Kill or Be Killed

by James Patterson

  Scowcroft relented with a shrug, and pointed out a nearby hotel. “Let’s try that.”

  They did, but the city center hotel was fully booked. So were the next four they tried.

  “We’re running out of time,” Scowcroft grumbled. “I can change in the street and go in alone.”

  “They won’t let a young guy in on his own. That kind of place, you need a one-to-one ratio at least.”

  “Ratio of what?”

  “Women to men,” Charlotte explained. “Guys don’t pay five hundred quid a bottle to be surrounded by other men. Besides, I have an idea.”

  That idea led them to a part of the city where the windows pulsed with red light and the silhouettes of writhing bodies.

  “Over here,” Charlotte instructed the wide-eyed Scowcroft, leading him through the door of one of the more decrepit-looking brothels. Scowcroft was assaulted by the scent of bleach and cheap perfume.

  “Hello.” Charlotte smiled at the establishment’s madam. “I’d like a girl please, and he’d like to watch.”

  The woman didn’t bat an eyelid at the request.

  “One hundred euros.”

  “OK,” Charlotte agreed. “And I’d like a woman, not a young girl.”

  The madam shrugged and led them into a corridor washed with red light.

  “What are you doing?” Scowcroft hissed into Charlotte’s ear.

  “Trust me, Alex.”

  The madam pulled aside a heavy curtain, and the pair entered a shoebox that was home to a single bed, a toilet, and a shower cubicle.

  “In there.” She pointed first at Scowcroft and then at the shower.

  “OK,” he stammered as the madam slid the curtain closed behind them.

  A moment later, a curvy brunette glided her way in through the fabric, the cracks around her eyes deepening as she smiled an introduction. “I’m Eva,” she whispered.

  “Eva, I’m Charlotte.” The thief pushed a thick wedge of euros into the prostitute’s hand. “We need this room.”

  Eva needed no more explanation. “Anything you want,” she cooed, sitting down on the bed and groaning in mock pleasure as she counted her windfall.

  “This is so messed up,” Scowcroft said, shaking his head.

  “It’s about to get worse,” Charlotte told him, pushing a small bottle into his palm.

  Scowcroft looked at the label.

  “Laxative?” he asked, shocked.

  “Unless you want to cut the diamonds out,” Charlotte answered plainly. “Put your T-shirt in the toilet bowl. Come on, don’t make this any worse than it has to be.”

  The next few minutes were a low point in the lives of the thieves. Save for a wry smile between moans, the prostitute appeared unmoved. No doubt she assumed the pair were drug mules.

  Grateful for the presence of a shower, Scowcroft changed quickly, at all times keeping his back to Charlotte—he did not want to catch a glimpse of his brother’s fiancée, no matter what intimacy he had just been privy to.

  Pulling on a dark dress, Charlotte cast her eyes over her accomplice, approving of his well-fitted gray suit.

  “Beautiful.” The prostitute beamed her own approval, as Scowcroft carefully pulled a coat over his shoulders—Barrett’s diamonds rested within its thick pockets.

  “Whatever happens, don’t let me forget my coat.” He tried to smile.

  “How do I look?” Charlotte asked him, finishing her makeup.

  “Amazing,” he said honestly, before he could catch himself.

  The pair weakly smiled their thanks to the prostitute, who stopped her moaning and pushed the money into the depths of her corset.

  “Have fun.” She waved as Charlotte and Scowcroft slipped out of the brothel and onto the street, Charlotte’s heels ringing on the cobblestones. The air coming off the canal was tinged with ice, and Scowcroft pulled his coat across his body.

  “All right, love?” a drunk British tourist slurred at Charlotte. “How much for a go around?”

  “Hold my hand,” Scowcroft told Charlotte, surprising her. “If they think I’m with you, they won’t bother. We can’t afford to draw attention.”

  Charlotte took his hand.

  “I’m worried about Baz,” she confessed.

  “Me too,” he replied. “Since what happened to Tony, he’s been like my brother. I only just realized that today.”

  “We’ll see him soon,” she said, though she didn’t quite believe it herself.

  “I hope so,” Scowcroft breathed, then surprised Charlotte by coming to a stop, his hand like a vise on hers.

  “I’ve got to ask you something.” His voice became hard again. “Before this last bit, I’ve got to ask you. I’ve got to know.”

  “Go on then.” Charlotte had been expecting this question.

  “My brother. Did you want to leave him?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Yes, I did, Alex.” She broke into a flood of tears.

  Despite her words, despite his once furious anger towards her, Scowcroft pulled Charlotte close, his own tears coming.

  “Why?” he sobbed. “Why would you leave my brother?”

  It was a minute before she could speak, but eventually Charlotte mastered her emotions.

  “It wasn’t after he got hurt,” she told him. “It was before that. All the deployments. All the worry. All the stress. It was too much, for both of us. It was too much, but he was in love with the Marines as much as he was with me. I knew he’d never leave it. And so one day I told myself it was over, but I wouldn’t tell Tony until he was back in the UK and safe. I didn’t want that in his head if…if…”

  “If the worst happened,” Scowcroft finished for her.

  “And I feel like a bitch. It wasn’t until I saw him in that hospital that I knew I’d wait for him forever if I had to, through a million wars, but by then it was too late, and he’s never going to know.”

  As Charlotte’s tears began anew, Scowcroft pulled her closer.

  “He’s going to know, Charlotte. Because of what we’re doing right now, he’s going to know. Tony’s going to get his life back.”

  Chapter 30

  Barrett’s world was black.

  A hood had been pulled over his head and the former Commando recognized the dank, musty smell of wet burlap. It was a sandbag that was hiding his captors from his eyes, and Barrett could almost laugh at the irony that he’d pulled the same bags over the heads of dozens of Iraqi men.

  But Barrett wasn’t laughing.

  He was scared.

  Since when did the police hood the men they arrested? Could it be that he’d somehow fallen foul of an antiterror operation?

  Perhaps Barrett would get his answers, because suddenly the hood was whipped away, his eyes quickly adjusting to what appeared to be the gloomy interior of a van. There was no sign of his captors. He tried to turn, but his feet were in shackles, his hands tightly bound behind his back.

  He became aware of a presence behind him. He could hear the man’s breathing. Minutes passed while Barrett waited for his captor to say something or make his move. Finally, he felt compelled to fill the eerie void.

  “Look, I know we broke the law, all right? But you can’t go tying me up like this. You’re violating my rights.”

  Silence.

  “Don’t you want to ask me anything? I’ll talk. I’ll tell you about how we got forced to do this, because the government won’t look after its own. How it bleeds its soldiers for oil, then throws them away when they’re broken. I’ll tell you about that!” Barrett was shouting, his anger and bitterness growing.

  His captor still said nothing.

  “What would you do if your partner was put in coma, and your government just left him to rot? Well? You’re a police officer—you think that’s justice?”

  And then Barrett felt the presence of the man lean in from behind him, his words a chilling whisper against the captive’s ear. “I’m not a police officer.”

  Chapter 31

 
“It’s almost time,” Scowcroft told Charlotte, looking at his watch as if mesmerized by the passing seconds.

  The pair stood on the street opposite the entrance to Club Liquid. A line of would-be patrons stretched back along the block. When the doors opened to admit the lucky few, the pounding of house music pumped out from within.

  Charlotte ran her eye over the line, seeing well-heeled twenty-somethings. It was certainly a different crowd to the street parties taking place at the Dance Event.

  “We should go in,” Scowcroft said. She followed alongside as they headed directly for the door, bypassing the line.

  “We’re at Pete’s table,” Scowcroft told the beautiful hostess, who looked the pair up and down.

  “OK,” the local shrugged after a moment, her eyes lingering on Scowcroft’s handsome face. “You can both come in, but tell Pete no more guys.”

  “Sure,” Scowcroft answered, and smiled his thanks at the colossal bouncer who held open the door.

  Inside, the pair were accosted by the throb and blare of music. The dance floor was a tangle of bodies, but Scowcroft’s eyes were drawn to the sectioned-off tables that ran along its edges. There, the most beautiful women in the club danced with each other, the men at the table content to sit back and watch, safe in the knowledge that their connections or wealth would see at least one of the girls going home with them.

  Scowcroft again had a vision of what could be with the diamonds in his possession. It could be him buying tables at high-end nightclubs. Him surrounded by beautiful women.

  But no—Scowcroft only wanted to be surrounded by his family. Tony, Barrett, and, as he looked at her beside him, even Charlotte.

  Even Charlotte. If nothing else came from this whole endeavor, at least Scowcroft could take comfort that his brother was adored.

  “You should wait here,” he told her, suddenly protective. “I’ll go to the table with the diamonds.”

  “We’re both going,” Charlotte replied, calmly but firmly.

  “What if it’s a sting? They’re going to catch Barrett, Charlotte. If they catch us too, then who’s left for Tony?”

  “What choice do we have?” she said plainly. “This is it. It’s all or nothing.”

  Scowcroft knew she was right.

  All or nothing.

  “Then let’s do it.”

  Chapter 32

  The buyer’s table was easy enough to find, sitting in the prominent position to the left of the DJ box. The single man sat behind it swarmed by half a dozen beautiful women.

  “I thought the girl at the door said no more men to this table?” Scowcroft shouted above the noise of the music.

  Charlotte shrugged in reply. “I guess they left.”

  “Or they gave us the wrong place to meet.”

  “They didn’t,” she told him, and prayed that she was right. “Just look like you belong.” They cut along the edge of the dance floor and towards the front of the club.

  “Hi.” Charlotte smiled at the bouncer watching over the table, breezing straight by him up the couple of steps to the table that allowed the people at it to see—and more importantly, be seen from—anywhere in the club.

  “Pete?” Scowcroft asked the lone man on the couch.

  “That’s me,” he answered in a British accent. “Girls, give us some space.” Scowcroft was intoxicated by their perfume as they wafted past him and down the steps.

  “Take a seat,” the man offered, and Scowcroft obliged. Pete was a handsome, athletic-looking man in his thirties. He looked every bit how Scowcroft expected a former Commando turned lucrative contactor to appear.

  “Where’s Baz?” Pete asked.

  “Broken nose. Didn’t think it would be a good idea to draw attention,” Scowcroft answered. “He gave us a video.”

  Pete smiled and waved the gesture of the footage away.

  “I saw the news. I’d told the staff on the door not to let him in. At least this way I won’t have hurt his feelings. Drink?”

  Scowcroft shrugged in answer, and Pete gestured to a server. The stocking-clad blonde poured four large vodkas.

  “I’ll take Baz’s,” the buyer told them. “To those who can’t raise a glass.”

  The three of them knocked back the vodkas.

  “Another one?” Pete asked. “It goes for ten grand a bottle here, so enjoy it.”

  “Business first.” Charlotte smiled. “It’s been a long day, Pete.”

  “Of course it has,” the man allowed, doubtless no stranger to long days himself. “Let’s go over it, then. My car and driver are outside. The money, for obvious reasons, is in there.”

  “We’re not driving anywhere to do it,” Scowcroft cut in, his voice calm but forceful.

  “Of course not.” Pete shook his head. “My driver will get out. As a measure of trust, one of you can get behind the wheel. The other will get in the back with me, where we can inspect the goods. Once we’re both happy, you guys get out with the money, I come back in here to the company of these beautiful ladies, and the driver takes the stones to my employer. Sound good?”

  “Works for us,” Scowcroft announced after sharing a look with Charlotte. “Thanks for meeting with us.”

  “Not a problem. Anything for a good cause.” The man beamed.

  “A good cause?” Scowcroft asked, his heart beginning to beat faster than the club’s bass.

  “Your brother,” Pete explained, still smiling. After a moment the grin slid from his face.

  Because he knew he’d slipped.

  Scowcroft knew it too, and trapped between the press of dancing bodies and the table, there was only one thing he could do.

  So he slid the store-bought kitchen knife from the sleeve of his shirt and prodded the tip into the man’s belly.

  “Who are you?” he hissed in the imposter’s ear.

  “You think you’re the only one with a knife?” the man sneered. “I’ve had mine pointed at your femoral artery since you sat down.” Scowcroft felt the press of a blade against the flesh of his thigh, his body shaking with the released adrenaline of his fight-or-flight survival instincts.

  “Scared?” the man mocked, feeling the shaking muscles through the blade. “Just hand over the diamonds.”

  “Who sent you?” Scowcroft challenged, his eyes burning with fury, desperate now that the heist had fallen at the final hurdle.

  “Marcus Slate,” the man growled, his own eyes equally alight with determination. “Marcus Slate sent me, and I’m taking him back his diamonds.”

  Scowcroft fought for control of his muscles, because the thought of flight had passed, and he knew there was only one thing left to do—fight.

  So he did.

  “Fuck you,” the thief spat as he drove the knife deep into the stomach of Slate’s henchman.

  “Fuck you,” he shouted again as he drove the knife into the stomach of Detective Inspector Hill.

  Chapter 33

  Hill had never been stabbed before, and for a hundredth of a second he almost marveled at the brilliant-white pain that shot through his entire body.

  And then, on instinct, he drove his own blade forward.

  He felt it part flesh as it cut into the young man’s thigh. He felt the spit on his face as his adversary howled in pain, the scream lost to the bass and revelry of the club. He felt the hot blood spurt over his hand as he pulled the blade free.

  It was the blood on his hands that shook Hill from his instinctive reactions and brought him the realization of what he had suffered, and what he’d done. Hill knew the gushing wound would kill the young man within minutes. There was no reclaiming the situation—he was committed now.

  No, he realized. He’d been committed since the moment he’d told Slate he’d recover the man’s diamonds, and avoid any trial that would cast a shadow over Slate’s enterprise. He’d been committed to this end when he’d sold his soul to Slate for a million, the dream of his own business empire, and a better life for himself and Deb.

  Hill had never
thought he’d have to kill for it.

  The woman was pulling the young man away and half carrying him down the few steps that led out onto the dance floor, the dancing girls shooting angry stares as she barged by them.

  Hill hesitated to follow—surely someone would see the blood? Surely someone would stop them?

  But the club was dark, and the dying thief looked like one more drunken idiot. Seeing that they were already moving to the exit, where they would become someone else’s problem, the bouncers did little more than roll their eyes and turn their attention back to the girls.

  Hill saw his prize slipping away. And he knew what Slate would do to him if he didn’t get those diamonds.

  Everything had gone perfectly up until then. With the right kind of persuasion, Barrett had talked. Hill had then handed him over to Slate’s men, to what end he didn’t know, but he could guess. Then it had simply been a case of meeting the buyer, showing his police identification, and kindly telling the man to forget everything related to the sale of the stolen diamonds. “Pete” had been more than happy to escape so lightly.

  Now it had all gone to shit. Hill moved to stand, pulling his jacket closed across the wound. The knife had torn the muscles of his abdomen, each step causing pain to shoot through his body, but he would worry about the damage later. First he had to catch the thieves.

  He had to catch them, and then he had to kill them.

  Chapter 34

  “Not through the front!” Scowcroft groaned through gritted teeth, seeing that Charlotte was leading them towards the club’s main entrance. “Security will stop us,” he managed, knowing that out on the street there would be no hiding the blood that flowed from his leg.

  “We have to stop the bleeding!” Charlotte’s eyes were wide as she pushed him into a dark recess amongst the club’s shadows. “Put your hands on it!” she shouted. “Apply pressure!”

  Scowcroft tried, but he was already weak from blood loss. He felt Charlotte free the belt from his trousers and pull it tight around the top of his thigh.