Revenge (David Shelley #1) - James Patterson Page 0,79

and in the next instant they were plunged into near darkness as his first two shots took out the Cherokee’s headlights. Using the sudden darkness and Karen’s gunfire as cover, he manhandled Susie to the side of the road, away from the bullets.

Karen was screaming—“Fuck you!”—and blasting indiscriminately. The Chechens were trying to return fire but still worried about hitting each other, trying not to get killed in the process.

And then, as Shelley and Susie reached the edge of the road, Karen’s mag emptied and she was firing dry.

A flashlight came on, highlighting Karen, who knelt with most of her face gone, snarling and pulling the trigger uselessly. Regrouping, the Chechens picked her out, pouring rounds into her.

Karen knelt in a mist of blood, her jerking body held upright by the bullets that tore into her, until at last she fell.

CHAPTER 63

SHELLEY AND SUSIE dashed into the car park of the burned-out Foxy Kittenz, using the blackened shell of the building as cover and heading toward the rear, past the charcoal-colored brickwork to a walkway with the river ahead of them.

For a second Shelley dithered over which direction to take. They’d expect him to make for the car. Sorry, Lucy. Her beloved Mini was going to have to be sacrificed. “This way,” he whispered harshly, pulling Susie in the opposite direction.

As they set off, he thought about the options open to the enemy. The Cherokee was no good to them, not without headlights. Unless they fancied piling into Lucy’s Mini, their only transportation was the black Transit. Plus they were in disarray. With no transport of his own, he had to hope that would be enough.

“When was the last time you did any running?” said Susie, sprinting at his side. He hadn’t done any for months. He’d taken it up after Frankie died, but it had never really been his thing and he was feeling it now. A burning in his chest. “Okay, then,” she said, “slow down, take it easy, set a steady pace, and keep to it. Come on.”

They slowed, Susie setting the pace. Then about fifty yards ahead he saw the station. Docklands Light Railway. Crossharbour. The line would take them back into town.

Moments later they’d climbed the stairs and stood getting their breath back. The platform towered over the road beneath, as though on a steel gantry, and Shelley peered through rain-streaked Perspex to keep an eye out for a vehicle below.

According to an information display, the next train, the last of the night, was just two minutes away.

Come on, he willed it. Come on.

Then—there it was. The black Transit below, approaching the station.

At the same time so was the train. It was rounding a final bend toward the end of the straight track, slowing before it entered the station. The only other passengers on the platform, two young men in suits, moved forward to greet it.

On the road below, the Transit stopped.

“Here,” said Shelley. He beckoned Susie to stay out of sight on the other side of a passenger lift and did the same himself, peeking around the edge to check on the vehicle below. Its doors opened. Men appeared. Shelley saw Dmitry gesticulating, sending two men up the stairs to the platform, where they stood, the train just seconds away from coming to a stop.

“This way,” he said. The two of them raced up the platform to get as far away from the steps as possible. Meanwhile the train stopped at last, humming and modern, doors gliding open, automated announcements, and bright lights promising sanctuary.

They plunged inside, the sound of the Chechens pounding up the stairs ringing in their ears, and then right away crouched beneath the windows, ignoring the stares of the only two other people in the carriage.

In the reflection of a window opposite Shelley could see the Chechens on the platform. They wouldn’t board the train unless they were sure Shelley and Susie were on it, so they began to make their way along the platform, peering inside the carriages, shouting to one another in Russian.

Still crouched, Shelley threw a glance to his left and saw the two other passengers wearing puzzled expressions, their eyes going from Shelley and Susie to the approaching Chechens on the platform. He put a finger to his lips, willing them not to give away their position. In the reflection of the window, he saw one of the gangsters arrive, watched him peer inside, and then, apparently satisfied, move away down toward the end.

The doors closed.

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