The Bloodline Trilogy

by Adam Nicholls

  And that was something.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Charlie had seen the whole thing from a distance, up on the mound where the driver had stopped the car. Up where he was safe, the silent observer.

  Everything had been going so smoothly until Grover had been gunned down. He’d have to formulate an appropriate story for that, too. Something the police would be happy to believe.

  There’s nothing quite like an alleyway mugging to stir up the crowd.

  Safe and warm in the back seat, the rich leather letting off a pleasant scent, he’d relaxed to watch the whole show—had even screamed to himself when he saw the yacht go down. He could sense his entire plan sinking with the yacht.

  He considered his options, every one of them heavily involving vengeance. The Agency would come apart for as long as the Salingers were around to cause trouble. It seemed his luck was taking a nosedive.

  He demanded a scope from the driver, something to enhance his vision. Furious, he watched a policewoman dragging a young man up to the jetty. She’d struggled frantically, desperate to save a life.

  Charlie admired her determination.

  I should get her on the payroll, he thought to himself.

  When the woman got the man safely on the jetty, she dived straight back in and soon emerged with a second person. Were it not so dark, he would have seen it sooner, but now, under the delicate brush of the city’s lights, it was obvious who they were.

  The Salingers.

  “Get us down there,” he told his driver. “Some things you have to do yourself… Wait.” Red and blue police lights illuminated the distance, growing larger, flashing brighter as they got closer to the sinking yacht. By the time they arrived, everybody would have dispersed, and they’d have nothing to go on other than what he would say.

  He shifted the scope back over to where the woman was, but all three of them had vanished from sight, scurrying away to die another day.

  “Shit.”

  He fiddled with the lens, hoping to find them again, but instead finding only a crowd of journalists and curious civilians, every one of them fighting among themselves to be the first ones on the scene.

  Just then, Charlie saw something amazing.

  “Ha.” It was bad luck. Such terrible, un-fucking-relentless bad luck that he simply had to laugh at it. In the distance, on the other side of the marina, the agent he’d known as Greg emerged from the water. His clothes were drenched, and he was fighting to stay afloat, which was a sheer joy to observe.

  “Change of plan.” Charlie leaned into his driver’s ear. “Get to the other side of the marina as soon as possible. I want to have a business discussion with an ex-employee.”

  He fell back into the seat, peering through the tinted windows. He’d always hidden behind modified glass; it was easier to avoid bright lights that way. Luckily, he was wealthy beyond his wildest dreams and could afford such expenses.

  Again, he began to laugh.

  It seemed hilarious to him, what could happen in a day. But when you’re the head of an agency full of puppets, you had to stay active in order to work the strings. Every now and then, a string would snap, and there was nothing to do then but discard the puppet. But, he thought, if you had a puppet that could do the work for you, the jobs would be completed without you ever having to interfere.

  The car slipped off the grass and onto the road, and they drove to the other side of the marina to begin negotiations. Soon, he would be back in control of Greg, and he would use that puppet to kill the Salingers.

  Dead Ties

  Chapter One

  It was nighttime and difficult to see. Especially for Greg, who was groping his way up the bank of the marina, clawing back handfuls of dark sand and washed-up trash.

  His body was limp, weak. Even if he could get to the top, he had no idea what he’d do next. The sensation of helplessness was foreign to him; he’d always been two or more steps ahead of himself. But now, with the unbearable burn across one side of his face and the sore muscles that had taken a hell of a thrashing, he found it hard to focus.

  Everything had been going to plan until only a few minutes ago. He’d been so close to getting the money from Val Salinger. Even managed to put a bullet in that sad-sack boy of his. He’d been in a position of power on that yacht, but when Val’s mysterious black box exploded like a bolt of lightning, he lost everything. The money. The power. Even the self-respect. It was lucky—or unlucky, if he acknowledged the damage to his pride—that he had made it out of the river. Thankfully, the current was weak, but so was he, and he’d barely made it onto the bank.

  He continued up, pawing at the dirt with his fingers bent inward. He didn’t want to imagine sliding back down and thrashing around until, exhausted, he gave into the waves.

  Though it would be a good way to die, if there ever was one.

  But not here. Not tonight, and not by the hand of a Salinger.

  With every bit of strength he had, he pushed on, scooping out the wet dirt as he ascended. Each clump slid out from beneath him, so he had to move quickly, build up some momentum. When he was almost at the top, he snowballed back down, rolling and scooping desperately for grip, praying, trying… surviving.

  Greg raked his fingers into the bank and finally slowed to a stop. He hung there for a moment, collecting his energy, the burn on his face distracting his efforts. He wondered what it looked like. It felt as though hot coals had been placed on his cheek, and there was no way he could remove them. For now, he shook it off. He had to. Filled with rage and a surge of livid motivation, he soldiered upward, making his way to the top.

  Sighing a breath of relief, he reached his destination and rolled onto his back, feeling the cool, refreshing winter air upon his flesh, unfazed by the shivers running through him.

  If he could, he’d lie there all night looking up at the stars. His eyelids began to close, and he could feel himself drifting into a steady sleep—or the embracing arms of death. He wasn’t sure which. But it was easier this way. It was easier to give up, to just stay here a few moments longer.

  Sirens.

  Yes, he could hear them now. He rolled his head to the side, locating the sound. In the distance, on the other side of the marina, blue and red lights flashed urgently, drawing nearer to where the yacht had sunk. He didn’t know he’d had the strength, but he found himself laughing.

  I was in that, he thought. And with any luck, the Salingers still are.

  Greg had to move. Yes, Greg. The boy knows me as Greg. He considered the use of that name, and how it was almost starting to grow on him. Sure, it was convenient for reference, but his real name wasn’t on the database. There was no system outside of the Agency that had his true name printed in it. Even members of the Agency had heard different names. Val and the boss were the only people who knew the truth, and others had mocked him for his flakiness. But Greg had found it funny that he would be the one surviving, the one avoiding being traced in any way. When the shit hit the fan, they would be embarrassingly easy to find. And so he’d just smirked at them every time, spared them from an ass-kicking so they could suffer later on, be sorry some other time. Grover had been sorry. So had Matthews and Canavan. The latter had even wept a little as Greg took his life.

  What a pathetic way to go.

  The sound of a car’s tires crunching over gravel drew him back to the present, where he was still soaking wet, still shivering. Greg’s head turned in the direction of the sound, and the headlights blinded him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes. The car’s door opened and, squinting, he saw a pair of polished boots emerge, sinking into the mud.

  Greg watched them, hearing them squelch and become more ruined with each adventurous step toward him. He soon felt a pair of hands sliding under his armpits, hoisting him up like a wounded soldier. His wet clothes clung to his skin, itching and chaffing as he was dragged through the dirt. Stones and grit scratched at his back as if to punish him.

  “Steady now.” A voice, sof
t and youthful… and familiar. “We wouldn’t want to hurt our new business partner, would we?”

  Greg knew the voice but couldn’t quite place it. For a moment he thought it was Blake. If it was, then he would kill the man or die trying. The fuzzy, colored circles danced around in his eyesight for a few seconds longer and then dissipated as he was thrown into somewhere warm and clean. Somewhere recognizable. A smell of leather. Greg’s sight returned to him, and he looked around, blinking water out of his eyes. That was when he saw his host.

  “Shit,” he wheezed.

  “Yes,” Charlie said with an ear-to-ear smile. “Been a little busy lately, haven’t we?”

  Greg’s heart almost stopped in shock, like he’d been plunged back into the water and drowned. Recently, he’d screwed this man over, killed his agents, and taken his money and weapons. If he was lucky, he’d be granted a swift death. Something unlike what he was known for. He usually killed people who upset him, but his methods could only be described as creative and, frankly, sickening.

  “Close the door.” Charlie scowled at the driver. “You’re letting all the cold air in.”

  The car door swung to a close.

  Greg pushed himself out of his slouch, groaning as he did so. He needed to be at eye level with this man. Not just to show some humble respect but also so he wouldn’t feel so damn helpless. He opened his mouth to speak, but foul ocean water coughed up instead. He covered it with his hand, but it still dripped to the floor in thick, oozing lumps.

  Charlie tucked his hand into his suit jacket, reaching for something.

  Greg froze, expecting to see the wrong end of a gun, but there was a white handkerchief held out toward him. He studied his ex-employer, wrought with shame. He must have looked a mess, soaking wet, his skin burned and his voice a suffering noise. Greg dropped his eyes to the floor and took the handkerchief gently so as not to seem like he was snatching.

  “Before you say anything—” Greg wiped around his mouth, spitting into the handkerchief like his mouth was full of disgusting food “—can I ask for a quick death?”

  Charlie laughed, his chuckle high-pitched and childlike. “Does anybody get to choose how they die? Do you think you have more of a right than anyone else in this world? What makes you so special? Did somebody elect you as God without me knowing?”

  Greg’s head lowered in shame. “No.” He felt like a schoolboy.

  Charlie sighed, the grin leaving his face the way a sunset dies into the night. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble. You know that? You’ve put all of my agents in danger; some of them are dead. They’re taking this personally. And Salinger—”

  “Salinger is dead,” Greg interrupted, suddenly finding the strength.

  “Salinger is not dead!” Charlie slapped his own leg, his voice raising in a thunderbolt of rage. It even startled Greg. “Neither of them are!”

  “They’re… not? But they were on the yacht. I was in there with them when it went down.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  This couldn’t be right. He’d had one chance to get what he needed and then dispose of Val Salinger to win his way back into Charlie’s good graces. He’d failed. “You’ve seen him?”

  Charlie nodded. “Want to earn some respect back? Find him. Kill him. You’re the second-best agent I have. Despite the pain it takes to admit that.”

  Second best? Greg was guessing Val had been his number-one guy. He despised that man so much. He’d always been the better one. The more respected. But it was totally undeserving—he was only a product of Greg, a result of his training. Everything Val Salinger knew had come from him. And now Greg was expected to believe that his apprentice could do better? Bullshit. He’d prove them wrong if he could only get a chance. “You’re offering me my job back?”

  “I’m offering you a bounty of sorts. There was an officer who pulled them from the river. I’ll get you her file; you bring me her head. And the Salingers—both of them.”

  “You want them all dead, sir?”

  “All except for Blake. I want him alive.”

  You may have to settle for dead. “How do I know you won’t just have me killed as soon as I bring you what you want? I know how retirement works within the Agency.”

  Charlie huffed, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. “How do I know you won’t screw me over again? We’ll just have to trust each other, eh?” He raised his hand to the front of the car, and they began to roll forward.

  Greg rocked as they bumped over rough ground. The offer was decent enough and worth considering. It was certainly better than the alternative.

  “Now, let’s get that wound seen to,” Charlie said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “I want you back in the field as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Two

  Val sat in the passenger seat beside Jackie, prepared for arrival. He didn’t know what to expect. This was Greg’s turf, he knew, so he could expect the occupants to be hostile. “I wish I had a gun.”

  “You won’t need it, Dad,” Blake assured him from the hollow space where the back seats used to be. His bullet wound seemed to be causing him tremendous pain. He moaned every time the van droved over a stone. “They seemed like good people. I mean, they were good to me when I was there. So long as Greg hasn’t been back since, it should be as simple as getting Rachel and leaving.”

  “Should be.” Val snorted. “I’ll never get used to hearing you call him Greg.”

  “I’ll never get used to you complaining about it.”

  Jackie said nothing, remaining focused on the road.

  “Sorry. Anyway, you can safely consider him a dead man.” As Val said the words, he thought of his career with the Agency. Greg had trained him from day one, and Val had respected him for it. But the monster he’d become was more difficult to admire. If anybody wanted to threaten him, that was one thing. He could take care of himself. But to murder his wife and take a shot at his son? That was just too personal.

  Val tried not to think of Marcy. Greg had told Blake that she’d planted the evidence against him. Blake had since confirmed Greg had put a knife in her to stop her from telling the truth.

  “This the place?” Jackie asked, pulling into the shipping yard.

  Blake moaned as he sat up, his wound clearly taking its toll. His dressing was more red than white, and Jackie would probably be the one who needed to change it for him. “Yeah,” he said, peering through the windscreen. “Not sure which container though.”

  Val turned in his seat, looking at his son. “You’re staying in the van.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Blake protested.

  “No. You’re staying in the van. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “He said he’s okay, Val,” Jackie said softly.

  “Jackie, please.” Val shot a look at her. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, and I’ll hopefully get to repay you someday. But all of that was pointless if you let him get hurt now. He’s staying, and you’re looking after him.” Everyone in the van went silent. Val sighed. “Sorry.”

  The van slowed, grumbled and the engine shut off. Jackie kept the lights on, pointing toward many rows of shipping containers. “Any idea where?”

  “I think it was in that direction.” Blake aimed his finger at the waterfront.

  “You think?” Val said.

  “Yes. It was kind of a maze in there. Spent half the time running after Greg.”

  Val took a breath. “Yeah. Of course.” He knew he was coming across as short-tempered, but he’d just lost his retirement plan, his wife, and his ex-partner. The loss felt like a punch to the gut. “I’m stepping out. I won’t be long.”

  “Wait.” Blake stopped him, his hand on the door handle. “Daniel.”

  “What?”

  “He was known as Daniel to these people.”

  Val nodded, suddenly understanding. He sucked in a breath, afraid of the unknown. He hated the dark at the best of times, but when a bunch of creepy hom
eless people were occupying the space and he had to come asking for a favor, it was enough to give him the shivers.

  Climbing out of the van, he moved toward the containers, to where Blake and the headlights had pointed. The wind from the ocean was cold and numbing against his face as he chased his shadow toward it. A narrow gap between two of the containers was just big enough for him to squeeze through. Feeling the cold metal against his bare elbows, he slipped through. Now, Val was in total blackness, shielded from the headlights. Somehow, he had to find the one that would grant him entry to the underground.

  Homeless people. He sighed as he double-knocked on each container. They all sounded hollow, echoing his knocks straight back to him. As a matter of choice, too. Blake had told him all about the network, how young the kids were.

  Val saw a figure rush by. It happened within a second. His imagination played tricks on him, questioning whether or not this would be who he was looking for. “Hello?” he ventured, taking a steady step forward. He held his hands upward, preparing his suggestion of surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want the girl.”

  Metal clanged to his left, sending a jolt of panic through him.

  “It’s safe,” he said to whoever had made the sound. “You can come out.” Val pictured Greg emerging from the darkness, a stricken look of rage upon his face, those thin lips pressed together to form a devious smile. But no, that was silly. Dead, he reminded himself.

  A cat rushed out from behind the container, looked up at him through shiny yellow eyes, and then disappeared into the night.

  Val walked on.

  He came to a path that led in two different directions. He looked to the left, where the moonlight brushed against the ocean and illuminated a narrow walkway. But something didn’t feel right. Following his instincts, he took the right path instead.

  A container door swung open. The sound of metal unlocking, whining and echoing into the air. A small figure came out and rushed at him with alarming speed. Val was old, achy, and slow, but still managed to side-step it. As a reaction, he placed a large, firm hand on his attacker’s shoulder.