Джеймс Паттерсон: Revenge

“Better hurry up then, hadn’t you? Let’s get this over and done with.”

Shelley saw what was going to happen next half a second before it did. He recognized the blue of the jacket sleeves that appeared behind Gurney, two hands, one either side of his head, one poised ready to grab Gurney’s knife hand, the other holding what looked like a brushed-metal ballpoint pen.

Too late, Gurney sensed that somebody was behind him. Perhaps he saw the hovering hands in his peripheral vision. Either way, his mouth dropped open just as Bennett jammed the ballpoint pen into his ear, the other hand snaking around to take the knife at the same time.

Bennett had rammed the pen into Gurney’s ear overhand, and then, with the pen still protruding from the side of Gurney’s head, he used the heel of his hand to ram it into his brain.

The only sound from Gurney’s mouth was a strangulated mixture of surprise and pain. His eyes widened and bulged and blood sluiced suddenly from his nose. His gun fell and Bennett supported the body as it dropped to the steps.

Gurney’s legs kicked feebly as his brain closed for business. Perhaps the last thing he saw was his former commander standing over him, staring at him with a combination of pity, sadness, and genuine grief.

“How could you?” was all Bennett said, then he turned his face to Shelley. “I’m sorry, Shelley, I had no idea. Johnson I can understand. But James . . .”

“I’m sorry, mate,” said Shelley, who knew what it meant to be betrayed by an old comrade in arms. The pain. He turned his attention to Susie, and what he saw concerned him. Perhaps the sight of Bennett shoving an expensive ballpoint pen into Gurney’s brain had been the final straw, for she gazed down at the dead man with a blank, nobody-home look on her face, and there was no light in her eyes.

But Shelley didn’t have time to worry about Susie. He didn’t have time to sympathize with Bennett and he only barely had time to thank him for saving their bacon.

He needed to reach Lucy, before it was too late.

CHAPTER 70

THEY’D GIVEN LUCY a walking stick but she hadn’t brought it into the loo with her. If only she’d brought the walking stick, at least she’d have a weapon.

That was her first thought. Her second thought was that if they’d wanted her dead they would have done it by now. And it wasn’t a dart gun pointing at her, it was a plain old Makarov fitted with a suppressor, used in a way that its bearer hoped would be enough to intimidate her. In fact, what it told her was that the guy in the restroom had brought the wrong tool for the job.

“Put your hands behind your back and turn around,” he said, accent as expected. His other hand dipped into the pocket of his denim jacket and emerged gripping a cable tie.

“You woke me up,” she said. She’d been glad of pajamas before—now she was really glad. “I was dreaming about Hugh Jackman. Not P. T. Barnum Hugh Jackman, either. Wolverine Hugh Jackman.”

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” he repeated, stony-faced.

He’d have a backup, of course. Perhaps another guy stationed out of sight at the end of the corridor, just to make sure they weren’t disturbed. There were back stairs, she knew. If they managed to get the cable tie on her, they could take her down to the parking lot below. She didn’t want that.

“I’m a bitch when I’m woken up in the middle of the night,” she told him. “Really, honestly, like a bear with a sore head. You don’t want to mess. Especially if it’s in the middle of a Jackman dream.”

“You think I won’t use this,” he said, “but I have my orders and I can put a bullet in you without killing you.”

“How about you let me use the loo first?”

He shook his head. “Negative. Turn around now.”

She turned slowly, keeping her hands by her sides.

“Put your hands behind your back and keep your wrists together,” ordered her bathroom stalker.

She now had her back to the bathroom, facing the open door into her room. One bad guy and a lot of porcelain behind her, sanctuary in front. What’s more, the bathroom door opened outward, standard hospital design in case a patient had a fall behind the door, and she was pretty sure she could make that work in her favor. Mainly what she thought was I can’t let him cuff my hands.

They had seen her in action at the spa. But the fact that they were coming after her now suggested some fresh intel. Something to do with Shelley, perhaps? Either way, they knew exactly what she was capable of. The guy would be careful. He’d be expecting her to try her luck and expecting it now.

That couldn’t be helped; it was now or never. She cast her eyes down to between her feet, watching his shadow on the tiles.

“You will do what I say,” he insisted. “I do not ask a second time.”

Slowly she moved her hands back, at the same time almost imperceptibly bending at the knee (and yes, really , thank Christ she was wearing not just pajamas but loose-fitting pajamas). All the while she watched the shifting light patterns on the floor as he moved closer behind her, gauging his distance, timing her move, knowing that if she did it right she could pull it off, because this was a guy who needed more than one pair of hands to do what he intended to do: wield the Makarov, gather her wrists, tighten the cable tie.

All she had to do was time it right.

She wrenched one of her arms forward, jabbed her other elbow back, and at the same time used the side of her foot on his knee.

It worked. He grunted and stumbled, opening a window of opportunity she could exploit.

But when she sprang forward it all went wrong. Pain from the gunshot wound lanced along her thigh, making her scream out in shock, her pained leg almost buckling beneath her. Yelling with the agony, she twisted, slammed the bathroom door behind her just as the Chechen regained his composure, ready to give chase, and then wrenched open the door to her room and hobbled out into the corridor.

Trevor. If only Trevor had returned. But there was no Trevor, just another Chechen blocking her path, even bigger and more lumbering than the last one.

“Jesus,” she panted, backing away as she said it, trying to buy time. “No wonder they didn’t send you to hide in my bathroom.”

Her leg was aflame. From behind she heard the door open and knew that the first man was about to appear. She dimly realized she couldn’t take them both on and win. But it didn’t matter, because in the next moment, before she’d had a chance to overcome her agony, regain her balance, and adopt any kind of defensive stance, the new guy’s fist was lashing out, big as a joint of beef, and knocking her unconscious.

CHAPTER 71

BENNETT HAD TAKEN advantage of the antisocial hour, and his Mercedes was parked right outside the tube station, inconceivable during the daytime. Together they helped put Susie in the back seat. She was trying, and she was in good shape, in the sense that she was physically unharmed, but she was wiped out: exhausted and severely traumatized. Shell shock, they used to call it. Nowadays, PTSD.

“Susie,” said Shelley gently but urgently, desperately aware of the need to move fast. “Stay with me. You’re going to be all right. We’ll get you home soon.”

“It’s good to see you, ma’am,” said Bennett. Twisted around in the driving seat, he found her eyes with his. “I’m sorry for what you had to see back there.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Bennett,” she said. Her arms were folded across her chest, hugging herself. “Oh, and Mr. Bennett?”

“Yes, ma’am?” said Bennett.

“How is Guy?”

Shelley and Bennett shared a look—Susie inquiring about Drake, after all she’d been through.