They reached her front door and she fumbled again for the keys, remembering last night and how he had made her struggle to open the door then too. Finally she got it open and paused.
“My boyfriend…”
“He left for his shift with his partner twenty-five minutes ago,” John stated without disguising the impatience in his voice. His calculating eyes flickered across the corridor.
Rachel let him inside before he forced his way through.
“Wait by the door,” he instructed. He reached into his coat and pulled out his gun. Rachel gasped, feeling ridiculous for doing so. It was by no way the first time she had seen one, but it was probably the first time she had seen anyone look so comfortable holding one.
“Put the door on the latch,” John called after he'd finished his inspection.
She did as she was asked. When she turned around he was at the window, watching the street below.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. The street is empty.” He checked his watch. “But Pinky could send more men.”
“What happens then?”
He turned to her and frowned. “You should shower and change. You have blood on you.”
Her hands wiped her cheeks and came away red. Quickly she hurried into the bathroom. The right side of her face was speckled red, joined by two finger streaks of blood across her forehead. Desperate to separate herself from what had happened she pulled her clothes free and kicked them into the corner. She ran the shower, receiving an initial tepid surge and then an icy trickle. In the shower her body began to shudder. She was going into shock.
“Come on, Rachel,” she told herself. “Get a grip. You know what this is. Get a grip.” The water ran red and then clear. She switched it off and wrapped herself in a towel. The collar of her jumper was smeared with blood but the rest of her clothes had at least survived the murder. She redressed herself quickly and threw the jumper into the wash basket.
There was no noise coming from the other room. She pressed herself against the door, wondering if he'd left and debating whether that would be good news or not. He'd saved her life, twice as Charlie had pointed out. But he had killed two men and there wasn't the slightest hint of remorse in him. Charlie was suffocating with guilt, but his brother seemed incapable of the emotion. Did that make him a bad man?
Rachel closed her eyes as a sinking feeling struck her. It didn't matter if John was bad or not, he was the only protection she had. She had to be pragmatic if she was going to make it out of S'aven alive. She forced a deep breath into her lungs. She would not be intimidated.
John was still standing by the window. He didn't move as she entered the room, nor as she finished getting dressed, although when she'd finished she realised he'd found Mark's bottle of vodka and poured her some in a tin cup. He held it out to her, still concentrating on the street below.
“Thanks.” She necked the drink and handed him back the cup, hoping maybe he'd pour her another one–she sure as hell needed it. He didn't. “Still nothing?” She asked.
“Still nothing.” John's body was tense though, as if he was expecting trouble at any minute.
“That's good, isn't it?” Rachel said, trying to diffuse the tension.
“It's better to be moving, instead of sitting here waiting to be caught,” he grumbled and checked the window again impatiently. If Rachel didn't know better she'd suspect he wanted something to happen.
“You sound like my dad,” she murmured and poured herself another shot of vodka.
He glanced at her curiously.
“Anyway, I'm Rachel Aaron.” She held out her hand, but John ignored it.
“I know. I've been following you for a fortnight.”
She tried not to let the comment unnerve her. They were in her home, and she was sick and tired of being scared. “I know. And you are?”
John turned back to the window. “Charlie told you.”
“John, right?”
He nodded curtly.
“John, what?”
“Smith.”
She sighed. “Of course, John Smith, I should have guessed. I'm getting the impression that you're not happy about helping me.”
John turned back to the window. “I'm not happy about this job. We shouldn't have taken it.”
“Then why did you?”
“We need the money.”
“How much are you being paid?”
“Should have been thirty thousand,” John grumbled.
“Jesus, someone was willing to pay that much to find me? They should have just put an ad out in the paper, I'd have come of my own volition.”
“We don't know what they want with you,” John said, turning back to her.
“For thirty grand I don't think I'd care.”
“Yeah well, Charlie cares.”
She sensed that maybe a tiny bit of him cared too.
“Okay, here's what I'll do then. I will pay you thirty grand in instalments to make up for it over … let's say the next sixty years.”
He raised his brow, she hoped in amusement. The coldness in his eyes started to evaporate. Rachel felt her cheeks blush when she realised she was staring.
“Wow, thirty grand. What were you going to spend it on?” She said.
John paused, as though he were considering whether or not it was wise to tell her. Eventually, he turned away. She expected the silence to remain, but it didn't.
“We need money to find Charlie's daughter.”
Rachel sobered. “She's alive?”
“That's what we're trying to find out.”
“What about his wife?”
John's jaw seemed to tighten. “She's dead. We don't know what happened to Lilly, but she was a Reacher so it doesn't take a genius to work it out. They send you all to the labs to be made safe.”
The grief was consuming him as much as it was his brother. He was trying to hide it from her, from Charlie too, probably even from himself, but constant pain was difficult to mask. She reached out to comfort him and stopped. Her hand hovered over his. She dared herself to touch him. The contact was like a volt of electricity. She jumped back, her fingertips tingling. She'd never felt anything like it before.
“You're not a Reacher like Charlie.”
He shook his head.
“But you're something else. What are you?”
The frosty eyes were back. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Well you have an entire file on me, I'm just playing catch up. Listen, I'm sorry you've lost the money. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to turn me in. In fact, I'm beginning to think maybe to save a little girl it might be worth it.”
“It's going to take a lot more than thirty grand to buy what we need. This was about getting Charlie back. He needs to be on form if we…” He stopped, distracted by the movement outside. “Oh, that's just fucking great. Get your coat, we're moving out.”
* * *
Two officers took the first sweep of the towers. Beams of flashlights lit up the usual crannies. This was their beat. They knew where the kids hung out, where the tramps tried to stay warm. They knew the people they could move on, the ones they could get money out of and the ones to leave well alone.
As they passed the spattering of decrepit vehicles, a newcomer drew their attention. The white beacon shone like a warning light to their paranoia. It shouldn't be there. For a few minutes they dallied at a distance, daring each other to get closer until, eventually, the weakest of the pair gingerly inspected the tinted windscreen. A sealed off van was bad news. The other officer radioed it in.
There were too many bombs exploding over the city to suspect anything else. In minutes a diffusion team would arrive. The officers turned their attention to the surrounding towers, drawn to the possibility of a lure bomb.
* * *
Blue and red flashes flickered against the kitchen curtains. Rachel didn't have time to think about them, John was already walking out the door. He didn't seem to be rushing, but she had to hurry to catch him in
the corridor.
“Hey, where are we going?”
“Away from here.”
“Why?”
“They think there's a bomb in the van.” John pushed open the door to the stairwell and listened.
“But there isn't.”
Instantly he was on her, pushing her into the wall and allowing the stairwell door to isolate them again.
“The police are going to start searching the towers. We cannot be here.” He stared at her intensely. “If you want to make it out alive you need do everything I say.”
Rachel swallowed the lump in her throat. He wasn't hurting her, but she could feel the strength in his body. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. He pulled away immediately, but it was enough to know she could count on him. She smiled sheepishly under his confused frown.
“Okay, I trust you,” she whispered. “Lead the way.”
“Don't make a sound,” he said with a deep scowl etched into his face. He gave her a strange look and resumed his place by the door.
He waited in the doorway. Rachel held her breath. There were noises from the surrounding apartments. Small bursts of life filtered through the thin walls, oblivious to the drama unfolding outside. Something drew John's attention. He nodded to Rachel. She slipped into the stairwell as he eased the door closed. She was about to move down the stairs when he stopped her.
Silently John sped up two floors. It didn't make any sense, they were going to get trapped. She hurried after him, catching up only when he stopped dead. He was listening again. Something was happening below them. He pressed his finger to his lips and gestured that they continue.
Another flight conquered, but the sounds were creeping up after them. It sounded like more police had arrived. John seemed to think so too. He reached the fourth floor above Rachel's and side stepped into the next corridor. His movements were so precise it was like he'd done this before. Rachel clumsily followed. She hit the door too hard, banging it against the wall.
John flinched. He gave her a warning look, one that made her never want to get on his bad side. Carefully, she closed the door behind her. This corridor was different. A fire exit sulked in the corner. Rachel stared at it, wondering what the people on this floor had done to get the additional health and safety benefits.
As John pushed open the door the icy air knocked the breath out of her. She realised then that she was sweating. John reached out his hand impatiently.
The fire exit led to a small, precariously secured metal ladder. Rachel looked at it and broke a smile.
“You're joking, right?”
“It's safe,” he said as he pulled out a pair of leather gloves. He passed them to her. “Put these on and climb down after me. Go careful but quick.”
The ground taunted her sixteen stories below. The drop would see her body splattered across the cracked pavement. She wouldn't even feel it. As she climbed out onto the building's side her head started to spin. She realised not being able to feel her death was no comfort. Her gloved fingers struggled to grasp the ladder. She felt herself slipping and her stomach lurched. It was enough to propel her forwards. She clutched onto the metal and sucked in the air through her chattering teeth. The exit was out of her reach. The only way was down.
Even with the gloves the ladder was freezing. Rachel's hands were stinging by the third rung. John clasped the side of the ladder as he descended. If the cold bothered him he wasn't showing it. He held on with his bare hands, moving down at a steady rhythm. At least six feet beneath her already, he would reach the ground before she even made it half way.
Rachel's arms were already burning. The air whipped at her, tearing her hair from its plait. She was shivering as the sweat froze against her skin. The ladder creaked with her every movement. She'd lost count of the floors. The ground was nearer. If she fell now it would be a slow death. She'd feel the breaks in her bones when she hit the ground. Maybe she'd stay conscious, aware of her life as it spilled out over the concrete. She swallowed and continued moving.
“Rachel, stop,” John hissed.
She glanced down. Two cops were sweeping the pavement below her. Their flashlights danced around the surrounding bushes. John was pressing himself against the wall. Rachel did the same. She closed her eyes. Held her breath. And waited.
The footsteps of the officers echoed through the wind. She heard them talking. They were nervous. It should have been a routine patrol, an easy night for the pair of them. Damn terrorists. Their footsteps faded. Rachel dared to peek. Red and blue flashes grew fiercer around the corner. If John was right they would already be securing the area. Mostly the police were useless, but the recent bombings had changed things.
“Okay, move,” John whispered. “Quickly, we're running out of time.”
With a breath to steady what was left of her nerves, she dropped down another rung. Her hands were shaking in the panic. John would reach the bottom and he would have to wait for her. With the police circling the building he couldn't afford to do that. She had to move faster or she'd get them both caught.
Fighting against the aches in her body, she matched John's pace. He was nearly at the bottom and she was about to join him. Then her foot struck the next rung too hard. She slipped. Her legs kicked out into nothingness. She was going to fall. Her mouth opened to scream, but a hand closed around it. Her body was pressed into the wall; secured back on the treacherous ladder.
John had a tight hold on her. His body overlapped hers. She had no idea how he had reached her so quickly, and at that moment she didn't care. His breathing was steady, his heart rate calm. It was infectious. Rachel felt herself relax against him. They were still alive. It probably wouldn't last, but for the second she could enjoy it.
“Ready?” he said, releasing her.
“Yeah, let's do this.”
The final rungs were in sight. If she jumped she would probably just sprain an ankle. John jumped clear, landing like a cat on the ground. He reached out to help her join him. Her feet touched solid earth and she stopped herself from dropping to her knees and kissing the ground.
“I can't believe I did that,” she said.
“Let's move.”
He led the way around the back of the building, keeping close to the wall. When they reached the corner he leaned over and instantly fell back.
“What is it?”
“They're coming back.” His head frantically turned to find an escape. But there wasn't one.
He grabbed her hand, meaning to drag her back the way they had come. It was useless. They were trapped. She pulled John back, pushing him against the wall this time. He was about to fight her and then they heard their footsteps.
“You have to relax and trust me this time,” she whispered. “Close your eyes. You're not here.”
John was at least a foot and a half taller than her. She stood in front of him regardless. Her arms slotted under his, tucking him in to a tight hug. She closed her eyes and the harsh concrete block dissolved. She was six years old, sitting in the snow, clutching her older sister for dear life. Men in balaclavas walked through the wood around them. Not here, not here, not here, she had said.
The officers turned the corner. The nerves through her back started to tingle. If they were doing their jobs properly they might see her and John, and it wouldn't matter how hard she tried. But if they were lax, if they thought they had already cleared the building, their guard would be down.
“Not here, not here, not here,” she murmured until there were no other words in the world.
“It'll be kids,” one cop said to the other. “Bet you anything, goddamn stupid kids.”
Their boots crunched against the gravel. Two steps away. One step. Rachel held her breath. Her grip around John tightened. Not here, not here. The footsteps stopped. Rachel felt John's heart rate increase. She squeezed him harder. He couldn't buckle, she wouldn't let him.
“Fancy a smoke before the big guns arrive?” One of the cops said.
She listened as he r
ummaged through his uniform. A match was struck. She smelt smoke. They were standing right there, less than an arm length away and they still hadn't noticed anything amiss. She felt John's body loosen. The officers smoked and grunted at each other. Their idle chit-chat was as impressive as their observational skills. Rachel opened one eye impatiently. Back to work, back to work, back to work.
Like puppets they stamped out their cigarettes. Their trudging steps struck the pavement. In seconds they were gone. John subtly coughed. She realised she was still clutching him tightly. Reluctantly she released him and shivered at the loss of warmth. John's mouth twitched in a rare smirk.
“You can make yourself invisible?”
“Yes, well no, not invisible, more unnoticeable.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. “Learned that after months of running away from insurgents.”
John looked surprised, and Rachel couldn't help but feel smug. They thought they knew everything about her; they had barely scratched the surface.
“Why were you running away from insurgents?” John said, gesturing that they should keep walking, heading back towards the canal.
“We took a wrong turn. I don't really remember the hows and whys. My parents had a farm in Red Forest.” She didn't have to elaborate. Most people had heard about the fighting in Red Forest, how the insurgents tried to move in and how the military tried to stop them. How anyone in the middle ended up in a mass grave. Few really understood exactly what happened.
“How old were you?”
“About six. I just remember my father being so determined we had to get to S'aven. He was worried about the military getting us. A guerrilla warrior shot him. That wasn't in your file was it?” She asked him, already knowing the answer.
The wind wasn't so bad at ground level but she was starting to shiver in the cold. As the remnants of red and blue disappeared under an urban horizon her adrenaline started to ebb. She realised how hungry she was and her body started to revolt against her.
“Are you okay?” John asked as she stumbled.
“I'm good,” she said through chattering teeth.
The Running Game (Reachers Book 1) Page 7
