At the end of the hallway stood a window where very little light crept through. Greg headed that way, taking note of the door numbers as he passed, and then spiraled his way up another flight of stairs. This hallway was just as bad, but at least there was nobody up here. Nobody to lie in his way. Nobody to step over while praying he didn’t brush his trouser leg against them.
The next door was labeled 436b, the brass numbers hanging from a loose nail. He caught his reflection in the metal, his scarred face causing him to shiver in disgust. He was a mess, a grotesque monster who could never be trusted again. Kids would forever point at him and laugh, he would never fuck a woman without paying for it, and worst of all, it would be a lot harder for him to blend in from now on. That would make his job considerably harder.
Greg banged on the door, three heavy knocks to demand attention. Ten seconds passed, and he knocked again. If he needed it, his gun was holstered under his jacket. But that wasn’t nearly as fun as using his hands.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice wavered behind the rotting wood.
Greg kept his hand over the peephole. “I just moved in upstairs, wanted to come by and introduce myself.”
There was a pause.
“Is your hand on the peephole?” He sounded whiney, like a kid who’d never earned a cent in his life, had everything handed to him. But he’d seen the man’s file. He looked a lot bigger than he sounded.
The harder they fall, Greg thought.
“No. It’s just dark out here,” he told the man.
Another pause, and then: “Come back later. I’m a little busy.”
Greg heard the footsteps fade away behind the door. He didn’t have time for this. He leaned back on one leg and kicked the lock out with the other. The door burst open, hitting the wall with a smash. The wood splintered, and the metal lock fell to the floor with a thunk. “Piece of crap,” Greg muttered, referring to both the door and the shirtless coward at the other end of the corridor.
The man was startled, an expression of sheer panic distinct within his eyes. “What the hell?” he screamed, fleeing into the far room.
Greg marched in after him, unsure what to expect. The first thing he saw was a woman on the bed covering herself with the sheet. Her face was contorted with horror, and she looked ready to scream the house down.
The man he came for cowered across the room, holding his trousers and trying to push the window open. Greg stormed toward him, grabbed him by his T-shirt and dragged him into the hallway.
“Get off me, man!” he squealed.
Greg dropped him by the doorframe and shot a glance at the woman, who was rushing to get dressed and make a hasty exit. He turned back to the man in front of him and grabbed him by a clump of his hair, pulling him out of the lady’s view. With his forearm, he pinned the man with his back to the wall and kept a firm grasp around his throat. “Sean, I presume?”
“What? No, I—” The coward gargled, trying desperately to breathe.
Greg swept his leg out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. As soon as he was on his ass, Greg raised a knee and cracked the man’s nose with it. “Sean, I presume?” he repeated, hoping for a better result.
This guy looked exactly like he had in his file, only his hair was longer now, as if he hadn’t been taking care of himself. It was yellow and greasy. He was cupping his nose, which flooded blood. “All right, all right. What do you want?”
Greg pulled up the legs of his pants and crouched to meet his eye. “Soon got over that little girlfriend of yours, huh?”
Sean shot a glance into the bedroom, saw the woman he’d been screwing stand and slip on her shorts. “What are you talking about? Why would I be over her?”
“I wasn’t talking about her.”
There was a lost look in his eyes: a vacancy, gateways into a world of nothingness. Then a light flicked on inside them like he suddenly understood. It was the same look children got when they fell off their bikes—assessing the pain before deciding that they’re within their rights to cry. “Rachel?”
“Bingo. Now, tell me, what the hell did she see in you?”
Sean caught his gaze, his eyes rolling over Greg’s scarred face. He looked as though he’d seen a gnarling beast. “She liked the sex,” he sneered, blood still gushing from his nostrils. “She was all right, too. What’s it to you? You a friend of hers or something?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Greg dropped his smile. Although he was enjoying this on some level, he needed to get what he came for. “I’m looking for her.”
“So? Everyone’s looking for her. Why do you think—”
“Has she been here?” This guy was proving to be more trouble than he was worth.
Sean grunted like he knew something and wasn’t willing to share the information. He kept pulling his hands away from his face, assessing the amount of blood and putting them back where they were. “Nah, not here. Why would she be?”
“Not necessarily here. Look at me.” Greg snapped his fingers, demanding attention. “At her place. Passing on the sidewalk. Anywhere. Have you seen her?”
“No!”
Greg looked around the place: the rotting wood of the doorframe, the worn, beige carpet that was probably infested with fleas and mites. He didn’t want to be here for much longer through fear of catching something. Even if he did stay, he’d keep his hands in his pockets. “She’s gonna come and see you.”
“Ha. Doubt it.”
“She will come and see you,” he pressed, determined to finish his sentence. He didn’t really know exactly when, but it was only a matter of time until Rachel came out of hiding. The runners always showed up sooner or later. “When she does, you’re going to give me a call.” Greg slid a card from his pocket, put it on the floor, and drove it toward him with one finger. “Do you understand me?”
“Go to hell. She comes to see me, I’ll give her what she wants and send her on her way. That what this is about? You jealous, huh? You want a piece?”
This guy was getting on his nerves.
Greg stood, and with no sign of effort, drove his boot between Sean’s legs.
Sean cried out in pain—a shrill, ladylike noise—cradling his balls in his hands like they were about to drop off. “You mother—”
“What the hell is wrong with you, kid? You insulted me; I hurt you. And then you retaliate by insulting me again?” Greg sniffed, poking his head into the room next to him. A kitchen, mostly themed with a dismal brown and a tired, old linoleum floor. It looked even dirtier than the bedroom. “Look, numbnuts,” he said, smirking at the irony of the name, “you call me, I’ll reward you. If you don’t, I’ll come back for you. Now, do we have an understanding?”
Sean slumped onto his side, still holding his balls while his nose poured with blood. He nodded frantically, eager to please.
“Good.” Greg strolled toward the broken-in front door. “I look forward to your call.”
He left the apartment, noticing the absence of the hobo who had previously been sleeping there. Maybe he’d heard the commotion and run away before the trouble came his way. Smart guy, Greg thought as he made his way back downstairs.
It felt good to be back in the game.
Chapter Five
When Blake returned, he was keen to be the one holding the canned food. He’d been the one who went into the field—or in this case, the mall—so he wanted to be the one to present what he’d earned.
As the van came up to the warehouse, the metal shutters crawled open, revealing a pair of feet, legs, and then the entirety of Jackie’s frame as she pulled hard and fast on the chain. Her arms went one over the other until the shutter was completely up.
Val drove the van inside, and they parked next to where they kept their tents, which they’d scavenged from an independent business a couple of weeks ago. They’d been useful for giving the women some privacy; chivalry wasn’t dead. It had been Val’s idea.
Blake hopped out, catching th
e last deafening wails of the chain sliding back as the gate closed. He smiled at Jackie and lifted a bag of food to show her, which drew a smile out of her. Blake headed to the corner, where Rachel sat with expectant eyes. Blake thought she looked so beautiful, despite not having a shower in a number of weeks. Not a real one, anyway; they’d found a leaking pipe at the back of the warehouse. The water that dripped from it seemed clean enough, so they took it in turns to stand under it and wash themselves. When they weren’t using it, Val slid a stolen bowl under it to capture every drop. He’d said it was putting wasted water to good use, and that they could use it for a quick wash if needed.
If there was one thing Blake could never get used to, it was running out in the bushes to take a leak. Not only did it feel primitive, but he always had the feeling he would be caught with his pants down. It didn’t matter to him if it would be the LAPD or the Agency—humiliation was humiliation.
“Hey, Blake,” Rachel said as he dropped a bag next to her.
The clang of bean tins pricked her ears.
“Got you some alphabet spaghetti. Life is worth living again.” Blake had never considered himself a funny guy by any means, but it felt good to offer comfort even with a bad sense of humor. Besides, it made Rachel giggle in spite of their circumstances.
Val climbed out of the van, and he and Jackie came to join them. Blake sat right next to Rachel, and she rested her head against his shoulder. It made him feel important when she did that. Although they’d been friends for almost all their lives, every time they became intimate, he felt like there might be some hidden meaning behind it, as if she might like him as much as he liked her. Might love him in the way he loved her. Not just as friends, but as something more. Something special.
“Good run today?” Jackie asked, rummaging through the bags and distributing a can of beans to each person.
“Pretty good.” Val took a can from her. “Thanks. Blake’s getting better.”
“You are?” She turned to Blake.
It was strange; she couldn’t have been more than a couple years older than him, but she felt like a maternal figure. He often found himself pushing to impress her, hoping to win her approval.
“I sweat less when I run, is what he means,” Blake joked, modest as ever. “My pickpocketing is getting better, but dealing with the guilt isn’t getting any easier.”
Rachel rubbed his arm. “Because you’re a good person.”
Blake could have sworn he saw a glance exchanged between Rachel and Jackie then. Women keeping secrets had always made him uncomfortable. Call it paranoia, but he hated to be the odd one out.
“You could always try your hand out there,” he offered Jackie. “Ex-military, being right in the danger zone might just suit you.”
“It’s not something I miss.” She laughed, scooping a plastic-spoonful of beans into her mouth, wincing. She’d complained about how much she hated them more than once.
“Not very courtly of you, son. You wouldn’t want to take a bullet before the lady?” Val chimed in, the old-fashioned manner still in him.
“I did take a bullet.”
“That’s why we respect you.” Rachel smiled sweetly.
Blake shifted, slipped an arm around her and looked deep into her eyes. “You’re just saying that because I brought you alphabet spaghetti. I knew it would work, too.”
“What would work?” Rachel’s forehead creased.
“I’ll have you saying your vowels in no time.” Blake grinned.
They all hissed and giggled while rolling their eyes as if they were embarrassed to have found it funny. Blake shifted again, trying to deal with sitting in the corner on the freezing concrete floor. Outside, it was getting dark. The sun was dropping off the horizon leaving traces of red and orange in the sky, the last of the light leaving through the panes of glass at the very top of the warehouse wall. Soon they would have to light the candles and pray for yet another night that nobody would find them and call the police.
That was life for them now, and not a single one of them knew that things were going to get worse from there on out—far worse.
Blake stirred that night. The hard floor was causing some damage to his back, and the events of the day kept circling his mind like a trail of fire wrecking a racetrack. There was the frustration, too. The hope that things would get better made his heart run like a rabbit, and that kept him awake. Images of Greg kept filtering through his mind. Blake had just begun to trust him—was even coming to like him—when he was betrayed. The man had shot him. After all they’d been through together, he’d shot him through the side of the stomach without the slightest slither of remorse.
Blake was in the smallest tent, which was positioned nearest to the door. Val’s tent was close by. The theory was that if anyone managed to get through the shutter, the men would be the first people to interact with them, giving the ladies a chance to run or hide or do whatever they thought best in that scenario. It was a sound plan, and Blake was happy with it, but there was still the worry that he would be the first to go.
There was a shuffle.
Blake’s dry eyes fluttered open. He sat up and leaned on his arm, listening hard to make sure he hadn’t been imagining it.
He heard it again: a rustle right outside his tent.
Blake squinted, his eyes trained on the flap of the tent. Was it the darkness playing tricks on him, or could he see a silhouette of a person outside? He reached for his gun, knowing there was only one bullet in there. Val had taught him how to shoot it properly, so he flicked off the safety and kept it close to his chest.
The zipper of the tent croaked open.
Blake took aim with the gun, his hands shaking. His mind told him that it could be Greg, and if it was then he would fire without hesitation: no talking, no bullshit. On the other hand, if it was the owner of this building, he would be caught with the gun, and the police would be called. But the thing he cared about most was his family. He would even kill God to keep them safe—tear a hole right through Him.
The zipper reached the bottom of the flap.
Blake had been told time and time again by Val: no matter what happens, you must identify your target first. He tried to make out the figure before it was too late.
“Hey,” the person whispered. The voice was familiar. “It’s me.”
Rachel climbed into the tent and zipped it closed behind her.
Blake tucked the gun back under his backpack, careful not to let her see it. The last thing he wanted to do was worry her. “What are you doing here?” He felt under his sleeping bag to make sure he was wearing underpants, but before he got a chance to confirm it, she undid the zipper of his sleeping bag and crawled in next to him.
She pulled her body into his. “I needed to tell you something,” she said and did something amazing; Rachel kissed him, hard on the lips.
Blake could feel the sincerity within it. He kissed her back, raking his fingers through her hair. It felt like a dream—he was expecting to wake up with heartache and disappointment.
Rachel pulled away. “I was talking to Jackie. She made me realize just how much I love you. And not just as a friend.” She was speaking between kisses, her hand sliding up and down his chest, getting lower each time it went down. “She made me understand that… what I did back at the tar pits… it meant that I’m a bad person, and I betrayed you.”
Blake could feel her breath on his face. He said nothing. What could he say?
“I wanted to tell you how much I respect you. How grateful I am that you’re a part of my life. But mostly that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not noticing sooner just how wonderful you are.”
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, seeing nothing but the outline of her face in the dark. He didn’t want to waste a single moment thinking about it. The woman he’d always dreamt about was confessing her love for him. He would be a fool to let her go now. Blake held her closer, kissing her again. “I did get you the spaghetti.”
Rachel giggled and rolled
onto him.
Together, they had the most perfect night of their lives.
Blake soon fell asleep, dreaming of a life unknown to him.
He was in a house he didn’t recognize, but he knew it was his own. There was a distinct theme of beige: a beige carpet and beige furniture. The walls were white, though, which he would normally think of as plain, but he kind of liked it. There was a shelf lined with photographs of a little girl. She was lying in a meadow on her belly, smiling with gapped teeth and her fingers locked together against her little pink cheek. There was a flower in her hair. The memory of that day appeared inside his head, completely out of nowhere. It was like one minute he didn’t know the girl and then—click—she was his daughter again. He caught himself wondering if this was what dementia felt like.
Toys were scattered all over the house: across the floor, atop the dining room table. As he strolled through the house, admiring the life they’d built for themselves, he found that more of the items in the house were his wife’s. He had nothing other than what she had brought into the house. Blake tried to remember what time she would be home from work, and loved that this was his only concern. They’d shut the Agency down long ago, and now they were leading full, happy lives.
Only they weren’t because Rachel wasn’t there, and neither was their daughter. Keira? Kyla? Her name was fading as his memory of her was, and then it was as if he didn’t know her again.
Blake turned on his heel, ready to examine the photograph again, but every step he took made the carpet grow longer. It slid out from under him with each daring step until he had to stop. He couldn’t move. The walls were distancing themselves, family photos falling from the walls as he stood helpless. If he moved, the carpet would slip out entirely, and he’d be floating around in nothingness forever.
Suddenly it wasn’t about her anymore. The girl no longer existed, and Rachel was no longer there. Rachel was… where? At work? No, he’d been wrong about that before. There was no work. There was no Rachel, and then—
The Bloodline Trilogy Page 18
