Break Point: BookShots by James Patterson

filming!’ Saunders growled.
    ‘It’s my job to film sport,’ the cameraman said. ‘I don’t want any part of whatever this is.’
    His voice was thin and nervous, but he stood his ground. Saunders snapped. He leaned forward and grabbed the camera and smashed it hard into the cameraman’s face. The cameraman dropped to his knees, holding his face in his hands. The whole thing took two seconds.
    But two seconds was all Chris Foster needed.
    He saw his chance and exploded across the court towards Saunders. By the time the umpire realised what was happening, Foster had covered half of the ground between them and was still accelerating. Keller could see him coming, and as Saunders grabbed for her again, she used all the strength she had left to smash into her tormentor for the second time that afternoon, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to topple backwards.
    Police marksmen, who had been slowly edging along the gantries high above, began calling sharp instructions to each other as the situation below them suddenly changed. Saunders ignored them, his mind fixed on finishing the job. He scrambled from underneath Keller and punched her hard in the ribs, pulling her up by her hair and dragging her up the flight of concrete stairs. It was hopeless; Foster was almost on him. As Saunders reached the top of the stairs he could almost feel Foster’s breath, so he took the only option he had left. He pushed the tip of the knife into Kirsten Keller’s throat. It cut deep enough to draw blood, a gentle river pooling on the blade and then dripping slowly down onto her whites.
    Foster froze, as he knew he had to, and Saunders pulled Keller through into the players’ box. But Foster was aware of the net tightening around all of them, with the police teams repositioning and drawing slowly closer.
    ‘You know the problem with all of this?’ he told Saunders. ‘My guess is that your brother loved her. Loved the bones of her. Loved her enough to kill himself. This is not what he would want.’
    Saunders looked for a moment as if he had seen reason, and he slowly straightened up, lowered the knife and eased Keller away from him. Foster sprinted into the players’ box to grab her, but at the last second Saunders shoved her hard in the back and she toppled sideways over the edge of the balcony with the noose around her neck.
    Foster dived to grab her and stop her neck from snapping as the rope went taut. He managed to clasp her bicep with his left hand, but her weight wrenched his injured arm. The strain pulled at the scar tissue, bending and twisting the titanium plates screwed to the remains of his bones. Keller’s legs scrabbled in vain as she dangled in front of the scoreboard. Foster reached over with his right arm to pull her to safety, but Saunders lunged at him with the knife. Foster only just managed to turn back in time to deflect the blade and push Saunders away.
    He knew he couldn’t hold onto Keller and hold off Saunders. White light sparked across his vision and the air fled from his lungs in a gasp of agony. Saunders was keeping low enough behind the barrier to avoid the marksmen’s laser dots, which were dancing around the players’ box, and resolutely held onto the rope in his hand. Foster’s arm was failing, and he could feel Kirsten slipping further into the noose.
    He looked into Saunders’ vicious eyes. The same eyes Keller had seen flash with hatred from within the crowd of fans after the semi-final. The same eyes that had watched Maria Rosario die. As Saunders launched at him again, Foster used his free arm to swing the heaviest punch he could muster at the guy’s eye socket. The punch connected and threw Saunders backwards, just far enough that the marksmen were able to finally fix their red dots on his body. Three of them hit. Two bore deep holes in his chest. The third caved in his head and instantly matted his hair with grey and red.
    Foster was still holding onto Keller’s arm, his shoulder