Revenge

by James Patterson

  They barged and bustled. Shelley threw a couple of ‘don’t mess’ stares at anybody who objected. The whole time he kept an eye out behind, pleased to see that they seemed to have lost their shadow. No. Shadows, plural.

  They made it to the Piccadilly line platform, where they were greeted by a blast of air and the howl of a train arriving as it burst from within the tunnel, like a bullet from a gun. A cheer went up some way down the platform and Shelley decided they should make their way towards the crowds, hoping to use them as cover.

  They boarded, and the last thing Shelley saw before he ducked inside the closing doors was an empty platform, no sign of either of their two pursuers. Should he take comfort from that? He wasn’t in the mood.

  They took seats. The stations ticked past. Covent Garden then Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus, the carriages filling up.

  Green Park. Hyde Park Corner. Knightsbridge. Next would be South Kensington.

  And then, with a sinking feeling, Shelley caught sight of the Chechen guy. Shit. They saw each other at the same time, locked eyes, and something that might have passed for a smile crossed the gangster’s face. As Shelley watched, the guy reached for his phone. No signal down here, pal. But when he slid the phone back into an inside pocket, and his hand withdrew, Shelley saw the dull glint of a sidearm. Now he began to make his way down the carriage towards where Shelley and Susie sat.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ urged Shelley. ‘We’ve got company.’

  They got to their feet as the train pulled into South Kensington and took up position at the door. Down the carriage the Chechen guy checked his progress. He, too, moved towards a door, ready to jump off if Shelley and Susie did the same.

  The doors bleeped, then shivered open. Passengers jostled, getting on and off, throwing Susie and Shelley dirty looks as they stood by the doors doing neither, just getting in the way. Susie looked at him, waiting for him to make his move.

  ‘Wait,’ he said out of the side of his mouth.

  They watched the Chechen guy. He watched them. All three playing a game of brinksmanship.

  The doors bleeped to close.

  CHAPTER 68

  ‘WAIT, DON’T MOVE, it’s a feint,’ hissed Shelley to Susie, and then he stepped off the train, flicking a glance to his right and seeing the Chechen guy do the same.

  They hit the platform together, except Shelley reversed instantly and he squeezed in between the closing doors at the last second, back on the train with the Chechen guy stranded on the platform.

  ‘Yes,’ he hissed, triumphantly. But then, just as he thought he’d outfoxed his pursuer, there came another raucous cheer, latecomers crowded onto the platform, and the doors reopened.

  The Chechen had been on his way off the platform but turned and managed to scramble back onto the train, sideways through the closing doors – and once more they were back to where they were.

  ‘We’ll have to get off at Gloucester Road,’ Shelley told Susie.

  The gangster seemed to consider resuming his progress towards them, a crowd of passengers between him and Shelley and Susie, but he held his position, all three of them watching each other warily. The journey between South Kensington and Gloucester Road seemed to last a century, but at last they arrived and Susie and Shelley jumped off, ignoring abuse and complaints as they barged past other passengers and – hopefully – left their pursuer in their wake.

  Lifts, lifts. Shelley shot a look back, saw the Chechen some way behind and decided against, making for the stairs instead: eighty-seven steps according to the warning sign, a long spiral staircase up to street level. The gangster checked his progress. He was temporarily blocked from following but there was no doubt he intended to take the same route.

  Another thing: they were the only passengers taking the stairs.

  ‘You go on,’ he told Susie.

  She stopped and swivelled on the stone steps, face full of worry. ‘Why? What will you be doing?’

  ‘Me? I’ll be having a meeting with our friend here.’ He looked around meaningfully. ‘There’s nobody about, Susie. I won’t get another chance. Just go.’

  ‘What are you going to do to him?’ she asked.

  ‘Christ. Just run, Susie,’ he urged. ‘I’m going to do whatever it takes to stop him. Now go.’

  That was it. She needed no further invitation, taking off up the stairs, trainers slapping on stone.

  Meantime, Shelley climbed ten or so steps and then stopped, flattened himself to the inside of the spiral, listening for the approaching feet of the gangster. He heard footsteps as the man came onto the stairwell, helpfully cursing in Russian, and he tensed, ready – ready to take a life.

  A second later, there he was. Taller and meaner up close, he reared back in surprise as Shelley sprang from around the central column and struck with the heel of his left hand.

  It was a clean blow, and it was met with a sickening crunch as the gangster’s jaw shattered and his head snapped back, mouth spurting blood that Shelley felt like warm rain on his face.

  The guy staggered. Punch-drunk boxer. Tough guy: he reached into the overcoat he was wearing, presumably for his gun. But Shelley wasn’t finished and he used the same heel-of-the-hand strike, only this time just below the Chechen’s nose.

  Which shattered. Shards of bone driven into the brain killed the guy instantly. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the handrail, still gripping it, his hand wedged, which was the only thing that prevented him from sliding back down the steps. He let out a final death rattle and then was silent, thick rivulets of dark red blood and cerebrospinal fluid leaking from his nose and mouth, coating his chin.

  Shelley looked at him. He was just a guy trying to do his job – like Dmitry said, trying to please his boss. Shelley stepped over the body and continued bounding up the steps to catch up with Susie.

  He was close to the top, able to see the opening that led into the street-level section of the station, when he was brought up short.

  Susie was there all right. And holding a gun to her head, using her as a shield, was Gurney.

  CHAPTER 69

  SHELLEY STOPPED ON the stairs. He gauged the distance between himself and Gurney and knew there was no way he could cover it and still keep Susie safe.

  ‘You,’ he said to Gurney, who grinned in response, the kind of grin Shelley had heard described as ‘shit-eating’.

  ‘Yeah, me,’ said Gurney. His left hand moved quickly and Shelley was about to throw himself to one side when he saw a flash of silver steel. Now Gurney held a knife to Susie’s throat in addition to the gun at her temple, and in the next second the gun was pointing at Shelley. ‘Now, let’s not waste any more time.’ Gurney’s voice had an echoing quality in the stairwell. ‘Use forefinger and thumb to lift your gun from its holster; drop it to the steps.’

  Shelley did as he was told.

  ‘SIG Sauer,’ sneered Gurney. ‘Truly old school, aren’t you, mate? Right, now take out your phone. Do it nice and slow, and don’t make me nervous because you know how that’s likely to end.’ His eyes flicked meaningfully to Susie. ‘And then start making the transaction. I’ll give you the details.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Shelley. ‘You’re not putting it into Dmitry’s account, then?’

  ‘Fuck that, mate. Just start the transfer.’

  Susie was held in place by the knife. Shelley saw blood make its way from beneath the blade and run down her neck. ‘You’re hurting her,’ he warned.

  ‘Better hurry up then, hadn’t you? Let’s get this over and done with.’

  Shelley saw what was going to happen next half a second before it did. He recognised the blue of the jacket sleeves that appeared behind Gurney, two hands, one either side of his head, one poised ready to grab Gurney’s knife hand, the other holding what looked like a brushed-metal ballpoint pen.

  Too late, Gurney sensed that somebody was behind him. Perhaps he saw the hovering hands in his peripheral vision. Either way, his mouth dropped open
just as Bennett jammed the ballpoint pen into his ear, the other hand snaking around to take the knife at the same time.

  Bennett had rammed the pen into Gurney’s ear overhand, and then, with the pen still protruding from the side of Gurney’s head, he used the heel of his hand to ram it into his brain.

  The only sound from Gurney’s mouth was a strangulated mixture of surprise and pain. His eyes widened and bulged and blood sluiced suddenly from his nose. His gun fell and Bennett supported the body as it dropped to the steps.

  Gurney’s legs kicked feebly as his brain closed for business. Perhaps the last thing he saw was his former commander stood over him, staring at him with a combination of pity, sadness and genuine grief.

  ‘How could you?’ was all Bennett said, then he turned his face to Shelley. ‘I’m sorry, Shelley, I had no idea. Johnson I can understand. But James …’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ said Shelley, who knew what it meant to be betrayed by an old comrade in arms. The pain. He turned his attention to Susie, and what he saw concerned him. Perhaps the sight of Bennett shoving an expensive ballpoint pen into Gurney’s brain had been the final straw, for she gazed down at the dead man with a blank, nobody-home look on her face, and there was no light in her eyes.

  But Shelley didn’t have time to worry about Susie. He didn’t have time to sympathise with Bennett and he only barely had time to thank him for saving their bacon.

  He needed to reach Lucy, before it was too late.

  CHAPTER 70

  THEY’D GIVEN LUCY a walking stick but she hadn’t brought it into the loo with her. If only she’d brought the walking stick, at least she’d have a weapon.

  That was her first thought. Her second thought was that if they’d wanted her dead they would have done it by now. And it wasn’t a dart gun pointing at her, it was a plain old Makarov fitted with a suppressor, used in a way that its bearer hoped would be enough to intimidate her. In fact, what it told her was that the guy in her toilet had brought the wrong tool for the job.

  ‘Put your hands behind your back and turn around,’ he said, accent as expected. His other hand dipped into the pocket of his denim jacket and emerged gripping a cable tie.

  ‘You woke me up,’ she said. She’d been glad of pyjamas before – now she was really glad. ‘I was dreaming about Hugh Jackman. Not P. T. Barnum Hugh Jackman, either. Wolverine Hugh Jackman.’

  ‘Turn around and put your hands behind your back,’ he repeated, stony-faced.

  He’d have a backup, of course. Perhaps another guy stationed out of sight at the end of the corridor, just to make sure they weren’t disturbed. There were back stairs, she knew. If they managed to get the cable tie on her they could take her down those to the car park below. She didn’t want that.

  ‘I’m a bitch when I’m woken up in the middle of the night,’ she told him. ‘Really, honestly, like a bear with a sore head. You don’t want to mess. Especially if it’s in the middle of a Jackman dream.’

  ‘You think I won’t use this,’ he said, ‘but I have my orders and I can put a bullet in you without killing you.’

  ‘How about you let me use the loo first?’

  He shook his head. ‘Negative. Turn around now.’

  She turned slowly, keeping her hands by her sides.

  ‘Put your hands behind your back and keep your wrists together,’ ordered her toilet stalker.

  She now had her back to the bathroom, facing the open door into her room. One bad guy and a lot of porcelain behind her, sanctuary in front. What’s more, the bathroom door opened outward, standard hospital design in case a patient had a fall behind the door, and she was pretty sure she could make that work in her favour. Mainly what she thought was I can’t let him cuff my hands.

  They had seen her in action at the spa. But the fact that they were coming after her now suggested some fresh intel. Something to do with Shelley, perhaps? Either way, they knew exactly what she was capable of. The guy would be careful. He’d be expecting her to try her luck and expecting it now.

  That couldn’t be helped; it was now or never. She cast her eyes down to between her feet, watching his shadow on the tiles.

  ‘You will do what I say,’ he insisted. ‘I do not ask a second time.’

  Slowly she moved her hands back, at the same time almost imperceptibly bending at the knee (and yes, really, thank Christ she was wearing not just pyjamas but loose-fitting pyjamas). All the while she watched the shifting light patterns on the floor as he moved closer behind her, gauging his distance, timing her move, knowing that if she did it right she could pull it off, because this was a guy who needed more than one pair of hands to do what he intended to do: wield the Makarov, gather her wrists, tighten the cable tie.

  All she had to do was time it right.

  She wrenched one of her arms forward, jabbed her other elbow back and at the same time used the side of her foot on his knee.

  It worked. He grunted and stumbled, opening a window of opportunity she could exploit.

  But when she sprang forward it all went wrong. Pain from the gunshot wound lanced along her thigh, making her scream out in shock, her pained leg almost buckling beneath her. Yelling with the agony, she twisted, slammed the bathroom door behind her just as the Chechen regained his composure, ready to give chase, and then wrenched open the door to her room and hobbled out into the corridor.

  Trevor. If only Trevor had returned. But there was no Trevor, just another Chechen blocking her path, even bigger and more lumbering than the last one.

  ‘Jesus,’ she panted, backing away as she said it, trying to buy time. ‘No wonder they didn’t send you to hide in my bathroom.’

  Her leg was aflame. From behind she heard the door open and knew that the first man was about to appear. She dimly realised she couldn’t take them both on and win. But it didn’t matter, because in the next moment, before she’d had a chance to overcome her agony, regain her balance and adopt any kind of defensive stance, the new guy’s fist was lashing out, big as a joint of beef, and knocking her unconscious.

  CHAPTER 71

  BENNETT HAD TAKEN advantage of the antisocial hour, and his Mercedes was parked right outside the tube station, inconceivable during the daytime. Together they helped put Susie in the back seat. She was trying, and she was in good shape, in the sense that she was physically unharmed, but she was wiped out: exhausted and severely traumatised. Shell shock, they used to call it. Nowadays, PTSD.

  ‘Susie,’ said Shelley gently but urgently, desperately aware of the need to move fast. ‘Stay with me. You’re going to be all right. We’ll get you home soon.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, ma’am,’ said Bennett. Twisted around in the driving seat, he found her eyes with his. ‘I’m sorry for what you had to see back there.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Bennett,’ she said. Her arms were folded across her chest, hugging herself. ‘Oh, and Mr Bennett?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’ said Bennett.

  ‘How is Guy?’

  Shelley and Bennett shared a look – Susie enquiring about Drake, after all she’d been through.

  ‘He’s fine, ma’am, as far as I know,’ Bennett said gently. ‘He’s at home, resting.’

  She nodded as if that was all she needed to know. ‘Good,’ she said, a little too dreamily for Shelley’s liking, and resumed staring out of the window.

  ‘Right, where are we going?’ said Bennett.

  He twisted back to face front, pulled his seat belt across him and was already moving off as Shelley directed him to the hospital. His driving was assured and fast, a sense of purpose to it that gave Shelley hope as he ran through the events of the evening, ending with a question of his own. ‘So how did you come to be ramming a pen into Gurney?’

  Bennett gave a dry laugh. ‘There’s a first time for everything. Not bad for a bit of on-the-spot improvisation, I thought.’

  ‘But you knew, did you? You’d worked out that Gurney was working with them?’

  Bennett no
dded sadly. ‘Johnson – I don’t suppose we’ll ever know whether he went to the Chechens of his own accord or not. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised Dmitry seemed to have so much info that Johnson couldn’t possibly have told him. Where Susie Drake would be that morning, for instance. Christ, even mobile numbers. They had to be getting it from someone other than Johnson.’

  ‘I came to the same conclusion myself,’ said Shelley.

  ‘And so when Gurney let himself out just after midnight, I decided to follow,’ explained Bennett.

  Shelley chuckled. ‘Pool room window?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Bennett drew up to traffic lights. Shelley found himself unconsciously putting his own foot down, wanting to urge them forward; it was night, there were no cops around. But then again, he supposed Bennett was doing the right thing. No point in risking drawing unwanted attention.

  ‘And now you think they’re going for Lucy to get at you?’ asked Bennett, looking across at him. ‘A bit of collateral.’

  ‘Looks that way. To be honest, I’m not sure what they know about Lucy. Whether they know she was in the Regiment or not, I couldn’t say.’

  ‘They know she’s important to you, though?’

  ‘Looks like it. And they could have got that from Gurney.’

  ‘So you’re about to put yourself back in the firing line?’ said Bennett.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  They drew away from the lights, Bennett cruising through the gears, the hospital just moments away now. ‘Okay, so let me get this straight. Dmitry said something that made you think he was going to snatch Lucy? In other words, he revealed his intel? Why would he do that, do you think, Shelley? Why let you know his game plan?’

  ‘He didn’t …’

  ‘Not directly, but he dropped a massive fuck-off hint, didn’t he? He led you to believe it, and you drew exactly the conclusion he wanted you to draw. Which means that by racing over there right now, we’re doing precisely what he wants us to do, Shelley. I say “we”. I mean you, my friend. You’re playing right into his hands. Just remind me, if you would: is that what we recommend in the forces, playing right into the enemy’s hands?’