England was a vast and broken body spattered with breakouts of blistering civilisation scratching across the arid barrenness of the countryside. Man-made carnage had finished what nature had started, leaving huge expanses of terrain uninhabitable, poisoned, and abandoned. Roads, villages, even some cities were impassable, scorched from biological weapons and radiation. But other areas blossomed in the carnage, offering sanctuary to seasoned travellers. The brothers knew many of these oases from their experience tracking as boys, and they could narrow down their search to a manageable area.
They passed through a private toll as they crossed the motorway. Many of the stations marking independent zones just collected money, but some, like this one, insisted on an ID check too. Their identification was scanned, marking their first footprint on the landscape and the hunt. It was a small impression in a vast area, but with each indentation their cover was jeopardised.
Those who survived the English wilderness were adept at hunting and hiding. It became more than a lifestyle or a skill—it became an instinct. The brothers moved back into their old ways with each stalking step forward. The landscape called to them, whispering secrets of treasures and conquests in the dirt. They'd exposed themselves with the ID scan—a compromise to move on their prey quickly—but now they had to move fast. This was where they were at their best. This was their natural habitat.
An unrelenting August sun shone on their car as it rolled across the cracked and neglected tarmac. Heat waves blurred the scenery, warping the dry grasses and dirt into a fuzzy memory of the years Charlie and John had spent out here as children. The morning wore on and the air grew tighter, as though the summer was holding the country in a chokehold. The car's windows were down, admitting a feeble draft as they journeyed westward, but it did nothing to cool them. The clouds around them twisted, wringing fists over yellow fields, threatening and foreboding. Today the world would be uncompromising, and Charlie promised himself he would be the same.
After a day and night on the road, he had a gut feeling they were getting closer. The convoy they were looking for edged around the land between civilisation and dystopia. The large vehicles were forced to use tarmacked roads, but the drivers avoided the tolls and local patrols whenever they could. It made their movements predictable if you knew what you were looking for.
Under the midday sun, John got out of the car and placed a road map on the steaming bonnet. Charlie joined him, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
“It's a big area to cover,” John said, his eyes already running over the routes they could take.
“They have to take some pretty heavy-duty vehicles; we know they can't off-road on any rough terrain. They move too quickly to spend much time clearing a camp, and they need a water source.”
John ran his finger around several possibilities. “Still a lot to search.”
He was right, and the longer they wandered around, the more likely Sol was going to spot them first. It was important they have the upper hand. Everything relied on it.
Charlie studied the map again. “What about these four?” He pointed at a crescent of potential sites that ran alongside a river.
John's fingers circled the sites and then came to rest on a small mountain range overlooking them. “There's higher ground here. From up there we'd have a clearer view of the whole valley without being seen. Save traipsing around from one to the other like lost sheep.”
It was a good point, but Charlie could see a flaw in his brother's plan. “We're not going to get the car up there.”
“Then we go on foot.”
Charlie's mobility was better with the leg brace, but a full day's trek was going to be tough.
John saw his hesitation. “I can go alone.” It was more of a taunt than a friendly offer, and Charlie wasn't going to let his little brother get one over on him.
“I can make it.”
John quirked his eyebrow.
“Fuck you! I can do it.”
“Fine. Make sure you keep up, then.”
John grabbed the heavier of their bags and started walking. Charlie knew if John really thought he was a liability he'd be sat at the junkyard with Rachel, but he still felt he had something to prove to his brother—and to himself. He followed John off the road. Using his cane as well, he pushed himself after John, taking each step with care and caution. They needed to move fast, but a careless footstep would set them back hours.
Walking like this, even as handicapped as he was, felt natural to him. They'd spent years surviving on their own in the open, and instantly they fell into their old routine. John scouted roads ahead, reporting back every hour or so. Charlie made the decisions as to which direction to take and when to rest. A part of him missed the simplicity of this life, when it was just about hunting and staying alive. The last time they had stalked the wilderness like this, they had been following Darcy. The priest had foolishly taken a pilgrimage and attracted the attention of a hungry northern tribe. The tribe had weapons, and Charlie knew, if he and John were to survive the coming winter, those weapons would be vital. They followed the priest, waiting while the wolves surrounded, and, when the time was right, they took down the wolves. He didn't expect then that Darcy would be so significant in his life, but all that followed had been started by that man and his kindness.
The ground was rising. Thick, jagged rock formed a natural staircase into higher ground. Using the cane to propel himself forward, and with the support of the brace, Charlie was able to take the steps quickly. His back was hurting, but it had been worse and he knew that there was a lot more fight in him. Purpose was still an active pain reliever, and he'd rely on it for as long as he could. By early evening they had reached the mountaintop.
Charlie sat on a raised rock and waited for John to come back from scouting the next part of their route. The sky was a mixture of purples and indigos, thick clouds billowing under the air pressure. He watched it with a degree of unease. A shower would be welcome; a storm could be lethal without any cover.
John returned and sat beside him, offering him water from their supplies. He too was staring at the sky.
“I think we're going to get wet.” Charlie sighed. “How much longer do you think before it breaks?”
“Maybe a few hours. Maybe not until morning, if we're lucky.”
“When have we ever been lucky?”
“You think we should push on in the dark?”
Charlie was thinking about it, but it wasn't an easy decision to make. If they kept moving they could make it to better ground before the rain hit, maybe even set up camp for a short while and ride out the worst of the weather. But doing so could leave them exposed, and exposure in the middle of nowhere was dangerous. The alternative was finding a place to stop now and delay their progress.
In the end Charlie's impatience got the better of him. “Let's keep going. It's not like we've never had to deal with bad weather before.”
* * *
The mountain seemed to grow steeper, and each step Charlie took was an increasing challenge. He stopped, and a breeze brushed against his hair. He leaned into it, momentarily seduced, like a man listening to a siren. The sudden downpour caught him off guard. John was somewhere ahead. Charlie could just make out his frame in the dusk. He called out, but his voice was lost in the water. He hurried and lengthened his stride to keep up, but the ground betrayed him. His ankle buckled on his next step, and he lost his footing. He slipped on the rocks and the rain took him, pushing him down the side of the path. His cane fell from his hand, tumbling into the abyss below. He grabbed at the rocks to stop himself from going over.
The water ran fast along the ground, passing over the dried-out mud and soaking Charlie. He choked as it filled his nose and mouth, furious at the possibility of drowning on a mountain in the middle of a drought. He tried to crawl forward, but the walk had loosened his muscles too much and they were suddenly unable to get a purchase. His feet kicked uselessly at the mountainside. This was it. He was go
ing to fall.
Then a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. He reached for it and allowed his brother to pull him back onto the track. John's eyes bored into him, and Charlie couldn't help but wonder if John might be better off without him. But then his brother's face softened, and Charlie realised they were still holding on to each other. He patted John's arm in gratitude and the moment was over.
“This way!” John shouted as a streak of lightning lit up the sky. He kept hold of Charlie, pulling him towards a crack in the rocks. The crevice was just big enough for them both to squeeze in. The sound of the rain reverberated off the rocks, interrupted by claps of tumultuous thunder. Charlie stared at the sky with frustration; they weren't going anywhere soon. John was already making himself comfortable. The sleeping bags Hannah had given them were waterproof and padded enough to make the jagged surface only mildly uncomfortable.
“So much for making it through the night,” Charlie said.
“You can try if you want,” John replied. “I'll pick up what's left of your body in the morning.”
Charlie sneered. He was already soaked, but he climbed into the sleeping bag anyway; a wet bed was better than no bed. Together they huddled in their little nook and watched the light show in safety. He dug in his rucksack for a protein bar and, out of habit, split it in half. How many nights had he and John sat like this when they were kids?
“You remember that storm on the moors?” Charlie said. “That was some lightning, never seen anything like it. Did you ever think we'd be here again, sat out in the open watching another storm like this?”
John fixed him with an incredulous stare. “You are seriously not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This heart-to-heart, memory-lane bullshit. It's late. We're halfway up a fucking mountain, fucking drenched, in the middle of a fucking storm. Shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”
“You know what, sometimes you're a real cold son of a bitch,” Charlie said, fighting back a smile; it was, after all, John's cold temperament that had kept them alive all these years. “And you've got a filthy mouth too.”
“It's wet and we're losing time. Don't make it worse by forcing me to kill you.”
“I just want you to know you've been a good brother.”
“I mean it, Charlie. Shut up.”
“I love you, man. Come on, give me a hug.”
“I will shoot you. In the face.” John rested back against the rock. “Don't make me waste my bullets.”
“You saving them for anyone in particular?” Ever since they escaped from the Institute, John had always wanted to get his revenge on Sol. Even though it was Charlie who had been betrayed, John seemed to feel it worse. Charlie suspected it was because Sol still had a hold on him. After everything the bastard had done, Charlie couldn't kill him, and he couldn't let John do it either. “You know you can't go in guns blazing.”
“I know you won't let me.”
“If I could, I would. You know that, right? I want to see that son of a bitch killed for what he's done. I do. But—”
“I get it,” John said. “No killing. This trip just gets better and better.”
“At least Rachel and Roxy are safe and dry back at the yard,” Charlie said as another flash lit up the sky.
“Oh yeah, thank God for that,” John said with a roll of his eyes. “I'll sleep a whole lot better on this bed of rocks knowing those two are comfortable.”
Charlie laughed. Knowing Rachel and Roxy were safe did put him at ease, and he suspected, despite what John said, it reassured him too.
24
Mark walked until his feet started to hurt. He'd made his way around the town three times without taking in any of the shadowy scenery. The summer night's heat was finally relenting, and droplets of rain were threatening to fall. He was tired, but the walk had helped clear his head. He was getting too consumed in the past and his obsession with Rachel. What happened had happened. It was time to move forward.
He thought about his future and what he could achieve if he pushed himself. Ambition had always eluded him before, but now he could focus; he could be something in this world. And he would.
When the rain broke he savoured it, enjoying the water cooling his body. He made his way slowly back to the inn, contemplating a drink at the bar. When was the last time he'd done that? He couldn't remember. As he walked he passed another brick structure where two prostitutes stood smoking underneath a balcony. They beckoned him inside, and he considered it. When was the last time I did that? He thought about Rachel. And then about Agent Stone. A new start would do him good.
His footsteps stopped just short of the bar when he heard a loud groan from the alleyway beside the Black Lion. He dared a subtle look and froze. He recognised the face instantly. It was the imposter—the man that had been in his apartment last year—the same man that had been on the stage at Lulu's. And he wasn't alone.
Mark's heart started to sink when he spotted the woman on her knees in the shadows. She had the same mousy hair as Rachel, but as she angled her head he could see it was someone else. The man groaned again. His eyes were open, staring directly at Mark, but he didn't seem to see him. Mark backed away, moving across the street but unable to abandon the couple totally.
He grabbed his phone and made to call Adams, but his fingers stopped before he could finish punching in the numbers. It was time to think about himself and his future. As the low-pitched groaning sounded again he thought about Rachel, about Agent Stone, and his mind was made up.
He dialled and the call was answered on the second ring.
“Mark? Are you okay?” Agent Stone sounded genuinely concerned.
“The singer is here. The one from the club.”
She said nothing, and he was struck with a pang of dread that he'd done the wrong thing.
But then she answered. “What about the others?”
“I haven't seen them. But he's not alone. He's with a woman. She's… eh, facilitating him in an alleyway.” He hoped he'd used the right word.
He watched the shadows at the side of the inn. There was more movement. The woman stood up, adjusted her hair, and walked away. A moment later the singer did the same. His legs seemed shaky and his direction unclear.
“He's on the move, but the girl is going in a different direction.”
“Follow the singer, Mark. Don't let him out of your sight. I'll come find you. Leave your phone on. I can track it.” She paused. “And be careful.”
He smiled. “I will.”
He followed the singer at a safe distance, but the man was too inebriated to even think about looking around. He seemed to take a few wrong turns, doubling back on himself, before he reached a scrapyard on the edge of town. Mark stepped into the shadows and waited. He'd stay there for as long as it took.
25
Rachel made her way into the junkyard in the early morning. Something was missing. It took a minute, then it hit her: it was too quiet. She hurried into the main workshop. Hannah, Jay, and Roxy were all there. All speechless, pensive even. Something was really wrong.
“What is it?” Her thoughts were immediately on John and Charlie. “Have you heard something?”
“No, as far as we know our boys are still enjoying their road trip,” Roxy said, transfixed by the dusty screen screwed to the wall.
Jay pressed an unsteady finger against it. The footage was from the day before. Rachel could see herself and Roxy talking by the gate, just before she got the urge to leave. Then she saw a girl step into the yard. She was younger than Rachel, and as she brushed by Jay's shoulder Jay didn't even notice her. The girl moved further into the yard, picking up pieces of scrap, clearly looking for something.
Hannah took Rachel's hand. “I noticed things were missing and messed up. We checked the footage and found her. Nobody saw her.”
“She's a Reacher,” Rachel said, although she couldn't quite believe it. “What did she take?”
“A box of medicom equipment,” Jay said. “She could b
e making a bomb.”
“Or she could be repairing a medicom.” Rachel glanced at Roxy. “Darcy had a medicom. It went missing with him.”
“You think she took that priest? I like conspiracy theories, but that's a fucking leap, lady.”
It didn't matter what Jay said. She knew this was no coincidence. She could also tell from Roxy's transfixed glare there was something he wasn't telling her.
“What is it?”
He blinked, swallowed, and started walking away, patting his pockets frantically till he found his cigarettes. She went after him, catching him at the fence to the yard. He sucked a deep breath of smoke into his lungs and then clutched at his hair.
“Roxy, what is it?”
He hesitated, licking nervously at his lips. “Last night in the bar… I don't… Jesus, I don't know what the hell happened. One minute you're there talking to me, and the next she's there.”
“She?”
“The bloody girl on the bloody screen.”
Rachel felt a chill creeping up her back. She grabbed his arm before he could walk away again. “What happened?”
He was upset, more upset than she'd ever seen him. “I—I don't know, but… well, I can bloody well guess. My memory is hazy. I don't remember you leaving, but I remember her sitting down and then…. When I came to my senses I was in an alleyway with my trousers around my ankles, my valuables all very much on display and somewhat noticeably sated. Was a time when I wouldn't have minded. But not with her….” He took another desperate drag. “What could you get? If it was you, how much of my head could you get into?”
Too much. She tried her best It will be okay face. “She may have got very little. I've been in your mind before, Roxy. It's a mess. And getting into someone's head is more difficult than you think it is. There's no straightforward approach, and some minds are harder to crack than others. The only reason it's easier during sex is because of the sensory overload you're experiencing. Weaker Reachers might only be able to put a suggestion in your head, and once you're aware your own thoughts might be compromised it's harder for them to have a hold on you. Sometimes you have to go deep to get anything more than just idle thoughts, and that can be really hard. She might have only got the short-term memory.”
Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3) Page 14
