Джеймс Паттерсон - The 19th Christmas

I peered through the tinted windows and could just make out a row of passengers huddled in their seats on one side of the train. I counted ten people, men, women, and children, and they looked terrified.

The loudspeaker for this automated train squealed, and the mechanical voice announced, “Please hold on. Next stop Terminal Three.”

I conferred with Conklin by hand signal, and with guns drawn, we positioned ourselves on either side of the train’s open doorway. I took a breath, let it out, looked at Conklin.

I mouthed, One, two, three.

And then we went in.

A horror show was in progress.

A passenger lay on the floor, gripping a bloody hole in his side. At the front of the car, facing us, were the four fake cops. One of them called out, “Drop your guns. Only saying this once.”

My heart, already racing, red-lined. My ears rang, my focus narrowed, and the picture fully clarified.

This was a hostage situation.

The primary actor had stringy red hair and was wearing a faded cop uniform that, according to the patch on his shirt, had belonged to a cop in the Las Vegas PD.

Reportedly, Loman had pulled off a nine-million-dollar casino heist in Las Vegas, but the getaway van collided with a gas truck.

Judging from his shooting stance, the red-haired fake cop knew how to use a gun.

Was he Loman?

The other three fakers also wore LVPD uniforms. Two of them had choke holds on two real cops, while the third fake cop pointed his gun at one of the hostages’ heads.

I tightened my grip on my nine and spoke in a loud, I-am-not-shitting-you voice. “SFPD. Guns down. Hands up.”

A child cried out behind me, “Daddy.”

A man’s hoarse voice pleaded with the gunman, “In God’s name, let us go.”

Conklin was on his phone to Herz, saying, “They’re on the train.”

This was as dangerous as it got. We were outmanned, civilians were in the line of fire, a man was dying on the floor, and we’d just executed our only plan B.

The speaker on the platform screeched. The mechanical voice spoke. “Doors closing. Please hold on.”

I had a two-handed grip on my gun, and I knew who I was going to shoot first. In that long second, as the red-haired gunman and I stared each other down, a gloved hand holding an M4 with an EOTech sight came through the open door.

One shot was fired.

The red-haired fake cop’s blood and brains and skull fragments splattered on the wall behind him, and he dropped to the floor.

Had we gotten him?

Was Loman dead?

Chapter 76

Herz and four SWAT commandos in full tac gear came through the open doorway, and the fake cops dropped their weapons. They were thrown to the floor hard, then frisked and cuffed. Their guns were taken into safekeeping.

The automated voice came on: “Doors closing. Please hold on.”

Herz opened a compartment near the door and threw a switch. A faint electric hum I hadn’t noticed before went quiet. This train would not be going anywhere.

I knelt beside the victim on the floor.

“What’s your name?”

“Sandy.”

“Take it easy, Sandy. We’ll have an ambulance here fast. Who shot you?”

He took one of his bloody hands away from his side and gestured toward the crumpled body of the headless cop behind him. The injured man groaned and said, “Him.”

“Why did he shoot you?”

“I rushed him.”

“You’re military?”

He nodded. He was going pale, and there was a good chance he could bleed out. Conklin leaned down and told the injured man that he had called for EMTs.

“They’re in the terminal now, on their way up to you.”

While I took USMC sergeant Sanford Friedman’s contact information, Herz ID’d the phony cops, and the sobbing, shell-shocked passengers collapsed against one another.

Herz was holding the fake cops for Homeland Security. They were standing with their faces against the wall, and I noticed that one of them was trembling. He was a big, imposing monster of a guy, but he looked to be the weakest link.

After he’d puked, I told Herz, “I want this one.”

Conklin and I took the guy who was definitely not a cop to the far end of the train and I said, “Tell me about Loman.”

“I can’t.”

He didn’t say, “I don’t know who you’re talking about” or “You guys just killed him.” The fake cop said, “I can’t.”

Conklin and I kept him on the train as the flood of law enforcement cleared it. EMTs followed moments later and got the injured man onto a stretcher.

When Conklin and I were alone with the bulked-up dude, I said in a motherly tone, “I want to help you. I’m Sergeant Lindsay Boxer. What’s your name?”

Chapter 77

News of the dramatic airport closing and cancellation of hundreds of flights out of SFO had flashed across the country.

People were really frightened. They wanted answers.

About ten minutes had passed since we’d begun our witness interview inside an airport interrogation room. The large, trembling fake cop was white, twenty-eight years old, with a thin mustache, a buzzed haircut, and a few messy tats on his neck obscured by the collar of his uniform.

He said his name was Benjamin Wallace.

We had put Wallace under arrest for carrying an unlicensed gun and then read him his rights. I accessed our database with my phone and ran his name through the system. Benjamin R. Wallace was clean, and his DMV photo matched his mug.

He told us that he was currently a security guard for a clothing shop downtown, the Men’s Clubhouse. Conklin called the place, and Wallace checked out.

My partner and I had to work fast to build a rapport with Wallace and make him see that it was in his best interests to give Loman up. Any minute now, the door to this small room was going to swing open and Homeland Security would take Wallace away before we’d heard his story, before he’d told us about Loman.

I’d pegged Wallace as a low-level actor. Chances were this young security guard with no prior record would be open to making a deal. I took a seat across from the shivering hulk and relaxed my face, hoping to look sympathetic.

“Ben,” I said nicely, “you understand your situation? If the victim who was shot inside the train dies, even if you didn’t shoot him yourself, you’re going to be charged with accessory to murder. If you discharged your gun at all, that’s assault with a deadly weapon. I see a real chance you’re going to be charged with kidnapping.”

He nodded, gulped, looked like he was going to puke again. There was a garbage can under the computer stand by the door, and I brought it over to him.

I continued. “Homeland Security is going to charge you with terrorism. That’s a federal offense. You’re still a kid. You could spend every last day of your life in a maximum-security prison with no chance of parole.”

I let that sink in. Tears slipped out of Ben’s downcast eyes.

I kept going. “Right now your only two friends in the world are Inspector Conklin and me. We’ve both been shot at today. Speaking for myself, I’m in a bad mood. But we need help catching Loman. You help us, we’ll help you. That’s a limited-time offer.”

“I don’t know Loman,” Wallace said. “I know his name. That’s all.”

Conklin, a.k.a. the good cop, said, “Ben. We know you aren’t the key man in this operation. You got swept up in something and now you’re in way over your head. You’re a small fish. But small fish sometimes end up in the boat if the big fish can’t be reeled in.”

Ben was nodding.

Conklin said, “Let’s start at the beginning. See where we go from there.”

Chapter 78

I left the interrogation room, dried the sweat from my face with my sleeve, and reset my ponytail.