Джеймс Паттерсон - Revenge

“By all means,” answered Shelley. He glanced behind. The three men were closer but appeared to have drawn to a halt.

“It was your friend Corporal Johnson,” continued Dmitry. “He came to us, did you know?”

“I thought as much.”

“Oh yes, he had learned of our involvement in the Foxy Kittenz enterprise and so he came to us with a plan—a suggestion, you might say. It was a rather short-sighted suggestion but nonetheless, he wanted to know if we were interested in, what’s the word, ‘bagging’ an SAS man. Johnson knew, of course, that your regiment has interrupted the activities of our organization many times in many different countries over the years, and especially with regards to our supply lines in Afghanistan. And he was right to ask if I was interested in a little prize to show my bosses in Grozny, because as I was saying, we all want to please our bosses, don’t we? We want to do the best we can to earn their praise and avoid their displeasure. There was bad blood between you and Johnson, I hear.”

“You might say that.”

“This was his mistake, you see,” continued Dmitry. “He let it all get so personal. Perhaps he might not have missed the bigger picture were he not so intent on revenge. A lesson for all in your camp, you might say.

“So anyway, I spoke to my superiors about this SAS man that Johnson said I could bag. ‘Who is this SAS man?’ they wanted to know, because one SAS man is pretty much like any other SAS man.

“Except later, when your friend and mine Guy Drake decided that a sensible course of action was to have his old and out-of-shape ex-soldiers attack me, and Corporal Johnson emerged as nothing more significant than an irritating man chancing his arm and meddling in affairs he really did not understand, I gave your name to Grozny and we looked harder at this Captain David Shelley. We looked at him and we realized that Captain David Shelley wasn’t just your average run-of-the-mill SAS man. Oh no. We learned that you served with something called Special Projects.

“You weren’t just any old dog, were you, Captain? You were top dog.”

CHAPTER 60

THERE WERE EIGHT of them. Eight of them, one of him. And he was out in the open with no cover. He was dead. He had no chance. But if he could save Susie . . .

Sergei pocketed his phone and moved his hands to rest on the butt of his pistol; Karen’s fingers fidgeted at her Beretta. Shelley stayed in position with his hand on the grip of his SIG. Every one of them, it seemed, was ready to draw apart from Dmitry, who was lost in the enjoyment of his reminiscences. “Bagging the most wanted man of all the wanted men! The leader.”

Shelley’s mind was racing. So they had his name as leader, but not the other two. And that was why Dmitry was clapping like a seal and talking about the most wanted “men,” when in fact, one of these “most wanted men” had been at the mercy of his guys just a few hours earlier.

“You are what they call a person of interest, Captain,” continued Dmitry. “You worry about my men coming up behind you, and of course, being so gallant, you worry for the safety of Mrs. Drake. But your concern is misplaced. You have been right to assume that I will hand over Mrs. Drake in return for the provision of the money, because that is exactly what I intend to do. However, I do intend to take a prize. And that prize is you, Captain David Shelley of the SAS. That prize is you.”

“Okay, Susie, this is what we call a double cross,” said Shelley calmly, knowing there would be combat, and ready for it.

“I’m sorry,” said Dmitry. “If it makes you feel any better, Mrs. Drake, it is only the captain that we are double-crossing. You may be on your way escorted by my men and with my blessing.”

Susie was looking from one player to another, trying to understand a nonsensical situation.

“But you only have half the money,” said Shelley. “You can’t seriously tell me that some SAS grunt is worth ten million.”

“Quite right, you’re not, Captain, but don’t you worry, we will get the rest of our money.”

“You’d need the passcode.”

“We shall get the passcode from you,” said Dmitry.

“You won’t.”

“You leave that problem to us.”

Shelley was about to draw—a heartbeat away from doing so—when something happened.

That something was Karen making her move.

CHAPTER 61

KAREN RAISED HER Beretta. For perhaps half a second Shelley considered reaching for his SIG at the same time, but there was no point in making these guys feel even more jumpy than they already were. One raised gun was enough. He needed to see how this played out. His hand stayed on the grip of his SIG.

“Shelley ain’t going anywhere. Nor is Susie Drake,” said Karen.

Dmitry looked at her. Her gun was pointed not at Susie or Shelley but at him. “Karen,” he said, managing to make the word sound like neither a question nor an exclamation of surprise, “what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing, dear ?”

“Well,” said Dmitry without apparent concern, “it seems to me that you are holding a gun on me. Holding a gun on me in front of my men. And, it seems to me, you are insinuating that you intend to stage some kind of coup? Is that right? Could that possibly be right?”

Suddenly Shelley felt like a bystander, somebody who had blundered into an unfortunate family dispute. He inched closer to Susie, adjusting his elbow so that their arms met.

“Karen,” continued Dmitry politely. “I’m afraid I don’t hold out much hope for your coup. Not only are you hopelessly outnumbered, but these are my people.” He waved an arm to encompass his men. “We are Chechens, Karen. I can assure you that counts for a lot more than your Regan family.”

Shelley shifted in order to look in both directions. What he saw was the men looking around at one another, each eyeing up their neighbor. None of them seemed to know where their loyalties lay. All was confusion, and he could capitalize on that.

“I have support,” Karen told Dmitry, “don’t you worry about that.”

“Oh, really?” Dmitry was looking around at his men. “Which of my men is loyal to you?”

“Men,” she called, countermanding his order, “don’t reveal yourselves.”

Could be clever , thought Shelley. On the other hand, it could be that she didn’t have the support she needed. Either way, nobody spoke, which Dmitry chose to interpret his way.

“We are Chechens, Karen,” Dmitry repeated. “We stick together.”

“Oh yes, I know that, Dmitry,” smiled Karen. “Family. It’s very important to you, isn’t it? You tend to get very worked up, don’t you, when family comes into things?”

“What are you trying to say now?” he said, but the look he wore was no more serious than polite puzzlement.

Credit to Karen, if Dmitry’s lack of concern bothered her she wasn’t showing it.

Why?

Because she had an ace, of course. An ally.

“Sergei,” she said, indicating with the gun.

Dmitry wheeled around to see that his lieutenant had also drawn his gun and was pointing it at him. His face fell. “Sergei,” he said, suddenly disconsolate, “my friend.”

If there was something of the pantomime to his performance, then it was lost on Karen. “Why don’t you tell Dmitry what we mean when we talk about family, Sergei?” she said.

His sidearm still trained on Dmitry, Sergei said, “The Skinsman. He killed my brother Ivan.”

“Yes.” Dmitry cast his eyes downward in apology. “Yes, I know this to be the case.”

Yet there was something about the way Sergei had delivered the news, and something about Dmitry’s subsequent reaction, that struck Shelley as even more odd. His eyes went to Karen, instinctively knowing that things had taken an unexpected turn where she was concerned.