The Bloodline Cipher (2 page)

Budd didn't answer. Clyde stared at them impassively.

The rain rattled at the windows, loud as machine-gun fire in Jonah's ears. ‘Well?' he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

‘Well …' Budd fixed Jonah and Motti in turn with those unnerving pale blue eyes. ‘You've shown some balls as well as the proper payment. Suppose I can show you the laptop.' He turned back to his chair and pulled out a slim, titanium laptop from beneath it. ‘You want to watch it, boys,' he said more casually. ‘If you get mixed up in black magic like Morell, bad stuff happens.'

‘Thanks for the tip, but we don't spend too much time hanging in graveyards sacrificing chickens.' Motti nodded at Jonah. ‘For a start, he's a veggie.'

Jonah nodded. ‘We're just out to find –'

‘Save it,' Budd snapped. ‘All I care about is my fee. If Coldhardt's prepared to pay for some devil-worshipping weirdo's stolen goods, that's his business.'

Devil-worshipping weirdo?
‘Antiquarian book dealer with a passion for the arcane' had been Coldhardt's description of Morell, but Jonah reckoned he knew which description probably nailed it. ‘You're certain it's the right laptop?'

‘What, you think I'm an amateur or something?' Budd glared at him. ‘I had the prints on the casing matched.' He was drumming his fingers absently as if echoing the rain on the glass behind the heavy velvet curtains. ‘Now, I don't know what Coldhardt hopes to find on this thing – and I don't want to know.'

‘We'll keep it a secret so you sleep good at nights.' Motti nodded to Jonah. ‘Go ahead, geek. Check out the files.'

Budd placed the laptop on the floor amongst the candles and started it up. He looked balefully at Jonah. ‘On your knees, then, boy.'

Jonah hunkered down – with no other furniture there wasn't much else he could do. The computer prompted for a password. Despite the tension in the air, Jonah found himself loosening up as his fingers jabbed at the keyboard, hacking into the operating system. Minutes cracked away like dismantled code, meaningless, as he scanned the contents of the hard drive, looking for files created on the dates Coldhardt had specified. Once he'd located a handful of encrypted email attachments, he pulled a smart card from his back pocket and loaded it up.

‘What're you trying to do?' Budd demanded.

Jonah didn't look up. ‘Checking the digital signature on these encryptions. We want to be sure the files were created by Morell.'

‘So do it, already,' snapped Motti.

‘Just did.' Jonah gave a low whistle of relief. ‘The timestamps and signature tally.'

‘Could Buddy boy here have tampered with this shit?'

‘Nope.' Jonah closed the laptop and got back up. ‘Any changes to the file or attempts to copy it would invalidate the signature. We're good.'

‘I don't cheat my clients.' Budd nodded to Clyde, who had produced some glasses and a bottle of Scotch from somewhere. The big man started pouring. ‘So. Seal the deal with a drink, shall we? Little tradition of mine. Then we can all clear out of this crap-hole – once you've handed over my ring, that is.' Budd stabbed his hand out impatiently as Motti reached in his pocket and pulled out the ring. ‘Come on, let me have it!'

As if timed deliberately, a metal arrow shot through the window and thudded into Budd's chest. By the time Jonah's ears had processed the sound of breaking glass, there was blood soaking Budd's shirt, pumping out in a flood.

‘Oh God,' Budd gasped hoarsely, eyes screwed up tight. ‘What hit me? Clyde, what hit me, what is it? Is it bad?' But even as the big man started stumbling over to see, Budd pitched forward on to his face.

Jonah stared, transfixed with horror. But Motti was already running for the door. ‘C'mon, geek,' he yelled. ‘Outta here!'

Before Jonah could follow, a masked female figure in a black fitted combat suit climbed lithely into the room through the broken window, wielding a sighted crossbow. With a bellow of anger, Clyde ran to tackle the intruder before she could reload. But the mystery woman yanked down one of the velvet curtains and flung it over him, then kicked him in the stomach. Clyde fell back on to a collection of candles – then screamed and thrashed about as the heavy fabric burst into flame.

On instinct, Jonah snatched a throw down from the wall, thinking he could smother the fire. But the woman acted first, firing another bolt into Clyde's body, silencing him as the flames took stronger hold.

Then the woman turned to Jonah, raising the crossbow once again.

Sickened, terrified, Jonah turned and ran, clutching the laptop to his chest. Motti was waiting for him at the front door, white-faced. ‘Move it!'

But as they pounded out on to the wet pavement, a further bolt shot past them and shattered the window of a parked car beside them; a deafening alarm blared into the night. Startled pedestrians close by shrieked and stumbled out into the road – into the path of a bus, which slammed on its brakes. Jonah heard the chaos and confusion but was already careening along the street hot on Motti's heels, weaving between pedestrians, puddles and streetlamps, the thought of a steel spike thudding into his back pumping his heart faster, pushing him on. The rain stung his skin, the thud and blare of bars and strip joints became the soundtrack of his flight. He and Motti ran and ran
and didn't stop running, not till they'd covered the best part of a mile.

Checking over his shoulder that there was no sign of their pursuers, Jonah staggered against a shop front, his legs cramping and his stomach going into spasm as he relived Budd and Clyde's death throes. He doubled up and retched – then jumped as he felt a hand land on his back.

‘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.

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.