Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

Beck became aware of Susan, suddenly jumping into the fight. He wanted to shout at her to stay back, but he could barely breathe, let alone speak. Susan was already on the woman. She was trying to rescue him.

The woman couldn’t see Susan, but it didn’t matter. As soon as Susan landed on her, the woman punched her hard and fast in the chest, stomach, and throat. Susan recoiled in pain, and the woman kicked up with both legs and sent Susan flying.

She hit the kitchen island and knocked it completely away from the floor. Beck heard wood splinter as Susan fell back and hit her head on the refrigerator door.

She slumped to the floor and didn’t move.

Beck saw her fall and felt rage hit him like a tidal wave. It swamped all his thoughts. All he wanted to do was hurt the woman. He scrambled toward her on the floor, ready to beat her, to strangle her with his bare hands—

Only she’d found the gun again.

The woman turned and aimed it in Beck’s direction. Blindly. But she was close enough. She could not miss at this range.

Beck was dead.

Chapter 16

Beck didn’t even have time to close his eyes. He knew that she was going to pull the trigger and kill him, and there was nothing he could do.

Then Beck noticed something. The barrel of the gun was bent slightly where he’d hit it with the frying pan.

He wondered, stupidly, what that would do to the gun.

He found out a split second later as the blind assassin pulled the trigger—and the gun exploded in her hand.

Beck went completely deaf in that one ear again, but he could still hear the woman’s wail of pain as she pulled back her mangled hand. The bullet had caught in the chamber and backfired. She screamed louder and louder, clutching her bloodied fist to her chest.

Beck tried, again, to attack. He was clumsy and off-balance, but he knew this was the best chance he had to stop her, to subdue her before she could recover.

But she’d been trained, and he had not.

She intercepted him as he tried to tackle her, rolled with his momentum, and threw him painfully through the kitchen doorway into the living room.

Beck hit the floor hard, feeling the concrete under the thin carpet. He realized she was still screaming, an unholy wail of pain and rage. He tried to stand, and she was immediately on top of him again. She was like some demon dragging him down. They both landed on the floor.

She scrambled over his body, searching with her undamaged hand, looking for any vulnerable spot. He tried to kick her away. She landed another punch, this one deep in his stomach, and for a second, all the air left his lungs. A second later, her right foot swung around and clobbered Beck in the head.

He saw stars. His limbs stopped working for a moment. When he got control of his body again, she’d already put her feet on either side of his neck. Then she had a leg-lock around his throat, just like he’d seen in some mixed-martial-arts bout on TV once.

Except this was really happening to him. And he couldn’t pull her away. Couldn’t get her off. He tried to get to his knees, and she yanked him back down again.

She would not stop screaming.

Beck’s vision started to go dim around the edges. He couldn’t sit up anymore. She somehow managed to ratchet her lock even tighter on his neck. He felt like bones were about to break. Oxygen came into his lungs in a thin trickle.

He was going to die. The tumor wasn’t going to get him after all.

And the woman’s scream sounded like a cry of triumph now. She sounded almost happy.

Beck couldn’t breathe at all. He couldn’t even see anymore. He started to go limp.…

And then abruptly, the screaming stopped as Beck heard a hollow thud. It sounded like a pumpkin being dropped on concrete.

The pressure on his neck vanished. Air streamed back into his lungs and the feeling returned to his arms and legs. He choked and coughed, and rolled over and looked up again.

Susan stood there with the frying pan. She’d knocked the blind assassin out cold with it. She was battered and bruised, but on her feet.

“Come on,” she said, reaching down and hauling Beck off the floor. “We have to get out of here.”

She helped him toward the front door. Then he stopped and staggered back toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Susan demanded.

Beck couldn’t talk yet. His throat was still on fire. He wondered if he’d ever talk again.

But he managed to stumble into the living room and picked up the laptop.

Whatever was inside it, the woman had wanted it. And that meant Beck wanted it, too.

Then Beck went back to the assassin, lying on the floor.

“You’re not really going to help her, are you?” Susan asked him.

No. Beck was not going to help her. He’d just decided the Hippocratic Oath didn’t apply to anyone trying to kill him.

He searched her pockets, clumsily. He found a wallet, a convenience-store cell phone, and a car key.

He took it all.

Beck carried the laptop. Susan carried him. The woman was still on the floor. Maybe not even breathing now. Beck couldn’t tell.

They left as fast as they could.

Chapter 17

The assassin’s car key was for a Dodge. Beck and Susan didn’t have to search far to find it. They walked around the block, pressing the Alarm button over and over until a plain sedan—the kind federal agencies bought and used—began honking and flashing its lights.

Beck clicked off the alarm and unlocked the car. He opened the driver’s-side door and began searching.

Susan opened the passenger door and sat down next to him. “I still think we should get you to the hospital. And then call the police.”

Beck checked behind the sun shades and inside the glove compartment. Nothing. “The police let those agents take me before. I’m not going to trust them again,” he said.

“That’s a little paranoid, Randall.”

“You saw what just happened. It’s not paranoia if they’re really trying to kill you.”

“Then we should at least get you to a hospital.”

“I don’t need one. I feel fine.”

Surprisingly, he was telling the truth. He felt better than he had in weeks. His strength seemed to have come back, despite all the punishment he’d taken and the stress he was putting on his body.

Beck realized he wanted to solve this, to find a solution to the problem. He was charged full of adrenaline, and it was fueling him, pushing him past his limits.

He felt more alive than he had since he’d been diagnosed.

Another minute of searching confirmed what was obvious. The car was empty. There were no clues. No paperwork, no registration. Nothing but that new-car smell.

Beck sat in the driver’s seat, stumped for a moment.

Susan looked at him. “Then what do you want to do?”

Beck could only think of one other move now.

He took out the assassin’s phone. He pressed the Redial button.

The phone rang twice. Then someone picked up.

A woman said, “Is it done?”

“Not quite,” Beck answered.

He was speaking to the person who wanted him dead.

Chapter 18

“You must be Dr. Beck,” the woman said. “I’m surprised to hear from you.”

Her voice was muffled and difficult to make out. Beck thought it sounded slightly familiar, but he wouldn’t have been able to swear to it. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to identify it if he heard it in person.

He looked at Susan, who looked back, bewildered. What exactly were you supposed to say to the person who was trying to kill you? They didn’t teach this in any of their psychology courses.

But therapy is mainly talking: asking questions, and getting answers out of people, even when they don’t want to face them. Beck figured he could come up with something.