Джеймс Паттерсон - Criss Cross

Leaning against my car, I took a swig of the Gatorade and set it on the roof. I fumbled with my phone.

While I considered whether I should call Mary Catherine’s cell or the home phone, someone said, “Let’s make this quick.”

I looked up into the barrel of a pistol.

CHAPTER 4

THE YOUNG BLACKman’s hand trembled ever so slightly. There was no doubt the barrel was still pointed at my face. But he was new to this kind of stuff. That made him more dangerous. He had no idea what could happen.

He repeated, “Let’s make this quick.”

I didn’t hesitate. I immediately reached into my sport coat for my personal wallet. My police ID was in my back pocket. At the moment, he thought I was just a citizen out for a stroll. I’d be happy to let him keep thinking that.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard the wife of a murdered robbery victim say, “A lousy wallet wasn’t worth his life.” No way I was going to put Mary Catherine in that position.

I held up my wallet to show it to him and said, “Here, it’s yours.” I’d seen enough bloodshed today. I just wanted him to walk away. A few bucks and some credit cards aren’t worth anyone’s life. I figured this was over. There was no one on the street near us. He had no reason to hang around. Everyone could have another day on Earth.

Then I heard a second voice from across the narrow street. A tall, skinny man came out of an alley between an empty store-front and a ninety-nine-cent store. He wore a crazy heavy jacket with an odd, fur-trimmed collar. The man had an angry tinge to his voice when he said, “What chu doin’, RJ?” He glanced at me. “You finally joinin’ up? Good man.”

The second man was about thirty. His pupils were black circles covering most of his eyes. But drugs were the least of his issues. His head swung in wide arcs as he glanced in every direction. His left hand had a constant, jittery movement. His tongue played with the gold grill across his front teeth. He was a walking advertisement for one of the antipsychotic pharmaceuticals advertised on news channels and ESPN.

The man said, “Lookee here, dressy.” He stayed in the street, on the driver’s side of the car. He stared straight at me and said, “You going out, Pops? Nice jacket. Not too hot, nice dark blue. Too bad you’re too wide. Jacket would never fit me.”

Why did he have to come and stir shit up?

The younger man, RJ, who still held me at gunpoint, turned to his friend and said, “I got his wallet. Let’s go.”

The man in the fur-trimmed coat said, “Somethin’s not right about him. He’s taller than us. That’s enough to shoot his ass right there.”

RJ said, “I got money, cards. It’s cool.”

“It ain’t cool, RJ. It’s a lot of things, but it ain’t cool. He don’t care nothin’ about us. And he don’t mean nothin’ to us. Go ahead, show him how little he means to us.”

RJ was torn. I could see it in his face. He wanted to leave. But this new guy, he wanted to see something happen. He wanted some excitement on a weekday afternoon.

The new man stepped to the front of the car and let his coat fall open. I could see the Colt stuck in his waistband. I thought about the head wounds at the crime scene I was just at. It was a big caliber. Probably a .45. That was not a common gun in the Bronx. I wanted to fix his face in my brain.

The man snapped, “What chu starin’ at?”

I didn’t answer. I did a quick scan to see if I could find any blood spatter on the cuffs or collar of the heavy coat he was wearing.

But that was the least of my worries at the moment. Now the man leaned in close to RJ and said, “Shoot this cracker in the face. You feel me, RJ?”

The younger man kept his eyes on me. He raised the gun slightly so he could sight more accurately. He mumbled, “Okay, Tight, okay. Give me a second.”

I felt the shift in the young man. He was scared of his friend. I would be, too. The man was giving him almost no choice but to pull the trigger. At that point, I knew if RJ didn’t shoot, I’d be facing that .45.

The man told RJ, “You own his ass. Now you can take everything from him. No feeling like it in the world.” Then the man looked at the Chevy Impala. He craned his head to stare into the interior.

“Hold on, RJ. I think this dude’s a cop. He seen us both. You gotta do it now.”

Now the crazy guy was using logic. And he wasn’t wrong. I’d have been willing to forget about RJ, but I needed to check out his friend “Tight” regarding the homicide a block away.

That wasn’t going to happen, though. I swallowed and had a quick thought of each of my children. When you have ten kids, you can’t spend a lot of time on each one as your life flashes before your eyes.

RJ was ready. He used his left hand to steady the gun. He started to squeeze the trigger.

CHAPTER 5

AT A MOMENTlike that, facing a gun, there’s no telling what will go through your head. I was hoping for a miracle. And I said a quick prayer. It wasn’t specific or particularly elegant. Just a Please help me, God . At least I think that’s what I prayed.

Then it happened. A car coming from a side street onto this main road squealed its tires. It wasn’t long or really loud. But it was enough. Just enough.

Both men looked over their shoulders to see what had caused the noise. Just a basic reaction, like an instinct. It was a gray Dodge racing away from us.

I took my chance. A movement I had done in training more than a thousand times. I shifted slightly. Reached back quickly with my right hand. Flipped my coat out of the way. Took a firm grip on my Glock semiautomatic pistol. Pressed the release on my holster and slid the pistol out. It felt natural because of all the practice. The idea that a human would be in my sights didn’t really come into the equation.

Just as my barrel came to rest, pointing at the robber’s chest, I shouted, “Police. Don’t move.”

I aimed at RJ because he had his pistol out, although I thought the other man was going to be the real problem. But RJ steadied his hands and brought the barrel of his pistol back toward my face. I squeezed the trigger of my own pistol. Once. Twice. I knew I’d hit him center mass.

The young man’s arms lowered and the pistol dropped from his hand. It made a loud clank on the hood of my car, then slid down to the asphalt. RJ followed a similar path, staring at me the whole time as he tumbled to the ground.

My natural inclination was to follow the body to the ground with my pistol. I don’t know why. It’s not like cops are in so many shootings that we get used to them. Each one is traumatic and devastating in its own way.

As soon as RJ hit the asphalt, I realized he posed no more threat. Now I had to deal with Tight, who was already rushing backward, away from me. He fumbled for the pistol in his belt line, and I fired once. Then he spun and sprinted away. I didn’t know if I’d hit him or if he’d dropped the pistol. The only thing I could think about was the young man bleeding on the street right in front of me.

I let the crazy man in the fur-trimmed jacket run away.

I dropped to one knee and immediately checked the pulse on the young man I’d been forced to shoot. Blood was already pumping from his chest and filling the indentation at the bottom of his throat. I opened his ratty coat all the way and ripped his Jets T-shirt right down the middle, then used part of the T-shirt to help stop the bleeding.

I quickly reached into my pocket and fumbled for my phone. I hit 911. As soon as the operator came on I almost shouted, “This is Detective Michael Bennett. I am on Third Avenue near 146th Street. I need immediate assistance. I have shots fired, a man down, and require an ambulance ASAP.”