Every Storm Breaks E-Book

L.E. Fitzpatrick

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When a Reacher terrorist group enlists the help of a deranged serial killer, their goal is simple: bring chaos to Britain.

But when the death count starts rising, chaos comes sooner than expected. As tensions between the London elite and the surrounding slums reach a breaking point, Charlie finds himself in handcuffs on the wrong side of the border.

Government agents are closing in, and he is running out of time. When the storm comes, will any of them make it out alive?

Leseprobe

Every Storm Breaks

Reachers Series Book 3

L. E. Fitzpatrick

Copyright (C) 2017 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.

Thus I will punish the world for its evil And the wicked for their iniquity

Isaiah 13.11

1

Water chipped away at the stain in the rusty basin. It ran brown towards the plug hole, like old blood, stinking of metal from the ancient pipework. Jan scrubbed his hands under the faucet, grating his skin with a scouring brush. Over and over. Again and again. But nothing helped. His skin was contaminated. Infested with decay. There was something chilling—a shadow or an absence—lingering in his peripheral vision. Watching. Waiting. He scrubbed and scrubbed. More soap. More water. He noticed his bleeding hands were trembling and forced himself to stop. An emaciated reflection appeared in the shaving mirror above the sink. He lashed around. The bathroom was empty. When he looked at the mirror again he could make out a familiarity in the face. It was him. It had always been him. His head started throbbing. He knew what he had done, even if he could not comprehend it.

The pain worsened. He turned, hitting his legs on the frame of a bed. His feet scuffed against the broken floorboards as he started to pace. This place—this isolated, rotting house—put him on edge. It was too dirty, too broken, too hidden. He was miles away from London and his old life. And he could never go back. It was too late now, everything that was had gone. He'd lost it all. But he'd accepted that when he'd agreed to leave. His home was to be this crumbling cottage in the middle of nowhere, stripped of everything but the barest essentials: water, electricity, dust. The thumping in his head was getting louder, more demanding.

But it wasn't in his head at all. Someone was hammering on the door. He froze. Behind him, wedged in the corner, was a body. There was nowhere to hide it. Nowhere to hide himself. The hammering stopped and the lock clicked open. Jan swallowed. A man filled the entranceway. He was older than Jan, with a face corroded by malice. Behind him was a teenage girl. Jan found her far more unsettling than her thug companion. He pushed himself to remember their names: Derek and Marie. They were an unlikely pair, drawn together by their only commonality: their powers. They were both Reachers. Just like the other. Jan was afraid of them and what their presence awakened inside of him.

Reachers were outlawed in England. If discovered, they were locked away; with good reason too. Reachers were violent and dangerous. They were cunning and fixated on bringing down society. And here he was with two of them, standing as though they all belonged together. He didn't understand their powers, or why a part of him revelled in being around them. He was an accomplished surgeon. This wasn't supposed to be his life. And yet he fitted into it so well. So terribly, terribly well.

If they were surprised to see the dead girl in the corner, they said nothing. Derek cast his eyes over the room with some irritation, but made to clean up the mess without complaint. He manhandled the body as though it were nothing more than a sack of refuse. Perhaps that's what it was to him. Jan wanted to cry out—to demand he show some respect to the poor departed girl—until he realised he had been the one who killed her.

As Derek left, Marie made a show of sighing in disappointment. Despite being the youngest, she held authority over her companion and seemed to have little tolerance for both him and Jan. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and stared up at Jan. “Sol wants to see you.”

Jan backed away. He didn't like these people. He didn't trust them, and he didn't understand why they had brought him from London to this place. He was dangerous and yet they kept him close, hidden away in a little room in the middle of nowhere, letting him get away with murder. They thrust him into a community full of young, promiscuous women, knowing he couldn't help himself. And when the inevitable happened they cleaned up his mess, like he was some kind of pet prone to accidents.

How many had died now? He couldn't recall the early ones, back when it was all too unreal. They were hidden from him, segmented from his rational, human side. It was only his final night in S'aven that he remembered clearly. Meeting with one of the most powerful women in the south and feeling nothing but the desperate urge to take her life. He'd killed her and so many others that night, the trail of bodies blocking his escape out of her lavish compound. It was then he realised he was responsible for the other murders, but he couldn't turn himself in. He had to run, and Sol had already made contact with him, offering him salvation.

Unable to object, Jan followed Marie out of the room, feeling the mediocre power emanating from her fragile body. They were like the other inside of him, but they were all weaker. He wondered if they knew that and, if so, why they weren't afraid of him.

The rest of the cottage was much like his room, desolate but liveable. He had arrived the day before in a stolen ambulance, finding the cottage a hub for a travelling community. From their group he had met the now-deceased girl. He wondered what they would do to him, knowing he had killed one of their own, and he braced himself for conflict as his foot struck the hallway.

The front door was wide open, exposing another humid day in the surrounding wasteland. But no collection of mobile homes that Jan could see. There was only one vehicle parked up, the rest memorialised by the imprints in the dirt surrounding the house. The remaining vehicle was the largest of the original group: a trailer housing the community's leader, Sol. It was Sol who had sniffed Jan out, tracing him through his breadcrumb trail of dead prostitutes. And he had offered Jan an alternative to the path he was on: Join us and we'll help you.

He'd been a fool to listen.

He didn't like Sol. The man was corrupt, with a soul as black as the victims that tainted Jan's memory. He gave off a semblance of agelessness, like some sort of heathen god, with an agenda to match. Jan knew the promises and assurances Sol offered would be tarnished, that he was dealing with a devil. But as much as Jan wanted to break free of this demon, the other didn't. Standing in front of Sol, with his wild hair and eyes, Jan felt the other lurch and fight to be closer to his consciousness. He fought back, doing his best to keep control of his body and mind.

“The priest is stirring,” Sol said.

When Jan had joined these people in their stolen ambulance, he had shared the vehicle with an unconscious old man on the brink of organ failure. He was hooked to a medicom, which was keeping him alive and repairing some of the damage done to his aged body. Nobody had explained the reasoning of bringing the man—a priest, apparently—with them, but then these people had purposes way beyond Jan's comprehension. Whatever they were doing was bad, and both Jan and the priest were tied up in their madness.

“It is time for me to leave,” Sol told him.

Jan frowned. Fragmented memories of conversations the other had with Sol played in his mind. The details of the deal they had struck escaped him, but the other knew. And the other was excited, which meant whatever they had agreed couldn't be good.

“Try to keep the priest alive until they come. Marie will stay here to help you. As will Derek, after he returns from… disposing of things.”

Jan turned to the young girl with Sol. He was struck by a pang of dread. They couldn't leave a girl with him. The other didn't like women. They were like his mother—the filthy whore—they weren't safe with him.

Sol seemed to recognise his fear and was amused by it. “Don't worry. You won't be able to hurt her. You can't hurt Reachers.”

Reacher. He was surrounded by them, but the word still made Jan shudder. The other within was a Reacher, and it scared the hell out of him. Did that make him a Reacher too? He didn't know. When he was in control he had no powers, but as the other…. His stomach churned at the fragmented memories of dirty alleyways and working girls.

Marie stood stoically by Sol's side. She'd do whatever her master said. Her arrogance would be her undoing. She thought she was capable of great things, but Jan sensed she was just a pawn and that Sol would dispose of her as easily as the girl Derek was getting rid of.

“Marie will make sure you have everything you need. If things go as planned, you will get your reward in a few days.”

The reward, at least, had stayed in Jan's head, and the mention of it made the other chatter in his ear. Death was promised, so much death. But death was promised to Jan too. An end to this. It was a compromise, to bring about his own destruction. The other would get enough blood to temporarily appease his insatiable appetite, and Jan would see a merciful end to this madness.

* * *

Sol left the house, Marie following him. She was obedient and sharp minded, but barren. A vicious assault by her late stepfather had left her unable to conceive and, at nineteen, there was little else for her now but to assist them in their missions. Sol made the use he could of the talents remaining to her, she was still good counsel and he could rely on her discretion. Derek was his brawn, Marie his brains.

“No more girls,” he told her. “We don't want the locals to get suspicious and come up this way.”

“I'll make sure he doesn't leave the house.”

“It will only be for a few days. Soon enough the targets will be coming.” He checked his watch. “It won't be long now before Charlie Smith is out of the picture. Without him, the others will be desperate. They'll come looking for the priest, so make sure he stays alive.”

Sol couldn't help himself; he was enjoying this. He despised the creature that called himself John Smith. It had been a pleasure to set up his older brother, Charlie. To sneak into the room Charlie was sleeping in and strangle the girl he was with. He'd watched from the side of the road as Charlie was carted off in a police vehicle, knowing in eight hours his former pupil would be sent back to the place he belonged. The satisfaction was overwhelming. For years he had been cultivating his play, moving pieces around in a strategy some thought too complicated to ever see fruition. They were wrong.

Bringing Jan here—the only man who had been able to stop John Smith—was a stroke of genius on his part. And John would follow soon enough, coming after the only member of his twisted little family still accessible to him. The priest meant a lot to the Smith brothers, and Sol would ensure that sentimentality would be their undoing.

2

Electricity fizzed through the solitary, naked light bulb hanging, off-centre, from the cracked ceiling. It hissed and flickered. For a brief moment the cell went dark. Charlie straightened against the hard chair, ignoring the burning pain in his back and thighs. The light flicked back on, and his hope of waking up somewhere new vanished. A long, dirty mirror built into the opposite wall echoed his troubles. He was pretty sure he was being watched. On the floor below the mirror was a large metal box. A light on the box blinked at Charlie and continued to emit an almost inaudible buzz that seemed to reverberate from the middle of his skull.

He felt as terrible as he looked, and he looked like death. His reflection was a stark reminder of yesterday, but he tried not to think about everything that had led to his current predicament. What happened before he was arrested was irrelevant, at least until he got out. And that was the only question now—how to get out.

John and Rachel—his family—would be searching London for him by now. It was just a matter of time. Time and luck. Eight hours before he was transported, and after that it would be too late. Eight hours to escape or to kill himself. His eyes lifted to the blinking light bulb. He twisted his fingers and the bulb turned. It took more effort than it should, but if he wanted to he could bring it down. If he wanted to, he could use it as a weapon. He just had to decide: who on. Them or me?

Charlie shifted and winced as the pain rolled up his spine. His old knife wounds protested where they rubbed against the cold metal chair. He put his hands on the table. They were bound in plastic ties. His captors knew better than to put him in handcuffs. The plastic fastenings were stuck tight, and there was nothing he could do about them. At least they had left his legs free, although without his crutch he was pretty much useless.

He closed his eyes and instantly regretted it. In the darkness he saw Jess O'Connor's cold, dead face staring up at him, her body wrapped in the bed sheets they had been sharing. He shuddered and stared back at the mirror. What had happened still confused the hell out of him. He went to bed with Jess—a troubled woman he barely knew—in a moment of drug-induced weakness. When he woke up, she was dead and the cops were at the door. She'd been murdered, that much was obvious, but that meant someone killed her while he was sleeping. It meant they let him live. It meant he was set up.

Before he had time to work it out, the cell door heaved open and his arresting officer stumbled in. Charlie hadn't caught the man's name when he was being hauled out of bed and into the back of the police car with a Taser pressed against his back. He hadn't managed much more than a panicked last look at the corpse he was leaving behind.

“Mr Smith.” The guy's voice was weary, and he looked nearly as rough as Charlie. He was carrying more weight than was good for a man of his age, with fingers and teeth suggesting a nicotine addiction that would bring that premature heart attack around a lot sooner. Charlie could imagine the jibing his brother was going to give him, knowing a cop like this had managed to bring in the uncatchable Charlie Smith.

“My name is Agent Adams.”

Agent. The word made Charlie's ears perk up. Not your regular plucky London detective, then. Maybe it wasn't totally humiliating after all.

“Where am I?” Charlie said.

“You're in a holding cell in the PCU.”

“PCU? What the fuck is that?”

“Paranormal Crimes Unit.”

Charlie started to laugh, and his chest roared back in pain. “You're joking, right? Paranormal Crimes? I thought someone made that up.”

Adams didn't seem insulted; maybe he was used to it. He took the chair opposite, resting a battered file on the table between them.

“So this is part of the Institute?”

“No, this is something else; the middleman, if you like. But the Institute are on their way.”

“That comforting to hear,” Charlie said; he wasn't about to show fear this early in the game. His eyes fixed on the tattered old file with SMITH scrawled across the top.

“And dare I ask what it is that PCU does?”

“We catch Reachers like you. Criminals with powers.” Adams opened the file.

The idea was absurd. All Reachers were criminals in the eyes of the law. It didn't matter whether they were upstanding members of the community or psychopaths, all the Institute was interested in was gathering them in their laboratories and prodding them until their bodies gave out.

“And what's the difference between a Reacher and a criminal with powers?” Charlie was goading the agent, but he didn't seem to mind.

“The damage you can do.”

Charlie thought about it and smiled when it clicked into place. “Oh, I get it. When I break into a high-security bank and take everything I could ever want, people start wondering why all Reachers aren't doing that. Maybe they start questioning the motives behind what we do. Maybe they start wondering why there aren't more reports of paranormal jewellery heists or mass killing sprees from “evil” Reachers. Maybe they start thinking that their government has been bullshitting them all this time and that most Reachers, most of the people they've been sending for experimentation and extermination, are just regular peaceful joes with more evolved brains.”

A slight twitch affected Adams' chapped lips. He was amused.

“So my criminal record, all the illegal things I have done—and I've done a lot—make me look like a saint compared to what you guys paint me as. You tell them I'm some big bad terrorist, intent on bringing civilisation to its knees, but all I really am is your everyday crook who happens to be better equipped at breaking into things. I screw up your propaganda by just not being that bad.” Charlie smirked.

“It's about controlling what people are frightened of,” Adams said. “Although you'd be surprised how little attention serious crime actually gets nowadays. People aren't interested in hearing about what's happened, they're concerned with what's to come. As long as you're behind bars, they'll forget all about you.”

“So you cover up the crimes Reachers commit?”

He shook his head. “No. I stop serial offenders. I hunt you down and bring you in to stop you committing crimes. The Institute cleans up the mess.”

“Very impressive, Agent,” Charlie said. “And there was me embarrassed to be arrested by some run-of-the-mill PC Plod, when it turns out I've actually been brought in by the best in the business.”

“The only one in the business,” Adams replied. “And you, Mr Smith, have quite the reputation yourself.”

Charlie looked at the measly file, fighting another smile. “You clearly don't know half of it.”

Adams withdrew six photographs. Six murdered women. They were images Charlie recognised; he'd seen them on Harvey O'Connor's computer screen. All apart from photo number six: Jess' lifeless corpse. That one was new.

“I know I've barely scratched the surface with you. I know that there are things I am never going to understand, things I probably don't want to understand. But these here, these are what I want to talk about. You're going to tell me why you killed them and you're going to tell me if there are any others I'm missing.”

Charlie frowned at the pictures. He'd encountered the murders in passing when he was working on manipulating the border lines vote. Aside from Jess and the murdered friend she had identified, he had no idea who the girls were and, until now, he hadn't been particularly interested.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Adams asked.

“Why do you want to know? I'm here. The Institute are going to take me away. What's the point in asking for more?”

Adams clenched his jaw. “The point, Mr Smith, is these girls lost their lives. They had families and people that need to know why it happened to them. They want answers. I want answers.”

Charlie leaned back in his chair. He wasn't sure what to make of the agent, or how to play him. Most cops liked to act with their fists. This guy just wanted to talk—it was like being on a bad date. “And what if I don't give you the answers you want?”

“All I want is the truth. You've said it yourself, the Institute are coming. These next few hours will change nothing. You've got nothing to lose.”

“You want to close your case, right? Even though it counts for nothing?”

Adams nodded.

A part of Charlie could understand. He was a perfectionist himself. When he did a job he wanted it done properly, and he could respect Adams' integrity. It was a rare quality in a cop. And at least in this case he had nothing to hide.

“The truth? Okay. The truth is I didn't kill those girls.”

Adams pulled out another photograph, one that had been taken from CCTV. It showed Charlie, John, and Rachel leaving their London hotel earlier that week. The faces were blurry but recognisable.

“Then which one did it? Your brother, or the girl?”

“Neither.”

“You expect me to believe that there is another Reacher in London capable of this?”

“I don't care what you believe. You wanted the truth, that's what I gave you. If you don't like it, that's your problem.” He gave Adams a stern stare, daring him to argue.

“I'll tell you what I think, Mr Smith. I think one of you was responsible, and I will bring you all in and make sure you are all brought to justice.”

Charlie started to laugh again. “Agent, haven't you figured it out yet? I'm the broken one. The loose link. You only managed to get me because I'm off my game.” He patted his dud leg with his bound hands. “My brother is the best of the best. He's already hours ahead of you, and you won't even see him coming. You haven't got a shot in hell at getting him or Rachel. You think this is all about control… well, if I was you I'd be looking for a place to hide, because my brother is the one who is in control of this situation. John Smith is always in control.”

3

Rachel flinched as John threw another box at the wall. Glass bottles shattered on the concrete floor. Since arriving at Lulu's club on the outskirts of the London/S'aven border, he'd lost control of his temper. His brother was on the wrong side of the fence, in police custody, and the Institute were coming. It was clear he was scared, and John Smith didn't get scared. He grabbed an empty bottle and launched that next. If he didn't stop soon he was going to hurt himself—or somebody else. And none of this was helping Charlie.

Behind him, Roxy had slumped on the floor. He looked exhausted, his thick, matted hair hanging over his bloodshot eyes. He seemed to be content letting John smash up his mother's basement without comment. But then he probably had more pressing things on his mind. A couple of hours ago Roxy had been as good as dead, and Rachel still didn't understand how she had managed to bring him back. But she had, and if they could raise Roxy from the dead then they could rescue Charlie from the other side of the wall. She just had to calm John down first.

She grabbed his hand as he went to snatch another bottle. He glared at her, but she wasn't going to back down. Though John's eyes were wild and fierce, he didn't frighten her. Despite being a tightly coiled killing machine, he was still a man, still her friend, her family. And he needed to get a grip. She had no idea how to get Charlie back, but John did. He just had to start thinking straight.

“This isn't helping,” she told him, her own heart racing at the possibility that maybe he was too far gone. She'd never seen him lose control like this before. His temper was always short, but this was different—this was unrestrained rage. She refused to be intimidated. He was her friend, as good as a brother to her, and right now she was the only one that could snap him out of this.

“You've got to calm down.” Her hand touched his bare wrist. She could use her powers and subdue him. For a second she even considered it—getting into his head and pushing her own thoughts into him—but that would be crossing a boundary, and afterwards their relationship would never be the same.

As if he suspected she might be compelled to break their trust, John dropped the bottle. His fingers wrapped around hers. There was an unfamiliar desperation in the act.

She cupped his face, staring into his dark, brooding eyes. “We'll figure it out. We brought Roxy back from the dead, Charlie's only across the border. Eight hours until the Institute comes, that's what you said, right?”

He nodded.

“There's a lot we can do in eight hours, but we need to stop with the wanton vandalism.” She released him. “We need to calm down, okay?”

His shoulders tightened, and she could see a wall being built inside him. He was returning to his repressed self, which probably wasn't healthy but was exactly what they needed.

“I know Charlie normally does the planning, but you've been with him long enough to know what he would do. Think about it. If it was you or me that were missing, where would he start? What would we need?”

And instantly she could see he knew exactly what to do. “I need to get our things from the car.”

She squeezed his arm and let him go. The relief made her dizzy. She hadn't even started to worry about Charlie yet. God, if anything happened to him…

“You did good, pet,” Roxy said from the floor. He held out his freshly lit cigarette—a beacon in the storm—which she took a grateful drag of before handing it back.

“I've never seen him like that before.”

Roxy shrugged, a sad smile creeping in beneath his dirty stubble. “This was nothing. You should have been there when they got Charlie the first time. At least he listens to you, more than he ever would to me, anyway.” He blew a determined, smoky breath into the air.

“I'm scared, Rox. I have no idea how we're going to get Charlie back. And without him…. God, I don't even want to think about it. This is ridiculous, we finally get a great payoff and—”

He held up his hand. “You just concentrate on keeping John focused. We'll figure the rest out. Like you said, we've got plenty of time.” He brushed the mess of hair from his face and groaned.

His eyes were streaked with burst capillaries, although not as bad as they should have been, considering what had happened to him. Even now she could see his lifeless body lying on the gravelled drive, strangled to death, or so they thought. She knelt beside him and lifted his head. “What about you, how are you feeling?”

His grin was more forced than usual. “Like a new man.”

“Roxy,” she warned.

“Okay. I have a banging headache, my chest hurts, and so does my throat, surprisingly. I'm bloody shattered, and I need a goddamn shower. But hey, I've had Monday mornings ten times worse than this, so don't you worry about me.”

“I should examine you,” she said, her doctor's instinct kicking in.

Roxy laughed. “As much as I love doctors and nurses, I promise you, sweetheart, that I am good, and we have more important things to worry about. Let's do it when we're both in a position to enjoy it, eh?”

She still wasn't sure what had actually happened to Roxy. He'd found himself on the wrong side of a lunatic Reacher who had tried to kill him, but how he had done it was beyond her. When she found Roxy he wasn't breathing, and she couldn't find a heartbeat. She started CPR out of desperation rather than optimism, and somehow he pulled through. She didn't know if there would be any lasting damage, and he was right: there was no time to find out.

John kicked open the basement door, startling them both. He had a heavy case in each hand and cleared a workspace for himself in the centre of the junk room. Roxy got up and pulled out a broken table he could assemble for John to spread out his computer and kit. They were both focused now they had something to do.

“What's the first step?” she asked.

“We find out who has him, and where.”

“Then what?”

“Then we figure out how we're going to get him back.”

They made it sound so easy. In eight hours it would all be over. One way or another.

4

Ten months ago Mark Bellamy had been serving a life sentence in a work camp for a murder he didn't commit. Ten months of digging up beets under the blistering sun to fuel a country that had deserted him. Ten months of being one of the most hated inmates in that godforsaken place. Ten months of sleepless nights, of starving, of pain, of suffering. And it was all down to the man on the opposite side of the mirror. Charlie Smith and his psychopath brother had broken into his world, stolen his girlfriend, and killed his partner. Mark's life had been left in ruins. And for ten long months he didn't even realise why everything had gone so wrong for him. He hadn't known Rachel was a Reacher and, even now he did, he still couldn't believe it. Somehow he had been dragged from the relative stability of his policeman's life into this chaos. He was way out of his depth and barely keeping afloat.

It had been Agent Wade Adams that had thrown him a lifeline. The older man had wanted information from Mark and then, for reasons Mark still didn't understand, he had pulled him out of the work camp and expanded his one-man department to two. PCU—the Paranormal Crimes Unit—was a long way from the local police station in S'aven. But although the PCU had authority over most of the UK police force, they were generally regarded as a joke. It was a dummy promotion and, even if it beat the work camp, Mark still wasn't convinced his new status was a good thing. Since he'd arrived they'd only worked a dozen cases, and all were overshadowed by the man in the interview room. The prize, Adams said. The big catch. The one that gave them some sort of purpose.

He watched as Adams questioned their prisoner, and still the world he was embroiled in made his head spin. Their other cases were all fake reports, men and women who had been shopped by disgruntled neighbours or colleagues. But the man in custody was a genuine Reacher and possibly the most powerful and dangerous they had on record. This should have been a big deal. And yet the events unfolding seemed so very uninspiring. So very ordinary.

Adams didn't raise his fists, and Charlie didn't use his powers. From the outside, as far as Mark was concerned, they were just two men chatting. This wasn't how they did things back at the station in S'aven. If Charlie was across the border he would at least be missing some teeth by now. And it was no less than the bastard deserved. Mark clenched his fists, longing for the opportunity to dish out a few blows.

He watched as Adams heaved himself up and left the interview room. A few seconds later he was standing by Mark, a frustrated look on his blemished face.

“He's not going to tell us where the other two are.” Adams fumbled for his packet of cigarettes. “Something doesn't feel right.” He fished the packet out victoriously, then resumed the same dance to find his lighter.

“Is he using his powers on you?” Mark asked.

“He's telekinetic, wouldn't make a difference if he was. He can't get inside my mind.”

Mark had never got his head around the differences in Reacher powers. Telekinetic, telepathic—it was all abnormal and dangerous. It all needed to be stopped.

“No, there's just something about it, about him, that doesn't make sense. He didn't have sex with the other women, but he did with Jess O'Connor. He strangles O'Connor using his hands and not his powers. He stays with her, too, long after she's dead. It's not right. And it doesn't fit the profile, either. O'Connor doesn't match the other deaths.”

“So he killed O'Connor and the brother did the others?”

“Maybe.”

“The brother is a psychopath,” Mark said. He still had nightmares about meeting John Smith in that warehouse last year. There was something about the younger Smith that chilled his blood. His eyes were too cold, too calculating. He was a killer, Mark had no doubts about that. If anyone was capable of murdering those girls, it was him.

“You want to have a crack at it?”

Mark frowned. “Eh, at what?”

“At interrogating the prisoner? You could ask him about Rachel one on one, see if he lets anything slip.”

There was an art to getting a good confession, and while Mark had never led an interview before and only sat in on a few, he'd seen enough through mirrors to understand what was expected of him. He glanced at Charlie Smith and knew the opportunity was too good to pass up.

* * *

Outside the cell, Mark had a routine all planned out. He'd switch from good cop to bad cop, tying Charlie Smith up in knots until the Reacher finally cracked and confessed everything. He'd be clever and a bit witty, like those American cops on TV. Smith would start off being unbreakable and, by the end, he'd be in tears, begging for the interrogation to be over.

Inside the cell, the routine fell apart.

Mark opened his mouth, and all his bravado failed him. He met the prisoner with an uncertain, wavering silence. Smith stared up at him, expectant and clearly amused. Mark put his hands on the chair in front of him before his shaky legs gave out. In his plan he had sat down, leaned back with a nonchalant air, and made Smith perspire with anticipation. In reality the opposite was happening. Smith's eyes bore into him and Mark felt fixed in place, hot sweat already dripping down his back and pooling at the waist of his trousers.

“Don't suppose you fancy turning that box off, do you?” Smith asked, gesturing to the case against the wall. “My head is banging.”

The box interfered with a Reacher's powers and was one of the few things they could use against Smith while he was locked up. The effect was getting to Mark, too, a ringing headache already forming at the base of his skull, but he'd endure it—especially if Smith was suffering more. “Good,” Mark replied, his top lip curling with malice.

“You're PC Mark Bellamy, right?” Smith said. “I don't think we've ever had the pleasure. I'd shake your hand, but…” he gestured to his restraints.

Mark tried to think of an answer, something about not shaking the hand even if it was offered, but he couldn't form it into anything coherent or clever.

“No, I'm wrong. It's not PC any more, is it. Well, Agent Mark Bellamy, looks like you've done well for yourself. Not often a S'aven beat walker can make it across the border and take up an agent position in His Majesty's government.”

Well for himself! He lived in the office storeroom, his clothes were from the clothes bank, his food canteen leftovers. He had nothing. He had no one. What good was living in London if he was little more than a sewer rat? This was as much a hell as the exposed fields in the Midlands. And Charlie Smith and his psychotic brother had put him here. But Smith would realise his mistake soon enough. He'd see that Mark Bellamy wasn't a man to be trifled with.

“You're going to die,” Mark said before he realised what he was doing.

Smith started to laugh. “Yes, I am. But not for a long, long time. They don't let ones like me slip away without making sure they've got their money's worth. I'm very special, Agent. I'll probably outlive you.”

No you won't, I'll make sure of it.

Smith leaned forward, his red-rimmed eyes gleaming. “I can see it now,” he said. “I can totally see why she chose me over you.”

Mark's lips tightened. He didn't want to hear about Rachel leaving him. He didn't want to hear Smith's smug voice talking about the woman he loved. What right did Smith have to be cocky? He was tied up, a prisoner, a man on death row. What made him so sure of himself?

“When we found Rachel she begged us to take her. She would have done anything to not stay with you. Anything.”

The anger bubbled away inside Mark. His hands trembled. He loved Rachel. And she loved him too—didn't she? The moment they met, moving in together, it wasn't all just him, it couldn't have been. Could it? Was she with them now? Was she sleeping with one of the brothers, like she'd slept with him? Did she love them?

“It was tantamount to rape, you know. What you did to her—she didn't want you. She never wanted you. But she couldn't say no, you wouldn't let her. Do you know what that makes you?”

Mark's fists were already flying. He caught Smith with a sloppy blow, followed by one strong enough to knock him out of his chair. He grabbed Smith's collar and hauled him against the wall.

“It wasn't rape!” he yelled, slamming him again and again. “It wasn't rape!”

“Hey! Bellamy, get off him!” He felt Adams behind him, pulling him back. “Bellamy! Let him go.”

Another tug and Mark fell to the floor. He stared up at his boss, astounded and bewildered by what was happening. Smith slumped against the wall, a smirk on his bloody face. Mark went to lunge again, but this time Adams caught him before he could make contact. It was over; his interview, and probably his job too. He could see the work camp in the distance waiting for him. Charlie Smith had beaten him again.

When he came back to his senses he was on the other side of the mirror and Adams was yelling at him.

“What the hell was that? I asked if you wanted to interrogate him, not smash his face in!” Adams' face was redder than usual, the veins at his temples bulging dangerously.

“He said I forced Rachel.”

“I don't care if he said you like wearing your mother's underwear and calling yourself Sheila. You're the one in charge. You've got to keep control. Let me see your hands.”

Reluctantly, Mark held them out. They were bloody and cut, much like Smith's face.

“Shit, Bellamy. Go get those cleaned up.”

“What about the prisoner?”

“I think it's best I deal with the prisoner on my own from now on. Go, we've still got work to do before they transport him.”

Mark pressed his hands together, shame being quickly overshadowed by his growing anger. The pain in his knuckles felt good, and he craved more.

* * *

Charlie's face hurt. He hoisted himself off the floor and, with difficulty, got back in his chair. He licked at the cut on his lip. The pain had helped wake him up, although he'd regret the fight in a couple of hours. Hours? How many had passed since his arrest? One? Two? It wouldn't be long now. He needed to stay focussed. The moment would come, and he had to be ready.

The cell door buzzed open again, but this time it was just Adams. He took in Charlie's wounds with a shake of his head. The agent had an omnipotence about him that made Charlie less sure of himself.

“What did you take off him?”

Charlie smiled at the agent. “Only half a packet of mints. I'll share them if you like.” He put the mints on the table. He'd taken them out of Mark's pocket when the second blow came. It hadn't been the payoff he was hoping for, but at least he had something to take the taste of blood out of his mouth.

“Was it worth it?”

“It would have been if he'd had something useful. Tetchy son of a bitch, isn't he?”

“I imagine you calling him a rapist put you off to a bad start.”

“Well, there is that. Although it wasn't like Rachel could turn him down, given his position in the world.” He pushed a mint between his lips.

“Maybe not. Maybe that's a problem for her. Maybe she holds such a grudge at being forced into a relationship with a cop she feels the need to punish someone—like working girls who service S'aven's boys in blue.”

Charlie flexed his jaw. Adams was trying to get a rise out of him, and he wasn't in the mood to play. “How long before the Institute arrive?”

“They'll be here soon enough. If you tell me what happened with the girls, I'll speak to them. Make them go easy on you.”

Charlie snorted. “Does that line ever work?”