kiss. If Mark could have, he would have killed Smith then and there, but Rachel was pulling away and Adams was falling back into the seat like a drunkard. And the drumming was getting louder.
“You didn't stop him.” Adams scratched at his head, too distracted to concern himself with the growing noise.
“Reachers can't hurt each other, even when we really want to. The best I could do was get him away from us. Even then, I'm not sure it was my influence that made him leave. You saw yourself, he's not right.”
“So why are you telling me all this? You could have left S'aven by now.”
The drumming was joined by shouting and gunfire. Flashes lit up the windows. But the band kept playing. The dancers kept dancing.
Smith leaned forward, as ignorant at the rest of the punters in the club. “I told you I was bringing you the truth. Well, here it is. The Institute have my little girl. They left me for dead, and for two long years I've not been fit to go after her. Now I am. Now we have resources and options. If my girl is still alive, then she has spent two years in their laboratories. I have to get her out.”
“I can't help you,” Adams said, although there was uncertainty in his voice that unnerved Mark. “They censored your file, and there is nothing on record about your daughter.”
Smith started to laugh. “I don't need you to help me. I need you to bring Curtis in. He's taken a friend of mine, and I don't have time to go after him myself.”
“Another Reacher?”
“No. A regular, helpless, old man. A good man.”
Mark watched Rachel as they talked, trying to spot the deception in her face. She was watching him too, but her focus seemed to be elsewhere. The band was getting louder, trying to drown out the riot outside. It wasn't working. The noise was building. Shouting, pounding, screaming, firing. Rachel rose. She screamed at the men on the stage to get down. The glass windows exploded against a volley of bullets.
14
The night roared against the broken panes, finding the building's entrance and violating her. Rioters and riot police flooded the club, slipping on the dead and dying as they tried to penetrate the glittery battleground. Another volley of bullets sliced gaps through the crowd. There was no sanctuary here. No safe place to hide.
Charlie saw Roxy roll off the stage, his suit speckled with bits of the late trumpeter. He landed at the booth, slamming into Charlie's side.
“Motherfucking shitting bollocks! This is insane.”
“You hurt?” Charlie asked.
“They took out the brass section, Charlie. The goddamn brass section.”
In the entire history of Lulu's—when S'aven was being blown up, exploited, victimised—nobody had ever breached her. She was the last sanctuary. The only true haven in a city that was rarely safe. And as the glass shattered, as the plasterwork splintered, as dancers and entertainers hit the floor, all that had been good in the city was now gone.
“How do we get out of here?”
“Bar has a back door onto the street,” Roxy said.
He rose just as a ball of fire arched over his head. It struck the bar counter and exploded upwards. Flames clawed at the shelves, looking for fuel and finding it at the generous whiskey selection. Bottles burst in the heat, spraying accelerant up the walls, cutting off their escape.
“Okay, exit stage left, then,” Roxy said.
The shooting outside was indiscriminate. Stray bullets sprayed against the stage, hitting the corpses of the fallen band, chinking against dented instruments. The lulls in the shooting were erratic. There was no way to predict when the next volley would hit. Moving without cover was suicide.
Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3) Page 8
