Revenge

by James Patterson

  ‘What are you thinking, Shelley?’ said Bennett. He peered into the distance, watching the strange procession as it drew closer.

  ‘I’m thinking that they got to Johnson,’ said Shelley. ‘I’m thinking that’s how this bloke Dmitry got Guy’s number and how come he knows we’re ex-military and how many of us there are. Guy,’ he said without looking at Drake, his eyes fixed on the oncoming cars, ‘are those gates the ones we installed when I was last here?’

  ‘Aye, they are, more or less. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I chose them myself. They’re built to withstand a car ramming into them.’

  The BMW wasn’t slowing. The gap to the Range Rover behind was widening fast. In fact, the Range Rover had pulled to a stop. The two front doors opened and its occupants climbed out. Shelley saw the dim shapes of men wearing dark sunglasses and overcoats. Waiting, watching.

  That made up his mind. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘take cover. Now.’ There wasn’t time to run for the house; they’d be caught out in the open. Instead all four of them crouched behind the Jag. Gurney held his Glock two-handed across the bonnet. Bennett, Shelley and Drake watched the BMW come closer, on an inevitable collision course with the gates. In the driving seat was the figure of a short guy with cropped hair.

  ‘Rigged to blow, you think?’ said Bennett to Shelley, his voice loud over the revving engine of the BMW. Never taking his eyes off the oncoming car.

  And then they had their answer as the BMW crashed into the gates with a whump followed by a shriek of traumatised metal like a steam engine screeching to a stop.

  A strange silence fell. Shelley braced himself for an explosion.

  It never came.

  Over the way, smoke issued from the crashed car. The front gates had buckled but not broken; they’d done their job.

  Now Shelley’s eyes went to the two men and their Range Rover. They stood watching. For what reason, Shelley wasn’t sure: wanting to be seen, making their presence felt, perhaps?

  Either way, it was as though they decided job done, and one of them raised his hand in a wave that could almost be interpreted as friendly before the two of them climbed back into the Range Rover. Still behind the Jag, the four men watched as the Range Rover performed a three-point turn and then drove away.

  ‘Wait,’ counselled Shelley. ‘It could have a delayed fuse.’

  Through a windscreen cracked by the accident they could make out the figure of the driver. They saw blood.

  ‘And what about Johnson?’ asked Drake harshly.

  ‘He’s dead,’ replied Shelley bluntly. ‘And if he isn’t dead now then he will be when the car blows.’

  ‘If the car blows,’ said Bennett.

  ‘Which is what we’re waiting to find out,’ growled Shelley.

  Bennett took a deep breath and peered over the bonnet. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘today’s as good a day as any.’ He looked at Shelley, who knew exactly what he meant, and drew his Glock from his shoulder holster. Then, with his sidearm held low, he rose from cover and jogged across to the entranceway.

  Beside the main gate was a smaller pedestrian access, untouched by the accident. Bennett’s fingers tapped out a code, the gate clicked and swung open. A second later he was on the other side of the twisted metal.

  They watched, breath held, as Bennett opened the driver’s door, peered inside and then withdrew. Looking over to them on the driveway, he gave a short but definitive shake of his head. Next he held up a hand – wait there – and they saw him hunker down to check the underside of the car and then jog around it, doing the same on the other side.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth, calling, ‘Clear,’ and in seconds they had joined him at the BMW.

  ‘Christ,’ said Drake, turning away with his hand over his mouth. The businessman’s stomach heaved, and for a second Shelley thought he was going to lose his Connaught breakfast right there. Even Bennett had paled.

  What they saw was mutilation.

  Johnson had been cut, maybe hundreds of times. His hands, taped to the steering wheel, were bloody stumps, fingers snipped off. In the well of the car, Shelley saw the same, toes removed, bloodied feet gaffer-taped to a breezeblock. His eyelids had been taken, his ears, nose and lips too.

  Further down, his T-shirt had been sliced open. A blood-encrusted torso was criss-crossed with knife cuts. In places entire sections of flesh had been removed, exposing muscle and fat beneath, like a grotesque parody of a medical illustration.

  As a final indignity, his Para tattoo had been peeled off. The Chechens had stapled it to his forehead.

  ‘Upside down,’ growled Gurney as they all stood there, eyes ranging over the torn body of Johnson. ‘They did it upside down.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bennett. ‘This means we’re under attack.’ He reached for Drake. ‘Sir, we’d better get you in—’

  But then came another sound. More engines. And they looked up to see a set of vehicles enter the approach road at the far end. Each man tensed, ready to make a run for it, back into the house, Shelley already thinking of the SIG Sauer that he kept hidden in the Saab and wondering if he could reach it in time, when he realised that the new arrivals were police vehicles.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ said Shelley. ‘Oh Jesus, I know what they’re doing. Guy,’ he said to Drake. ‘Where was Susie going today?’

  There were three cop vehicles, two vans and a car. One of the vans had screeched to a halt, blocking the road at the far end. Shelley saw the words ‘Armed Response Unit’.

  The cops inside must have spotted them and seen the crashed car. On went the lights. A siren howled.

  ‘You what?’ said Guy.

  ‘Where’s she going?’ repeated Shelley, pulling out his phone.

  ‘I don’t know. A spa,’ said Drake, spiky, as if he couldn’t believe Shelley needed to know shit like that at a time like this.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, don’t you see? They’ll be going after her. Which spa?’

  Drake’s face dropped. ‘I don’t know!’ he wailed. ‘Some spa …’

  Speed-dialling Lucy. Turning to make his way back through the pedestrian gate. Trying to buy himself time. ‘Where, for fuck’s sake?’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Which spa?’

  ‘I don’t know … someplace in Hampstead. She always goes. Bennett, you were there – what spa did she say?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Shelley. ‘Think, Guy, think.’

  Cop cars approaching as Lucy picked up, saying, ‘Hello, sweetheart, is everything all right?’

  ‘Listen fast,’ said Shelley. ‘You’ve got to get to a Hampstead spa. Don’t know the name.’ He threw a look at Drake just in case inspiration had struck, but no. ‘I’m sorry, Luce, you’ll just have to find it yourself.’

  ‘Roger that. What’s the situation?’ said Lucy. And God bless her, God bless Lucy for being alert and on it.

  ‘It’s Susie Drake,’ explained Shelley. ‘You’ve got to reach her, Lucy.’

  ‘Before … ?’

  ‘Before a bunch of Russians do. Chechens, to be precise. The bleedin’ Chechen Mafia.’

  Behind him the police cars had screeched to a halt. Armed cops burst out. He heard commands: ‘Freeze! Hands on your heads!’ and then to him, ‘You with the phone! Drop the phone! Drop it now! Put your hands on your head!’

  ‘Jesus, Shelley,’ said Lucy on the other end of the line, ‘what’s going on?’

  ‘Gotta go, sweetheart,’ Shelley told her. ‘Be lucky, won’t you?’

  He did as he was told and dropped the phone.

  CHAPTER 36

  OKAY, THOUGHT LUCY. A spa in Hampstead. She was driving and web-searching at the same time, snarled up in enough London traffic to do the two things simultaneously. Spa in Hampstead, spa in Hampstead … She didn’t like the look of the first one produced by the search, decided to leave it to last.

  Where, though? Where?

  ‘Right,’ she said to herself, ‘imagine that you�
�re the fabulously wealthy and gorgeous wife of a millionaire. But you’re a down-to-earth, feet-on-the-ground type. Where do you go?’

  They had them in the basements of hotels, didn’t they? But Lucy knew that Susie had stayed overnight at the Connaught and she wasn’t using whatever facilities they had there; she’d chosen Hampstead. So the chances were that it was a favourite haunt. Somewhere she’d been going for years.

  Not this one, then – ‘Newly opened’. Which left just two more that Lucy considered possibilities. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘we’ll try this one first.’

  A short drive later and she was walking into number one on her list. ‘Hello, can you tell me if you have a customer by the name of Susie Drake here today?’ she asked the over-tanned, perfectly primped, flawlessly made-up girl behind the counter.

  ‘Um …’ started the girl. She’d opened a book and put one exquisitely manicured fingernail to the page before she had second thoughts. ‘We don’t usually give away those kind of details,’ she said.

  Lucy smiled even more sweetly. ‘It’s really very important that I speak to Susie Drake,’ she said. ‘It’s a matter of life and death. Really very important indeed. If she’s here, and I leave here without giving her the message, and she finds out that’s happened, then …’

  ‘Oh, she’s not here,’ said the girl, just wanting the lecture to end.

  Lucy was already out of the door.

  Which left number two: Hampstead Health & Beauty. According to the Internet this one had made the news a couple of years ago. A disabled customer had complained about the lack of facilities, and then posted the spa’s dismissive response on Twitter. As a result, the spa had been the subject of a minor Twitterstorm and gained temporary notoriety as a result.

  It was on the outskirts of Hampstead and a little bigger than the first. Lucy had left it until second because there was something new-looking about it, but now, reading the website in a little more depth, she saw that it was an established business that had relocated.

  Yes, this could be the place. She dearly hoped it was. If not then she was perilously short on ideas.

  She took a look around the small car park before realising she hadn’t the foggiest what she was supposed to be looking for anyway: BMWs, Mercedes, a Porsche. Normal rich-person’s status symbols. None of them with a flashing sign on top saying ‘I belong to Susie Drake’.

  Right, she told herself. Let’s go. Before leaving home she’d retrieved her SIG from the chimney breast where it lived, out of sight but available if needed, and holstered it inside the waistband of the jeans she was wearing, pulling a thick cable-knit polo neck sweater over the top. She reached to the weapon now, feeling the butt against the palm of her hand and taking reassurance from it as she climbed out of her Mini and strode towards the spa building.

  The entranceway was flanked by two perfectly trimmed potted conifers in brushed-metal vases. The kind of landscaping that said money. Lucy stepped in, wishing she’d spent a little more time on her appearance before she’d left the house; pleased, at the very least, that her jeans were cut right and the sweater she wore was expensive.

  Sure enough, the reception area had the scent of luxury. Behind the desk stood – not sat, stood – a receptionist, while on a sofa nearby sat a woman wearing dark glasses and tailored clothes, a phone to her ear.

  As Lucy approached the desk the receptionist looked up, and Lucy was about to speak when from the corner of her eye she saw that the sofa woman was looking at her. Not at her. Her face wasn’t turned Lucy’s way. But from the angle Lucy could just see behind the huge shades she wore and the woman’s eyes were glued on Lucy.

  It was probably nothing, but it was enough to make Lucy change her plan of action.

  ‘Hi,’ smiled the receptionist, who in a place this swanky was probably called a ‘greeter’. Lucy checked hard for signs the greeter thought she wasn’t the right type to be hanging around the reception area of Hampstead Health & Beauty, but either she made the grade or the receptionist was a courtesy Jedi. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I was hoping to have a look around,’ said Lucy.

  The greeter’s face fell. ‘Oh,’ she said, stitching on a sympathetic look and indicating the woman who was on her phone, hidden behind glasses, ‘this lady is also waiting for a tour. Did you want—’

  ‘Well, I was hoping I might just have a quick look around by myself.’

  ‘Ah, it’s not really our—’

  ‘Look,’ said Lucy, ‘the truth is that a friend of mine has already had the grand tour and she was totally impressed, and I’m pretty sure that it’s a done deal that we’ll be joining, and—’

  The greeter’s smile froze just a little. ‘You apply for membership.’

  ‘Sorry, yes, that’s what I meant,’ amended Lucy, who was amused to hear that her own voice had taken on posh tones. ‘Applying for membership is exactly what I meant. But prior to us doing that I need to check … Well, you see, my daughter is visually impaired and I need to make sure she’ll be able to use the facilities.’

  Now the greeter’s face really did freeze. Lucy could see that she was being assessed. Was this a joke? Some kind of test?

  Lucy kept it innocent, played it cool. ‘It’s really just the quickest look that I need to have.’

  Lucy saw the greeter’s eyes travel over her shoulder. She sneaked a look behind her to see that the sofa woman was no longer paying attention. Or, at least, none that she showed, continuing to listen and occasionally speak into her phone. She had a London accent, a bit cockney. Not Russian. That was good.

  With no objection raised there, the greeter evidently thought it was safe to wave Lucy through, behaving as though the outcome were never in doubt. ‘Of course. Please do make sure, but I think you’ll find everything is in order.’

  ‘I’m sure. I’m sure it is,’ said Lucy. She took a door, exiting the reception area and leaving the two women behind.

  Back here was the same restful piped music that had been playing in the entrance area, but with added whale noises to boot. Lucy hurried along a corridor, past doors marked ‘Treatment Suite One’ and ‘Treatment Suite Two’, knowing that Susie Drake could well be in one of those but wanting to try a more communal area first. A changing room, perhaps? Do they have a pool? They must have a pool.

  In fact, here it was at the end of the corridor: a square of shimmering light visible through the door.

  She opened the door. The pool was empty. Right, changing rooms. Where are the bloody changing rooms? She took a left along the corridor, opaque glass to her right, swimming pool on the other side.

  At the end was yet another door: ‘Changing Facilities’. In she went.

  And sitting in there, towelling her wet hair, was a woman Lucy thought she recognised …

  ‘Susie Drake?’

  CHAPTER 37

  SUSIE DRAKE DID not stop towelling her hair, but inclined her head to regard Lucy.

  ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’ she said, scrunching the last of the damp from the ends of her hair.

  ‘I’m not a reporter if you’re Susie Drake.’

  ‘And if I’m Susie Drake then who are you?’ She folded the towel quickly, laid it down beside her.

  ‘I’m Lucy Shelley. Shelley’s wife.’

  Susie Drake placed her hands on the bench on either side of her and looked long and hard at Lucy, as though assessing her. For a mad moment Lucy felt like a character in an old film, a nanny sent by the agency, coolly appraised by the lady of the house.

  The feeling was quickly followed by the realisation that Susie Drake knew Shelley well, or at least had known him well at one time, yet had never seen Lucy (unless she’d noticed her at Emma’s funeral, which was unlikely), and had probably been curious about her, this mythical fiancée that Shelley had been saving up to marry.

  ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ asked Susie.

  Lucy told Susie everything she knew.

  ‘Okay, then,’ said Susie. ‘
Years ago, Shelley and I used to have what he called a code phrase. Do you know the code phrase?’

  ‘What if I don’t know the code phrase?’

  ‘Maybe I won’t hold it against you.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll try one. Be lucky.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Susie. ‘So, you’re Lucy. You were in the SAS, too.’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘I didn’t know the SAS took women.’

  ‘They don’t, officially. I came in the back door, via the SRR, the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. They put me and Shelley together, and that was it. Love among the black ops.’

  ‘You were in the same unit, weren’t you?’ said Susie.

  ‘Well, the same “patrol”, they call it: me, Shelley and another guy.’

  ‘And you fell in love with Shelley?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘I guess I did.’

  ‘You’re younger than he is.’

  Not sure how to take that, Lucy replied, ‘Yeah, but only by five years. Just that he’s got the grumpy-old-man thing going on.’ There was a pause during which Lucy wondered if she’d just been disloyal. ‘The sexy-grumpy-old-man thing,’ she amended. And then she wondered if she’d put her foot in it, given that Susie was of course considerably younger than Guy Drake, who, by all accounts, was properly grumpy, not just Shelley-grumpy, and could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as sexy.

  ‘Would you have fallen in love, do you think, if you hadn’t been thrown together in these high-pressure situations?’

  Already slightly flustered, Lucy was taken aback afresh. Not just because the line of questioning was so personal but because she’d occasionally wondered the same herself, and what she told Susie Drake now was the same conclusion she’d previously come to. ‘I would have fallen in love with Shelley whatever the circumstances,’ she said. ‘He’s straight up, full of truth. The most honourable person I’ve ever met. He’s the kind of guy who changes your life without even meaning to. Doesn’t know he’s done it. Wouldn’t even know how he’s done it if you told him. That’s who he is.’