Джеймс Паттерсон - Revenge

But fuck it. It was done. It wasn’t as though Shelley could apologize, return the gun, and compliment him on a well-kept weapon. He had to see things through.

“One question. What are you lot doing here?”

“Go fuck yourself,” rasped the bloke in response.

For just a second—and thank God he restrained himself—Shelley considered adding insult to injury by putting a bullet in his leg. See how the little fucker liked that.

But he thought better of it.

“I’ll ask again, what are you doing with the Drakes?”

“Go fuck yourself,” repeated the guy on the ground. Beached on the stones, he looked like a red-faced and bested bully wanting to run for his mother. Shelley wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a man look so pathetic.

“Would somebody mind explaining just what on earth is going on?” came a raised voice.

It was Bennett. He’d appeared from the front door of the house, smart in a navy suit, shirt collar open. He, too, held a pistol. Also a Glock. But he held it loosely, almost casually trained on Shelley, as though he’d be just as happy casting it aside.

“I wanted to see Guy or Susie,” said Shelley, “but Pinky and Perky here had other ideas.”

“ My men were just doing their job, Shelley,” said Bennett firmly. “Now stand down, or I’ll consider this an aggressive trespass and be forced to take appropriate action.”

“I don’t think so, if it’s all the same to you,” said Shelley.

“Oh, come on, Shelley,” implored Bennett. He was well spoken, but with an underlying London twang, and he held forth with the confidence of an expert orator. “Neither of us is going to use these, are we? We’re on the same side, remember? It serves us no purpose to start taking shots at each other.”

Shelley thumbed the safety, shoved the gun into his coat pocket but held it there. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if it was Bennett who had been making inquiries about Emma Drake, but some instinct told him it was best to keep his powder dry on that score. Instead he said, “So, tell me what you’re doing here.”

“As I’ve already told you, we’re here to provide security for the Drakes following the loss of their daughter—” began Bennett, only to be cut off by a derisive laugh from Shelley. “And yes, you’re right,” he resumed, “we need to improve if a guy can enter the premises and disarm Johnson as easily as you did.” His smile was wintry. “Lessons will be learned. Admonishments given. But that doesn’t change the fact—”

“Oh, come on. Security my hairy arse. You didn’t even change the gate code.”

Bennett looked amused. “Are you charging for this advice, Shelley? Or is it a freebie?”

“Drake wants payback. That’s it, isn’t it?” said Shelley. “And you’re here to do that for him. Or at least that’s what you’re telling him—that you’ll be able to help heal that broken heart of his. Is that what you’re pouring into his ear? Are we going to find drug dealers turning up dead?”

If Bennett was surprised that Shelley was so well informed then he hid it well. “Does it matter?” he said. “Do you really care? If Guy was standing here he’d tell you that the scum who sold drugs to his daughter deserve to die, and I think you’d look into his eyes and agree with him.”

“I’d tell him that’s not how it works,” said Shelley.

“You won’t get the chance,” said Bennett. “It’s time for you to leave, I’m afraid.”

Shelley gave the matter some thought, wondering what was to be gained by staying put for longer and deciding the answer was nothing, except for more beef. “Don’t follow me,” he told Bennett. “I’ll drop the piece by the gate.”

As he went to leave, Shelley glanced up and saw a figure at the window of the house. It was Susie Drake, tall and willowy, her face framed by straight blond hair cut in a bob. She was watching him, and for a second or so he considered raising his hand to wave, but decided against it.

Instead he turned, and the only sound in the bright winter morning was his feet crunching over the stones as he crossed to the gates, wiped Johnson’s Glock clean of his prints, dropped it to the stones, climbed into the Saab, and left.

CHAPTER 10

SHELLEY WASN’T THE kind of bloke who made friends easily. He was what you might call a slow burner.

So it had been when he’d first met the Drakes: Guy, Susie, and their daughter, Emma. Guy was still only in his mid-forties then. He’d packed a lot into his life thus far, but the threats against his family had found their way deep beneath his skin. Newly etched into his face were lines born of concern and paranoia, maybe even a little fear, feelings that weren’t going anywhere soon.

Even so, he was “bluff northern businessman Guy Drake,” as the newspaper profiles always seemed to describe him. He didn’t like to think he needed help from anyone, and so at first he’d treated Shelley as though he resented having him there, as if Shelley was somehow evidence that he couldn’t take care of his own family, even though Shelley’s presence was in fact evidence that he was doing exactly that.

Shelley hadn’t taken offense—he knew it was complicated. He soon understood that his job wasn’t just to protect the family, it was also to deal with their individual expectations. He had to make them feel at ease with his presence there.

The way he did that was to keep himself busy. Rather than just hanging around with his registered weapon out of sight he decided to make himself into something of a family right-hand man. He took over driving duties, he ran errands, he suggested shooting trips with Drake and won his employer’s trust by bonding over clay pigeons and paper targets. Most rewarding of all, he started to teach young Emma martial arts. Shelley’s own style of fighting was partly learned in the regiment and partly self-taught, a combination of Filipino Kali, Krav Maga, and Jeet Kune Do, with a bit of street fighting thrown in for good measure. And although at first he’d thought that something a little more formal would be appropriate for Emma, and he’d tried to get her started on Taekwondo, she’d soon sussed him out and insisted that he teach her to fight the way he did it.

“The street way” was what she called it. Like all privileged children, Emma was fascinated by the tough kids—those who spent their time hanging around town centers instead of tending to their horses. Back then she had all the qualities of someone who was destined to make her mark on life, whether life liked it or not.

Then there were the trips out. Susie Drake was that rarest of things: a multimillionaire’s wife who enjoyed a visit to the supermarket. She liked to choose her own fruit and got excited about the twofers.

Shelley had advised the family that they should carry on as normal: if they changed their behavior then the threat-makers won. So it was that he found himself chauffeuring Susie and Emma on trips to Waitrose. As far as was possible he tried to maintain the normal rules of protection—never use the same routes, never keep to a schedule—but it was only Berkshire and they were only going to Waitrose, and besides, Shelley had started to think that it was time the threat status was downgraded. Plus there was another, more delicate, issue . . .

All of which meant he was not being as vigilant as he should have been the day the kidnappers struck.

CHAPTER 11

THEY WERE IN the family BMW, halfway between home and Waitrose, when Shelley first spotted the car following them, a Peugeot 307 in nondescript navy blue, one of the most common cars on the road.

He wouldn’t even have given it a second look were it not for the fact that there were two men sitting up front.