Джеймс Паттерсон: Revenge

“Right,” she said. “Where are we going?” Her voice trembled despite the attempt at calm.

“Piccadilly line for the hospital,” he replied, thinking, Stay with me, Susie. Stay with me.

They barged and bustled. Shelley threw a couple of “don’t mess” stares at anybody who objected. The whole time he kept an eye out behind, pleased to see that they seemed to have lost their shadow. No. Shadows , plural.

They made it to the Piccadilly line platform, where they were greeted by a blast of air and the howl of a train arriving as it burst from within the tunnel, like a bullet from a gun. A cheer went up some way down the platform and Shelley decided they should make their way toward the crowds, hoping to use them as cover.

They boarded, and the last thing Shelley saw before he ducked inside the closing doors was an empty platform, no sign of either of their two pursuers. Should he take comfort from that? He wasn’t in the mood.

They took seats. The stations ticked past. Covent Garden then Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus, the carriages filling up.

Green Park. Hyde Park Corner. Knightsbridge. Next would be South Kensington.

And then, with a sinking feeling, Shelley caught sight of the Chechen guy. Shit. They saw each other at the same time, locked eyes, and something that might have passed for a smile crossed the gangster’s face. As Shelley watched, the guy reached for his phone. No signal down here, pal . But when he slid the phone back into an inside pocket, and his hand withdrew, Shelley saw the dull glint of a sidearm. Now he began to make his way down the carriage toward where Shelley and Susie sat.

“Come on, let’s go,” urged Shelley. “We’ve got company.”

They got to their feet as the train pulled into South Kensington and took up position at the door. Down the carriage the Chechen guy checked his progress. He, too, moved toward a door, ready to jump off if Shelley and Susie did the same.

The doors bleeped, then shivered open. Passengers jostled, getting on and off, throwing Susie and Shelley dirty looks as they stood by the doors doing neither, just getting in the way. Susie looked at him, waiting for him to make his move.

“Wait,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

They watched the Chechen guy. He watched them. All three playing a game of brinksmanship.

The doors bleeped to close.

CHAPTER 68

“WAIT, DON’T MOVE, it’s a feint,” hissed Shelley to Susie, and then he stepped off the train, flicking a glance to his right and seeing the Chechen guy do the same.

They hit the platform together, except Shelley reversed instantly and he squeezed in between the closing doors at the last second, back on the train with the Chechen guy stranded on the platform.

“Yes,” he hissed, triumphantly. But then, just as he thought he’d outfoxed his pursuer, there came another raucous cheer, latecomers crowded onto the platform, and the doors reopened.

The Chechen had been on his way off the platform but turned and managed to scramble back onto the train, sideways through the closing doors—and once more they were back to where they were.

“We’ll have to get off at Gloucester Road,” Shelley told Susie.

The gangster seemed to consider resuming his progress toward them, a crowd of passengers between him and Shelley and Susie, but he held his position, all three of them watching each other warily. The journey between South Kensington and Gloucester Road seemed to last a century, but at last they arrived and Susie and Shelley jumped off, ignoring abuse and complaints as they barged past other passengers and—hopefully—left their pursuer in their wake.

Lifts, lifts. Shelley shot a look back, saw the Chechen some way behind and decided against, making for the stairs instead: eighty-seven steps according to the warning sign, a long spiral staircase up to street level. The gangster checked his progress. He was temporarily blocked from following but there was no doubt he intended to take the same route.

Another thing: they were the only passengers taking the stairs.

“You go on,” he told Susie.

She stopped and swiveled on the stone steps, face full of worry. “Why? What will you be doing?”

“Me? I’ll be having a meeting with our friend here.” He looked around meaningfully. “There’s nobody about, Susie. I won’t get another chance. Just go.”

“What are you going to do to him?” she asked.

“Christ. Just run, Susie,” he urged. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to stop him. Now go.”

That was it. She needed no further invitation, taking off up the stairs, sneakers slapping on stone.

Meantime, Shelley climbed ten or so steps and then stopped, flattened himself to the inside of the spiral, listening for the approaching feet of the gangster. He heard footsteps as the man came onto the stairwell, helpfully cursing in Russian, and he tensed, ready—ready to take a life.

A second later, there he was. Taller and meaner up close, he reared back in surprise as Shelley sprang from around the central column and struck with the heel of his left hand.

It was a clean blow, and it was met with a sickening crunch as the gangster’s jaw shattered and his head snapped back, mouth spurting blood that Shelley felt like warm rain on his face.

The guy staggered. Punch-drunk boxer. Tough guy: he reached into the overcoat he was wearing, presumably for his gun. But Shelley wasn’t finished and he used the same heel-of-the-hand strike, only this time just below the Chechen’s nose.

Which shattered. Shards of bone driven into the brain killed the guy instantly. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the handrail, still gripping it, his hand wedged, which was the only thing that prevented him from sliding back down the steps. He let out a final death rattle and then was silent, thick rivulets of dark red blood and cerebrospinal fluid leaking from his nose and mouth, coating his chin.

Shelley looked at him. He was just a guy trying to do his job—like Dmitry said, trying to please his boss. Shelley stepped over the body and continued bounding up the steps to catch up with Susie.

He was close to the top, able to see the opening that led into the street-level section of the station, when he was brought up short.

Susie was there all right. And holding a gun to her head, using her as a shield, was Gurney.

CHAPTER 69

SHELLEY STOPPED ON the stairs. He gauged the distance between himself and Gurney and knew there was no way he could cover it and still keep Susie safe.

“You,” he said to Gurney, who grinned in response, the kind of grin Shelley had heard described as “shit-eating.”

“Yeah, me,” said Gurney. His left hand moved quickly and Shelley was about to throw himself to one side when he saw a flash of silver steel. Now Gurney held a knife to Susie’s throat in addition to the gun at her temple, and in the next second the gun was pointing at Shelley. “Now, let’s not waste any more time.” Gurney’s voice had an echoing quality in the stairwell. “Use forefinger and thumb to lift your gun from its holster; drop it to the steps.”

Shelley did as he was told.

“SIG Sauer,” sneered Gurney. “Truly old school, aren’t you, mate? Right, now take out your phone. Do it nice and slow, and don’t make me nervous, because you know how that’s likely to end.” His eyes flicked meaningfully to Susie. “And then start making the transaction. I’ll give you the details.”

“Oh, really?” said Shelley. “You’re not putting it into Dmitry’s account, then?”

“Fuck that, mate. Just start the transfer.”

Susie was held in place by the knife. Shelley saw blood make its way from beneath the blade and run down her neck. “You’re hurting her,” he warned.