Revenge (David Shelley #1) - James Patterson Page 0,36
night he told all and sundry his name. But you know what? He’s the only one of us with an alibi. We need to work on making sure we can’t be connected. You burned the van, did you?”
Bennett nodded. “It all went up. Bats, balaclavas, hooded tops.”
Thinking about burning kit reminded Shelley of something that was bothering him. “While we’re on the subject, how did the fires start? Did Drake have some kind of fuel with him?”
Bennett sighed. “I don’t know. In the office I saw him with a bottle of water. Like a bottle of mineral water, you know? Only it obviously wasn’t water, because the next thing I knew the fires started.” He pulled off his glasses, his eyes looking tired and beady without their magnification, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“We should have seen the signs.”
“You did see the signs, Shelley, you were right all along.”
“I’ll do my gloating later,” said Shelley. “Where is our glorious leader, by the way?”
“He’s been in touch. He’ll be here soon. Same with Johnson.”
Shelley was in two minds about seeing Drake. There was no point in reading him the riot act, and yet on the other hand he wanted to look into his eyes and gauge how he felt about the events of the previous evening. He wanted to see shame, sorrow, apology.
He turned and went back inside the house in search of caffeine. Things had changed, he knew. Not just the fuck-up of last night. Other things. He wasn’t going to be tethered by some misplaced sense of duty to the Drakes. Fuck that. The mystery of Emma’s death would have to remain just that.
Leave. Don’t look back. That was the plan now.
CHAPTER 30
PARKED OUTSIDE THE block of flats that Corporal Adrian Johnson (ex–Parachute Regiment) called home was the only thing apart from his regiment and the men who had fought at his side that he had ever truly loved: his BMW 3 series, wrapped in matte metallic blue.
It was his pride and joy, that motor. He’d lowered it, as well as adding customized bodywork and a large subwoofer in the rear—and when he wasn’t calling it his “bimmer,” he was referring to it with feminine pronouns and telling anyone who’d listen how he’d left a Porsche for dead the other day.
To make sure his pride and joy was never far from his sight, he always parked her in the space close to the entrance, the space reserved for disabled people and blue BMWs. And as he left his first-floor flat that morning and took the stairs to the car park below, he looked forward to seeing her, knowing that just to sink into her leather seats would help make him feel better about the situation at work: this ex-SAS guy Shelley coming on board.
It was because of him, Shelley—the word felt bitter in his mouth—that he’d missed the fun last night.
Fun? Oh yes. How did he know? He’d had a call that morning—James, not Lloyd, which was a bit weird, but anyway—only to be told that the lads had got tooled up and laid into Foxy Kittenz last night.
Bastards. Did it all without him. James and Lloyd—they got to see the cam girls, they got to rough people up, not him.
What’s more, the raid on the Russkis’ unit could potentially land him in a lot of trouble. The Russkis were going to think he had something to do with it. They might even think he was involved.
He’d been at home all night, having a curry and shagging Jane, who would back him up on it. If he saw the Russkis again he’d tell them that. Style it out. They were a bunch of clueless muppets anyway.
Johnson got down the stairs and exited the block, only to see some bloke leaning against his bimmer.
His immediate reaction was angry indignation. He was about to start forward and begin his day by administering a beating when he got a better look at the guy. He wore a turtleneck sweater underneath a long dark woolen coat, and he held something in his lap, a piece of fabric. Johnson didn’t recognize him but knew instantly that he was one of the Russkis.
Next he became aware of two more men, and swiveled to see them as they emerged from where they’d been standing, on the other side of the entranceway.
They were dressed similarly to their mate. Like sharks they moved in on their prey, boxing him in.