Revenge (David Shelley #1) - James Patterson Page 0,43
of the car, Shelley saw the same, toes removed, bloodied feet duct-taped to a breeze-block. His eyelids had been taken, his ears, nose, and lips too.
Further down, his T-shirt had been sliced open. A blood-encrusted torso was crisscrossed with knife cuts. In places entire sections of flesh had been removed, exposing muscle and fat beneath, like a grotesque parody of a medical illustration.
As a final indignity, his Para tattoo had been peeled off. The Chechens had stapled it to his forehead.
“Upside down,” growled Gurney as they all stood there, eyes ranging over the torn body of Johnson. “They did it upside down.”
“All right,” said Bennett. “This means we’re under attack.” He reached for Drake. “Sir, we’d better get you in—”
But then came another sound. More engines. And they looked up to see a set of vehicles enter the approach road at the far end. Each man tensed, ready to make a run for it, back into the house, Shelley already thinking of the SIG Sauer that he kept hidden in the Saab and wondering if he could reach it in time, when he realized that the new arrivals were police vehicles.
“Oh Jesus,” said Shelley. “Oh Jesus, I know what they’re doing. Guy,” he said to Drake. “Where was Susie going today?”
There were three cop vehicles, two vans and a car. One of the vans had screeched to a halt, blocking the road at the far end. Shelley saw the words “Armed Response Unit.”
The cops inside must have spotted them and seen the crashed car. On went the lights. A siren howled.
“What?” said Guy.
“Where’s she going?” repeated Shelley, pulling out his phone.
“I don’t know. A spa,” said Drake, spiky, as if he couldn’t believe Shelley needed to know shit like that at a time like this.
“Fuck’s sake, don’t you see? They’ll be going after her. Which spa?”
Drake’s face dropped. “I don’t know!” he wailed. “Some spa . . .”
Speed-dialing Lucy. Turning to make his way back through the pedestrian gate. Trying to buy himself time. “Where, for fuck’s sake?” he called back over his shoulder. “Which spa?”
“I don’t know . . . someplace in Hampstead. She always goes. Bennett, you were there—what spa did she say?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t remember.”
“Jesus,” said Shelley. “Think, Guy, think.”
Cop cars approaching as Lucy picked up, saying, “Hello, sweetheart, is everything all right?”
“Listen fast,” said Shelley. “You’ve got to get to a Hampstead spa. Don’t know the name.” He threw a look at Drake just in case inspiration had struck, but no. “I’m sorry, Luce, you’ll just have to find it yourself.”
“Roger that. What’s the situation?” said Lucy. And God bless her, God bless Lucy for being alert and on it.
“Before a bunch of Russians do. Chechens, to be precise. The bleedin’ Chechen Mafia.”
Behind him the police cars had screeched to a halt. Armed cops burst out. He heard commands: “Freeze! Hands on your heads!” and then to him, “You with the phone! Drop the phone! Drop it now! Put your hands on your head!”
“Jesus, Shelley,” said Lucy on the other end of the line, “what’s going on?”
OKAY, THOUGHT LUCY. A spa in Hampstead. She was driving and web-searching at the same time, snarled up in enough London traffic to do the two things simultaneously. Spa in Hampstead, spa in Hampstead . . . She didn’t like the look of the first one produced by the search, decided to leave it to last.
Where, though? Where?
“Right,” she said to herself, “imagine that you’re the fabulously wealthy and gorgeous wife of a millionaire. But you’re a down-to-earth, feet-on-the-ground type. Where do you go?”
They had them in the basements of hotels, didn’t they? But Lucy knew that Susie had stayed overnight at the Connaught and she wasn’t using whatever facilities they had there; she’d chosen Hampstead. So the chances were that it was a favorite haunt. Somewhere she’d been going for years.
Not this one, then—“Newly opened.” Which left just two more that Lucy considered possibilities. “Right,” she said, “we’ll try this one first.”
A short drive later and she was walking into number one on her list. “Hello, can you tell me if you have a customer by the name of Susie Drake here today?” she asked the over-tanned, perfectly primped, flawlessly made-up girl behind the counter.
“Um . . .” started the girl. She’d opened a book and put one exquisitely manicured fingernail to the page before she had second thoughts. “We don’t usually