Border Lines E-Book

L.E. Fitzpatrick

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When the perfect job comes up, Charlie doesn't have to think twice.

This is the break he's been looking for, and nobody - not even the rest of his team - can persuade him otherwise. The job means working for an old enemy and crossing the border into London.

Both are risky, but Charlie has no idea how high the stakes really are. The team will have to confront their past, each other and a killer who is closer than they realize.

But can they make it out of the city alive?

Leseprobe

Border Lines

Reachers Series Book 2

L. E. Fitzpatrick

Copyright (C) 2016 L. E. Fitzpatrick

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

It could be anyone. Your neighbour, your friend, your lover. Remain vigilant. Reachers are everywhere.

1

Street lights flickered against the thick dark smog engulfing the city. Mystique was heading home. Her neon heels struck the cracked concrete violently, struggling to cope with her inebriated swagger. Her real name was Clare – Clare Trent – she was thirty–two, pretending she was twenty–three; a lie that was starting to show.

It was a cool July night, but she'd been working hard and the sticky Autumn breeze helped relieve her aching shoulders. She carried her coat over her arm, not caring that her sequined costume underneath left nothing to the imagination. To hell with what anyone thought – that had always been her motto. Sure she was a prostitute, but she wasn't one of those girls standing on the street corners paying off a habit that was never going to go away. Clare worked at Lulu's. She had fans, she was drunk on champagne, and the tiny dress she wore was worth more than most people in S'aven could save in a year.

It was four in the morning, the streets were gently swaying as the nightclubs started to close. Swarms of rich Londoners piled out into the streets, singing and whistling at her. She smiled and slipped past, casually shouting that she'd be at Lulu's tomorrow for anyone who could afford her.

London closed the border for curfew at ten, leaving any pass holder in S'aven to party all night or find some hovel to crawl into until morning. The bars stayed open until the first crack of dawn, but usually by now Londoners were already deep into sampling all the sordid delights S'aven had to offer – and there was a lot to sample.

The groups that lurched around the streets had missed their window. They were either too drunk or too poor to benefit from a room in one of the many brothels lining the border. But it was hot and nobody cared about staying outside when dawn was so close.

Another crowd that passed her jeered excitedly. She contended with their snatching hands and danced away from them. The trick was to do it in good humour. Creating a scene drew attention and the last thing Clare needed was trouble. She quickened her step, ignoring the blisters screaming at her heels. Some of the crowd broke away and followed her. Two called out, offered her the time of her life and she couldn't help but laugh out loud. They persisted for another block and she ignored them. It was always like this and she had survived her thirty–two years using the right blend of ruthless determination and a cast iron nerve.

She walked another two streets before realising she was still being followed.

This wouldn't be the first time some asshole thought he could take his chances with her. But Clare had been around long enough to know how to handle herself. She casually withdrew the flick knife she kept in her coat, along with the mace spray Lulu handed out to all the girls. With a quick shuffle of her coat she was ready. She slowed her steps, enjoying the control she had.

The presence was nearing. She felt something behind her, something big and cold. Felt hands reaching around the back of her neck, closing in, fingertips brushing her skin. This was her moment of power. She turned, choosing the knife over the spray.

It plunged into nothing.

There was no one there.

The empty street rolled out into darkness, but the tightening of her neck continued. The knife dropped to the ground as she tried to push away the crushing force against her throat. She couldn't breathe. Her body lifted. She kicked out, her heels barely scraping the pavement beneath. The hold tightened and she lost control of everything; her breathing, her bladder, her life. The bones in her arms and legs started to bend. She wanted to cry out, but all she could do was croak.

As her eyesight started to blacken she saw a shape – a figure in the distance with an arm outstretched toward her. She tried to reach out, but it was too late.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen – her last thoughts before the end came.

Harvey's hurried footsteps slowed.

At the end of the street he could see the body of a woman. Hesitantly he approached, checking around for signs of anyone watching. This was the third girl. He took out his phone and captured the moment for his collection.

2

The countryside suffocated under the heat. A knot of indigo clouds, twisting menacingly in the sky, threatened another downpour. England was a martyr to the summer, steaming under a morning sun like boiled meat. The rain would come soon, quenching the abandoned fields and roads, making everything fresh for the briefest moment and then the simmering would start again. There was nothing to grow in this weather, leaving the countryside more barren than it had ever been in the winter. The small villages making up the quaint south of England had long been abandoned after the worst of the flooding a decade ago. Wide lakes and marshes now stretched across plains of lowlands, the roofs of lost communities poking chimneys out of the reduced water level; monuments to a better time.

Rachel had travelled the width of the country. Enduring the winter freeze in an abandoned farmhouse and then hitting the road at the first sign of spring. The snow had come fast and lasted until April, but as she sat in the backseat of their stolen range rover, with sweat streaming down her neck and back, she wished she was back by that open fire, trying to stave the frostbite from her feet.

It wasn't just the heat making her lament. This was the closest she had been to her former home in ten months. Since meeting the Smith brothers and changing her life forever. Back then she had been the pray, a prize for ruthless men playing a vicious game, but the time away had changed her and made her stronger. Safe Haven, the old shanty town surrounding London, was less than a half hour's drive. Being so close she couldn't help feeling on edge. She'd left a lot of blood in that town, along with a life she had no desire to return to. She didn't belong there anymore. She didn't really belong anywhere; just like the two men in the car with her.

The brothers were supposed to kidnap her, but their change of heart had not only saved her life, it had saved theirs too. The eldest brother, Charlie, had been a wreck, carrying a life-destroying guilt since his wife's murder. All the while, the younger, John, lived in denial, unwilling to acknowledge Charlie's failings. It had been Rachel's addition to their dynamic that had pulled them out of trouble ten months ago and it had been Rachel that had kept them tight over the winter months.

“We should be in the right area,” Charlie said, lifting his head out of the map and scowling at the open road. Beads of perspiration clustered in the stubble on his cheeks. A life on the road kept him perpetually dishevelled, but he'd been sober for two months now and it was starting to suit him. His eyes were brighter, his mood infinitely more bearable. Although he lacked the fine chiselled good looks of his brother, there was an inner beauty to him now, an essence that made it easy to warm to him.

He twisted the map and turned it around, throwing a guilty smirk her way through the mirror.

John had been driving all morning while Charlie directed him down dead end country lanes and broken roads. The heat didn't seem to bother John as much as the others. In the ten months of sharing a backseat she hadn't even seen him break a sweat. What was making him red faced was another dead end. They were lost and with each retraced lane the tension in the car started to rival the storm brewing above them.

“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” John growled, his patience waning by the second. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly the car itself seemed to tense.

“It's a small chapel, I told you. It looks like a chapel. Do you need me to draw it?”

“Who the hell puts a chapel in the middle of nowhere?”

“Darcy said it was on the road, we can't miss it.”

There were no churches or chapels, only ruins – relics of a forbidden religion. When the state forced secularisation on the country, everything went – religion, tolerance, common sense. It meant that those still clinging onto faith had to make do with a nomadic God. Churches, synagogues, and mosques moved around the country, sometimes alongside one another – persecution loves company.

Rachel had come from a convent herself, an orphaned child with special powers raised by nuns who liked to think she was more than just a mutated gene. That was thanks to Father Darcy, but it was also thanks to him her sister was gone and the legacy Isobel left behind had already caught up with Rachel once. She wasn't sure how she felt about seeing the old priest again, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Darcy was like a father to Charlie and John, and even though they hadn't parted on the best of terms, they still held a lot of value in family. It dawned on Rachel suddenly; that family now included her.

“Why do you think he called?” John asked, relaxing now they had found a longer stretch of road with more tarmac than holes.

“I don't know. I got the impression he had a job, but he wouldn't talk over the phone.”

“Why wouldn't he tell us if it was a job?”

“I don't know, John. Ask him when we see him.” Charlie wiped his face on his shirt sleeve, then tapped the dashboard excitedly.

There was a blemish in the brown scenery.

A small stone building perched precariously on the end of the road, spilling bricks and slate from the broken walls and roof. The graveyard was swamped under a field of brambles and nettles, but the main yard to the chapel had been cleared recently. There were track marks along the ditch leading up to the church, people had obviously parked there before attending service. It may have been crumbling under the elements but God had not yet left this hovel. Rachel looked up at the jaunty cross on the roof, clawing at the sky just as the rain broke.

The water hit them so hard the car started to rock. Rachel glanced down at her boots. They were watertight and brand new, like most of her other things. She'd left S'aven with nothing, not that she had much there anyway. Now she had new well-made clothes, two pairs of shoes, and even a working watch. It had been a hard winter but it certainly had its rewards.

John stopped the car as close as he could to the chapel gate. He pulled up the handbrake and kept the engine running.

Charlie scowled. “You're not staying out here.”

“Someone should watch the road.”

“For what? We've been driving for two hours and we've only seen one other car.”

John placed his hands on the wheel, he clearly wasn't going anywhere.

“Is this about your phobia?”

“What phobia?” Rachel asked.

“John has a fear of churches.”

Rachel failed to suppress a laugh. It was hard to imagine John being scared of anything. “You have a church phobia?”

“I do not have a phobia!”

Charlie shook his head. “Fine, but switch the goddamn engine off. We've got to think about the state of the planet.”

“I like to think I'm giving it a mercy killing,” John grumbled and Rachel still, after ten months, couldn't tell if it was a joke or not.

He switched off the engine anyway and an uncertain lull settled in the car. If John wasn't going in it meant that Rachel didn't have to go either. She couldn't help being tempted, it would be a lot easier than confronting Darcy.

“You can stay if you want Rach,” Charlie offered.

She shook her head, being part of the family meant taking the good and the bad. For everything good she would have to overcome something bad. She had her new shoes, it was time now to confront Darcy.

“What are we waiting for?”

Charlie's mobility was improving by the day. The damage from the stab wounds in his back was never going to completely heal, but he was coping with the residual pain now and learning how to use his body again. Using his crutch, he made every move look effortless. He pivoted himself out of the car and swung around to open the door for Rachel.

The rain fell in heavy sheets. They were soaked before they even reached the porch. There was a makeshift door left ajar and, inside, the remains of the old chapel battled against the elements leaking through the holes in the roof. Decaying pews were haphazardly scattered as though someone had tried to shield them from the water, but the roof was in such a state now it poured just as heavily inside as it did out.

The windows on the left side of the building had survived. Their modest stained glass darkened by the absence of the sun. The right side were long gone, unable to stand the decades of storms battering the country.

It was a chapel once belonging to the Church of England and now occupied by Catholics. The effect was a strange one. The statue of the virgin and a few indistinguishable saints were perched on nearby pews, as out of place as an atheist in the house of God. Rachel inspected them with a slight fondness. She wasn't particularly religious, but these were symbols from her childhood.

Charlie walked passed the statues. He headed into the vestry calling Darcy's name while Rachel walked around the dark nave trying to make out the stone saints. A large, crucified Christ hung over the altar. It was too big for the size of the church, looming over the nave and scrutinising parishioners. Rachel remembered a similar icon from her childhood, and how the nuns had got so angry with her when she happened to query Jesus' apparent Aryan ethnicity. A smile touched her lips at the memory. She glanced up at this Jesus and was surprised to see his bare black feet. Then frowned when she noticed the cuffs of his jeans. Her eyes widened as she saw a face she hadn't seen since she was a little girl.

“Charlie!” she screamed.

Darcy was stripped at the waist. His ribs poked out of his leathery skin, an omen of malnutrition. His arms had been tied with bloody ropes to a crude cross constructed from a broken pew. There had been no rope left for his feet so instead a belt held the eighty-year-old's legs in place. There were other marks too – burns on his chest and face, dried blood on his bruised body. How long had he been up there?

“Get John!” Charlie said. He desperately tried to liberate the body and failed. “Get John!” he ordered again, snapping Rachel from her shock.

She yelled from the doorway and if John did have a phobia this was enough to overcome it. He was with them instantly. He took the full weight of the cross, lowering it to the floor with Charlie's help. The wood was heavy and slippery from the rain. Water dripped on Darcy's emaciated body while John cut away at the ropes.

“Who would do this to an old man?” Charlie was trembling with anger. This was his father, his mentor. It didn't matter that their last words had been bad ones, this man meant everything to him.

Rachel knelt down and checked for a pulse, more out of habit than hope. There was a way to pronounce people dead, she'd done it enough times working at St Mary's Hospital in S'aven. Her fingers touched his icy neck and she was about to pull away when she felt a faint movement.

“He's not dead,” she said and pressed her ear against his chest. “I can't believe it, he's still breathing, just about.” He was close to death and even with all of her medical training she had no idea if he would survive the next few minutes. But there was one thing she could do. If he was still alive then his brain was still functioning and with her powers she would be able to read his memories. “I might be able to see who did this.”

Before she could put her hand on the priest's forehead John caught it.

He held her back, firmly. “Don't,” he said. “Darcy wouldn't want you to.”

Rachel frowned. “This might be the only chance you have to know who did this.”

“John's right,” Charlie agreed. “Everything Darcy knows about every Reacher he's ever met is all in his head. He would never want anyone in there. Even if it means his killer getting away.”

John released her. She checked Darcy's breathing again. “Then we have to get him to a hospital now, there's nothing I can do for him here.”

“S'aven's a half hour away,” John stated.

The storm surrounding them bashed against the walls. The stones started to shake. Water poured harder through the ceiling, tossing roof slates into the aisle. Rachel leaned over Darcy to protect him and John leaned over her. The noise grew louder.

This wasn't wind. This was something else.

3

Two months had passed since Mark Bellamy had been liberated from the work camp. He'd served eight months hard labour working a beet farm in the midlands, trying to stay alive and wishing he was dead. He didn't dare dream about being free when he was inside and now he was out he couldn't adjust to liberated life. And it wasn't just freedom, it was a new life away from the S'aven slums across the border. He didn't understand how it all happened, but he knew it was all down to his new boss, Special Agent Wade Adams.

Agent Adams was in his fifties, twice divorced and estranged from his kids, which seemed to suit him, and them, fine. He had arrived at the work camp looking for Mark – PC Mark Bellamy the cop killer. Mark was serving a life sentence for the murder of his partner and nobody believed or cared that he was innocent.

Then Adams showed up with a file full of pictures and enough authority to release any prisoner he wanted with a minute's notice. When Adams bundled Mark into the back of his ten-year-old Audi, on that scorching hot day two months ago, he had no idea why he was being freed and as he sat now, in a basement of the Office for Public Service, the reasoning was still a mystery.

The office had a store room which Mark was sleeping in but he preferred to spend his time at the spare desk – his desk. The room was cramped and messy, littered with files, cigarette butts, and empty coffee cups, but it was beginning to feel like home. There were no markings on the door. No signs to indicate what the office was for, and even sitting inside Mark wasn't totally sure what it was they were doing. Still it beat spending twelve hours digging for root vegetables in the baking sun while the other prisoners jeered and taunted him.

Adams returned with fresh coffee, he put the cups on the most stable pile of paperwork he could find and used one of the complimentary napkins to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. A dust covered picture of Adams a decade earlier sat on his desk. Back then he'd been fit, some might have even said handsome. But the years hadn't been kind to the special agent. His lifestyle of long nights at his desk, expensive cigarettes, and cheap takeaways had left him overweight and on the brink of a heart attack every time he had to tackle a flight of stairs. There was more hair on his face than his head and he was prone to wearing the same suit for days at a time when they were on a case. But then when they were working a case there was no time to worry about appearances, even Mark understood that. And work for them both was more an obsession than a vocation.

As well as coffee Adams had a file under his arm, another one for their vast collection of unsolvable cases.

“Here kid, cast your eye over this,” he said, dropping it on Mark's desk.

Gingerly, Mark opened the file. He used to be a cop, this wasn't the first body he'd seen, and it wasn't even the worst body he'd seen. But the girl's corpse was important and from the picture alone Mark understood what this meant. When he had worked the beat, it was his job to find the corpse, bring in the senior officers and clean up afterwards. He'd never even given it much thought until he met Adams. Now this was a crime – a real crime – and they weren't just cops, they were hunters.

“Same as before, she was strangled internally like the others. No bruising, no signs of a weapon. Just her neck shattered from the inside. Hope Allison to add to the list.”

Five bodies. All prostitutes. All strangled without ever being touched. Mark chewed on his fingernails. The cops hadn't even made a connection between the murders, it was the coroner that called them. And now the cops wouldn't need to think about these girls. That was Adams' job. Mark looked up at his boss – it was his job now as well.

This wasn't the life he'd dreamt for himself, but he was still a cop, even if he was outside the scope of the force itself. Their special isolated department dealt with paranormal crimes. Until Adams had plucked him from the work camp, Mark didn't even realise there was a Paranormal Crimes Unit – he figured Anti–Terrorism dealt with it, after all that was what the Reacher threat was all about. At least that was what everyone said.

But these murders weren't an act of terrorism or a strike against the government. Mark had seen this kind of thing in movies. This was a serial killer. Some sick pervert that got his kicks from killing women in dirty alleyways.

A serial killer with Reacher powers.

“Are they all killers?” Mark asked. He'd been trying not to look stupid in front of Adams but the longer he spent in that office the more clueless he was.

Adams looked up from the file, cigarette fixed at the corner of his mouth – his staple look when he wasn't knocking back coffee.

“What's that?” Adams asked, he was going through the other files the coroner had given him on the murder victims.

“The Reachers, do they all kill?”

Adams sat back in his chair, allowing his gut to protrude forwards. He patted it proudly and regarded Mark – he did that a lot. “You want the propaganda or the truth?”

“The truth.”

“What we know about Reachers is utter bullshit. I swear to you Bellamy, they have been pulling Reachers off the streets for nearly half a century, locking them up in the Institute for study and what have we got from all that? Nothing. We don't know where they came from, why they're different. Nothing. What the Institute warns us about is hyperbole at best. You know what that means, right?”

Mark thought he did.

“We all remember that kid in Piccadilly. That determined look he had on his face as he willed all those people to him. Just using his mind, he pulled them close and then blew them all to pieces. And the Institute warned people how a Reacher could just make people spontaneously combust, do you remember that?”

Mark nodded. It was one of the most infamous attack on London, even though he was just a kid when it happened he still remembered how it had shaken the country.

“Yeah, well, I was part of the first patrol on the scene. Anti–terrorist Reacher Division. We found the kid, what was left of him. And we found the bomb he'd had strapped to his back. We reported it to the Institute but those whitecoats said it would make people more vigilant if we didn't mention the bomb.”

Mark didn't know what to think. “But why would they say it if it wasn't true?”

Adams smiled and plucked the cigarette from his lips in excitement. “Because any normal son of a bitch could walk into a train station and set off a bomb. Hell, how many have bloody done it already? All that kid did was call the people to him for maximum damage. The rest you or me could have done. But those bastards at the Institute like scaremongering and they wanted the Reachers off the streets so we all went along with it.”

“That's a good thing though. They're dangerous. We do need to stop them.” Mark scowled at his own train of thought. He'd believed the propaganda all his life, but since he left the work camp uncertainty was setting in. “They are dangerous aren't they?”

Adams finally smiled, exposing his nicotine stained teeth. “As I said to you before, we know nothing about them. So let's ignore everything we've been told and just look at the facts. In the past twenty years how many confirmed terrorist attacks have been caused by Reachers?”

“I don't know, a hundred?”

“One. The kid in Piccadilly is the only Reacher known to have caused mass damage on that scale.”

“But bombs are going off all the time.”

“Yes, they are. Reachers have nothing to do with what's happening to this country. That, my son, is a fact.” Adams paused sombrely. “And that is why I am stuck in this little room with a street cop reject, no offence meant. I've studied Reachers for years, trying to source this undercurrent of terrorism everyone was yelling about and then one day I just realised I knew more than the goddamn Institute and everything they were telling us was crap.”

“But you're still trying to catch Reachers. That's what you do, catch Reachers. You must think they're bad.”

“They're more powerful than us. That's all. When I started questioning my orders I was transferred here to solve the stuff that has nothing to do with terrorism.” He looked at the picture of the latest dead girl. “The kid in the station, he was a level three. Most of the Reachers Anti–Terrorism picked up were level one or two. Occasionally we'd get a three and have to watch ourselves. What we rarely saw were the fours or fives. The fives are the most dangerous. We can't just take them down like common criminals. We'd be lucky to take them down alive. And these are the ones you have to watch out for. I won't lie to you, they're not all bad – but this girl here, well she was killed by a level five. And this is why they still keep me on the payroll, because I'm the best chance they have at getting this bastard. Because if word gets out about him the Institute will lose control and when that happens – well let's just hope if it ever happens I'm on a beach in the Bahamas knocking back daiquiris.”

Mark leaned forward. The world was starting to look clearer in the smog, but he still had so many questions. This time he kept quiet. Adams was keeping him for a reason and he wanted to stay on his boss's good side for as long as possible.

“The good news I can tell you is level fives are rare so we don't need to look too far. Last year there were two suspected level fives in S'aven and that's the first place we look.”

“The ones who have Rachel?”

“The very same. They killed your partner and I'd bet my life on them taking out these women. Not all Reachers are killers, but these men, the Smith Brothers, mean death.”

4

The shouting outside grew louder. Voices howled over the churning wind.

Charlie was unarmed; all of his weapons bundled up in the back of the car with the rest of their arsenal. He turned to his brother. John at least had the foresight to bring some of his armoury with him. He pulled out two HK USP's. Charlie flexed his fingers, he wasn't totally defenceless. He fixed his attention on the door. The voices grew louder. John stepped in front of Rachel and Darcy. As long as he was standing nothing would harm them. All Charlie needed to do was make sure nobody got close enough to try.

The door opened and the room exploded with noise. Charlie waited, expecting an army. When they came he would launch every pew he could at the door. With his powers he felt the weight of the wood around him. Gathered up the force he would need to launch his attack. He counted in his head – three, two…

Charlie lifted his arms into the air, as they rose the pews around him rose too. His body trembled with the effort. He was ready to strike when a familiar frame obliterated the stream of outside light. The sound of heels striking the wooden floor seemed to echo over the noise outside. She was wearing a silver suit; new and expensive. There had always been something graceful and elegant about her but this was now amplified by genuine wealth and power.

The last time Charlie had seen Riva Morris, she was leaning over her dead husband after John had put a bullet in his head. Charlie hadn't expected to see her again. He certainly hadn't expected that she would be able to pull off an ambush. She was just one woman, but there were more outside, he could hear them. He dropped his hands. The pews bounced to the floor. Wood splintered, tiles cracked, and still she walked towards him unperturbed.

Behind him John was already taking aim. Riva stopped. She had an air of confidence about her, as though there was nothing untoward about visiting a decrepit old chapel in the middle of nowhere. Then her composure changed. She looked around, her eyes widening when they saw Rachel wrapping Darcy in her coat.

Maybe she wasn't expecting them to have arrived in time. Maybe she was hoping that Darcy would have died already. Either way Charlie was furious. He'd wronged Riva, not Darcy.

“You didn't do the job properly,” Charlie said, venom rich in his voice.

Riva took another bold step closer, trying to inspect the body from where she was. “What happened to him?”

“You tell us,” John replied, his guns still outstretched and promising.

“I'd lower your weapons if I were you, Mr Smith. I have a whole army of men outside ready to storm this place if I need it.”

“Is that like the army of men you had guarding your house?” John bit back. They'd taken more than a dozen of Riva's body guards before. If they had to they would do it again.

“You don't hurt Darcy and walk away,” Charlie warned her.

“I didn't do this. Father Darcy is an old friend of mine.” As hard as he tried, Charlie couldn't hear a lie in her tone.

“Charlie,” Rachel said, ignoring everything else. “We need to get him to a hospital.” There was enough desperation in her voice. She didn't need to say anything else.

“I have my helicopter outside,” Riva offered.

Charlie opened his mouth to say something witty and snide but nothing would come. He was trying to push the idea that she was responsible and yet the more he tried the less likely it seemed. It did raise a question though.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have an appointment.”

Charlie scoffed. “You have an appointment with Darcy?”

“No, I have an appointment with you. I'm sorry I'm late.” She stepped forward again. “Darcy arranged it for me. I knew you wouldn't hear me out if I approached you myself.”

“So what, you figured you'd hurt Darcy then ambush us here?”

“I have nothing to do with this. Darcy was going to mediate. Clearly we need it!”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because he knew what was at stake and what I would offer you.” She folded her arms – not intimidated, or just damn good at holding her nerve.

She had his interest. If she was telling the truth, then Darcy wanted him to hear her out. The last time he did this they ended up finding Rachel.

“You've got one minute.”

“Charlie,” Rachel warned behind him. He wasn't sure if she was annoyed he was stalling or annoyed he was listening to what Riva had to say.

“Let's hear you out,” Charlie said.

“Everything you need to get your daughter back. Advance payment of twenty thousand, upfront today. And twenty grand on top for each of you if you get the job done.”

Charlie's daughter had been missing for two years. Before now he'd been too much of a mess to find her. But with the right money he would be able to buy the information he needed. He was getting back on form, one job might just be enough. He couldn't hide his interest.

“And the job?” he said, already salivating at the prospect.

Riva shifted her stance. “That's need to know. You'll find out if you take it.”

“You seriously expect us to take a job we know nothing about?”

“It's a delicate matter. If you turn it down, I'll need to find someone else. No one can know I'm involved, so unless you make it happen, you don't need to know.”

That was the hook – hand them a box that they're only allowed to open if they keep it.

“So what if we say we're interested?”

“Charlie!” Rachel shouted. “We don't have time for this. Darcy doesn't have time.”

Riva inspected the patient. “I can get him to a good hospital in twenty minutes,” Riva said. “How long do you think he has?”

The cross lay in pieces on the altar. Even a few hours on that thing could have killed him. Charlie's thoughts raced through what was happening. If Riva had wanted a meeting, who else knew about it? Who would stage this whole scene and why? Darcy? Timing? The cross? None of it made any sense. Unless…

“Rachel,” Charlie said, trying to keep up with his thoughts. “How long would you say he's been up there?”

“I don't know, a day. Charlie, he's coming around.” Rachel knelt closer to Darcy's mouth. The priest's eyes fluttered but never opened. His fingers twitched and touched Rachel's.

“What's he saying?”

Rachel frowned. She looked to Charlie nonplussed. “He said 'redemption.' ”

The word struck Charlie. His body went cold. Slowly his eyes took in the cross and the chapel in a new light. Redemption. Darcy pushed Rachel's hand away. In that one gesture everything made sense.

They were here. And the only thing keeping them at bay was Riva's men. He lashed around, checking the weaknesses of the building. Where were they hiding? There wasn't time to play. He had to take charge. He had to get everyone out.

“Rach go with him.”

She rose, confused. “What?”

“Go with him!” he ordered. “He needs you to keep him alive.”

The look she gave him was fierce but he knew her doctor's instinct had already taken over. She'd look after Darcy because that was her nature.

Riva's men carried Darcy into the helicopter. Their weapons, their military training, was no longer a threat to him. He scanned the door way, the gaps in the wall and the distant fields. Somewhere they were waiting for him, he could feel it.

Rachel threw him a frustrated confused glare as she followed the men out. But he didn't have time to explain it to her.

“Go with her,” he told John.

John was more used to Charlie taking charge. He trusted Charlie, but even he was hesitating.

“I'll be safer on my own, you know I will. I'll call you when I'm done,” Charlie assured him. “Look after her. Look after them both, okay.”

John handed over his second gun. It wouldn't help. They both knew that. But he never left Charlie without a weapon. Charlie took it, stuffing it into his jeans. He nodded at his brother as eager to see him leave as he was Rachel. This wasn't their fight.

John left the church. And for a brief moment Charlie was alone with the noise and the rain. Then his friends were gone. And the ones waiting for him came closer.