Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1)

KEEPING WITH KILLERS

(THE SALINGERS, BOOK 1)

ADAM NICHOLLS

Copyright ©2015

Copyright © 2015 by Adam Nicholls

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For Giles, my first reader and good friend - without whom this book would be a mess.

Chapter 1

It was the middle of the night, and Val Salinger was ready to die.

He hadn't really slept–
stirred
was a more fit
ting term for his fidgeting throughout the night. His life was coming to an end and he knew it. So who could blame him for missing out on his forty winks? More than anything, he had wanted to tell
her
about it. But he couldn't–it wasn't a part of the plan, and Val
always
followed the plan.

Gently rolling onto his side, he studied her for a moment. Her skin glowed in the moonlight and her hair neatly fell onto the pillow where it spilled into gorgeous yellow tails.
God, Marcy, you look so beautiful tonight.
She hadn't changed in the twenty years that they had been married. She looked different - there was no two ways about that - but Val thought she had acquired an essence of grandeur over the years.
A real Helen Mirren type,
he thought. Saying goodbye to her - or
not
saying it - was the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

Val sighed and slipped quietly out of bed, something that had become even harder to do at his age.
Tender at sixty
, is what they had always said he would be. They were right. His bones felt like twigs and his bladder was like a sponge. He whined under his breath as he got to his feet.

Marcy stirred.

Val froze, careful not to wake her. What would he say if she caught him? That he was going to the bathroom, he supposed. What else
could
he say? He watched her for a moment more, her chest rising and falling as she breathed, her breasts rising and falling too. Caught like a deer in headlights, he continued to watch until she let out a large breath and rolled back over. Val breathed too, grabbed his robe from the back of the door, and slid out of the room.

The landing was freezing, which was to be expected from a house this grand… and old. The ceilings were almost three times his size; plenty of room for the warm air to drift up. Shivering, he slipped on his robe and treaded down the stairs, careful not to trip in the dark. For a minute, he paused, realising that this was the last time he would ever use these stairs. He didn't like that idea, but this was necessary.

Downstairs, he felt a lot more comfortable making a noise. The kitchen was on the other end of the house from the bedroom, and the ceilings were thick enough to muffle out any sounds at all–even the screech of the chair as he slid it out from under the dining table, and sat down at it, facing the back door.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

Minutes passed, leading into hours. The sun was just beginning to peer over the horizon, lending a thin yellow line to the sky. Val hoped that it would happen soon, before Marcy woke up and wondered where he was.

At the first sight of the sun,
was all he had to remember. That way there could be no confusion, no excuses. No "so sorry sir, my clock was an hour fast". That's how it had always been, and there would be no exceptions for him.

His nerves were rattled, tensed victims of the dreadful anticipation. He rose from the chair, went to the cupboard under the sink and took out an unopened pack of cigarettes from the back. He had almost forgotten about them.
How long have they been here?
he wondered. Since he had given them up, he supposed, which he put at around twelve years. It had been one of Marcy's better ideas, though he supposed it didn't matter much now. He unravelled the packaging and slid a cigarette between his lips. It felt right at home there, in its proper place.

Val turned on the hob, hung his face over the flame and lit the cigarette. He coughed at first, his body rejecting all the poisonous chemicals. The second drag was smoother, almost pleasurable. He snatched up a used coffee mug and placed it at the table, then eased back into the chair. The minutes rolled by slowly, Val taking puff after puff, occasionally rolling the cigarette around the rim of the mug, watching as spent ash fell into it.

The door handle twisted from the outside, startling him. The door creaked open slowly, first revealing a hand, then an arm, a man's coat, and finally a face. Val looked at him. He'd had no idea The Agency would send
him
, but he was almost glad that they had; he could trust this man. There was something in his eyes, something cool and reassuring. It was almost impossible to feel ill-at-ease around this guy. Perhaps that's why Val had taken to him in the first place.

'Mister Salinger,' he said from the doorway, with a slight nod for a greeting.

Val took a deep drag of the cigarette and then dropped it into the mug, hearing it extinguish at the bottom with a hiss. He noticed now that his hands were trembling. He cleared his throat. 'When a man comes to kill me, I would expect it to be on first-name terms.'

The man grinned, his dimples giving way to a perfect set of teeth.

'You know,' Val began, rubbing a hand at his greying beard, 'I haven't smoked in twelve years. It's funny; the things we do when the end is in sight.'

There was a profound silence, save for the birds singing outside. Neither man could look the other in the eye. Not after everything they had been through together. Not after what they knew was coming.

'What's it like?' asked the man, his eyes finally meeting Val's.

'Preparing your own death?'

The man gave one small nod.

'It's… a relief. I'm not afraid of what happens next. Not so much. I'm more frightened for the poor sons of bitches that I leave behind. There's a shit-storm coming, my friend.'

'I know.' The man seemed to understand, then reached into his coat and drew a gun. It was heavy-looking and black–the colour of danger. 'Val Salinger, are you ready to die?'

Val stood, feeling that ache in his bones one more time. He tightened the cord of his robe and stood straight. He closed his eyes and nodded. He heard the pistol click, but not the crack that followed. Instead he saw all of his sins, all of his good deeds and bad. He saw all of his birthdays, the ones where he had laughed and cried, and even the ones he thought he had forgotten. He saw Marcy, looking lost with red, tear-filled eyes, and he hoped - in that final rushed second - that she would be okay without him.

Chapter 2

I hate that guy,
Blake thought as he emptied his bladder into the urinal. I
hate, hate, hate him!

He had been working his client for over four months, making him truly believe just how much he was worth. There had been moments when Blake even believed his own words. That was his talent; talking his way out of anything, and sometimes even
into
things. What he wasn't fond of, however, was the amount of degrading arse-kissing that came with it. He could barely remember the days when he felt a sense of pride about what he did for a living. Maybe he would quit someday, move abroad and live on a beach somewhere… maybe. But for now, as soon as he zippered up and got the hell out of there, he would be back in the meeting, sucking up to his boss just like any other day.

When he was just about done, shaking twice - and no more than twice, as the old saying instructed - and tucking it away, Rachel burst through the door and stormed over to the sink, her hands groping her long, blonde hair like the teeth of a comb.

Blake jolted, desperate to prevent her from seeing his private parts. After all, they were private for a reason, and he wasn't interested in being on display unless there was a little something in return. Though she would have to be single, unlike now. But even
if
, could he perform so casually with such a close friend?

'Oh my God,' she said as she hoisted herself onto the sink basin. 'That was amazing!'

'The accuracy or flow?' he joked, pulling up his zipper. He walked back to the sink, shooting her a cheeky grin. Apparently his jokes weren't funny, though Blake would disagree.

'Listen,' she said, and he could feel her watching over him from her elevated position. 'You really have them sweating in there. If I didn't know any better, I would say you own them. Got enough money in your pocket for all that dough?'

She was right–he had been the head of the marketing committee for almost a decade now, and he was damn good at his job. If he hadn't have originally wanted to be a solicitor - and before that, an archaeologist - then he would have felt that he was born to promote. The downside to his talent, however, was that everybody praised him except for his boss.