Kill or Be Killed

by James Patterson

  Then, as the blood slowed to a trickle, the agony built to unbearable. Scowcroft squeezed his eyes shut and cursed. “I can’t take it, Charlotte! Take it off!” he cried.

  “No! You’ll bleed to death!”

  “Charlotte!” he pleaded. “Take it off!”

  Charlotte ignored the cries. Instead she punched Scowcroft in the stomach.

  “Think about your brother, Alex,” she hissed at him. “Man up!”

  The savage tone of Charlotte’s voice forced Scowcroft to try, clenching his jaw against the agony. She helped him up and over towards the club’s toilets. Looking over her shoulder, Charlotte saw their assailant following through the crowded dance floor. The man moved slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but his eyes were fixed on them.

  The thieves staggered into the passageway that led to the toilets. Free from the crowd of the dance floor, individuals began to notice and go wide-eyed at the sight of the bloodied young man.

  A suited gentleman stepped forwards and spoke to Charlotte in Dutch. She presumed he was offering to help, and did her best to show a carefree smile.

  “Ambulance is coming out there, thank you,” she replied, using her free hand to point to the nearest fire escape.

  “I will get it,” the man said in English, then trotted ahead to push open the door, cold air rushing into the corridor.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said, then slammed the door behind them. Letting go of Scowcroft, she quickly wheeled a heavy dustbin across the entrance to block the doorway, and then followed it with another.

  “I’ve got to lie down,” Scowcroft said weakly and dropped heavily to the ground.

  Charlotte heard banging against the fire escape, but the large bins held.

  “You need a hospital. I’ll get an ambulance.”

  “No, they’ll bring the police,” he groaned.

  “A car then.”

  “No. Just take them,” Scowcroft implored, pushing the diamonds into Charlotte’s coat pocket. “Take them. Find another buyer.”

  “No,” Charlotte stated firmly, then threw her eyes up at the fire escape—the banging had stopped.

  Scowcroft, weak as he was, also became aware of the silence. It was time to run.

  “We can’t both get away, Char, but you can,” he told her calmly. “It’s you and Tony making it, or you and me dead. Even I can do that math. Come on. Get the fuck out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving,” she promised, clutching the young man’s hand. “I’m not leaving,” she said again, as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  Because she knew he was dying.

  Alex Scowcroft knew it too.

  “I let him down,” he sobbed weakly, struggling to keep Charlotte’s face in focus. “I let Tony down, Charlotte. I couldn’t finish this for him.”

  “You’ve done everything a brother could do and more, Alex,” she told him, putting her hand against his graying face.

  Scowcroft’s eyelids shuddered as he tried to stay awake. He tried to fight, because he still had so many things he needed to say. Needed Charlotte to hear. That he was sorry. That she was, and always would be, the true guardian and soulmate of his brother.

  But Alex Scowcroft could only gasp.

  And then he slipped into the darkness.

  Chapter 35

  Hill pushed the heel of his hand against the knife wound in his abdomen. He knew the pressure would slow the bleeding and help the clots to form, but he hoped the pressure would also take away the pain he suffered with every step. Not wanting to draw attention in the club, he had taken his time in pursuit, but the blocked fire escape had meant he was forced to exit via the club’s main entrance.

  Luckily for him, Hill’s dark suit hid most of the bloodstains, and with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, he was able to keep his face neutral as he walked by the bouncers. Clear of the club’s front, Hill then tried to break into a run to its rear, but the pain in his stomach almost caused him to scream, so he was forced to continue his chase at a walk. Despite the restriction, Hill at first took comfort in knowing that the thief would be in a worse condition, but then the cold realization hit home that it was his own hand that had doomed the man, and he was racked by a wave of nausea born of guilt.

  “Too late now,” he hissed, trying to convince himself.

  The detective turned another corner, working his way between the stacks of empty beer kegs to the club’s rear fire escape. With the young man’s wound, they couldn’t have got too far ahead—but then Hill saw that the young man hadn’t got anywhere at all, and the longtime police officer knew from one look that the youngster was dead.

  And so Hill was a murderer.

  “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, then reminded himself he was a man with no time for remorse. Hill had made a pact with the devil, and if he didn’t deliver on his end of the bargain, then he had no doubt his own skin would be as gray and waxen as that of the thief who lay before him.

  “You got yourself into this, you stupid bastard,” he hissed at the corpse as he dropped to his knees and began to rummage through the boy’s pockets. “Sometimes shit things happen to the people you care about!” he went on, defending his actions. “Life isn’t a movie, you dumb piece of shit! There are consequences! Your actions have consequences!” Hill said to dead ears, before sitting back heavily.

  Because he had found something in the pockets—a hard object, wrapped tightly in tape.

  Hill used his knife to slit open the packaging, and then, dropping the blade to his side, he hastily unwrapped it with his bloodstained hands.

  And he saw the diamond sparkling in the moonlight.

  Hill swallowed, overcome by what the stone signified. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was also his future. The future he’d always wanted, for him and for Deb.

  “Thank you.” He spoke aloud, though only Hill knew to whom the words were intended.

  His final words.

  Caught up in his own exoneration, Hill hadn’t heard the fall of soft footsteps behind him. He hadn’t heard the soft scrape on tarmac as his blade was plucked from the ground.

  But he did feel it pierce his spine.

  It was the last thing he’d experience in his life.

  EPILOGUE

  Two years later

  Charlotte looked up from the pile of laundry placed in front of her, and ran her hands through her frayed hair. On days like this she hated the mundane routine that her life had become. Part of her—a part she hated—almost wished that Tony still needed her care and total dedication.

  But Tony was his own man now, at least in body, she reminded herself sadly. In mind, he was consumed by grief and guilt. The thought of it was too much for Charlotte to bear, and as she did every day, she tried to lose herself in her mundane tasks, meticulously folding each item of laundry so that there wasn’t a single wrinkle present.

  An hour passed before there was a knock on the highly polished door.

  “Hello?” a woman called from the threshold.

  She had the city look about her, Charlotte noticed. Well spoken, and with a hairstyle that was yet to grow out. She was new, Charlotte decided.

  “How long have you been inside?” she asked her fellow inmate.

  “Here, only a week, but I’ve been moving around a bit.” The woman blushed. “I’m supposed to help you.”

  “So help.” Charlotte shrugged, two years in prison having blunted her manners.

  And no wonder, because it had been a hard two years. For stabbing a police officer, Charlotte had suffered at the hands of every bobby and prison guard she’d come across since her arrest in Amsterdam.

  “What can I do to help?” the fresh meat asked, but Charlotte was a world away now. She was back in the courtrooms, a sideshow of the media circus.

  Charlotte wanted to puke when she thought of how Hill had become the darling of the tabloids—the hero who’d taken on a dangerous case in his final week of service. Scotland Yard was as happy as the media to take that line,
glossing over coincidence. Only the keenest onlookers noted that Chief Inspector Vaughn, Hill’s superior, had resigned his post at Scotland Yard and had been relocated to a small station in England’s hinterland.

  “You’re the one that did in that detective, right?” the woman pushed, cutting into Charlotte’s thoughts.

  She wasn’t surprised to hear the question. Amongst the criminal fraternity of prison, Charlotte enjoyed notoriety.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “That was me.”

  Charlotte shrugged, going back to her task of folding sheets and thinking of how her vengeance had capped a story of crime and love that had gone viral across the world, attracting the attention of a generous benefactor who’d been moved to cover the costs of Tony’s treatment.

  “I read about it in the paper,” the woman said, struggling to fold her own pile of clothing. Charlotte noticed that her tiny hands were shaking. Funny, she thought, how people’s attitudes had changed towards her.

  “Leave the clothes,” Charlotte said, trying to sound pleasant. “I’ll just have to do them again anyway.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said quickly.

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “I’m just a bit nervous,” she explained. “My husband, he’s not well. He’s quadriplegic, actually. I don’t know how he’s getting on without me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Charlotte told her, her prison mask slipping. “I know how that must feel.”

  “I know. I read the stories. About you and your husband. That’s why I asked them to put me with you, down here.”

  “Oh. How long are you in for?”

  “They gave me a couple of months, but I think it’s going to be a lot longer than that,” the woman whispered.

  “A couple of months?” Charlotte asked, confused—her prison catered to long-term inmates only.

  “I knew some people—through my husband—guards, judges. They made it happen.”

  “You wanted to come here?” Charlotte asked, taking a half-step back.

  “Because I said I’d do something really bad.”

  “What’s your name?” Charlotte asked, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m Charlotte Scowcroft.” She tried to smile, putting out her hand.

  “Deborah.” The woman grinned back, lifting her own hand from her pocket. “But my husband called me Deb. Deb Hill.”

  Too late, Charlotte saw the blade.

  The Women’s War

  By James Patterson

  with Shan Serafin

  Chapter 1

  Two years ago

  While all the other girls in kindergarten would doodle pictures of ponies and rainbows, I would draw myself parachuting out of helicopters and landing on dictators. My little stick figure would karate-kick twelve other stick figures, somehow making them explode in the process, and then I’d aim my portable missile at the obvious target: a dragon.

  Nearly thirty years later, I’d be a Marine Corps colonel riding on a Huey. The only difference between the girl in my crayon drawings and the real me is that I didn’t have a parachute, I’d use rope. And the dragon caught in my crosshairs wasn’t a big lizard with wings—he was a little lizard with total dominance over the US–Mexican narcotics trade.

  His name was Diego Correra.

  We were midflight, northwest of Diego’s location, which was a compound tucked in the outskirts of a Mexican town called Matamoros. It was nearly midnight. Dark. Hot. Damp. Eighteen members of my platoon were riding in three separate Bell Huey helicopters. Flying low enough to read road signs and fast enough not to bother.

  I scanned the terrain below using the scope on my M16. The goal was to spot anyone who might be on a rooftop with heavy weaponry. Was I scared? No. Was I lying to myself about not being scared? Yes.

  We’d been hunting Diego Correra for three years. I personally had been assigned to six different raids on his drug fields and had been introduced to his legendary “business etiquette” firsthand. Yet I never got the pleasure of introducing him to my M16.

  Our helicopters banked left. We were avoiding the city’s population. It was a sizable town but not sizable enough that the growl of a chopper would go unnoticed.

  The entirety of our intel came from an anonymous source who divulged only a single detail about himself: his name was the Fat Man. We knew nothing else about him. We had no idea if he was a defector from Correra’s cartel or if he was the governor of Maine. Fat Man? I pictured a bloated, balding car salesman with crusted mustard on his tie, running to pay-phone booths with borrowed quarters to call me.

  This morning he gave us the best news we’ve ever had. “Correra is in Matamoros. Tonight.”

  Two hours later, we were airborne. I kissed my kids good-bye and tried super hard to seem like a normal mom.

  I’m not, though.

  There are three main things that can go wrong while jumping out of a helicopter. You could get shot before you jump. You could get shot while actually falling. You could get shot after you complete your fall.

  On this mission, we didn’t anticipate there would be a fourth thing that could go wrong: your enemy kicks your teeth in.

  I had on heat-protective gloves, but I let my boots absorb the majority of the work. I pinched the cord with the arch of one foot against the instep of the other. I don’t know how the friction didn’t cause a small forest fire, but, honestly, my boots have never shown signs of burn. Credit the US Marine Corps for that. Or me eating salads.

  The ground greeted me like a speeding truck. Wham. Release, roll, get to position, crouch, aim, hold. Lieutenant Rita Ramirez hit the field second, taking front watch. She was my no-nonsense assistant team leader, so she’d be the caboose once our human caravan got going. Sergeant Kyra Holmes, the best navigator and the best shot, led on point as our sniper. My allies; my two best friends.

  I’d never had less intel on a situation, and it was making me an anxious wreck, but my job as colonel was to win the Academy Award for seeming nonwrecked. The shrubbery up ahead was starting to afford us a view as we approached it. I could see the backyard of Diego’s compound in front of us.

  Showtime.

  In general, this hombre used two to three roaming guards even when he was the visitor to a location. I’d have loved to believe these men would be his worst troops: the ones who drew the short straws and had to take the graveyard shift by obligation, the majority of their thoughts on whatever discount porn they might be missing out on.

  But that’s a dangerous assumption. These could be his best soldiers.

  We divided into our three teams: two to engage from the sides and one to come over the back wall. Alpha Team, Bravo Team, Charlie Team.

  Rita and I took Alpha toward the driveway.

  Quiet and invisible. Those are the golden adjectives. We moved with as much silence as our boots would allow. No scuffling. No talking. Moving along routes that yield as much visual cover as possible. Bracing ourselves for the most complicated phase.

  The entry.

  Ideally, you fast rope directly onto a target, but Diego had used RPGs in the past: rocket-propelled grenades. So, no, the prospect of hovering in the air like a noisy piñata while angry men with rockets watched you from below was not desirable. Fifteen seconds up there would be an eternity. Too much potentially bad luck involved. No thanks.

  My platoon didn’t like bad luck. My platoon didn’t even like good luck. We preferred drawing up two hundred different football-style diagrams with X’s and O’s, staring at maps and sketches, and letting everyone verbally shoot holes at our plans until we found one plan that seemed logistically bulletproof.

  We passed quietly through the gate. And we arrived in the courtyard.

  Already? Wait a second. This breach took no effort.

  Oddly, this was the first sign that things were about to go horribly wrong.

  The place was fully abandoned. From above, the compound looked like a normal set of buildings, but here at ground level, you could see this interior was hollow. Lit
erally hollow.

  Another group had already met us from the far end of their horseshoe-shaped journey. Bravo Team. We were all kind of staring at each other through a very empty structure: just some pillars and an old house with zero furniture.

  “Bravo clear,” said the Bravo Team Leader from a back room.

  My heart sank.

  “Charlie clear,” said the Charlie Team Leader. Charlie had already arrived from the middle.

  Is this over?

  “Alpha clear,” I said, barely able to hide the disappointment in my voice. I wasn’t getting nominated for that Oscar anytime soon. My platoon quickly began to scour the complex. There was nobody here.

  Was the Fat Man lying?

  And then Kyra found the first sign of what was to come: Blood. Lots of it.

  I was thinking we had just executed the biggest failure ever. I was wrong. The failure was just getting started.

  Chapter 2

  Diego Correra was much more evasive than our mission budgets could handle. Some of our top Pentagon brass said he’s just not qualified to be a priority, but during his rise to glory he butchered nearly twenty-nine hundred human beings, most of them innocent citizens, many of whom were children, with the worst aspect being how he did it.

  It’s a process he lovingly calls El Padron.

  The first time I saw photos of El Padron, I threw up. I thought I’d seen it all. I’d been on over fifty missions in twelve years and led combat action in five different nation states, but I’d never seen anything as harsh as El Padron. It’s like the guy was setting a world record for the most disturbing usage of pliers.

  And there in that empty compound in Matamoros, I was about to get my first personal taste of it.

  “Fat Man, this is Spider Actual. Do you copy?” I tried my radio on the off-chance that the Fat Man was patched in. “Fat Man, you there?”

  He wasn’t.

  Kyra had blood on her sleeve from brushing up against a dark wall that was absolutely drenched with it. Fresh, bright red.