JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. His books have sold in excess of 300 million copies worldwide and he has been the most borrowed author in UK libraries for the past nine years in a row. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers.
James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young readers including the Middle School, I Funny, Treasure Hunters, House of Robots, Confessions and Maximum Ride series. James is the proud sponsor of the World Book Day Award and has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.
STORIES AT THE SPEED OF LIFE
What you are holding in your hands right now is no ordinary book, it’s a BookShot.
BookShots are page-turning stories by James Patterson and other writers that can be read in one sitting.
Each and every one is fast-paced, 100% story-driven; a shot of pure entertainment guaranteed to satisfy.
Available as new, compact paperbacks, ebooks and audio, everywhere books are sold.
BookShots – the ultimate form of storytelling. From the ultimate storyteller.
When former SAS captain David Shelley goes looking for an old comrade who has taken to a life on the streets, he finds that his friend is dead. An MI5 agent contacts Shelley and arranges a meeting. All the signs point to murder, and the agent believes this is part of something much bigger.
The only way Shelley can discover the truth is to put himself on the streets, and into the same danger that got his friend killed.
ALEX CROSS NOVELS
Along Came a Spider
Kiss the Girls
Jack and Jill
Cat and Mouse
Pop Goes the Weasel
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Four Blind Mice
The Big Bad Wolf
London Bridges
Mary, Mary
Cross
Double Cross
Cross Country
Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo)
I, Alex Cross
Cross Fire
Kill Alex Cross
Merry Christmas, Alex Cross
Alex Cross, Run
Cross My Heart
Hope to Die
Cross Justice
THE WOMEN’S MURDER CLUB SERIES
1st to Die
2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)
3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross)
4th of July (with Maxine Paetro)
The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro)
The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro)
7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro)
8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro)
9th Judgement (with Maxine Paetro)
10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro)
11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro)
12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro)
Unlucky 13 (with Maxine Paetro)
14th Deadly Sin (with Maxine Paetro)
15th Affair (with Maxine Paetro)
DETECTIVE MICHAEL BENNETT SERIES
Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge)
Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge)
Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge)
Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge)
I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge)
Gone (with Michael Ledwidge)
Burn (with Michael Ledwidge)
Alert (with Michael Ledwidge)
PRIVATE NOVELS
Private (with Maxine Paetro)
Private London (with Mark Pearson)
Private Games (with Mark Sullivan)
Private: No. 1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)
Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan)
Private Down Under (with Michael White)
Private L.A. (with Mark Sullivan)
Private India (with Ashwin Sanghi)
Private Vegas (with Maxine Paetro)
Private Sydney (with Kathryn Fox)
Private Paris (with Mark Sullivan)
NYPD RED SERIES
NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp)
NYPD Red 2 (with Marshall Karp)
NYPD Red 3 (with Marshall Karp)
NYPD Red 4 (with Marshall Karp)
STAND-ALONE THRILLERS
Sail (with Howard Roughan)
Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro)
Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan)
Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund)
Toys (with Neil McMahon)
Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge)
Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp)
Guilty Wives (with David Ellis)
Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge)
Second Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan)
Mistress (with David Ellis)
Invisible (with David Ellis)
The Thomas Berryman Number
Truth or Die (with Howard Roughan)
Murder House (with David Ellis)
NON-FICTION
Torn Apart (with Hal and Cory Friedman)
The Murder of King Tut (with
Martin Dugard)
ROMANCE
Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo)
First Love (with Emily Raymond)
OTHER TITLES
Miracle at Augusta (with Peter de Jonge)
TWO MEN TROD carefully through the trees in search of their prey. Bluebells and wild garlic were underfoot, beech and Douglas firs on all sides, tendrils of early morning fog still clinging to the damp slopes. Somewhere in this wood was the quarry.
The man in front, feeling brave, thanks to the morning sherry, his bolt-action Purdey and the security man covering his back, was Lord Oakleigh. A QC of impeccable education, with an impressive listing in Debrett’s and his peer’s robes tailored by Ede & Ravenscroft, Oakleigh had long ago decided that these accomplishments paled in comparison to the way he felt now – this particular mix of adrenalin and fear, this feeling of being so close to death.
This, he had decided, was life. And he was going to live it.
The car had collected him at 4 a.m. He’d taken the eye mask he was given, relaxed in the back of the Bentley and used the opportunity for sleep. In a couple of hours he arrived at the estate. He recognised some of his fellow hunters, but not all – there were a couple of Americans and a Japanese gentleman he’d never seen before. Nods were exchanged. Curtis and Boyd of The Quarry Co. made brief introductions. All weapons were checked to ensure they were smart-modified, then they were networked and synced to a central hub.
The tweed-wearing English contingent watched, bemused, as the Japanese gentleman’s valet helped him into what looked like tailored disruptive-pattern clothing. Meanwhile the shoot security admired the TrackingPoint precision-guided rifle he carried. Like women fussing over a new baby, they all wanted a hold.
As hunt time approached, the players fell silent. Technicians wearing headphones unloaded observation drones from an operations van. Sherry on silver platters was brought round by blank-faced men in tails. Curtis and Boyd toasted the hunters and, in his absence, the quarry. Lastly, players were assigned their security – Oakleigh was given Alan, his regular man – before a distant report indicated that the hunt had begun and the players moved off along the lawns to the treeline, bristling with weaponry and quivering with expectation.
Now deep in the wood, Oakleigh heard the distant chug of Land Rover engines and quad bikes drift in on a light breeze. From overhead came the occasional buzz of a drone, but otherwise it was mostly silent, even more so the further into the wood they ventured and the more dense it became. It was just the way he liked it. Just him and his prey.
‘Ahead, sir,’ came Alan’s voice, urgent enough that Oakleigh dropped to one knee and brought the Purdey to his shoulder in one slightly panicked movement. The wood loomed large in his cross hairs, the undergrowth keeping secrets.
‘Nothing visible,’ he called back over his shoulder, then cleared his throat and tried again, this time with less shaking in his voice. ‘Nothing up ahead.’
‘Just hold it there a moment or so, sir, if you would,’ replied Alan, and Oakleigh heard him drop his assault rifle to its strap and reach for his walkie-talkie. ‘This is red team. Request status report . . .’
‘Anything, Alan?’ Oakleigh asked over his shoulder.
‘No, sir. No visuals from the drones. None of the players report any activity.’
‘Then our boy is still hiding.’
‘It would seem that way, sir.’
‘Why is he not trying to make his way to the perimeter? That’s what they usually do.’
‘The first rule of combat is to do the opposite of what the enemy expects, sir.’
‘But this isn’t combat. This is a hunt.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And it isn’t much of a hunt if the quarry’s hiding, is it?’ Oakleigh heard the note of indignation in his voice and knew it sounded less like genuine outrage and more like fear, so he put his eye back to the scope and swept the rifle barrel from left to right, trying to keep a lid on his nerves. He wanted a challenge. But he didn’t want to die.
Don’t be stupid. You’re not going to die.
But then came the crackle of distant gunfire, quickly followed by a squall of static.
‘Quarry spotted. Repeat: quarry spotted.’
Oakleigh’s heart jackhammered and he found himself in two minds. On the one hand, he wanted to be in the thick of the action. Last night he’d even entertained thoughts of being the winning player, imagining the admiration of his fellow hunters, ripples that would extend outwards to London and the corridors of power, the private members’ clubs of the Strand and chambers of the House.
On the other hand, now that the quarry had shown himself capable of evading the hunters and drones for so long, he felt differently.
From behind came a rustling sound and then a thump. Alan made a gurgling sound.
Oakleigh realised too late that something was wrong and wheeled around, fumbling with the rifle.
A shot rang out and Alan’s walkie-talkie squawked.
‘Red team, report. Repeat: red team, report.’
COOKIE HAD BEEN hiding in the lower branches of a beech. From the tree he’d torn a decent-sized stick, not snapping it, but twisting so it came away with a jagged end. Not exactly sharp. But not blunt, either. It was better than nothing.
He’d watched the player and his bodyguard below, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Forget the nervous old guy. He had a beautiful Purdey, but he was shaking like a shitting dog. The bodyguard was dangerous, but the moment Cookie saw him drop his rifle to its strap, he knew the guy was dead meat.
Sure enough, the guard never knew what hit him. Neither of the hunters had bothered looking up, supreme predators that they were, and Cookie dropped silently behind Alan, bare feet on the cool woodland floor. As his left arm encircled Alan’s neck, his elbow angled so that his target’s carotid artery was fat, his right arm plunged the stick into the exposed flesh.
But the years of drugs and booze and sleeping rough had taken their toll, and even as he let Alan slide to the ground to bleed out in seconds, the old guy was spinning round and levelling his hunting rifle. And where once Cookie’s reactions had been as fast as his brain, now the two were out of alignment.
Oakleigh pulled the trigger. Cookie had already seen that he was left-handed and knew how the weapon would pull, and so he twisted in the opposite direction. But even so, he was too slow.
He heard tree bark crack and saw splinters fly a microsecond after he heard the shot. A second later, pain flared along his side and he felt blood pool in the waistband of his jeans.
The stick was still in his hand, so he stepped forward and rammed it into the old guy’s throat, cursing him for a coward, as Oakleigh folded to the ground with the stick protruding from his neck.
‘Red team, report. Red team, report,’ wailed the walkie-talkie. But even though Cookie knew others would be arriving soon, he needed a moment to compose himself, so he leaned against a tree, pressing his palm to the spot where the bullet had grazed him. He pulled up his sweater to inspect the wound. It looked bad, but he knew from painful experience it was nothing to worry about. Blood loss and the fact that he’d be easier to track were the worst of it.
He took stock. The old guy was still twitching. Alan was dead. Cookie reached for the security guard’s assault rifle, but when he inspected the grip, he found it inset with some kind of sensor. His heart sank as he tried to operate the safety and found it unresponsive, knowing what the sensor meant: smart-technology. Linked to the user’s palm print. And if his guess was correct . . .
Fuck! The old guy’s Purdey was equipped with the same. He tossed it away. From Alan he took a hunting knife. The old guy had a sidearm, also smart-protected and also useless.
The hunting knife would have to do. But now it was time to find out if these Quarry Co. guys were going to fulfil their part of the bargain. He put a hand to his side and started running. Leaves stung his eyes. Twigs lashed him. He stumbled over roots bubbling on the ground and reached to push branches aside as he hurtled forward in search of sanctuary.
From behind came the crash of gunfire. Overhead the sound of the drones intensified. They’d spotted him now. The time for stealth was over. He just had to hope he’d given them enough to think about in the meantime, and that the two casualties would slow them down.
Teeth bared, hatred in his bones, he kept running. The trees were thinning. Ahead of him was a peat-covered slope and he hit it fast. Scrambling to the top, he was painfully aware that he’d made himself a visible target, but he was close now. Close to the perimeter.
‘If you reach the road you win. The money’s yours.’
‘No matter who I have to kill along the way?’
‘Our players expect danger, Mr Cook. What is the roulette wheel without the risk of losing?’
He’d believed them and, fuck it, why not?
And there it was – the road. It bisected a further stretch of woodland, but this was definitely it. An observation drone buzzed a few feet above him. To his left he heard the sound of approaching engines and saw a Land Rover Defender leaning into the bend, approaching fast. Two men in the front.
They didn’t look like they were about to celebrate his victory. He tensed. At his rear the noise of the approaching hunting party was getting louder.
The Defender roared up to his position, passenger door flapping as it drew to a halt. A security guy wielding the same Heckler & Koch assault rifle carried by Alan stepped out and took up position behind the door.
‘Where’s my money?’ called Cookie, with a glance back down into the basin of the wood. He could see the blurry outlines of players and their security among the trees, the crackle of comms. ‘You said if I reached the road I win,’ he pressed.
Ignoring him, the passenger had braced his rifle on the sill of his window and was speaking into a walkie-talkie, saying something Cookie couldn’t hear. Receiving orders.
‘Come on, you bastards. I reached the fucking road, now where’s my money?’
The passenger had finished on the walkie-talkie, and Cookie had been shot at enough times to know the signs of it happening again. There was no prize money. No winning. No survival. There were just hunters and prey. Just an old fool and a man about to gun him down.
The passenger squeezed off bullets that zinged over Cookie’s head as he tucked in and let himself roll back to the bottom of the slope.
I can do this, he thought. He’d fought in Afghanistan. He’d fought with the best, against the best. He could go up against a bunch of rich geriatric thrill-seekers and come out on top – security or no security. Yes. He was going to get out of this and then he was going to make the fuckers pay.
He could do it. Who dares wins.
Then a bullet ripped the top of Cookie’s head off – a bullet fired from a TrackingPoint precision-guided bolt-action rifle.
‘Oh, good shot, Mr Miyake,’ said the players as they emerged from the undergrowth in order to survey the kill.