Harlan Coben: Home

Patrick collapses to the ground, gasping for air.

The two camouflaged bodybuilders start to close in. I move fast now.

“Gentlemen,” I call out.

Melon Shirt and both Camouflages spin at the sound of my voice. At first, their expressions are those of Neanderthal men hearing a strange noise for the first time. Then they take me in, narrowing their eyes. I can see the smiles come to their lips. I am not a physically imposing figure. I am above-average height and on the slight side, you’d say, with blond-heading-toward-gray hair, a skin tone that runs from porcelain in the warmth to ruddy in the cold, and features that some might consider delicate in, I hope, a handsome way.

Today I’m wearing a light-blue Savile Row hand-tailored suit, Lilly Pulitzer tie, Hermès pocket square in the breast pocket, and Bedfordshire bespoke shoes custom made by G.J. Cleverley’s lead craftsman on Old Bond Street.

I am quite the dandy, aren’t I?

As I saunter toward the three thugs, wishing I had an umbrella to twirl for maximum effect, I can feel their confidence growing. I like that. Normally I carry a handgun, often two, but in England, the laws are very strict about such things. I’m not worried. The beauty of the strict British laws means that it is highly unlikely that my three adversaries are carrying either. My eyes do a quick three-body scan for locations where one might conceal a gun. My thugs favor extraordinarily tight attire, more suitable for preening than weapon concealment.

They might be carrying knives-they probably are-but there are no guns.

Knives do not worry me much.

Patrick-if it is indeed Patrick-is still on the ground gasping for air as I make my arrival. I stop, spread my arms, and offer them my most winning smile. The three thugs stare at me as though I am a museum piece that they can’t comprehend.

Melon Shirt takes one step toward me. “Who the fuck are you?”

I am still smiling. “You should leave now.”

Melon Shirt looks at Camouflage One on my right. Then he looks at Camouflage Two to my left. I look in both directions too and then back at Melon Shirt.

When I wink at him, his eyebrows jump high.

“We should cut him up,” Camouflage One says. “Cut him into little pieces.”

I feign being startled and turn toward him. “Oh my, I didn’t see you there.”

“What?”

“In those camouflage pants. You really blend in. By the way, they are very fetching on you.”

“Are you some kind of wiseguy?”

“I’m many kinds of wiseguy.”

All the smiles, including mine, grow.

They start toward me. I can try to talk my way out of this, perhaps offer them money to leave us be, but I don’t think that will work, for three reasons. One, these thugs will want all my money and my watch and whatever else they can find upon my person. Money offers will not help. Two, they all have the scent of blood-easy, weak blood-and they like that scent. And three, most important, I like the scent of blood too.

It has been too long.

I try not to smile as they start to make their approach. Melon Shirt takes out a large bowie knife. That pleases me. I don’t have many moral qualms about hurting those whom I recognize as evil. But it is nice to know that for those who require such self-rationalizations to find me “likable,” I could claim that the thugs were the first to draw a weapon and thus I was acting strictly in self-defense.

Still, I give them one last out.

I look Melon Shirt straight in the eye and say, “You should leave now.”

Both overmuscled Camouflages laugh at that, but Melon Shirt’s smile starts to fade. He knows. I can see it. He looked in my eyes and he knows.

The rest happens in seconds.

Camouflage One comes right up to me, getting in my personal space. He is a large man. I am face-to-face with his waxed and toned pectorals. He smiles down at me as though I am a tasty treat he might devour in one bite.

There is no reason to delay the inevitable.

I slash his throat with the razor I’d kept hidden in my hand.

Blood sprays at me in a near perfect arc. Damn. This will require another visit to Savile Row.

“Terence!”

It’s Camouflage Two. There is a resemblance, and, now sliding toward him, I wonder whether they are brothers. The thug’s grief stuns him enough to make disposing of him very easy, though I don’t think it would have helped much had he been better prepared.

I am good with a straight razor.

Camouflage Two perishes in the same manner as dear Terence, his possible brother.

That leaves Melon Shirt, their beloved leader, who has probably attained that rank by being somewhat more brutish and cunning than his fallen comrades. Wisely, Melon Shirt has already started to make his move while I was dispensing with Camouflage Two. Using my peripheral vision, I can see the glint of his bowie blade heading toward me from above.

That is a mistake on his part.

You don’t strike a foe from above like that. It’s too easy to defend. Your adversary can buy time by ducking or raising a forearm for the purpose of deflection. If you shoot someone with a gun, you are trained to aim for the middle mass so that if your aim is slightly askew, you can still hit something. You prepare for the likelihood of error. With a knife, the same is true. Make the distance of your stab as short as possible. Aim for the middle so that if your adversary moves, you can still wound him.

Melon Shirt didn’t do that.

I duck and use my right forearm to, as noted above, deflect the blow. Then, with my knees bent, I spin and use the razor across his abdomen. I don’t wait to see his reaction. I move up and finish him in the same manner as I had the other two.

As I said, it is over in seconds.

The cracked pavement is a crimson mess and getting messier. I give myself a second, no more, to relish the high. You would too, if you didn’t pretend otherwise.

I turn toward Patrick.

But he is gone.

I look left, then right. There he is, nearly out of sight. I hurry after him, but I can see very quickly it will be useless. He is heading toward King’s Cross station, one of London’s busiest. He will be in the station-be in the public eye-before I can reach him. I am covered in blood. I might be good at what I do, but despite the fact that King’s Cross station is indeed where Harry Potter headed off for Hogwarts, I do not possess an invisibility cloak.

I stop, look back, consider the situation, come to a conclusion.

I have messed up.

It’s time to make myself scarce. I am not worried about any CCTV recording what I have done. There is a reason the undesirable element choose spots like this. It stands apart from all prying eyes, even the digital and electronic ones.

Still. I’ve blown it. After all these years, after all the fruitless searches, one lead has finally come my way, and if I lose that lead…

I need help.

I hurry away and press the 1 on my speed dial. I haven’t pressed the 1 for nearly a year.

He answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

Hearing his voice again, even though I had steeled for it, sends me reeling for a moment. The number is blocked, so he has no idea who has called him.

I say, “Don’t you mean ‘articulate’?”

There is a gasp. “Win? My God, where have you been-?”

“I saw him,” I say.

“Who?”

“Think.”

The briefest of pauses. “Wait, both of them?”

“Just Patrick.”

“Wow.”

I frown. Wow? “Myron?”

“Yes?”

“Catch the next plane to London. I need your help.”

Two minutes before Win called, Myron Bolitar lay sprawled naked in bed with a knee-knockingly gorgeous woman at his side. They both stared up at the fancy wainscoting on the ceiling, gulping in breaths, lost in the aftermath of the bliss that comes only from, uh, bliss.