Break Point: BookShots by James Patterson Page A

enough to do the job, and stealthy enough that he could fold it away and carry it without being noticed. Perfect. An old guy with an impressive grey moustache had been only too happy to remove and box the display model, asking no questions and avoiding all eye contact. His gaze lingered for a moment on the man’s bruised neck, before he dropped the goods into a brown paper bag, which the man tucked under his arm before paying cash and leaving the shop.
    Back in his room in the Woodbridge, he unwrapped the box and took the knife in his hand, feeling the weight of it. He liked it almost as much as his old one, which he had lost when the bodyguard had smashed it from his hand inside the tennis club. That had been a close call. And yet he had survived it and here he was, so close to completing the job. He looked at himself in the dull mirror that had been screwed to the wall for at least twenty years. He held the black knife up in front of his face, so that his cold eyes were scowling back at him from either side of the blade.
    Until yesterday the mirror had been decorated by the silver chain that he had stolen from Maria Rosario’s neck after he killed her, and he had smiled every time he looked at it, because he had imagined the look of terror he would see in Keller’s face when he put the chain in her hands. Reality had not disappointed.
    He had expected to feel guilty about Rosario. In all honesty, she was not to blame for what had happened, but in the end he had not found it hard to kill her. It was all part of the plan. And tomorrow he would do the job for which he had been preparing for the past twelve months.
    He looked at the blade again and ran the tip of his finger across the gleaming edge. He thought about his brother. Remembered how they played together as kids. Remembered his father telling him that nothing in life mattered more than looking out for his kid brother. Remembered watching as the sheriff’s department cut Jake down from the motel ceiling, when they found him blue and lifeless. Remembered Kirsten Keller smiling on the TV in the motel room as she won Wimbledon. The last thing Jake ever saw. She hadn’t even bothered to come home for the funeral.
    The man smiled as he realised the blade had scoured his skin, and a thin ribbon of blood was trickling down his finger and across his palm. People say revenge only hollows you out. That’s bullshit. Killing Rosario had given him a buzz, and killing Keller would be a million times better. He might not live beyond tomorrow, but that was okay. Either way, by tomorrow he would be free.

CHAPTER 24
    DESPITE ALL THE planning, when Kirsten Keller walked out onto Centre Court for the final, Foster felt on edge. The court was wide open, and she was too far from his reach. He sat two rows back from the turf, close to the chairs where Keller herself would rest between games. He knew he was getting too emotionally attached, and he knew it was a weakness. But this was the end of it. Tomorrow she’d be gone.
    He watched the crowd, searching for anything suspicious. There was nothing. He watched excited fans take their seats and adjust their sunglasses and hats, preparing for a couple of hours in the afternoon heat; people smiling as they squeezed uncomfortably close to each other as they passed in the aisles. Foster turned in his seat and made one last sweep across the crowd behind him. As he did so, his eyes settled on a guy in his late twenties coming up late through the nearest olive-green entrance. He looked cagey, his dark eyes taking in the scene carefully. Every other person who had surfaced from the sunken entrance had instantly smiled. It was a natural reaction, Foster figured, when suddenly emerging into one of the world’s most famous sporting arenas. But this guy didn’t smile. He turned towards Foster as if he could sense his stare. For a moment their eyes connected, and time froze. Then, for no apparent reason, the guy turned on his heel and headed