Cover

About the Book

One point away from winning the French Open, tennis star Kirsten Keller breaks down and flees the court in tears.

Keller has been receiving death threats. Terrified and desperate, she hires former Metropolitan Police officer Chris Foster to protect her at Wimbledon.

As the championship progresses, Keller’s tormentor gets ever closer. And the threats become horrifyingly real.

About the Author

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.

Title Page

PROLOGUE

THE MOSQUITO’S WINGS beat six hundred times per second as it slowly laboured across the hot clay. Accordingly, a ripple of tiny vibrations pulsed out through the thick afternoon air, buzzing and whining over the silent crowd. They had stopped shuffling. Stopped fanning themselves with newspapers and adjusting their oversized sunglasses. Stopped breathing, almost.

Because this was the moment of truth.

The afternoon sun beat down on Roland Garros Stadium and from the back row the two players were a mirage, blurred and swaying in the summer heat. They looked like old-fashioned gunslingers as they faced each other on the dirt.

The last two standing.

Kirsten Keller was twenty-three years old, and seconds away from becoming French Open Champion.

At the far end of the court, Marta Basilia was on the ropes. The world number one was a gnarly oak from Georgian farming stock. The old guard. They used to say she was unbeatable. These days, not so much. Plenty of pundits said she was heading for the inevitable downward slope that would only end when she became a pundit herself.

Meanwhile, Keller was an all-American superwoman. Young, supple, graceful and impossibly fast. The new breed. Basilia hated everything about her, from the blonde hair to the perfect bronzed skin, and the doe-eyed post-match interviews, and the impossible topspin she could whip through her forehand, and the squeals and grunts she exploded into every damn shot. And now she was winning. More and more. Audacious bitch.

The court clocks showed a gruelling two hours and seven minutes; neon-yellow measuring every minute of pain. Neither woman had given an inch. They were slick with sweat and blowing hard, but their steely eyes stayed cold. A lifetime of commitment weighed heavily on their backs. Their fans expected. So did their families. And their nations. And every losing gambler with a Twitter account and a nasty streak was lurking, just waiting to slay them if they lost.

Don’t back down now.

The mosquito reached the far side of the court and came to rest on a fat man in the front row. The high-pitched hum stopped. The fat man forgot where he was and slapped hard at the insect, yelping as his hand connected with his own skin. A mushroom puff of nervous laughter bloomed across the crowd.

The umpire leaned forward in his chair and said, ‘S’il vous plaît, messieurs-dames.’

The crowd settled, their eyes drawing back to the court and resting on Kirsten Keller’s clinging white vest, slick tanned thighs and the bead of sweat rolling down the bridge of her nose. She bounced the ball twice just inside the chipped and smudged chalk line and blew out, long and hard, until she felt as calm as she could.

One more shot. Then it’s all over.

She rocked back on her heels, a movement that began an unstoppable sequence. Muscle memory based on years of repeating the same complex series of movements she had practised since she was three years old.

She bent her knees, her right elbow heading backwards like an archer. Her left hand rose in one fluid movement, fingers stretching upwards as she released the ball towards the sky, simultaneously propelling her body forward so that her momentum would drive through the ball like a piston head. Her wrist twisted at the last millisecond to spin the ball and force it high past Basilia’s outstretched racket, to thump hard on the cushioned tarpaulin at the far end of the court.

Except she never got that far, because as the ball left her hand a photographer clicked his camera and the noise of the shutter snapped across the silent court like a machine gun. Keller screamed. Not her usual ecstatic squeal, but a terrified primal noise that rang out around the stadium. She dropped her racket as if it were electrified and flung herself to the ground.

And then nobody did anything. The crowd stayed silent, with no idea how to react. Basilia eyed Keller suspiciously, wondering if this was some weird new mind-game. But it wasn’t. After what seemed like for ever, Kirsten Keller got to her feet. She was covered in red dust from the court. Her eyes scanned the crowd wildly, she was gulping for air and she burst into tears. Then she put her head in her hands and ran from the court, disappearing into the locker rooms and never coming back.

CHAPTER 1

THE PINK EARLY-MORNING sky stretched out impatiently over London, testing the horizon, looking for weak spots. Chris Foster watched it from his office window. He had developed a reputation for being the best in the business, which made him a man in demand. Quiet moments like this were rare, so he let himself enjoy the calm. He watched the city pulling at the edges of the pastel clouds, and waited to see what the new day would bring.

Foster was sitting in a Knightsbridge office building that housed a bunch of high-end services: legal, medical, and his own offering of investigation and protection. It was the same job he used to do for the Metropolitan Police, only the pay was a million times better and so far he hadn’t been shot or stabbed, or worse.

He sat behind an uncluttered glass-topped desk wearing an expensive charcoal suit and a fresh white shirt. No tie. Two buttons open at the neck. Same as every other day. Twenty-four hours of stubble, courtesy of a late job watching the back of an Indian steel magnate; but he wore good cologne and his dark-brown hair was cut short and tidy.

His assistant, Danny, walked through his open door with coffee and the morning papers. The three clocks on the wall between them ticked a little too loudly, chasing different time zones around the world.

The phone rang in the outer office and Danny headed back and picked it up by the third ring. The assistant’s young face was unreadable and Foster smiled; he’d learned well, for when Danny had started he’d been too emotional and reactive. Now he took everything in his stride.

Without a word to the caller, Danny looked up at Foster. ‘Tom Abbot?’

Foster instantly leaned forward. He hadn’t heard that name for over three years, but it was a welcome surprise. Tom Abbot had always been a good man, and an even better officer. ‘Yeah, Danny. Put him through.’

Foster tucked the receiver under his chin and turned his back on the seductive morning sky. Three years ago the two men had sat next to each other in a Metropolitan Police office with no windows and no sky. He almost felt embarrassed by his view these days.

‘Abbot,’ Foster said.

‘Alright, Sarge?’

‘There’s definitely no need to call me Sarge,’ Foster said. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘That’s unless I need to pull rank at any point in the future, in which case you’ll do as you’re told.’

They both laughed, because it was an honest joke.

‘How’s your arm?’ Abbot asked.

‘Still attached.’

Under the tailored fit of Foster’s suit, vicious scars traced the lines that the surgeons had cut in order to attach titanium plates to his radius and ulna, and his humerus and clavicle; which was lot of words for a lot of pain and the end of his police career. It was the end of something much more, too. It was the end of Elaina.

‘I heard you left the Met,’ Foster said, letting the unwelcome memories dissipate. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘I’m at the Paris embassy,’ Abbot said. ‘There’s a girl who’s been here for a few days. She’s a tennis player.’ Abbot paused. Inside the office the clocks ticked and Foster’s eyes moved back to the window. Outside the pink-and-orange sky was turning a watery blue. ‘Her name’s Kirsten Keller.’

Foster, like 90 per cent of the world’s population, recognised the name at once. ‘The American? What’s she doing at the British Embassy?’

‘Using the facilities.’

‘Using the facilities?’ Foster asked. ‘You make it sound like she’s been taking the world’s longest bathroom break.’

Abbot laughed. ‘We’ve got a grass tennis court on the back lawn.’

‘Of course you have,’ Foster smiled.

‘It’s the only one in Paris,’ Abbot continued. ‘She’s been training ahead of Wimbledon.’

On the line, Foster could hear the clicking of heels on a marble floor. High ceilings, by the sound of the echo. Abbot was on the move.

‘We’re hosting her as a favour to the US Ambassador,’ Abbot said. ‘She had a strange turn at the end of the French Open, and the press have been on her back ever since.’

‘Okay,’ Foster said.

‘That’s not the whole story, though.’

Of course it wasn’t. Foster knew there were plenty of protection officers in Paris who could keep the press off Keller’s back. There was something more, or else Abbot wouldn’t be on the phone to him.

‘Will you meet her?’ Abbot said.

Kirsten Keller was Foster’s usual type of client: professional, high-profile, rich. He glanced at his diary. His steel magnate was back on a plane to Mumbai and there was nothing that couldn’t be moved. Besides, he was intrigued to know what Abbot was holding back.

‘Sure, I’ll meet her.’

‘Can you come here? She’s mid-training.’

‘Sure,’ Foster said. ‘I’d like to see your tennis court.’

Tom Abbot laughed and then the line went dead.

CHAPTER 2

FOSTER TOOK THE Eurostar from St Pancras and arrived at the embassy just before midday. It was a grand sandstone building with polished brass signs and wrought-iron balustrades. Inside, a middle-aged woman in a security uniform eyed him suspiciously as he placed his passport, phone and wallet into a plastic box. The woman ran the box through an X-ray machine and handed it back to Foster, just as Tom Abbot arrived down a curved marble staircase.

‘You’ve landed on your feet,’ Foster said, looking around at the marble floors and the high ceilings. His gaze came to rest on Tom Abbot. He looked the same, but different. Longer hair, smarter suit, but his smile and slightly hunched frame were unchanged.

‘You came. Thank you.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ Foster replied as they walked further into the building. At a panelled wooden door marked ‘Private’, Abbot paused and nodded.

‘It should be pretty straightforward.’

Foster doubted that.

Inside the room two women sat behind a highly polished antique mahogany table. The curtains were drawn against large windows, and a bottle of water sat untouched between them.

Foster recognised Kirsten Keller straight away. She looked smaller sitting down, but as she rose in greeting he realised that her height was all from her legs. She wore a smart black tracksuit, and without make-up she looked young and vulnerable.

Next to Kirsten was a dark-haired woman who barely met Foster’s eyes and didn’t shift an inch from her chair. She was dressed in training gear, too, but Foster knew from his research that her playing days were behind her. Her years of training had toughened her body, and she had compensated for this with polished nails and a delicate silver chain, which fell just below the hollow of her neck.

‘This is Kirsten and her coach Maria Rosario,’ Abbot explained as he quietly shut the door behind them and indicated to a seat. ‘Chris was my boss in London,’ he told the women. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

‘Does he?’ Rosario asked. ‘He hasn’t done anything yet.’

Foster turned to get a better view of her. She wore her straight dark hair loose and consequently it fell over fiery dark-brown eyes. Every few seconds she brushed the hair back with her fingers, and Foster wondered why she didn’t just tie it back.

‘You haven’t asked me to do anything yet,’ Foster replied. Their eyes locked for a moment, neither of them aggressive and neither friendly. Just two confident people evaluating each other.

Foster wasn’t a huge tennis fan, but he knew Maria Rosario had been a decent player until her late twenties. Never a champion, but always a contender. And now she was coaching the hottest talent on the tour. Although at that moment it didn’t seem to be making her very happy.

Abbot sat down next to Maria. ‘With respect, Maria, Chris has protected Prince Harry and the British Prime Minister in the past. You don’t need to worry about his credentials.’

Keller looked at Foster while Abbot was talking.

‘He saved King Abdullah from an assassination attempt last year,’ Abbot continued, and Foster held up a hand.

‘Look, I’m not a salesman. People come to me because they need me. If you don’t think you need me, that’s fine.’

‘I think we need you,’ Kirsten Keller said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was soft but held an air of uncompromising authority. It was a trait Foster always noticed in people who had found success early. ‘I haven’t slept for days.’

Foster studied her face. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and faint blue shadows were smudged below them. In that moment she looked terrified.

He had watched Keller’s career highlights via YouTube on the Eurostar train. She was impressive. Her explosive power made her look untouchable on the court. Not like the woman sitting in front of him today. She bent down and reached into an expensive-looking clutch bag, pulling out a folded sheet of white paper.

‘This is why I need your help,’ she said, her hands shaking as she put it on the table between them.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

He was less than careful with the paper, making a point of creasing it slightly as he handled it. All designed to say to Keller, It’s just a piece of paper.

The page contained a small, neatly typed message: Good luck in the final. I’m coming. There was also a loose memory stick along with it. It had been attached to the note and there was a tear where Keller had pulled it off. Next to that, a lock of hair was crudely taped onto the paper.

‘What’s on the memory stick?’ Foster asked.

‘A video of my parents’ house,’ Keller said.

Foster studied the words. Not much to go on.

‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’ Keller said quietly.

Foster looked at her and smiled softly. ‘I promise I’ve seen a lot worst. Do you think they were in the grounds when they recorded the video?’

Keller looked surprised by the question, then thought about it. ‘No, I think they were filming from the street. But you can see my mom in the window.’

Foster nodded. ‘And the hair?’

‘My dog,’ she said. ‘The police tested it and it’s definitely dog hair. There’s no way I could bring a dog out on the tour, so Benji lives back home with my parents. Someone took a chunk out of his fur back in the States and then brought it over here with them. We found a patch cut out of his coat, when we checked.’

Foster glanced at Abbot. ‘Have you watched the tape?’

Abbot nodded. ‘There’s nothing there, though, Chris. Half a shadow across a windscreen, but I couldn’t even tell you if it was a man or a woman.’

‘Okay,’ Foster said. ‘And there’s been nothing else?’

Keller shook her head slowly. Foster guessed her life was pretty routine: a series of arrivals lounges, hotel rooms, training days, match days and then departure lounges, before the whole process started again in a brand-new city. Same meals. Same staff. Same old, same old. If there had been anything unusual, he believed she would remember.

‘Did all of this come through the post?’

Keller shook her head.

‘It appeared in my kit bag. Like magic.’

‘Like magic?’

‘During my first-round match at the French Open. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t in my bag when I went out to play, but it was there when I got home. That’s what scares the shit out of me. Whoever did this must have been able to get access to restricted areas.’

Foster nodded. ‘I can’t think of many places that are truly private, in this day and age.’

Keller’s coach snorted. ‘We’ve been here thirty minutes,’ she said suddenly. ‘You don’t take a single note. You write down nothing. Not very professional, I think.’

Foster kept his eyes on Kirsten. ‘I don’t need to write things down. I notice things, and remember them. It’s my job.’

Rosario snorted again.

‘You bit your nail when the rest of us were looking at Kirsten’s letter,’ Foster said. ‘You snapped the acrylic right off, by mistake. You thought nobody noticed and you slipped it into the left pocket of your tracksuit. It’s there right now.’

On instinct, Tom Abbot and Kirsten Keller glanced at Rosario’s fingers. A flicker of embarrassment played across her eyes for half a second, but then she shrugged and said nothing.

‘You also thought I didn’t notice you texting a taxi firm under the table three minutes ago, because you think this meeting is almost over. But before you go, let me give you some advice. If you ever meet a close-protection officer who needs to write things down, for God’s sake don’t hire him.’

Abbot suppressed a smile.

‘It’s a good trick,’ Rosario said coldly.

Foster’s face was impassive.

‘Which bit?’

Rosario shrugged, gathering up her things.

‘The eyes under the table.’

‘I learned it at sniper school,’ Foster said. ‘Back in the day.’

‘What else did you notice while you were spying on me?’

Foster smiled. ‘Surely you don’t want me to say in front of everybody else?’

He held Rosario’s angry gaze. After a few uncomfortable seconds she swore and then pushed up from the table. Keller stood up, too, and put a restraining hand on her coach’s arm.

‘This is not helpful,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you wait downstairs?’

Without another word, Rosario walked to the door, opened it and slammed it shut behind her.

‘You said you don’t do a hard sell,’ Keller said. ‘And I’m glad. But tell me what you think? Should I be worried?’

‘If you’re worried, you’re worried. That’s neither right nor wrong. But is there a credible threat? My gut says no. People who genuinely want to kill you usually get on with it. They don’t send notes. If someone wants you dead, they sneak up on you instead of giving you a heads-up.’

‘I guess,’ Keller said.

‘I know,’ Foster said. ‘But Tom will give you my number. You can call me day or night.’

‘So maybe I’ll see you soon,’ she said.

‘Maybe you will.’

CHAPTER 3

TWO DAYS LATER, Chris Foster was lying face-down in a small white room, pain etched across his face. His jaw clenched as the woman in the nurse’s uniform pulled at his arm, twisting and manipulating his bones and muscles.

‘You’re supposed to be a tough guy,’ she said.

Foster smiled and grunted all at once. It was true that in the force he had gained a reputation for toughness, but this five-foot-nothing woman in her white cotton top and combats had a medical file that told her exactly where to hurt him.

‘Seriously, is it too much?’

Her voice was gentle, girlish almost, and her fingers felt soft and cool on his skin.

‘It’s fine,’ he told her.

‘It’ll be worth it tomorrow.’

He gritted his teeth. Eventually her soft fingers found an area worthy of investigation, and she firmed her fingers up and pushed blistering heat into him, like twisting a knife between his bones.

In the three years she had been treating him, Foster had noticed it was rare for her to ask him about the pain. He presumed it was to preserve his dignity.

They were almost done when Foster’s phone rang in his jacket pocket.

‘Take it, if you need to,’ the nurse said, and she slipped her hand inside his jacket and passed the phone to him.

‘Thanks,’ Foster said, looking at an unfamiliar international number on the screen.

‘Hello?’

Foster heard Kirsten Keller’s voice on the other end of the line. He made an apologetic gesture to the physio and said, ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve had another letter,’ she said. ‘It arrived in the post today.’

Foster could hear traffic noises in the background.

‘Why are you outside? Are you on your own?’

Keller paused. Paris rumbled on behind her.

‘Tom Abbot is with me,’ she said eventually, as if she’d made up her mind to trust him. ‘I wanted some privacy for us to talk. My coach thinks you’re a bad idea. She thinks we should ignore the threats and concentrate on my game.’

‘Easy for her to say.’

‘Exactly. Another video came, too.’

‘On a memory stick?’

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