The Bloodline Trilogy

by Adam Nicholls

  Val began to sweat, his skin getting hot under his collar. It wasn’t the threat of the law that bothered him, but more that she was pushing him to slip back into his old ways. He tried to tell himself it would be okay to become that person one more time—that she was forcing his hand. He thought about his passport on the boat—the one under the name of Oscar Wales—and wished he’d given her that name instead. He sighed. “You don’t really want to see it, do you? If it’s a simple noise complaint, we’ll keep it down. I promise.” It was a desperate attempt at abruptly ending the conflict. He turned on his heel and barely made two steps before she called him back.

  “Mr. Salinger, do not walk away from us!” she screamed at him. As he glanced back, he saw the short young officer storm toward him.

  She called me Salinger.

  He could feel his heart ready to rip out of his chest.

  Officer Lang met his gaze. “That’s right. Your face is all over the papers.”

  Val looked up at where the sniper was. He knew he’d done everything he could to prevent this, but that didn’t make it any easier. With a simple nod of the head, a dart whistled through the air and punctured her neck. For a moment, she reached for it, but then her lights went out and her knees gave way. Val caught her just before she hit the ground and lowered her to the floor.

  The other officer—the man, if you could call him that—stood in surrender with his hands above his head. “I couldn’t stop her, Mr. Salinger.” It was a confirmation that he’d known who Val was all along.

  Val raised a hand to call off the next shot. “You shouldn’t have let her come this close.” He turned to the guards, who looked ready to take action. “Put them in the gatehouse and cuff them. We’ll let them go as soon as we’re done here.”

  The policeman almost laughed with relief. “Thank you, Mr. Salinger.”

  Val’s guards moved straight forward, obeying his order. One of them hauled Lang to her feet and dragged her away; the other escorted the policeman to the gatehouse. Neither put up any resistance, which told Val he’d made the right decision.

  With no more time to waste, he turned and headed back to the yacht’s cabin, where he could prepare for the inevitable war.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They were lying on their bellies in the wet dirt, surveying the yacht from a distance with the use of binoculars (for Blake) and the scope of a rifle (for Greg). Blake was getting into the swing of this. That was, he was beginning to feel a bit more comfortable at a distance, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he was becoming more observant.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s in trouble,” he said to Greg, watching his father walk down the jetty and toward the gate. The police car’s lights whirled around desperately and lit up the entire gating area. Two officers got out and walked straight to him. “He looks a bit like he’s in charge. What exactly is going on?”

  Greg was silent, observing, and then finally grunted. “He probably is. Charlie doesn’t want anybody to see his face, so he gives everyone else the power. Limited power, of course. Anyway,” he rubbed his eyes for better clarity, “those cops are dirty. The guy is, at least.”

  “Hmm.” Blake continued to assess the situation. Something was off, and he would be damned if he didn’t find out before it was too late. But his father was a distraction to his thoughts. Blake pictured seeing him again. Not from a distance like he was now, but face to face, in the same room. Until then, he would only be an image through the lenses of the binoculars. But what would he say? How would he tell him about Marcy? Blake didn’t want to be the one to tell him. Why should he?

  “Look. You’re about to see something special.” Greg was fidgeting, looking far too excitable. Like a kid seeing his first horror movie and marveling at all the gore.

  “What is it?” Blake strained his eyes.

  “Just watch, kid. If you would only open your eyes and observe a little more, you could acquire more knowledge in a single day than most people do in an entire year.” He shifted his gaze to Blake. “And what is knowledge?”

  “Scarce,” Blake jested.

  Greg gave a cold stare. “Power. Knowledge is power. Perhaps you should read a little more, too.” He turned back to his sniper’s scope. “Now look.”

  Blake tried to suck up the insult to his intelligence. He’d known the quote attributed to Sir Francis Bacon—of course he had—but if he wasn’t allowed to lighten the mood from time to time, then they were in more trouble than it seemed. He bit his tongue, peered back through the binoculars, and patiently waited for something spectacular to happen.

  Much to his surprise, it did.

  The female cop fell to the ground, but Val caught her limp body just in time. It reminded Blake of his first swimming lessons with his dad; he would never let him fall. Not until he needed to. “Is she… dead?”

  “I doubt it. Your dad can be too generous sometimes. Probably just a sleep dart.”

  Blake began to sit up, but Greg gripped his arm tight, keeping him in place and burning his skin. “My back hurts,” he protested. “I need to stretch.”

  “Then stretch low.” Greg let go and kept on looking through the scope.

  “I still don’t understand.” Blake rolled onto his back, lifted his arms above his head, and stretched his taut muscles. “Why did we call the police on them? They didn’t exactly prove very useful down there, did they?”

  Greg turned to stare at him, breathing heavily with a short-tempered look in his eye. “Nothing?” He scoffed. “Have you not taken in a single thing that I’ve tried to teach you?”

  Blake cowered his head, feeling like a scolded schoolboy. He thought about all the possible reasons they could have called the police but came back with nothing. He shook his head in shame, certain he was about to learn.

  “Look, it was never my intention to train you, but I like to think you’ve absorbed something into that thick skull. What do you know about the layout down there that you didn’t know five minutes ago?”

  Blake had no idea. He gnawed on his fingernails while he ran through the string of events. The images flickered through his mind like a film reel: the guards patrolling, his father coming off the yacht, and then… “The sniper?” he ventured.

  Greg grinned, his smile a dull white in the moonlight. “Good. Now we know there’s at least one, and that they’re armed primarily with darts. So, they don’t want to kill us. Don’t you see how important that information is? Like I said, knowledge is power.” He climbed to his knees, shifted away from plain sight. When he knew he was in the clear, he stood. “You ready for this? You know what you’re doing?”

  Blake gulped. “I do.” As he slipped the backpack over his shoulders—with the black box and a spare gun inside—he thought to risk one more question. “Do you think he’ll be pleased to see me?”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  Greg handed him a pistol and rolled the black sleeves down his arms. “I would think so.”

  They climbed down and around the rocky terrain, Greg leading the way and Blake trailing behind him with a violent case of the shakes. It wasn’t the gun that made him so nervous—wasn’t even the danger that he was facing for the third time in as many days—but if he got as far as seeing his father, what would he even say to him?

  They got to the bottom of the rocks and stepped onto the flat road that led to the gate. They were just short of a half-mile away, surrounded by the hills that lowered as they skulked toward the marina. That was where they stopped.

  “You know the plan. Let’s do it,” Greg said and raised his hands above his head.

  Blake lifted the gun and aimed it at him. He didn’t trust himself not to squeeze the trigger. Not because he wanted to, but because his body often did things he didn’t consciously tell it to. So, he tucked his finger behind the trigger. At a distance, it would look the same to anybody else. Nobody had to know.

  They walked like that, Blake taking Greg as his hostage, his gift to the A
gency.

  When they reached the gate, both the guards by the chain-link fence raced into their jackets for their guns. They spread their legs, straightened their shoulders. One of them shouted, “Stop right there! What the hell is this?”

  Blake caught sight of the abandoned police car. He shivered and tried not to show it. “Get in touch with Mr. Salinger,” he demanded. His confidence was nothing but an act, though he thought it was somewhat convincing.

  “Perhaps you’re lost,” said the bigger of the two guards.

  “Yeah, there’s nobody here by that name. Even if there was, he wouldn’t want to mix with civilians. So turn yourself around and march back up that road, and I may not shoot you dead.” He looked to the other guard and laughed as if Blake’s gun meant nothing to them.

  “I won’t ask again,” Blake said. “Call Val Salinger and tell him that his son is here. This man is a rogue agent, and he’s wanted by your employer.” He shoved Greg forward and stepped up close behind him. “Would you like me to tell him he escaped because of you?”

  Blake could feel himself slipping and was hoping that Greg would step in, take control. But he didn’t; he stood still with his hands held high.

  “Fuck you,” the big guard said, and then spat at their feet.

  “Yeah, get out of here.”

  Blake’s nerves shook him. He could only bluff this for so long, and it looked like they were about to make a move. Staring the bigger guard dead in his coal-black eyes, he pulled the hammer back on the gun. A simple statement. “I’m getting tired of—”

  Fast as lightning, Greg reached over his shoulder and took the gun. He pulled the trigger, almost catching Blake’s finger under it.

  As time seemed to slow down, the first guard took the bullet right between the eyes. The other, less than a second later, took two silenced pops to the chest. It happened so fast that they both hit the floor at the same time. Blake stood frozen, his mind still catching up to what just happened.

  “Get down!” Greg screamed as he took Blake by the arm and pulled him around like a ragdoll, throwing him through the gatehouse door.

  Blake tumbled straight to the ground, his lungs tight as he panicked. A loud pang hit the ground next to him, and the tranquilizer dart that caused it rolled across the room. His eyes followed it as Greg fired deafening gunshots toward where the sniper was. As the dart rolled to a stop across the room, he saw it. He saw them.

  The male officer had his back to the door, but he was on the floor and handcuffed to the unconscious policewoman who Val had saved from a concussion. Blake paused, wondering if he should help them or run, but was unable to move.

  “I said snap out of it!” Greg roared in his ear. He knelt beside him, using the gatehouse wall as cover. Another dart whistled through the open window, but it overshot by a few yards.

  Blake snapped out of his trance and tried to take in what he was being told.

  “You have a spare weapon in your bag, yes?”

  “Yes.” His eyes leveled on Greg.

  “Just like we talked about, then. Get it out. I’ll cover you while you make it to the yacht. Keep low and stick to the shadows.” He stopped for a moment and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You can do this.”

  Blake broke his gaze. His hands shook as he slipped off the bag and rummaged through it for the spare firearm. Not that he would ever be prepared to use it, but he felt safer having the thing in his hand, no matter how dangerous it was.

  “Ready?” Greg waited for confirmation.

  Blake nodded.

  “Go!”

  Summoning courage he never knew he had, Blake jumped to his feet. Staring straight ahead at the yacht, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He was out in the open. The sound of Greg’s gunfire sang from behind him. When he was out of the lights, he stuck to the wall and ran alongside it until it curved into another wire fence.

  He was sprinting now, thinking of Rachel and how she would find a way to cope without him. She’d lost her mother, too, and now only had her boyfriend left to turn to. But could she even turn to him without the Agency breathing down her neck?

  The gunfire slowed down. Maybe Greg had run out of bullets. That didn’t stop Blake, though—his orders were clear, and he would stick to the plan. After all, he knew he’d probably screw up if he were to improvise again.

  Blake’s feet hit the jetty, his rubber soles slapping against the solid wood. He was almost there. The incline of the gangway was the hardest part. His lungs were on the verge of collapsing, but he was almost there. His legs hurt, his lungs strained, his mind was weak. He made it onto the boat, raising the pistol as he peered around each corner. He wouldn’t shoot anybody else, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

  The gunshots stopped entirely.

  Utter silence.

  Blake figured that either Greg had taken out the sniper and the rest of the team, or worse: the Agency could have shot him. Praying it was the former, he made it to the captain’s cabin. It was eerily quiet in the hallway, but he felt as though he wasn’t alone. The pistol still raised high and aimed in front of him, he flung open the oak doors and continued his search.

  It occurred to him that he might run into more agents, although Greg had assured him all of their firepower was focused on the gate, and if he needed protection, they would have escorted Val away from the scene earlier.

  But that couldn’t quell his underlying fear.

  Inside, the empty room offered unsettling silence. The floor rose and fell as the yacht rocked gently on the water. It was peaceful, tranquil.

  Until he saw the shadow rushing along the wall.

  Blake wrapped his hands tight around the gun, his finger steady on the trigger. Without having chance to look, he spun around to catch the man in front of him. His arms tensed, his heart racing, he was ready to take a life. To kill the man in front of him.

  “Put the gun down,” the man said, tapping his ringed finger against the glass in his hand. He took a sip of his drink, winced at its potency and set it down. The moonlight broke through the window and illuminated his smile. “You won’t need it.”

  Blake’s lip trembled. Stifling his tears, he lowered the gun to his side. He could feel a thousand words dancing on his tongue, but only one could make it through—only one could slip through the joy in his heart. “Dad.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Blake’s heart was caught in his throat like a burning coal.

  It’d been different seeing his father from afar. Looking through the lenses was kind of like looking through a TV screen; he could take it as a work of fiction. But right in front of him, right at this instant and in the flesh, was Val Salinger—father, husband, spy.

  “We’re—” The words barely came out of his dry throat. “Dad.” He cupped a hand to his mouth, a tear teasing his eye. It’d been years since this man had seen him, and even longer since he had seen him cry.

  “It’s okay, son.” His voice was deep but assuring. The way God might sound when he answered your prayers personally. He was looking at Blake as though a memory had come back to visit him. But this memory was here to stay.

  Blake sniffed. It sounded wet. “We’re here for you,” he said to his dad, trying to sound comforting, trying to take control. “We’ll get you out of this mess.”

  “Ah, yes. We. Listen to me, son. Where is the man you came here with?”

  “He’s…” It was a good question. Blake moved to the window, squinted out into the darkness. In the far distance where Greg had been, there was now nobody. Even the sniper’s position was now vacant. “I don’t… Look, we have to leave. You’re in more danger than you know.” Blake put a hand on his shoulder and began to lead him out.

  Val didn’t move.

  “Come on,” Blake said, confused. The backpack strap slid from his shoulder, and he pulled it back up. “We have to go.”

  Val stood up straight, his shoulders held back. He wouldn’t look his son in the eye. “We’re not going anywhere.” H
e lifted a radio to his mouth and spoke into it. “Report in.” The machine crackled and hissed in his hand. It beeped, but no voices came through. “Report in.”

  Nothing.

  Blake didn’t understand what was happening. From what Greg had told him, his father was an experienced fighter with an outstanding firearm record and wits to envy. So then, why did he seem so afraid to leave the yacht?

  “It’s safe in the marina,” Blake said. “Greg will get us out of here. It will all be okay.”

  Val let a small smile escape his lips, despite the odds. “You would make a fine father, you know. Better than I ever was. Though that isn’t saying much.”

  Blake hesitated. “What are you talking ab—”

  Footsteps sounded from the doorway. Then a familiar voice. Only it was different now; where it had sounded trustworthy, it now sounded self-satisfactory. “Yeah, yeah. Val loves his son. Blake loves his dad—yada yada yada.”

  Both Salingers turned to the doorway.

  Stunned, his heart pounding as he failed to accept what he was seeing. Blake laid eyes on Greg, who stood with his face coated in blood and a gun in his hand. It was aimed at Blake.

  “It’s all very emotional,” Greg said. “Like the end of a movie. Oh, except in the movie you guys would have a happy ending.” He leaned in close, whispering in a mocking tone. He grimaced. “I just don’t want to get your hopes up.”

  Blake’s knees went weak. His head spun. What exactly was going on here? He felt as though there was a secret that had been kept from him, like the whole world was laughing behind his back. Like this whole thing had been a joke, and he’d been the punchline. “Greg…” He didn’t know what to say. But he did know that he also had a gun, and that he’d come too far to lose his father now.

  “Greg?” Val questioned, looking lost. “Who’s Greg?”

  Blake pointed. Surely he should know? “Him.” Just as he’d finished saying the word, he realized what had happened. He’d always known that Greg wasn’t the man’s real name, but after three days of barely leaving his side, it’d begun to feel right.