“Oh.” Val’s mouth opened. The look of sudden enlightenment. “Actually, his real name is—”
“Shut up, Val,” Greg threatened. Then, as if from nowhere, he pointed the gun at his old partner and fired it. The sound echoed through the room.
Blake squeezed his eyes tight—a protest to seeing what he didn’t want to see. He could feel his lungs clench. It became difficult to breathe as he wondered, feared, whether Val had just taken a bullet. Slowly, one at a time, he opened his eyes.
Val was still standing, a gaping hole of splintered wood in the cabinet beside him.
Blake let out a breath, suddenly feeling the weight of the gun in his hand. He hadn’t had the courage to use it until now. Maybe Greg knew that he wouldn’t, and maybe that was the whole point. But he would prove him wrong.
He raised the gun.
“Oh, that’s adorable.” Greg laughed. “You didn’t think I would give you a loaded gun?”
Blake doubted it but squeezed the trigger anyway.
Click.
Empty.
“What exactly are you doing?” Blake asked, lowering his tone. “We’re your friends.”
“I don’t keep friends, kid. It leads to bad things. Ain’t that right, Val?” Greg kept his focus on Blake, aimed a finger at the ceiling, and whirled it like a whisk while letting out a soft whistle. “Turn.”
Blake froze for a moment, not understanding. When it dawned on him, he turned around. He felt his backpack lighten as Greg took the black box from it, and then turned around to look at him once more. Greg the traitor, he thought about the man who had been his friend. Greg the turncoat, Greg the snake.
“Jesus,” Greg mumbled. “You were supposed to be a clean kill. An easy kill.”
Blake stared down at the box. He was as eager to know what was inside as Greg had ever been, but the look in Val’s eye suggested it was better for everyone that it remained closed. Some secrets were probably best kept that way.
“The combination,” Greg demanded from Val.
“That’s all you wanted?” Val asked, confusion creasing his face. “But you don’t even know what’s inside. I thought you were worth more than that little mystery.”
“Oh, I want a whole lot more than that, pal. I want the deed to your estate, your retirement fund.”
“You did all this just to rob me blind?”
“Well, and a bullet in your head for the woman you killed.”
Blood rushed to Val’s face as his eyes widened. It was the same way he’d looked at Blake when he was young and in rebellion. He spat his words out. “We killed. You had just as much a part in that as I did!”
Whatever they were talking about, Blake let them at it. There was obviously a past he didn’t know about, and he had a feeling it was bigger than him. Keeping his words to himself, he clenched the gun in his hand, ready to use it as a melee weapon if he absolutely had to.
“But you led the operation!” Greg was screaming now, a vein bulging at his neck. “You made the decision! I was just following orders from a superior. Well, who’s the superior one now, huh?” He pulled back the hammer of the gun. “The combination. Now.”
Val shook his head. “No.”
All at once, Greg turned and squeezed the trigger.
Blake heard the bullet long before he felt it piercing through his flesh.
He stumbled backward and fell onto the desk behind him. The gun dropped to his feet with a clang. Looking down, he saw the wound in his stomach, oozing thick, red liquid. His head felt weightless, his vision like looking through a waterfall. All he could think about as the world grew paler was the cotton taste in his mouth. Was this the taste of death?
“The combination,” Blake heard Greg say again. Though this time it was deeper, hazed.
The light in the room faded. Blake lost all power in his arms. No longer able to support himself, he slumped to the floor. His hand fell away from the bleeding wound, the life leaking from him like water from a broken dam.
In his final moments, Blake could hear the voice of his shooter. Of the man he’d trusted to lead him back to his father.
Blake had been used.
* * *
Officer Jacqueline Lang sat on the floor of the office, her hands cuffed to the man behind her.
They hadn’t hurt her—Val Salinger had kept his word—but while guns had been blazing outside the office, she’d been only semiconscious, and Benny had sat attached to her. She imagined that his head was cowered down as he mouthed silent prayers.
Jacqueline’s head felt like a sponge as she woke from the effects of the dart. Her neck still stung from where it had punctured her, but she would live. She’d been through far worse.
At her feet was the corpse of a man dressed in a guard’s uniform, a look of shock upon his lifeless face. He had taken a bullet to the temple—the wound made that quite clear.
Although she’d seen many dead people before, it never got any easier. The US military was a huge part of her past, but she’d been working in Technical and had little work in the field. Nonetheless, bodies had been rushed past her on their gurneys at the camp: some with terrible burn marks, some with limbs missing, and others with black sheets covering their faces. Jacqueline was able to cope with the sight of them, but she would rather not have to. After all, nobody wanted to look into the eyes of a dead man. That was why she now shifted her gaze.
“We need to get backup,” she said to Benny.
“There’s no point.” His voice sounded weak, broken.
Is he crying?
“What do you mean there’s no point? Have you forgotten your duty?”
“Go screw yourself,” he blurted out. “I never wanted to respond to this one in the first place. You knew who he was. I’m not messing around with the Agency if I can help it. But it’s too late now.” The sound of his feet kicking at the hard wall. “It’s too. Fucking. Late.”
“I recognized him, sure. But if we were all to act like cowards, we’d never get anything done.” She’d known of his cowardice from the second she met him. They’d gone out for drinks before their first shift as partners to get acquainted, and he’d spent the whole night blabbering about how his wife was cheating on him and he was too scared to do anything about it. Those were his words. Not hers.
“Think what you want.” He sniffed. “I’m not going anywhere. There’s nowhere we can go where they won’t find us. We’re practically dead already.”
There was something in the way he said it that sent a chill wavering down her spine. Perhaps it was the illusion that the Agency was an untouchable entity, an organization that could see you, but you could never see them.
Big Brother is watching you.
Jacqueline cringed and studied her surroundings, her eyes scanning around for anything that could help. She’d always thought herself resourceful, and now was her chance to prove it.
Her sight landed on the dead man’s trousers, where something shiny protruded from his pocket. “I think I see something that can help. A pocketknife, maybe.” She looked around her. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” he said in a short breath.
“Look, I know you’ve pretty much given up, but don’t you dare take me down with you. You got it? Now, we need to shuffle over to that guy. You’re going to help me do that.”
“Fine.”
“All right. On three, I’m going to lift my butt off the ground and push my back against yours. I need you to do the same, but push me forward. Got it?”
“Uh-huh.” It sounded noncommittal.
The first attempt was useless—she hadn’t accounted for how much pressure she’d be placing on her legs. They both dropped to the ground in an instant, her ass hitting the cold concrete with a thud. She could feel the pain shooting straight through to the bone.
“Again,” she barked, her fingers mere inches from the man’s pocket. It went smoother then, shifting them forward. They repeated the maneuver once more, turning so she could reach the item sh
e so badly craved.
Wrapping her fingers around the knife, Jacqueline slid it from his pocket and worked the point of the blade. She’d picked locks before as a part of her training, but she’d never done it behind her back. For just a moment, she was worried she would cut Benny’s wrist. Slice it right open. But she dismissed it as an unnecessary concern. He seemed eager to die anyway.
The cuff fell open with a clink.
The sound of freedom.
As soon as she was free, she shook the metal off her wrists and clambered to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly after the work she’d just put them through. She was slipping out of physical fitness, and she silently assigned herself some running time for the next day. If she got out of here alive, that was.
“You’re not coming?” she asked, seeing that Benny was still lying on the floor with his knees against his chest and his hands upon his head.
“To do what? You’ll die if you go in there. Best you can do is just call for backup and pray they don’t send agents to finish you off.” His face was red as he drawled the words. It felt like he was holding Jacqueline accountable for what had happened.
“You think this is my fault?” She towered over him, but he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “You think I wanted any of this? Well, I don’t. I have a dog to go home to, a sister to visit, and a niece to take care of. You think it was my intention to kick up a shitstorm?”
“Yes!” he cried.
Jacqueline looked down at him with pity, but it was pity for his wife, not for him. No wonder she was sleeping around. If Jacqueline had been encumbered with him till death do them part, she would probably be shopping for an upgrade too. “You’re wrong. I was just doing my job. I was doing your damn job too.” She stormed off, rummaging through the pockets of the dead bodies and checking their belts for a radio. She found a cell phone on the last body. As she knelt down to pick it up, he spat red bubbles of blood, sparking to life for a moment. He looked at her with pleading eyes.
This was the stuff that hurt her. Not punches of knives or bullets. But looking into the eyes of a human being as all of his memories—all of his hopes and dreams—fled from him, floating into nothingness as his eyes closed over.
“Steady,” she told herself. Had she said it out loud? Who knew? Who cared? She unhooked the phone and dialed for backup, her eyes now fixed on the yacht. A woman’s voice came through the speaker, but she sounded so calm it was aggravating. When she promised that units were on their way with armed officers, she cut her off. The phone smashed against the ground as she dropped it, and her eyes fell to the handgun that lay beside the crumbled plastic components.
Jacqueline bit her lip in consideration. How long had it been since she’d used one of those things? Four years? She could almost feel the weight in her hand, the same way a person could almost taste the food they craved. She knew she shouldn’t take it—couldn’t… could she? She might have a chance at bringing in the infamous Val Salinger, of putting things right.
She pictured the reinforcements that would come. Jacqueline could imagine it: armed police escorting Val down the gangway with pride after she had made the discovery.
No. She wouldn’t accept that. Jacqueline had to be the one to take him in.
Without looking back, she snatched the gun off the floor and ran toward the yacht.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Blake.” Val’s eyes filled with tears. He’d never been a crier, which had proved to be quite frustrating sometimes. Especially when watching emotional movies. But that problem seemed to be over now; the tears came flooding. “That’s… my son.” He felt as though every fiber of his being had been stripped from him, that his entire life’s work outside of the Agency had counted for nothing. All those home tutors. All those holidays with the boy. They were nothing but memories now.
“He was your son,” Greg said through gritted teeth. “Now he’s just a dying man. And if you don’t give me the combination, he’ll be a thing of the past. Just like that precious wife of yours.”
“Marcy—” Val stepped forward, seeing red, his fists clenched, but stopped when he caught sight of the dark and threatening barrel of the gun. Had Marcy really been hurt, or was he just saying that to anger him?
“The combination. I won’t ask again.”
He really wasn’t sure if it was such a good idea. Giving him the combination could cause more trouble than it was worth. On the other hand, although he would give his own life with no quarrel, the life of his son was not his to submit.
Unless…
“It’s not that simple, old friend,” Val said.
Greg crooked an eyebrow at him. He looked as though he’d been through hell and back; blood spatter on his face, grubby skin and a five-o’clock shadow made him look like a maniac. Though if the Agency had got to him first, he would probably be looking a damn sight worse right now.
“What do you mean? It’s nothing but simple.”
“I mean…” Val cleared his throat and tried not to look at where Blake lay on the floor, dying. “Not only do I need to put in the combination—I also need to call the number from a phone.”
Greg paused, the gun still trained on Val. He looked to be weighing his options.
Val glanced at Blake, who groaned as more and more blood seeped from his gunshot wound. Even if Val could get him out of here, there was no guarantee he could save him. If his son died, he would never forgive the man who’d shot him.
“You’re bluffing,” Greg said.
“What possible reason could I have to lie? You’re going to kill me regardless of what I do, so I may as well open that stupid damn box for you.”
Greg shrugged and then studied the thin, black box once more as if it had changed in the few seconds they’d been talking. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s in there?”
Val shook his head.
“Then it must be something valuable. It must be!” Greg gawked at it and licked his lips with anticipation. “All right,” he said. “But I’m not giving you the phone. You must think I’m completely stupid.” He scratched his head with the gun and pointed it back at Val. “Tell me the code.”
This was turning out worse than he’d hoped. “Fine,” he said. “Give me the box, and I’ll tell you the code.” Val didn’t really want to be the one to open it—it was only reverse psychology, a trickster’s tool.
Greg laughed out loud.
Val hadn’t heard that sound in years, but now it sounded false.
“What, and let you take whatever’s inside? What is it, Val, a weapon? You want to shoot me? Is that it? I’m not that stupid.”
“I can see that.” And he could. Not that he needed to prove himself, but this man had made it this far. Anyone who could survive more than a day when the Agency was on their trail must have had a strong helping of intelligence. Sadly for Val, that made it almost impossible to outsmart him. Almost.
Greg gripped the gun, straightened out his finger, and then coiled it back round the trigger. Sweating, he set the box down at his side, his eyes darting between Val and Blake. Finally, he looked back at Val and outstretched his open hand. “Give me your phone.”
“I don’t have one,” Val lied.
The gunshot echoed in the confines of the sheltered room. Val reached to cover his ears, almost biting his tongue as he hoped he hadn’t been shot. He looked down at his body with hairs pricking on the nape of his neck.
Nothing.
A warning shot.
“All right, all right,” Val gave in. Every bit of resistance was key to his plan. Every time he acted like he didn’t want to do something, even if his life was at stake, it would come across all the more sincere. Slowly, he slid only his thumb and forefinger into his pocket, retrieving the cell phone that he’d pickpocketed from some thuggish-looking kid in the center of Los Angeles earlier that day.
Greg inched forward and took the phone from him. “The combination?”
“One-four-zero-four-one-nine-five-seven,” he said rel
uctantly.
While he fiddled with the digits, Greg kept a slack eye on him. “Cute. Whose birthday?”
“Marcy’s.” The thought of her brewed up a new storm of emotions, but he couldn’t let it get to him now. She may not even be dead. For all he knew, she was safe and sound at home with her feet up and a cat in her lap.
“Nine, five…” Greg mumbled, still fidgeting, “Seven…”
A clicking sound.
Giving him the combination had been suicide, but what other choice did Val have? If he didn’t give it, he’d have been killed on the spot. At least this way he would go out like a real man.
“And now dial the same number?” Greg brought the phone to his face, balancing it between the box and his fingers. It looked awkward, and maybe that would have given Val an edge if he was younger, nimbler, more agile.
“Yes,” Val said. “But please let me open it. It would really be better for—”
“Shut up, for the love of God. It doesn’t look like you call the shots in here, does it?”
“I suppose not,” he said, resigning.
“Well then…” Greg tapped the number into the phone.
Val counted the key presses, anticipation raging within him like a fire. Terrified of what was about to happen, he shuddered, closed his eyes. He bit down hard, grinding his teeth.
Greg pressed the final button.
Val heard the bleep come from the box and caught a glimpse of panic in the man’s eyes. They widened, stricken with fear and realization. In a desperate attempt to get free, he hurled the box out the half-open window.
But it was too late.
The explosion missed Val and his son, but the blow was deafening. A cloud of fire ballooned at the glass. The yacht was thrown sideways. Val, Greg, and an unconscious—perhaps dead—Blake were all launched against the wall. Val smashed his head. His shoulder and elbows cracked against the hard wooden panels.
He let out a groan.
For a brief moment, Val thought he heard Blake cry out, though it was hard to make out much of anything with the ringing in his ears. Still, there was always hope.
Clean Kill Page 14
