James Patterson - Private London

9 April 2003 – Los Angeles, USA

The day everything changed.

Morning

Hannah Shapiro was having a wonderful day.

Presents and mimosas at breakfast. Just the one glass – but a twelfth birthday needed marking, didn’t it? She would become bat mitzvah – a Daughter of the Commandments – this coming Shabbat. But Saturday was three days away!

‘Come on, darling, take a sip…’ Jessica, her mother, said, her southern accent sweet and musical. ‘You’ll love it. It tastes just like an angel’s tears in a glass.’

And so she had. Even though she didn’t like the taste of alcohol, Hannah loved her mom more than anything in the world and wouldn’t think of disappointing her. She sipped, then half spluttered, half laughed. ‘I’ve got bubbles in my nose.’

‘That’s what you pay the good money for, sweetheart!’

Hannah laughed with her.

It was a perfect morning. The only thing missing was her father. ‘It’s a shame Daddy couldn’t make it back last night,’ she said.

‘It’s government business. He’d have been here if he could, darling.’

‘I know.’

‘And he promised he’ll try to make the three o’clock flight. Even if he has to fight the chief of staff to do it!’ her mother said, hugging Hannah and ruffling her hair.

Hannah giggled again. She couldn’t imagine her father fighting with anyone.

‘Come on, honey. Make a birthday wish on your first champagne.’

Hannah thought about it. Her best friends from school, Sally Hunt and Tiffany Wells, had already turned thirteen. Sally had been given a polo pony and Tiffany a diamond watch from Cartier. Both their parents had been divorced more than once.

Hannah looked at the family portrait hanging over the fireplace. Her father and mother so much in love, Hannah in the middle.

She gazed up at her mother, couldn’t believe how heartbreakingly beautiful she was. Couldn’t believe that her father could bear to spend so much time away from her.

So Hannah took another sip of her mimosa, looked again at the family portrait and made her wish: Catch that plane, Daddy!

Afternoon

Crossing Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, Hannah took her mother’s hand.

They were both laden with packages, bags from all the best stores hanging off their shoulders.

‘We have done very well with the shopping,’ said Hannah, grinning broadly.

‘Daddy said to make it up to you for missing breakfast.’

‘He’s doing a very good job.’

‘So far. But the day is young.’

‘Yes.’

‘And it’s good we have the time to ourselves. Daddy doesn’t do shopping.’

Hannah chuckled. ‘I know.’

Jessica Shapiro winked at her. ‘But your mother, darling… is a professional!’

Moments later, she fetched out the keys to the Mercedes convertible they were approaching in the underground car park.

She looked up, startled as two men suddenly appeared. They wore black hoods.

Hannah’s scream was cut short as a rough hand covered her mouth.

‘Tell the little bitch to shut it now! Or I’ll blow her brains halfway across California.’

Jessica nodded. Numb with fear. Unable to speak. Staring terrified at Hannah, she pleaded with her daughter with her eyes to be still.

Three Days Later

Hannah wanted to scream again. Scream till her throat bled as she watched what was happening to her mother.

But she couldn’t. Duct tape had been wrapped around her head, sealing her mouth shut painfully. Her nostrils bulged wide, as much with fear as the need to suck oxygen into her burning lungs.

She squeezed her eyes shut, images of memory flashing, snapshots of the horror that had led to this moment.

The black-suited hooded men grabbing them. The crook of an elbow jammed tight against her mouth. Throwing her into the back of a windowless van.

Forcing her down on the cold metal floor. Tying her hands with tape. Then her mouth, her feet.

The vehicle moving, bouncing her hard against the unforgiving side. Tyres squealing. Her own muted screams. A dark sack dropped over her head.

Darkness. The sound of her mother sobbing nearby. A mewing, hurt sound.

Her bladder voiding. The awful shame of it.

A world of hurt later.

Her mother lay naked on a bed. Her hands above her head tied cruelly to the headboard.

One of the men was on top of her mother now. Grunting as he raped her. Feeding on her pain, her humiliation, her helplessness. It didn’t take long. He stood up and gestured to the other hood leaning against the far wall.

‘You want a go now?”

‘Not on mommy I don’t,’ said the second man flatly. ‘I like my meat fresher.’

Hannah whimpered, horrified as she realised what he meant.

He raised the gun that he held loosely in his right hand, tightening a silencer on the end of its barrel. Then he pointed it at Hannah’s mother.

‘Your husband did this to you, not me. He wouldn’t pay the ransom.’

Hannah shook her head violently, begging with her eyes, screaming out to her father as she had been doing since the horror had begun. Why hadn’t he paid them the money? Why hadn’t he saved them? Where was he?

The gunman’s eyes were so cold. ‘He had his chance,’ he said simply.

Then he pulled the trigger. He shot Jessica Shapiro twice. The shots made a sound like a nail gun.

‘Can’t say we didn’t give daddy a chance,’ said the hood.

Hannah slumped back in the chair, reeling. Her system shutting down in shock. The grip of fear holding her heart so tight that she couldn’t breathe.

The man holstered his gun and undid his trouser belt. ‘Untie the girl,’ he said.

At that moment, a lifetime too late, the door to the loft was smashed off its hinges.

As the gunman turned, a high-velocity bullet punched through his forehead, knocking him off his heels. His head exploded.

The sound of the shot still rang deafeningly in the air as his dead body slid down the wall.

The other kidnapper took a step towards his partner before three shots from the semi-automatic weapon cut him down. He crashed to his knees, tumbled sideways, dead before he hit the floor.

A fine mist of red seemed to hang in the air for a moment and then a tall man stepped through it, lowering the gun that he was holding in a two-handed grip.

He looked down at the girl with desperately sad, apologetic eyes.

‘You’re safe now, Hannah,’ said Jack Morgan.

Seven years later. Somewhere over the Atlantic.

My name is Dan Carter. I run the London office of Private International.

At that moment I was sitting in first class on my way to New York to meet with my boss. I’m ex-military – ex-Royal Military Police, to be specific. Late thirties. Shade over six foot, dirty blond hair, blue eyes; 185 pounds in weight. I can run the mile in under five minutes and bench-press 240. I could build up to more but I like the way my suits fit me just fine. In my line of work it’s not all about brute strength. I don’t scare easily.

But I don’t like flying.

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I said would you like another drink, sir?’ asked the air hostess. She had a smile that could have lit the pitch at Wembley Stadium but I wasn’t even registering it. Like I said, I’m not a good flyer. The man I was on my way to meet was. But then, he was an ex-military pilot. Served his time in Afghanistan. Jack Morgan who owned Private worldwide. Hell – Jack Morgan was Private!

The air hostess moved away and I took another small sip of beer. I didn’t want to overdo it. Not good form, turning up drunk for an important meeting. I didn’t know if my boss was well known for giving people a second chance – somehow I doubted it – but I didn’t plan to find out.