“No, we do this now!” He gestured that Rachel get up and she did. “Who killed my brother?”
Rachel stared him in his crazy eyes. “I have no idea,” she said coolly.
She didn't feel the slap, but she fell awkwardly on her bound hands. Riva yelled and pushed Pinky aside.
“What the hell are you doing? She doesn't know anything!”
But Pinky didn't know what he was doing. When he hit her Rachel had sensed everything: the paranoia, the fear, the uncertainty. He thought he was losing his mind. Just like his brother. And he was right. The scraps of sanity were slipping away through the hour glass. Time was no longer on his side, and all he could fix upon was his brother's murderer. The brother he hated and loved so intensely he couldn't even separate the feelings.
Riva lifted Rachel back onto the sofa. She touched the slap mark tenderly, trying to repair the damage her husband was causing. She started to speak, but Rachel didn't hear her. She closed her eyes and saw a memory.
Frank's phone sticking out of his coat pocket. He wouldn't miss it, he rarely used the thing. Riva took it. She knew where her brother-in-law would be, she knew exactly when. It was easy. She sent the message to Donnie. There were no regrets.
Rachel blinked and stared at Riva; she killed Frank Morris.
38
The brothers sat outside Pinky Morris' mansion. Charlie thought about what Darcy had said to him. He didn't give a shit who killed Frank Morris. He didn't even care that Darcy had let him down. The only thing that mattered was getting Rachel back. He glanced at his brother, knowing full well that they were both of the same mind. Darcy, Pinky, Roxy; they were just distractions from the only thing that needed to be done: getting Rachel out of S'aven.
They sat in the darkness, parked up against the walled garden, absorbing the glow from the lit up mansion in front of them. The house was twenty yards from the wall, separated by trees, bushes, and the occasional sculpture. Intermittently shadows would pass by–guards patrolling the grounds, the threatening shape of their guns leaving nothing to the imagination.
Somehow they would have to get in through the wrought iron gates or over the eight-foot wall, get across the garden, and take out the guards. If Rachel was there, and Charlie was almost certain she was, they would have to surprise whoever had her.
“No noise,” Charlie said, watching as John screwed the silencer on his first pistol.
“Don't worry about it; I'll get her out,” John told him, his eyes still fixed on the house.
Charlie pressed his hand against John's shoulder. “Wait, I'm coming with you.”
John stopped what he was doing. He looked at his brother uncertainly. “There's a lot of soldiers Charlie. I…” John paused and Charlie knew what his brother meant. He couldn't watch Charlie's back and get Rachel clear.
Charlie smiled. Since he last touched Rachel he was noticing a change in himself. Being close to her reminded him of what he had been–what he was. He could feel the energy now, running through his body with every beat of his heart. He was a Reacher and no back injury or addiction was going to change that.
“I know. That's why you're not going in alone. I've got your back, little brother.” He tried to ruffle John's hair and got a slap on the hand with the pistol.
“You'll need this, then,” John gave him the pistol and went about setting up another for himself. “Do we have a plan this time?”
“Go in quietly, demobilise any obstacles, pick up Rachel and get back here–if we can do all that without getting shot I'd consider it a win.”
John smirked. He put his gun in his holster and flexed his neck. “Then what are we waiting for?”
They got out of the car, pressing the doors closed as softly as they could. Charlie sucked in the air around him, drawing in energy with the breath. He could feel his fingers pulsating, his chest tightening. It felt like coming home, and he revelled in it as they surveyed the wall.
“Not a sound, they can't know we're coming.”
“You want to quit talking and get the gate open then, old man,” John challenged.
The gate was fixed on an electric lock. All Charlie needed to do was find the charge. He ran his fingers over the metal work, feeling for the electric hum he could manipulate. It was all about energy: feeling it, controlling it, overloading it. It had been so long since Charlie had really used his powers, but it was all coming back to him.
“You going to open that thing or just caress it a little more?” John gibed.
“Screw you. I don't see you vaulting the wall, asshole.” Charlie pressed his palm over the pulse of electricity he could feel vibrating through the gate. Nothing was happening.
“Come on, this should be easy.” He said it aloud, knowing John was thinking the same.
The gate started to shudder. The rattling ran through to the railings on the wall. Then suddenly the whole thing blew. Sparks fired into the air, chased by plumes of smoke. The gates creaked open, banging against the drive as their hinges twisted and buckled.
Charlie swallowed. So he was a little out of practice, but at least he'd got the thing open. He turned to John, cowering under his younger brother's indignant look.
“Not a sound?” John said with a shake of his head. “I could have just called ahead, let them know we were coming.”
They ducked back behind the wall as the guards started moving over to investigate the noise. Charlie leaned against his brother.
“How many?”
“Two on their way down.”
“Don't suppose you actually do fancy jumping the wall?”
John sighed. “You're kidding, right?”
“I'll distract them, you take them out.”
John jumped the wall like a cat. Charlie didn't even hear him land on the other side but he knew his brother was there, waiting. The guards approached with caution. They kept their voices low, saying only what needed to be said. These were trained professionals–but then so was John.
It would take just one move, but he wasn't sure he could still do it, and if he screwed up–well, it would be his last screw up. Charlie closed his eyes. He thought about Rachel, about Lilly, about Sarah. He stepped into the opening. The guns were raised with his outstretched arm, pointing at his head. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the mechanics of the weapons, freezing them in place. The guards pressed against the triggers–nothing happened. Two slices ripped through the air, shattering their skulls as John fired from the right. They were dead before they hit the ground.
John looked at his brother as though he always knew this moment would come. All the waiting, all the patience had paid off. They were the infamous Smith Brothers and they were not to be reckoned with.
They moved the bodies away from the gate, stashing them in the flowerbeds under the lights. It was time to move. Charlie took the left, his brother the right and in an instant John was lost to the shadows. Charlie didn't need to be so stealthy. He found his next guard alone. With a swipe of his hand the guard's rifle flew into the bushes. Charlie shot him through the head and moved on.
He heard John's shots across the garden, tiny air bubbles bursting in the silent night. Charlie stumbled across another two guards by the fountain. He fired one shot, hitting the guy in the neck, but the other guard ducked the second bullet. Charlie knelt down, hiding in the bushes. He closed his eyes, drawing the energy from the ground. His fist punched the soil and the wave curled across the lawn. The energy pulse hit the guard, pushing him backwards, his body smashed into the fountain. He never came back up to the surface.
Charlie reached the house. He looked to his right to see another guard fall. John was behind him. He gave his brother a nod and they waited. Then the rest of the guards came.
They had trained together but never to work like this. Their partnership was based on experience, on years of dodging the Institute and the cops. Charlie knew exactly what his brother was capable of; there was only one thing he needed to do in return. He raised his arm, counting the weapons and fe
eling eight of them at his fingertips. He straightened out his arms and waited.
John moved so fast he couldn't be seen. But each movement was calculated and precise. He raised his pistol and shot the men who raised their guns. They fell with a numb thud as their useless weapons betrayed them. The five remaining discarded their guns. John wrapped his hands around the first, twisting his head in one clean jerk. It was effortless for him and more natural than breathing or walking. Six seconds and they were all dead.
Now they had their opening.
39
Riva hugged her, not in affection but to protect her from a beating. Pressed together, Rachel could see everything. Riva killed Frank Morris in cold blood. She calculated the moment he would be at home, she set up Donnie, and she didn't care that Isobel was taken out. Rachel wanted to push her away, and she would have done so too if Pinky wasn't fighting back clenched fists. He was totally lost now. Control had slipped through his fingers one too many times.
“We need to know what happened to Frank!” He muttered more to himself than to them.
“Why, Pinky? Finding out isn't going to bring him back. Don't go ruining what we have like he did. Frank is dead, nothing we do is going to change that. Look, we have her, we have Rachel, we can win again.”
“I have to find out.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to kill whoever it was. Then people will know I'm not to be messed with. Then they'll know they can't fuck with me anymore!” He pointed the gun at Rachel.
He would shoot her, she was certain of it. It was all about his brother now, not her potential or his future. If she left him hanging he'd see her dead, condemning himself and his empire with it.
“Who killed my brother?”
Rachel had dealt with enough lunatics to know that any answer would shake the final foundation stone in his mental health. His world was crumbling around him and he couldn't get himself free from the landslide. Whoever she said, it would ruin him. She had seen that Riva knew this too and this was what Riva was most afraid of. Not of Pinky finding out the truth and killing her, not the men turning on her. She worried what the knowledge would do to her psychopathic husband's mental health.
He cocked the gun, marking the last three seconds Rachel had.
“I'm going to ask you one more time. Who killed Frank?”
Rachel stared at the barrel. There were times to run and there were times to hide and every so often there was a moment like this. When the exits were sealed and all eyes were on her. She wouldn't die afraid.
She sat forward, untangling herself from Riva. “Your wife killed him,” she spat.
He struck her again. This time Riva let him.
“You lying bitch!” He said, grabbing her at the throat. He wasn't going to strangle her though, that wasn't his way. He liked to hit and to punch. He liked to watch people bruise and bleed colour.
“She stole Frank's phone from the club,” Rachel said quickly. “Frank was celebrating his and Isobel's anniversary. They had a meal planned. She did it then.”
“Shut her up!” Riva yelled. There was too much panic in her voice, and it seemed to fuel Pinky's madness
Rachel clambered away from him.
“She thought Frank was going to kill you. She did it to protect you,” Rachel added, but it was too late. Riva's fate was sealed in his eyes.
Riva stepped forward, her arms outstretched ready to embrace him. The gun stopped her.
“Pinky, don't do this.”
“You killed my brother?”
“Pinky, put the gun down.”
“Did you kill my brother, Riva?”
“Please, darling, please put the gun down and we can talk about this.”
“Did you kill Frank?” He screamed.
“Yes! Yes, okay I did it. Someone had to. He was out of control. Ruining everything you had worked for. I saw him looking at you, Pinky, like he did the others. He didn't trust you anymore and I knew it was only a matter of time. I knew you would never hurt him, even if he came at you. I had to protect you, like I've always done. All I ever do is protect you. I love you.”
Pinky blinked away the tears. The gun wavered between the women.
Riva braved another step forward. Rachel took one back.
“We can make it good again, darling. Like it used to be. We have Rachel, our very own Reacher. We can be back on top.”
He shook his head.
“We can. I promise you.”
He raised the gun. He was debating who to kill first. They would both die, but one would have to watch. He made his decision.
The shot shattered the window pane. Rachel flinched. She waited for the pain, but it wasn't her. Riva was screaming. Pinky dropped to the floor. There was a hole in his head and a tiny stream of blood rolling down his nose. His leg twitched and then nothing.
Charlie rested his hand on her arm and she held him tightly. She hadn't even seen them enter. John took Pinky's gun and nudged the body while watching Riva, waiting for her to strike. She didn't. Instead she crawled over to her husband, cradling him in her arms. A minute ago he was ready to kill her. Rachel shook her head; it made no sense.
“Riva,” Rachel said and realised she had no idea what to say. She didn't owe her anything, not even pity.
“Get out!” Riva demanded.
Charlie looked to Rachel for guidance before giving John the nod. It didn't matter what she had done, Rachel wasn't about to let an unarmed widow get killed, enough people had died at the hands of the Morris family already.
Cutting her bonds, Charlie took Rachel's hand, feeling another surge of energy and comfort. “Let's get out of here,” he told her.
They got to the door before Rachel stopped. She turned back to the dead man and his grieving wife, stepping over the corpse to pick up the picture of her sister. She gave Riva one last cold stare and left the house for good.
“Jesus, look at your face, you nearly look as bad as I do!” Charlie said as he got her in the car. He fussed over her like the old nuns used to do back in the convent. “How bad did they hurt you?”
“It's nothing.” She batted his hands away affectionately. “I'm okay, honestly. I can't believe you guys actually came for me, you should have got out of the city when you had the chance.”
“You're family now,” John stated as though that made their actions any less foolish.
“I'm just sorry we took so long,” Charlie said, still trying to check the bruising on her face. “Is that your sister?”
She let him get a better look at the picture. “Yeah, that's Isobel,” she ran her finger over the girl in the photograph one last time and put the picture aside. That family was gone now. She glanced up at Charlie and smiled.
John hit the main road out of S'aven, turning the dark streets into a blur of nothing. She noticed him checking her in the mirror after every corner. He looked concerned, and it didn't suit him.
“You okay, John?” She asked.
He ground his teeth. “I'm sorry I let Roxy take you,” he said quietly.
“It wasn't your fault. You didn't know Roxy was going to do that.”
“I should have,” he grumbled.
“Did you get the money?”
He gave her a look through the mirror–of course he got the money. Charlie showed her the bag. It didn't matter that she'd stared down a barrel of a gun for most of the night, that she'd been bundled into the boot of a car and then slapped around by a raving lunatic. None of it mattered because they were alive, they were paid, and they were getting out of S'aven together.
She opened the bag and touched the notes until her fingers brushed something thicker. She pulled out an envelope with her name on it.
“What is it?” Charlie asked.
“I don't know.” She opened it and pulled out the identity pass inside. It was exactly like the one she had stolen, only this was filled in and authenticated. There was a picture of her, stamp marks, holograms. It looked genuine. The name read: Rachel Smith and it
would get her into London and any other city she dared visit.
There was a note clipped to the back: sorry, no hard feelings, pet–R -x-.
“Do you know why he did it?” She asked them.
“Only that he didn't do it for the money,” Charlie said with a shrug.
“I think it had something to do with Donnie Boom, but I'm not sure.”
“When we see him again you can ask him, right before I kill him,” John said.
“It's a shame; we made a good team, the four of us.”
She toyed with the pass. With it she had freedom. She was a recognised British citizen with rights to roam the country at her leisure. She couldn't be angry with Roxy, she probably wouldn't be angry with him ever again. The bag of money was one thing, but this, this was exactly what she would have spent her share on.
“I hope it was worth it,” she said to herself and she genuinely meant it.
40
Revenge is a festering, destructive mission. Tearing apart the very core of a life for one petty moment when the world is righted, just before the whole thing collapses forever.
Revenge is consuming, eating away at everything else until only it and justice remain. It's too hungry to ever be satisfied, starving with each mouthful. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Revenge can't be cancelled out so easily. There's too much emotional baggage, not enough compromise. But punishment–well, that's different.
Roxy didn't bother with revenge or grudges. He was too lazy for it. But punishment was easy. It was a simple matter of cause and effect. You play with fire–you get burned. You set off a bomb in his mother's club–you get caught in the explosion. An eye for an eye and the matter is dealt with.
“You remember my mother, don't you, Donnie?” Roxy said as he paced the floor of his lockup. “Of course you do, nobody forgets Lulu or her girls. Well, my beloved mum is a huge fan of China. She loves the food, the language, the art. Most of all she loves the fireworks.”
Donnie grunted. He was tied to a chair, tape across his mouth. He rocked against the restraints fruitlessly.
The Running Game (Reachers Book 1) Page 19
