While their attention moved to the man and his deceased lover, she got up herself. She concentrated with all her might. You don't see me, she thought, you can't fucking see me so don't even look. Her feet gingerly moved towards the door. Then she stopped. The family of three were sitting to her left. The youngest, a girl no older than five was trembling. A pool of urine had settled beneath her shoeless feet. The family smelt of smoke and blood. Rachel reached out and touched the girl's head. Then she saw it; the burnt out car, the father consumed by the flames, the men on the mother and the children watching on the hard shoulder of the motorway unable to understand. Unable to turn away in case they lost their only surviving parent.
She removed her hand, unable and unwilling to leave. She sidled into the family's booth and smiled at the shell shocked children. Their wide eyes took her in, showing some signs of hope or relief, while their mother watched the butter harden on her cold slice of toast. Rachel touched the children's hands gently.
"It's going to be okay," she told them, her words penetrating deep into their subconscious so neither flinched when the gun fire started outside.
3
The last time Charlie had been on the road he was doped up on self-prescribed pain killers and in a bad place. His wife had been murdered, his daughter was missing and in a confused daze he wandered the aisles of the nearest service station, looking for supplies to keep him and John alive for just a little while longer. Nothing much had changed in the intervening months. His wife was still dead, his daughter still missing and there was still a lingering trace of the narcotics keeping him afloat.
Although there was one thing that was different. There were three of them now. Adopting Rachel had been a decision made out of circumstance and because of what she was. Just like him she was a Reacher and the bond between them was instantaneous. He couldn't allow her to be hurt, it went against every feeling he had, and leaving her in S'aven would undoubtedly have been leaving her for dead. People knew what she was, it was only a matter of time before they tracked her down and forced her to use her powers. Before she got caught and killed.
Charlie watched her disappear into the cafe apprehensively. She was a smart girl, and she probably had more sense now than Charlie had ever had. She was young, nine years younger than Charlie, five years younger than John, but s he had escaped Red Forest and walking through a warzone like that aged a person beyond years. Rachel was a fighter – she had to be. Charlie just wasn't sure if she was ready to fight his battles with them. And even if she was, he wasn't sure he wanted to burden her with the responsibility.
He went into the kiosk and reached for a basket. His outstretched hand was trembling. It had been over a day since he'd last taken his medication. He checked around to see who was watching. Thinking he was in the clear he reached into his pocket to retrieve his pill bottle.
"What's that you're putting in your pocket?" The old man appeared at the till in the corner. "Tim, get over here, we've got a thief!"
Tim, the guard, was in the kiosk before Charlie could show them what he was hiding. The barrel of the rifle followed his hand as he removed his pot of pills and rattled them.
"Just getting my meds guys."
Tim snatched them, reading the label with interest. Then he made Charlie turn around while he checked his other pockets. Eventually Tim shook his head, finding nothing that could incriminate Charlie. He let Charlie go but kept hold of his pills.
"I need those," Charlie said.
"Then we can trade for them," the old man said. "Think of it as insurance. I'll be watching you."
"I told you, we don't mean you any trouble."
"Son, if I had a pound for every goddamn thieving bastard that said that to me I wouldn't be sat here waiting for winter."
Charlie conceded the point. "I'll be as quick as I can."
He turned to the shelves. They were well stocked, not like most places this time of year. This station had everything they needed; protein meals, water purifiers, even thermal clothing. Charlie started filling his basket, his fingers picking up item after item greedily. Then he stopped, midway through the protein meals. It didn't matter that he could pay for it, if he took too much there could be trouble.
"You got plenty of stock for the winter?" Charlie asked out of courtesy.
"What's it to you?" the old man snapped.
"Just don't want to clear you out."
"There's no chance of that."
"Never seen shelves this full this time of year before."
Neither the old man, nor Tim, answered. Things don't feel right. He heard Rachel's voice roll over in his mind.
The world outside of S'aven was barren and wild. Things were different. People were different. And Charlie adapted accordingly. He'd suffered winters in the wilderness and bustled with the chaos of the city. He understood the service station, the caution they had towards him, the steps they would go to if they thought their lives and livelihoods were threatened. He respected them. But Rachel was right. Things didn't feel right.
Carefully he put the basket of supplies down. He'd made a mistake. Rachel was in another room. John was outside. They should have stayed together. Charlie closed his eyes and listened. There was noise throughout the station; people, machinery, the hum of the generator keeping the place alive. They could easily be outnumbered. Service stations were normally well armed, with large store rooms potentially filled with guards. Charlie flexed his fingers. Things were going to get messy.
He turned to the old man as the sound of a vehicle shook the outer wall. The old man fought a smile, the hint of smugness betraying what was about to happen. Charlie shook his head.
"You can stop," Charlie told him. "You can call it off, we'll pay for what we want and leave without trouble."
"Now son why would we do a thing like that?" the old man chuckled.
Charlie smiled. "Because in ten minutes these floors are going to be red and I'll be walking out of here anyway."
The old man, his hands hidden below the counter, tensed. But he was cocky, this was an old scam and he'd dealt with wise guys before.
"You don't do much steady walking as it is, I don't think we've got much to worry about."
It was Charlie's turn to laugh. "Well it's not just me you have to worry about is it. My brother out there is not a man you should underestimate." Charlie paused, thinking about Rachel. She wasn't defenceless either. He started to grin. "Nor is my sister." The last word gave Charlie a surge of energy.
The old man's eyes flicked to Tim. He hadn't seen a woman. Now he was worried.
"You're bluffing and even if you weren't do you think some tart would concern us?"
Two shots fired in the car park. John had a rhythm Charlie would recognise anywhere. Then a car horn blared. Flexing his fingers Charlie stared at the old man.
"You should be concerned my friend, because she is just like me."
He raised his hands and the shelves lifted into the air. The old man had enough time to draw his gun before the metal frames hurtled into him. He was pinned. His shotgun out of reach. Charlie dropped to his knees before Tim could get a good aim. He swiped his crutch and knocked the rifle out of Tim's hand. But it was still strapped to the guard's shoulder and just spun around his back. Charlie dived at the man, knocking him back into the corridor. The pill bottle hit the floor and shattered. What was left of Charlie's medication was lost in the debris of the kiosk. Tim writhed underneath Charlie and Charlie lost his temper. He slammed his fists into Tim's face over and over.
Tim's body went limp, his bulk rendered useless under an addict robbed of his next fix. Charlie rolled off him and shook the rifle free. He'd taken a few hits and as he tried to get up he felt the full force of the fight in his legs. The gunfire outside grew louder – something automatic. Charlie glanced at the exit. Help his brother or find Rachel? For a moment he was torn. Then the automatic firing stopped. Mind made up he lunged towards the door to the cafe.
"Rachel!" he shouted as the butt of an
identical rifle smacked him across the face.
4
John didn't like their car. The tyres were cheap, fine for city travel but no good for hitting country dirt tracks. He wasn't confident about the battery either. They were going into hibernation and the car was filled with useless gadgets which would drain the power in less than a week. It was Italian too. John was particular, he liked his cars German – everything else was only good for scrap.
He filled the car with petrol, watching as one security guard went in and was replaced with another. From where he was standing he could inspect the quality of their weapons. They were newly made forgeries, probably good for a handful of shots and little else. It was easy to manufacture weapons for novice fighters looking to protect themselves. If a man wasn't interested in heavy duty then a counterfeit rifle would do nicely, but John could see by the arrogance with which these weapons were being held that the shooters had no idea how lousy their armoury actually was.
The new guard leaned against the wall of the entrance. He was feigning disinterest in John, more fascinated in the floor than what was going on in the car park in front of him. He should have been more cautious. He should have been watching John meticulously.
The petrol pump clicked. The car was full. John opened the boot. The movement drew the guard's attention but only briefly. His casualness was starting to annoy John. Even when John removed a petrol can from the boot the guard barely flinched. With a shake of his head John went back to the pump and started filling again; enough for the road ahead and back if they were lucky.
A rumble struck the main road into the service station. The concealed bend hid whatever was coming, but from the sound alone John new it was big. He glanced up at the guard. He hadn't drawn his weapon, he wasn't even concerned. In an instant John knew what was going on. This was an ambush.
As the first glimpse of the Humvee came into view John had already put the petrol can down and replaced the pump. If he ran, took out the guard at the door, he could make it into the service station. But what would be in there? And what vantage point could he take? The Humvee rolled closer. Six men inside and a mounted turret on the back. John smirked; it was overkill and it was going to be their downfall.
The Humvee rolled towards the pumps. The men inside were cheering excitedly. But these weren't trained killers, or even the wild men of the North who were intent on raping and eating anything that crossed their territory. These men had just been made desperate. Whether it was a failed delivery, or maybe a robbery that had seen their supplies dwindled, something had pushed these men towards drastic action. Their plan – and it was obvious to John – was to lure unsuspecting travellers to them and then rob them for everything they had. John could see from the wild glint in some of their eyes that killing had followed as a consequence. These men weren't true murderers, they didn't enjoy blood on their hands, but they were getting a taste for it. Fortunately for them, it would be a thirst they wouldn't have for long.
John moved quickly. His weapon was pointing at the guard by the door before the car stopped. Bang. The guard dropped; a hole in the centre of his head. John adjusted his position, calculating the next target in less than half a second. Bang. The driver's head hit the car horn. The Humvee rolled forward, hit the second petrol pump and stopped. The men inside were in shock. Two of their own were dead and they hadn't even made eye contact with their killer.
As they started to pile out of the vehicle John was already moving. Using his own car for cover he fired another two shots. One man flew back, punctured in the chest. The other clasping his neck as his jugular erupted in a fountain of blood. Then John ran. A volley of shots clipped the bricks of the service station wall, but John was already behind the corner. He flexed his shoulders and dared a look.
They were coming. Two of them, the youngest of the pack, taking brave steps towards the side of the building. Their breathing heaved under the pressure. Their footsteps crunched on the dirt of the track. John closed his eyes and counted. Six, five, four. One of the guards was wavering. He slowed behind his comrade. Three, two.
The gun came before the body of the man. John snatched the barrel and slammed the weapon into the wall. Its owner yelped, fumbling for a hold on the weapon.
Contrary to what a lot of people thought John wasn't a man that loved killing. He had killed, he would do so again and he was very good at it, but the moment of taking a man's life left him with nothing but emptiness. He waited for the unarmed man to make a decision. And he did. He picked up his battered rifle and pointed it at John, a trace of premature victory touched his lips. Then he fired. The gun was blocked. He pressed the trigger again. John arched his brow and shot him in the heart. Then John turned the corner to deal with the coward.
The turret nearly caught him. He ducked back to cover as it ate up the tarmac. And then he heard it – a shout coming from inside the building. The calculating brain started spiralling. He had to get inside. His brother was in there. Rachel was in there. The turret stopped. It was his chance. Another man might have hesitated but not John. Hesitation wasted opportunities. He stepped out and instantly grabbed the last guard on foot. He pulled him close, putting a bullet in his leg. The boy screamed in agony, but John wouldn't let him go. The writhing body was a perfect shield.
Holding onto him tightly John marched, his eyes seeking out the man operating the turret, daring him to kill one of his own. Like a fool the gunman was standing upright against his machine gun, looking at John with a gaping mouth. It only took one bullet to bring him down. John pushed the boy he was holding to the floor. He fired his gun again, putting a full stop to the bloodbath.
As he stepped over the body in the doorway John's mind was already on clearing the inside of the building. He didn't think about the men he had killed. They had made their choice and they were gone because of it. John's focus was his family and they were in danger.
The inside of the building hummed with electricity. John heard groaning coming from the kiosk. There was a dead man in the adjoining corridor. His brother had always been unsubtle when it came to taking out the enemy. The noise was coming from a pile of shelving. It wasn't Charlie or Rachel so John wasn't interested.
He turned to the cafe instead. He kicked the door opened and spotted Charlie on the floor. His brother was still breathing. Bang. Bang. Bang. Which was more than could be said for the men beating him. With the bodies fallen he bent down to lift his brother up. Charlie groaned.
"What the hell kept you?"
John looked around the canteen. He spotted another man, for some reason sitting opposite a corpse, and a woman sat with two shell shocked kids. Nobody was watching them. John rested Charlie against the wall, he wasn't as battered as he could have been.
"You good?" John asked; it was his way of asking if Charlie had sustained any injury that needed immediate attention.
"Yeah, I'm fucking great. Where's Rach'?"
They turned and someone started wailing. A huge woman charged at them, a knife raised in the air. John went for his gun but a bullet fired before he even got it out of the holster. The woman thundered to the floor, crushing the bodies of the men she had taken care of with weak tea and tinned food. Rachel stood behind her. The gun in her hand smoked. Her stance was steady, her eyes focussed. John felt a pang of pride at the sight of her.
"I'm here," she told them both.
And Charlie and John smiled at each other. Yes, she was and it was the best decision they ever made.
5
Since meeting the brothers Rachel had killed twice. She didn't regret either death, maybe that was John's influence. Neither would keep her up at night, because this was how the world was now. It was kill or be killed and she was intent on staying alive and keeping the brothers alive; her brothers now. It wasn't a conventional family but it was one she was grateful to be part of.
They followed John out of the station. He pointed at the Humvee and the adorning corpses littering the vehicle and the car park.
"What
do you think?" he said.
"Subtle," his brother said. "And I bet you want to keep the turret don't you?"
John didn't answer – of course he did.
"Fine," Charlie conceded, and left his brother to clean up the dead cluttering their new car.
Rachel took the time alone to check him over. In her old life she had been a doctor and Charlie had never looked so much like a patient before. His split lip and swollen face were a clear sign that he could have damaged himself elsewhere. She inspected him, checking his neck and his ribs. There was nothing to cause her major alarm.
"Satisfied doctor?" he said.
"I think you'll live. Does it hurt?"
"Of course not," he lied.
She was concerned, he didn't need to cope with any more pain.
"Don't worry," he said. "I lost my medication."
Before he could protest she drew him near. "Then let me help." Pain and addiction started in the mind and that was her domain. She could take away the agony for a little while, but for someone like Charlie that was a waste of time. Instead she pushed an idea he could build on; you can cope, you can do this. When she pulled away he looked brighter. He didn't say anything, he just gave her a grateful smile.
"Are we really going to drive around in that?" she asked, nodding at the Humvee.
"John's got a thing about military vehicles."
"What about our car?"
"We leave it here."
"John!" Rachel suddenly called. "Can you get the bodies out of the way?"
From the back of the Humvee John scowled.
"There's kids inside and as much as I appreciate your creativity I think they've seen enough for one day."
Family (Reachers) Page 2
