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Shelley threw up his hands to protect his face as the Land Rover plowed into Boyd, then crunched into the chopper. The banker screamed in pain, crushed between the car and the helicopter. Feeling blood ooze down his forehead, Shelley emptied half a magazine into the instrumentation in the cockpit and then finished off Boyd. The screaming stopped and the rotors were slowing as Shelley rolled out of the shattered Land Rover and landed on the lawn.

  There was no time to recover. His shoulder and head shrieked with pain, but he was already under attack. A bullet slapped into the metal shell of the helicopter, and Shelley turned to see Curtis firing wildly. Using the buckled door of the Land Rover for cover, Shelley trained his sights on Curtis, about to take him down and finish the job.

  But Curtis saw the danger. He scuttled behind Lucy, using her as a shield, the pistol at her temple.

  The helicopter wound down, finally becoming silent. From the woods came the occasional rattle of gunfire and shouts of confusion. Otherwise, a curious silence had descended on the lawn.

  “Throw down your weapon, Shelley, or I’ll put a bullet in her,” commanded Curtis.

  “You’d probably miss,” Shelley said calmly. He could just make out the tiniest sliver of Curtis behind Lucy. Couldn’t risk a shot.

  “It’s all over,” called Curtis. “We’re going to make our way to a Land Rover, and if you love your wife, you won’t try to stop us.”

  Shelley didn’t blink. “Didn’t she tell you about us?” he called.

  “We haven’t had time to become acquainted,” sneered Curtis.

  “It might have been a good idea. She could have told you what she did before marrying me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the three-man team in Afghanistan. It was me, Cookie, and a third operative. Only thing is, there weren’t three men in our team. One of them was a woman.”

  It was the cue for Lucy to make her move. She sidestepped and elbowed Curtis at the same time, a move so fast it was almost blurred.

  And it gave Shelley all the time he needed.

  He fired once. Curtis grew a third eye in the center of his forehead and dropped.

  Chapter 28

  Four months later

  Tremain escaped the midday Spanish heat and came inside from the pool area, and the first thing he saw was Claire lying facedown on the floor tiles.

  She wore her bikini, and she was still breathing. In his final moments Tremain was grateful for the fact that she wasn’t dead; that the revenge wasn’t to be merciless and indiscriminate.

  Because what Tremain knew at once was that Shelley had found him.

  Sure enough, the next thing he saw was Shelley, sitting on his sofa with a suppressed pistol trained on him.

  “Shelley,” said Tremain, and Shelley shot him in the foot.

  He hit the floor hard, and the random thought that he wished he wouldn’t have to die wearing swimming trunks occurred to him.

  Shelley stood up and walked over.

  “Hello, Tremain,” he said.

  Tremain stared up at him, his mouth working, no words coming out.

  “You didn’t honestly think I’d let you get away with it, did you?” asked Shelley. He crouched. “I mean, I can accept that the Establishment managed to convince everyone that it was a terrorist attack at the estate; that the world at large believes Kenneth Farmer and Cowie and Kiehl and Curtis and Boyd all died heroes trying to stop it. And I might not even have minded that you and Claire escaped, because after all, there will always be more men like you, whose services are available to the highest bidder; and there will always be more women like Claire, who view other people as playthings for their own pleasure. What I do mind about, however, is my dog.”

  He straightened, looking down the barrel of his Glock at Tremain writhing on the blood-soaked tiles.

  “This,” he said, “this is for Frankie.”

  On the road they said their good-byes: Claridge going to his car, Lucy and Shelley going to theirs, all three satisfied that justice had been served.

  “I heard about the City of London vault robbery,” said Shelley. “Was that anything to do with you?”

  “The one in which a safe deposit box belonging to Messrs. Curtis and Boyd was stolen?” smiled Claridge. “No, nothing to do with me at all.”

  “So what happens to all that incriminating information?” asked Lucy, sparkling and beautiful in the hot sun.

  “It stays under lock and key,” said Claridge.

  “Until such time as it’s needed?” asked Shelley wryly. “Quite some insurance policy you’ve amassed there.”

  “I didn’t ask for it, Shelley,” said Claridge.

  Shelley nodded. Claridge was one of the good guys.

  Claridge had asked before they left, “What will you do now?” At the time they’d given him noncommittal answers, but now, sitting in the car, Shelley and Lucy considered their options for real.

  The plan had been to stage their own deaths. On the other side of a metal barrier was a cliff face, the sea below: Couple Killed in Deadly Crash was the plan. Bodies lost at sea.

  But on the other hand, they wanted to live their lives, restart their company, be a normal couple.

  They sat for more than two hours talking it over, until at last they reached a decision.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “Ready,” she replied.

  He threw the car into gear and floored the accelerator.

  About the Authors

  James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

  Andrew Holmes’s first novel, SLEB, was shortlisted for the 2002 W.H. Smith New Talent Award in the U.K. He lives in the English countryside with his wife and two children.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Welcome

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part Two Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part Three Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Authors

  Newsletters

  Copyright

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2016 by James Patterson

  Cover design by Kapo Ng; photograph by Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images

  Cover copyright © 2016 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The BookShots name and logo are a trademark of JBP Business, LLC.

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  ISBN: 9780316430890

  E3-2016-0727-DA-NF