The Bloodline Cipher Page 2

  ‘Hey.’ It was only Motti. ‘You OK?’

  Jonah wiped rain from his eyes and thick saliva from his mouth. ‘That woman killed Budd and Clyde in cold blood.’

  Motti frowned, panting for breath. ‘Woman?’

  ‘Well, if it was a bloke he had serious man-boob issues.’

  ‘Whoever she was, where the hell did she spring from?’ Motti spat in the gutter. ‘She must have had Budd under obs. Wanted to get that laptop as bad as Coldhardt.’

  ‘Probably working for someone like him,’ said Jonah darkly. ‘Someone untouchable.’

  ‘Wicked world, ain’t it?’ Motti took the computer from Jonah. ‘Well, now that we’ve got the damn thing, let’s get out of here and back to Coldhardt right now.’

  Jonah nodded, searching the rain-swept street for a yellow cab. But he couldn’t push from his mind the image of the bolt protruding from Budd’s chest, the blood, the flames, Clyde’s screaming. He breathed shallowly, willed himself not to be sick. Motti came and stood beside him.

  ‘Was Budd right about Morell and the devil-worship bit?’ Jonah asked softly. ‘Is this book Coldhardt’s after some kind of black magic bible?’

  ‘Who cares what it is?’ Motti smoothed wet hair away from his eyes. ‘All we gotta do is go wherever the hell these files tell us to go, steal the thing and hand it over. End of story. Right?’

  Jonah stayed silent, shivering as he looked up into the gusting, rain-soaked blackness of the sky. Something told him this particular story was a long way from being over.

  Chapter Two

  Tye circled her opponent warily, bracing herself for the strike that could come at any moment. Years of smuggling around the Caribbean, fighting her way out of a hundred scrapes, had left her an expert in combat at just seventeen – but she knew she couldn’t afford to drop her guard for a moment.

  Not with Con.

  Arms up in front of her shoulders, fists in front of her chin, Tye kept up her defensive position. This might only be a workout – a friendly tussle in the gym on Coldhardt’s enormous Geneva estate – but whatever the location, whatever the odds, Con didn’t like to lose.

  As if on cue, Con burst into sudden movement, stepping forward and lashing out her right hand. The tips of her fingers and backs of her first knuckles grazed against Tye’s eyes. Eye slap. Nice. But even as she processed the pain, Tye tucked in her chin, aligned the first two knuckles of her right hand with Con’s ribs, aimed through her target, not at the surface – and jabbed out, extending shoulder and hips into the punch for power. Con gasped with the impact and staggered back.

  ‘Bitch!’ Con’s green eyes flashed dangerously. Then she laughed suddenly, displaying teeth as white and perfect as her skin. ‘I really must stop going so easy on you, yes?’

  Tye gritted her teeth. ‘Yes, maybe you should.’ Con’s cultured, slightly Slavic accent sounded cool and chic, but at times it grated like hell. She ran at Con, elbow raised parallel to the floor, and struck her in the chest. Con took the impact but stood her ground, retaliating with a left jab swiftly followed by a double hand punch to Tye’s cheek. Tye bit back her cry of pain and backed quickly away, arms up once again in defensive posture.

  ‘I’m surprised you did not see that coming, sweets.’ Con wiped stray strands of white-blonde hair away from her eyes and winked. ‘You are the expert at reading body language, no?’

  Tye forced a smile, keeping it light. ‘Well, you can speak fifteen different languages – p’raps your body’s picked up a few too, just to throw me.’

  ‘I will very happily throw you,’ said Con, advancing again. ‘Over which shoulder would you prefer?’

  Tye circled round once more. Somehow, when she fought with Con it was never just about keeping in shape. Con, with her European education, her poise and intelligence, represented the privileged life Tye had spent her whole lonely childhood longing for, trapped in the dismal slums of Haiti. While Tye had clawed a life for herself out of her limited options, Con had been handed everything on a plate – except the attention she so desperately craved.

  Tye was about to aim a roundhouse kick at her opponent’s slender waist when Con jerked out of her fighting stance, held up a warning hand and rounded on the pile of crash mats beside her. ‘What the –?’

  She lunged forward and hauled out from hiding a familiar, scrawny figure dressed in scruffy jeans and a grey hoodie. His freckled face was dominated not only by his black velvet eye patch but by a cheeky smirk. ‘All right, ladies?’

  ‘Patch!’ Tye glared at him. ‘What have we said about you spying on us?’

  ‘It’s not my fault!’ Patch protested. ‘I just happened to notice you had locked the gym door – you know I can’t resist a locked door. I’m a professional, aren’t I? When I see a locked door, I gotta open it.’ He grinned. ‘And when I see two fit babes in Lycra working out, I gotta stick around.’

  ‘I’ll stick a fist in your face if you try it again,’ Con warned him.

  ‘Look, I’m fifteen! It’s hormones, OK?’ Patch was speaking to Con’s chest. ‘Hey, I saw Tye whack you in the boobs. Maybe I could rub them better?’

  ‘Rub this better,’ she said, and kneed him lightly in the groin. Patch groaned and sank to the floor. Con turned to Tye and held out her hand to shake. ‘End of workout?’

  ‘End of workout,’ Tye agreed. But as she took Con’s hand, Con gripped hold of her wrist, pulled Tye off-balance and kicked her legs out from under her. Tye swore in Haitian as she wound up on the floor beside Patch.

  ‘Oops.’ Con looked down at her, eyes sparkling. ‘I lied.’

  Tye leapt up angrily, ready to fight Con to a standstill if she had to – when the shrill trill of a phone cut through the air.

  The sound of fun-time ending.

  Tye swallowed back her anger and helped Patch up, while Con ran to answer the wall-mounted phone by the doors. ‘Yes, Coldhardt?’

  Tye and Patch swapped uneasy looks. There were no meetings with the boss scheduled until first thing tomorrow, when Jonah and Motti were due back with the dead guy’s laptop.

  ‘Something’s gone boobies-up,’ said Patch.

  Tye scowled. ‘Could you keep breasts out of the conversation for, like, five minutes?’

  Con hung up, her lips pursed. ‘Coldhardt wants us in the hub in fifteen minutes. Council of war.’

  ‘Is it …?’ Tye bit her tongue, tried again. ‘The boys … I mean, are they –?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jonah is fine,’ said Con, her eyes glittering more coolly now. ‘And so is Motti. They got back an hour ago.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tye, trying to ignore the prickle of heat in her cheeks.

  ‘Now,’ Con reached up with her arms above her head, ‘we must stretch and shower before this meeting starts, yes?’

  ‘See you there,’ said Patch, heading meekly for the exit.

  Con stopped mid-stretch and blinked in astonishment. ‘He didn’t make any cracks about soaping my back.’

  Tye headed for the changing rooms, shaking her head. ‘Guess things must be serious.’

  *

  A few minutes later, Tye was done with the shower. Wiping water from her eyes she stepped out – straight into a warm, soft towel as big as a sail being held out to her. Gasping, eyes snapping open, she clutched the towel against her naked body – and saw Jonah right in front of her. He looked dog-tired, but he was smiling appreciatively.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed at him, acting angrier than she really was. ‘If Con sees you in here –’

  ‘She’s already taken off, slowcoach. Raced off to her master’s side.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Like I’ve raced to my mistress.’

  ‘Oh, so I’m your mistress, now?’ Tye teased, securing the towel under her arms. ‘What happened, you and Motti get married out in California?’

  ‘Well, you know how it is – we took in Vegas, saw this Elvis impersonator passing …’

  Tye couldn’t help it. A grin caught at the
corners of her mouth. With his ragged blond hair, neat, straight features and nervous eyes, Jonah had used to put her in mind of a choirboy with dirty secrets he couldn’t wait to share. But these days he worked out regularly, his body had grown toned and muscular, and he carried himself more confidently. He was changing from angelic back-row chorister to indie-band front man. But right now, she realised, his rigid stance was at odds with his relaxed tone. She studied him for a second. He was trying to act like stuff was OK when it clearly wasn’t. His eyes were glassy, like he hadn’t slept, and his shoulders looked tense.

  ‘What is it, Jonah?’ She put her palm to his chest. ‘How come you’re back early?’

  ‘Don’t say you’re disappointed?’

  ‘Duh.’ She leaned in and kissed him, wet and warm, on the lips. He responded a bit too eagerly, trying to slip his hand inside her towel.

  ‘Hey,’ she whispered, pushing him back gently. ‘I’m glad you’re back safe, but no one’s meant to know we’re more than friends, remember? Anyone could walk in.’

  ‘They’re already in the hub. Me and Motti had to report straight to him, I’ve been let out to grab some air.’

  ‘But instead you’re grabbing me.’

  ‘Tye …?’ Jonah held out his arms. ‘Just … just hold me a few seconds longer, will you?’

  She frowned. ‘Jonah, what happened out there?’

  ‘The men we went to meet …’ He looked down at his shoes, his voice as blank as his eyes. ‘They were both murdered. Shot point blank with crossbow bolts, and set fire to, right there in front of me. And I was almost next.’

  ‘Shit,’ Tye muttered, putting her arms back around him and pulling him close.

  She’d been nine the first time she saw someone get killed, and had seen so much blood spilled since then that violence rarely shocked her. It was easy to forget Jonah’s life had been so different. His teenage years were spent in foster homes around Britain, hiding out in darkened bedrooms making sense of codes and encryptions on borrowed computers, growing his talent. Sure, he’d gone to prison, but his crime had been a one-off. He’d diverted funds into his foster mum’s bank account, trying to help her start a new life – little realising that in doing so he’d actually started a new life for himself, outside the law: a life working for Coldhardt.

  Since then, the blood had flowed a lot more freely. She went on holding him tightly.

  ‘I’m never gonna be cut out for this life.’ Jonah rubbed his face against her neck. ‘Am I?’

  She sighed. ‘It gets easier.’

  ‘But do I want it to?’ Jonah’s grip slackened and he pulled back.

  ‘Sometimes it doesn’t matter whether we want things to happen or not,’ she told him quietly, her eyes searching his. ‘You know that.’

  Jonah didn’t say anything.

  She pulled him close again. ‘It’ll be OK.’ The words sounded empty to her, but he seemed comforted. For a long moment they hugged and then she felt him start to relax and his hand reached inside her towel again.

  ‘Hey!’ She pulled back. ‘Stop that! We’ve got to go.’

  ‘You sure?’ Jonah watched longingly as she started to dress.

  ‘Sure I’m sure.’ She pulled on her blue top, pale against her dark skin. ‘We’re late enough already.’ But while she sounded firm, inside she was smiling. Despite everything she’d seen in her life, everything she knew about life, Jonah did sometimes make her feel like things could actually be OK. Maybe that was the reason why sometimes when she looked at him she felt …

  No. Tye hastily stopped her thoughts there. Life was way too complicated as it was. She pulled her braids out of the back of her top and kissed him feather-light on the lips.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, turning and heading for the exit. ‘Friendly workmates time again. Try to act normal.’

  Jonah sighed as he set off after her. ‘Just tell me where to start.’

  Everything seemed just a little too calm and tranquil as Jonah followed Tye through the quiet pathways of Coldhardt’s rambling estate. The evening sunlight gleamed off sash windows and ornamental pools. The fresh green stripes of lawn looked as though Premiership groundsmen were flown in each day to tend them.

  Coldhardt moved routinely between bases as and when his business dictated. Over the last twelve months Jonah had found himself living in a castle in Siena, a ranch in New Mexico, a plantation in Jamaica, a converted hotel in Bulgaria … But his adventures had begun here in Geneva after Motti, Tye and the others sprang him from the Young Offenders’ Institution. Maybe that was why he had come to think of this place as his only real home.

  The estate overlooked cornfields and hillside vineyards and, in the distance, postcard views of Alpine France. It was littered with old outbuildings; they seemed quaint and ramshackle on the outside, but most concealed flash facilities within. The state-of-the-art fitness centre was just a short walk from a giant indoor pool, an amusement arcade and games room, the underground garage – and of course, the cavernous hangout where the Talent could chill or party all night long if they felt like it before staggering upstairs to crash in their luxurious personal suites …

  No, working for Coldhardt wasn’t all bad, Jonah reflected. And after the start he’d had in life, he hoped he would never take such luxury for granted.

  Of course, there was nothing like knowing you might die at any moment on some dangerous, spooky mission to make you appreciate what you had.

  Or who you had. Jonah’s eyes lingered on Tye walking up the path to the chateau ahead of him, on the way her braided hair bobbed against the smooth dark skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Hey,’ he called, ‘can you give me another driving lesson after this debrief?’

  ‘You need to rest,’ she said lightly, pushing some ivy away from beside the front door to reveal a high-tech keypad. ‘Wouldn’t want you to crash.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Not even round your place?’

  She tapped out the entry code. ‘Down, boy.’

  Certainly brought me to heel, Jonah noted, as they entered the spacious marble hallway. He and Tye had acknowledged an attraction between them some months back, but she wanted to take things slowly, keep it secret. Jonah knew Coldhardt wouldn’t approve of two of his operatives sharing a romance. Results depended on the Talent working as a team, each member having equal priority, judgements unclouded by messy emotions.

  But secrets were hard to keep round here, particularly from Coldhardt, who had practically invented the word. As they walked through the cloisters with their vaulted archways and stained-glass windows, he went through the tips Tye had given him on how to act and disguise his body language, so he wasn’t so easy to read. But though he knew caution was sensible it was also driving him crazy. And last night had hammered home that life was all too short.

  Here he was, about to relive those events in detail once again, for Coldhardt and the gang.

  Tye opened the double doors at the end of the cloister and they stood together as a section of the stone floor lurched beneath them, descending to the secret underground world below.

  Coldhardt’s hub was a spacious chamber, part boardroom, part workplace, part spooky sci-fi bunker. A huge oval table dominated the space. A regimented row of black filing cabinets stood against one wall, enduring the blank glare of twelve plasma screens mounted opposite.

  Motti, Con and Patch were already seated around the table in brushed-steel chairs. ‘Jonah!’ Patch called, cheery as ever. ‘You made it!’

  Jonah shrugged. ‘Just about.’ Tye sat between Motti and Patch, smiling at them both, leaving Jonah to sit beside Con. ‘You picked a good job to miss,’ he said.

  ‘And I usually miss so little,’ she agreed, looking at him with those unsettling green eyes of hers. It was like she was trying to see through you and read what you were thinking. Trouble was, since Con was a self-proclaimed expert in neural-linguistic programming and mesmerism – or hypnotism to anyone else – she could catch you off-guard and do exactly that. Jonah h
ad heard people spill their deepest secrets to her under the ’fluence as casually as they would order a drink.

  ‘Pass us a coffee, Mot?’ Jonah stretched.

  Motti grunted at Patch, who filled a white porcelain cup with the dregs of the coffee jug. Tye slid it across to him.

  ‘Jeez.’ Jonah looked at the dark oily liquid. ‘Concentrated caffeine. Should stop me sleeping on the job.’

  ‘None of us will be falling asleep on this particular job, Jonah.’ The voice was rich, seasoned with age and with a slight Irish gravel to it.

  Coldhardt’s voice.

  Chapter Three

  The boss man riveted Jonah’s attention as always. Coldhardt had entered from his private office at the far end of the hub, a tall, gaunt figure crowned with a regal mane of white hair. Despite being well into his sixties he moved with the casual confidence of someone a good deal younger. But his pale blue eyes told a different story – that of a man haunted by the memory of something so bad he couldn’t forget it for a second. And as he settled himself at the head of the table, his dark velvet jacket and crisp white shirt couldn’t disguise how painfully thin he was. He had aged visibly this last year.

  Jonah, like the others, waited for him to speak.

  ‘My apologies for convening this meeting a little earlier than intended,’ Coldhardt began. ‘The problems Jonah and Motti encountered on what should have been a routine pick-up require our immediate attention.’ He looked between them both. ‘Tell us what happened. Every detail.’

  Between them, Motti and Jonah outlined their experiences, from arriving coolly in Van Nuys yesterday morning to their midnight race to LAX and mercifully uneventful flight home.

  ‘Sounds like Budd should’ve got a better Buddy-guard,’ joked Patch nervously.

  ‘Coulda used some protection ourselves.’ Motti wasn’t smiling. ‘Hey, geek, maybe we shoulda asked that bitch with the bow if she had any friends.’

  ‘I’m glad she was alone,’ said Jonah, turning to Coldhardt. ‘So was Budd right? Is this book you’re after an occult text?’