Джеймс Паттерсон: Revenge

But then came the begging letters. Followed by the threatening letters. And when the letters started to become more menacing, Drake made use of his military contacts and employed a security consultant, Gerald Mowles, an old friend of Shelley’s, to decide whether any of them constituted a credible threat.

Gerald was one of the few people entrusted with the information that Shelley and Lucy were a couple and were planning to get married. Knowing Shelley was due a sabbatical, as well as being in the market for a bit of extra cash for his impending nuptials, he’d got in touch. With good reason. Take a map and pin the world’s kidnap hot spots—Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Nigeria, Yemen—then pin the places Shelley had served. You wouldn’t need two sets of pins.

“Kidnappers don’t usually call ahead,” Shelley had told him.

“This isn’t Mexico. There’s more than one way to profit from a kidnapping threat,” Mowles had said. “It could be that it works more like extortion, like some kid offering to look after your car when you park it on the street. You pay the money because it’s easier than not paying the money; because it’s cheaper than having to pay guys like us.”

“False economy.”

“Exactly. And Guy Drake’s one of the smart ones. He knows that if he pays up once, they’ll never stop asking for money. They might also decide that what’s needed is a display of power. Just something to say ‘you’re vulnerable, we can get you.’ We need to make sure nobody gets that idea into their heads.”

“That’s where I come in?”

“That’s where you come in,” Mowles had agreed. “Bit of easy money.”

CHAPTER 8

MEMORIES , THOUGHT SHELLEY as he drove. They’ll kill you. Just like a blade or a bullet. Even the journey back there was like time travel. Still, at least it took him further away from the actor.

Reaching the Drake residence meant driving past Tittenhurst Park, the house once owned by John Lennon. Passing, he found that the road was clear so he took the opportunity to slow down and gawp at the famous gates, a living bit of Beatles memorabilia that never failed to move him. He wished that he’d known he’d be passing; he’d have brought Sgt. Pepper’s to play. Elvis would have to do, he thought, imagining the Beatles meeting the King at Graceland, treasuring those connections as he pulled away to continue his journey.

The thought kept him going until he reached another set of gates, beyond them the Drakes’ grand Georgian home.

The sight of it jolted him back—back to the person he’d been then: a soldier, starchy but battle-scarred, a nervous fiancé stressing over cash. It was just a job babysitting an anxious entrepreneur, but he’d resolved to bring to it the same level of professionalism he brought to soldiering.

That was what he’d told himself at the time.

He pulled up, got out of the car and approached, aware of a camera mounted on the gates. Through the wrought iron he could see the house, with a Jaguar and a Porsche parked out front on a vast pebble-covered driveway, as well as a Mercedes, an electric-blue BMW, and a VW Golf. Drake’s house had always had various people in and out all the time: PAs, gardeners, men who came to clean the pool, upkeep the tennis courts, or install gym equipment. That was rich people for you. They filled their homes with strangers and then bleated about wanting privacy.

He looked at the entry pad then pressed the intercom button, heard it ring, and imagined it going off inside. A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“My name is David Shelley, I’m here for either Guy or Susie. An old friend.”

“One mo—”

She was cut short by another voice: “What can I do for you, Shelley?”

He’d had warmer greetings. “Who’s that?”

“We met at the funeral. Name’s Gurney. Sergeant James Gurney of the Parachute Regiment.”

Jesus , thought Shelley. And you thought the actor was a tool . “Yeah, I remember you,” he said, “giving me the skunk eye at a funeral. Classy move. They teach you that in the Paras, did they? Or were you too busy getting daggers tattooed on your arm?”

Gurney chuckled. “Not got a regiment tattoo of your own, then? Don’t tell me, scared of needles?”

“Don’t you believe it. I can put up with any number of little pricks. Right now, for example.”

“Yeah, yeah, good one,” sneered Gurney. “Very funny coming from the man on the wrong side of the gate. Tell you what, mate, I’ll let Mr. Drake know you came to say hello. Why don’t you leave your number? Better still, write it down on a piece of paper, gob in it, screw it up, and throw it in the bin. Save me the bother.”

Shelley sighed, casting his eyes to the heavens as though looking for divine inspiration. “Listen, mate, I’ve got no argument with you, precisely because I have no business with you. I’m here for Guy or Susie. Put one of them on or let me in.”

His only answer was Gurney’s laughter, rendered metallic by the intercom system, and then a click as the line went dead.

Shelley stepped to one side and looked at the keypad thoughtfully. Surely not? he thought, and then on a whim punched in the code he remembered, Susie’s birthday. 1606 . The gate hummed and began to swing open.

Some protection. They hadn’t even bothered to change the security code.

“Fucking idiots,” muttered Shelley, and stepped through.

CHAPTER 9

IT ALL CAME back to him as he crossed the pebble drive. The lawn on one side, perfectly trimmed and just the right shade of succulent green, hedges clipped neatly but not ostentatiously, a thoroughbred horse peering incuriously at him over a five-bar gate.

And on the other side the house, which wasn’t so much a house as a mansion, its flat frontage a luxurious shade of cream, the window frames gleaming white, sparkling glass reflecting the winter sun. No two ways about it, it was a gorgeous-looking pad.

Only problem: the short-arsed, red-faced bloke in combats and a camo top who’d just appeared from the front door. Not Gurney but cut from the same cloth. Sure enough, Shelley saw the tip of a Para tattoo peeking from beneath his T-shirt sleeve as he strode fast toward him, all spit and snarl, boots laced up tight and looking for action.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

He held a short-range walkie-talkie in one hand and had a Glock in an unsecured molded holster at his hip, the sort you wore for a quick draw. As he advanced he indicated the holster as though to say, What do you think of that? but Shelley wasn’t impressed because there was no way in the world this bloke was going to start firing off rounds right now. And what kind of dickhead made a show of a weapon he had no intention of using?

Shelley didn’t break stride or slow down. He sped up.

The other guy saw. His eyes widened and his moment of feeling as if he had the upper hand evaporated in the time it took him to realize Shelley wasn’t in the slightest bit intimidated by the weapon and even less by the hard-man act.

Preparing to defend, the bloke took a step back, aligned his core, ready to use the walkie-talkie as a weapon and reaching for his Glock.

What he didn’t expect was for Shelley to go for the Glock, too, which is exactly what he did.

It all happened in the time it took to blink. Shelley knocked the Para’s swinging walkie-talkie hand out of the way, drawing the guy’s sidearm at the same time as he dropped and swept his legs from under him, sending him sprawling to the stones with a shout of pain, surprise, and outrage.

It was messy, and it was ugly, and Lucy would have criticized the angle of Shelley’s arms, his stance, his breathing, whatever. Most of all she would have said that he’d used force when he should have been diplomatic, and she would have been right about that, because as Shelley rose with the gun held two-handed and trained on his opponent, he saw the hurt, humiliation, and hatred in the other man’s face and knew he’d made an enemy for life. The Glock was dull, aged, probably a treasured weapon, and the fact that it had so easily found its way into Shelley’s fist was bound to enrage its owner even more.