Every Storm Breaks (Reachers Book 3)

by L E Fitzpatrick

  Morning light struck his windscreen, and he realised he was cutting it too close to making the Blackwater train. If he pushed his speed, he might just arrive in time to see it leave the station.

  His phone started vibrating. He looked at the caller ID and frowned.

  “Bellamy?” he said, putting the phone on speaker. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Sir, I, eh, I think I'm in trouble. I think I've messed up, Adams. Really messed up.” He sounded on the brink of tears.

  “All right, calm down,” Adams said, slowing the car. “Where are you?”

  “Heading south to London on the M1.”

  “Is Curtis with you?”

  “No, they've taken him somewhere else.” There was a pause and his voice lowered. “Adams, the Institute put him on the train back to London. They're behind it all. They want him to kill people. Agent Stone said when the train pulls into the station everyone will be dead. The doctor is supposed to kill everyone, and then they'll take him out when he gets to S'aven.”

  Adams closed his eyes, swallowing the thick lump in his throat. “He's going to blow up the train?”

  “No. I think she wants him to kill people like he did the girls back in S'aven, to show the world what Reachers are capable of.”

  Adams was overawed by the genius of it. Bombs exploded all the time, but this would get everyone's attention. A train arriving in S'aven filled with bodies all murdered in the same paranormal way; nothing like this had ever happened before. There would be mass panic. This would be something more than bombs and explosions. This would be something that would shock the world and turn every Reacher sympathiser. It would change everything.

  “Where are they now, Bellamy?”

  “Curtis is already on the train. But Agent Stone has Rachel. They're taking her to a laboratory somewhere north, I don't know where. Adams, Rachel's not bad, not like they say. They tortured her. And… and….” He paused to compose himself. Adams suspected he was wiping away his tears. “I made a mistake. I thought the Institute were doing the right thing. But they're not. Now they want me to go back to London, they want you out of the office. They think I'll do whatever they want. But I have to do something. I have to help Rachel.”

  Adams pulled up the car. He'd been waiting, hoping for this revelation, but it had come too late. “Listen to me very carefully, Mark. I brought you out of the work camp because you're a good man and PCU needs good men. But you need to be careful now. Keep going south. Get to London, and never tell anyone you called me. If the Institute ask you to do something, you do it. Never go the extra mile. Never tell them anything they don't know already. Think on everything I've taught you, on everything we've done together.”

  “What about Rachel? They're going to hurt her. I could go after them.”

  “They'll kill you. Listen to me. You can't take them on alone. You need to be smart.”

  “I can't just leave her, Adams.”

  He knew Mark was passionate and headstrong. It was one of the things he admired about the kid. But he was reckless too. Adams couldn't let him go after Rachel, not like this. He tapped at the steering wheel, and it came to him. “Do as they say. If they suspect, even for a second, you're not fully committed to them, you'll be finished. I'll make sure Rachel doesn't reach the Institute.”

  “How?”

  “It's best you don't know. But trust me. If they can be stopped, they will be. They all will be.”

  “When will you get to London?”

  Resolved, Adams pulled back onto the road and took a left away from Blackwater. “Soon. You've been dealt a shit hand, Mark, a really shit hand. But you can change things. I've always known that.”

  He hung up. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. Bellamy was supposed to be his protégé, not his successor. He had wanted to teach the kid, show him what the world was really like, step by step. He'd wanted to prepare Bellamy, to make him strong and ready so that when they had proof, they would both be able to show the world. Now Bellamy was left in charge without any guidance or support. And, with Rachel in peril, he wouldn't even be thinking clearly. Adams knew what he had to do: he called the number Charlie Smith had reached him from and prayed he had kept the phone active.

  When Smith answered, he almost cried.

  “Agent?”

  “Shut up and listen. There's a base camp they're transporting your friend to, located thirty-eight miles east of Leeds.” He didn't wait for Charlie to speak; there was still the possibility the Institute were tracking him, and he needed all the minutes he could get.

  Instead, he tossed the phone onto the driver's seat and pressed his foot on the accelerator, feeling a strange peace at his decision.

  * * *

  Jan Curtis dropped to his knees. The train rattled against the track, shaking his body and the bodies of those around him. He stared at the metal grate beneath his feet. His head hurt; a sharp stabbing prodded his temples. The lights in the carriage flickered. With the darkness came the memories. How did he get here? He could see cars and people. He remembered Rachel, her fate sealed and tragic. He could not save her. He did not try. The pieces of his mind were fragmenting beyond his comprehension. All he knew now was that he was no longer in control. The other had won, and he was just an afterthought in his body.

  He saw glimpses of the other's movements, a kaleidoscope of violence and death. His feet had crossed the border from platform to carriage; his chaperones had released him. He was free, the other unleashed. The passengers, mainly hard-faced men occupying the worn seats with old weapons and uninterested eyes, were ignorant to him. They were there for something else, and they could not stop him. There were only two families travelling with them, and a handful of stray solitary travellers braving a fool's journey back to London.

  If Jan focused, he could recall some of their faces. The bearded man with the scar, tapping his foot. The young man clutching a battered rucksack and chewing on his lower lip. The little girl, staring wide-eyed at the rest of the carriage as she twirled her fingers around her mother's golden hair. Her eyes were still open, her fingers now lifelessly hanging at her side. The other had killed them all. Jan couldn't remember if it was quick or painless. He couldn't recall how long it took, or how the other had done it. Just that it had happened, and, for now, the darkness within him was placated.

  He took a bold breath and rose, his fingertips tingling, his head twitching violently. There was still a final act to complete. He would reach the station on the London border, and the Institute would kill him. He began to move through the carriages, past the bodies and luggage. Concentration was key: reach the destination.

  “The stars of heaven and their constellations will not flash forth their light,” he said. “The sun will be dark when it rises and the moon will not shed its light.”

  He reached the driver's carriage and dragged the driver's body out. “I will punish the world for its evil and the wicked for their iniquity.”

  He sealed himself inside the carriage and found refuge on the floor in the corner. He hugged his knees to his chest. “I will make mortal man scarcer than pure gold.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto his knees. Death awaited him, but after that he didn't know. His father had preached about Heaven and Hell to hundreds, and Jan had felt his soul redeemed. But his father was a murderer. His mother a sinful victim. Were their souls together, or separated for eternity? Sol had promised him redemption and salvation. A return home. But Sol was a liar. Jan squeezed his eyes shut. The fate of his soul was beyond his control; he had to fulfil his mission. He had to die. And he thought of Rachel, her bloodied face, the purity in her eyes.

  “Forgive me.”

  * * *

  Wade Adams was just a man. He'd underachieved in life, getting consumed in a trauma and then lost in a mystery. He hadn't seen his kids in years and barely even thought of them during that time. They were better off without him, although now he regretted not passing on something of himself to them.
At least he had Bellamy.

  His cause had been the safety of London. Sometimes it was a fool's mission, but he'd believed in it. He still believed in it. There were people who were alive because of him, dangerous people who were in prison, or worse, because he had brought them down. The more he thought through his life, the more he realised—as clichéd as it was—he had in fact done it his way. His decisions, his mistakes were his own, and now his work would continue through Bellamy.

  He had a good feeling about the kid. As daft as Bellamy could be, there was an inherent goodness to him. He could be duped, he could be naïve, but he could never be evil. Now he would take on the PCU, maybe even improve it. The boy had heart and determination, and his stubborn streak could be useful too. And now he had seen the truth. Mark would do something exceptional. Adams was just sorry he wouldn't see it.

  It was ten a.m. when he reached the track lines crossing over the bridge. He moved the car onto the track and drove out into the centre of the bridge. The view was spectacular, and it made him smile. He'd always thought he'd spend his last moments shitting his guts out in the toilet, or collapsing in some back alley in the middle of a chase. But here—this was a good final scene.

  He checked his watch and switched off the engine. There was a strange, beautiful silence settling in the car. He wasn't afraid or worried. Nor did he feel the urge to kill himself. This wasn't suicide, or anything frivolous or selfish. This was his final duty; the man left behind.

  If the train reached London, the world would change for the worse. If London even suspected what was coming, it would throw an already tumultuous government into chaos. But if a man—a desperate, lonely, overweight man stuck in a dead-end job, with no wife, no friends, no hope—happened to take it upon himself to commit a selfish act, taking his life and the lives of hundreds of passengers with him…. Well, it would make the news. It would get people talking. But they wouldn't be turning to the Institute. They wouldn't be looking for stricter rules and more order.

  Ten minutes before the train was due, Adams made his final phone call. He thought about the people on that train—all those Blackwater men who had been ordered to their deaths. Were they dead already? It was entirely possible. The call connected, and Adams cleared his throat.

  “Sheriff, I've found him.”

  “Do you need backup?”

  “No. It's not good news. Listen, in a minute I'm going to make a statement. You need to record it and stay silent.”

  “Agent, I'm not sure what you're asking.”

  “The men you sent to London are dead, and all that has happened is not what you think it is. Reachers are not to blame for this, and that train cannot make its destination. I'm going to stop it, but people must believe I killed myself.”

  “Agent?!”

  “The man who killed your daughter will be dead. He won't ever hurt another girl again. I promise you. Now, start recording.”

  He heard the static in the line change. “Blackwater Station. How can I help?” the sheriff said.

  “My name is Wade Adams. I'm sorry, I've decided I can't go on.”

  “Where are you, Mr Adams?”

  “The train track. It won't be long. Please tell my boys that I'm proud of them and so very sorry. Goodbye, Officer.”

  The ground beneath him started to tremble. He shuffled in his seat and lit a cigarette. Somewhere his boys were living out their lives; they had a new father, a new home. He hoped they were happy—they deserved to be. And, although his sacrifice would blacken his reputation with them and everyone else who knew him, it could secure their future for a few more years. It was worth it. He closed his eyes and waited for the train to come.

  37

  When Charlie and John were kids, they used to fantasise about going after the Institute, even taking down a vehicle and freeing a captured Reacher. Charlie always wondered why nobody had ever tried it. Now he knew: the Institute was working with the largest group of Reachers in Britain, ensuring they would never be a target for a serious Reacher attack.

  Sol had always known enough about Charlie to make guesses and assumptions about his movements. He only struggled when it came to John. Charlie now wondered if it was Sol who sent Scarlet in, with her sympathetic ear and convenient counsel, the first time. Had Sol told her where Charlie was vulnerable? Had he pushed them to murder Sarah and take Lilly? Or had the Institute been the one pulling the strings?

  In the end it didn't matter. He'd already made up his mind. He'd take them out. One by one. He'd take them all out.

  There were several Institute locations scattered around the country, some known, most hidden. If Adams hadn't clued them in, they'd be running in the dark, but he had, and now, with John's driving, they were already ahead, cutting the convoy off several miles from the suspected drop point.

  “We go in quick and clean,” Charlie told them. “The priority is getting Rachel and getting out and away. Whatever it takes.”

  John watched the road.

  “Roxy, you go after Rachel. You get to her vehicle, get her out, and get her to safety. If we don't follow you, you bail and go to ground.”

  Charlie patted the mechanism on his leg and began to arm himself.

  * * *

  Trees flanked the road where they would make their stand. Their car was hidden, keys in the ignition, ready to go. Roxy was concealed too, and if he did his job properly they wouldn't see him until after the killing was over. The two brothers stood in the roadway, waiting. Charlie loosened his shoulders, feeling the vibrations around him with his fingertips. His brother kept his focus on the road. And, eventually, the low rumble of the convoy started approaching.

  Charlie scanned the treeline; he could make out the approaching vehicles. Rachel would be in the largest. He already knew she was injured. Even if she was conscious, she wouldn't be able to help them. Charlie stood tall, his body pulsating with power; he'd save her. Whatever the cost.

  The approaching vehicles hit the stretch of tarmac in front of them. Their headlights lit up the brothers. And they started to slow. Charlie felt for them, touching their mechanics with his mind. Such complex machines. So easy to manipulate. He swiped his hands. The first vehicle rolled to the right. It hit the verge and lost control. The trees did the rest, battering the car as it fell down the sharp incline. The next vehicle accelerated. John fired three shots. Left tyre. Right tyre. Driver. Unmanned, the vehicle rocked over the road. Charlie pushed again. The car's wheels twisted, swerving into the vehicle behind.

  John was moving. Shadows clambered out of the useless vehicles. Shot. Dead. Shot. Dead. Effortless. Masterful. Charlie stood his ground in the centre of the road, the weight of his supported leg grounding him, making him stronger. He felt for the overturned second car and pushed it away, exposing the third vehicle and the driver within.

  The sight of her struck him. Her wide eyes glared through the glass, and he glared back. He hated her. This woman that had taken everything from him. Sarah. Lilly. And now Rachel. The windscreen started to shake. She leapt from the door as it shattered, showering the driver's seat. Charlie scanned the treeline, expecting her to run. But he always underestimated her. This lover-cum-killer.

  She rose from the car, her body unblemished. If she was scared, he couldn't tell. Her lips—lips that had covered him, deceived him—twitched. It was all a game for her. A game she thought she could win. But she had been caught by surprise. Another shot to their left, and her confidence started to wane. She stepped forward, keeping her hands to her sides. Charlie watched her, felt for her. Could he break her neck like Curtis could? He wanted to.

  “Hello, Charlie.” Her eyes ran over his body, resting on the contraption on his leg. “You're looking much better than when I last saw you.”

  “Where's Rachel?”

  “I thought you'd have learned by now, I'm the only woman in your life.”

  The vehicle behind her was heavy. He flexed his fingers, twisting the metal plating. A flash of lightning lit up the sky. And he count
ed. One. Two. The thunder roared. Charlie pulled forward. The car screeched towards him. It was meant to crush her, but when he looked, she was inches from him, unharmed. He raised his hand, blocking her punch. But her knee hit him hard, and he went down. There was no way he could beat her, but every second he bought was vital for Roxy. All Charlie had to do was keep her distracted. And stay alive.

  * * *

  Roxy pressed himself into the embankment as the road lit up. He closed his eyes, thought about having a cigarette, and twisted the wire in his hands. Then he heard the crash. Pulling himself up through the undergrowth, he peered over the road. It was a mess: cars upturned, soldiers rushing forward. Roxy stayed low. The transporter sat untouched in the carnage, and all he had to do was make it there unseen. The driver had secured the back of the vehicle. She stood poised, but her attention was on the road ahead.

  Stealth was not Roxy's forte. Even when he was playing at master thief, he was more alley cat than cat burglar. When he broke cover, he would have to move fast. He took a wheezy breath. Scanned the road to his right. It was clear. He was about to move, and a flash lit up the sky. The soldier looked up. And he took his chance.

  As the atmosphere rumbled, he hooked the wire over her neck. She kicked, dropped her weapon, and went limp. He lowered her onto the floor and grabbed her beret. Pressing himself up against the transporter, beret on his head, he manoeuvred into the driver's seat and unlocked the back.

  “So far so good.” Then he looked out the window. Charlie was down, Scarlet standing over him. Roxy reached for his gun. Then stopped himself. If he missed, they'd know he was there. And if they knew he was there, they'd try to stop him.

  He dropped out of the vehicle and moved to the back. The door hissed, and he eased it open. Inside, Rachel was hanging from a metal bar, just like Charlie had been. Her hands were bound with plastic ties, but even if she'd been free, she looked in no condition to do anything.