Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

Howard pointed his gun at her and cocked the hammer back.

“Not. Another. Word,” he said, biting off every syllable. Then he switched the channel on his console again.

An urgent voice broke through all the other chatter. It was the same Secret Service agent that Howard had spoken to before about President Martin. “Base, what’s going on? You have a man down? Should Minerva abort?”

Susan understood immediately that the president’s Secret Service agents were asking if it was safe for her to come to the debate.

Howard clicked onto that channel and answered in the calmest voice possible. “No need for that,” he said. “It looks like a medical issue. All clear here. Minerva is okay to proceed.”

“Copy that, base. See you in one minute.”

“See you here,” Howard said. Then he switched back to his other radio channels, stabbing the buttons frantically.

“Dammit, is there anyone who’s got eyes on Beck?” he barked into his mike.

“I’m at the door,” a voice said through the speaker. “I can get to him, but it will mean leaving my post—”

“Then leave your damned post!” Howard shouted. “Move it!”

Susan knew that if Beck had collapsed, he might well be dying on the floor. Or maybe even already dead. She had no idea how his body was holding up after everything they had been through today. He could already be gone.

The thought nearly broke her heart. If she stopped to think about it, she knew it would paralyze her.

So she pushed it aside.

Randall would want her to live. And more importantly, he would want her to beat these bastards.

Howard was distracted. He was staring at the screens, watching a uniformed Damocles guard shove his way through the crowd around Beck.

She leaned all her weight back in her seat in the limo and pulled her knees to her chin.

Howard caught the movement from the corner of his eye and turned to face her.

“What do you think you’re—”

Susan snapped her legs straight in a double-footed kick that caught him full in the face, bouncing his skull off the roof of the limo.

He screamed in pain and dropped the gun. He used both hands to clutch at his broken nose, now gushing blood again.

Susan thought for a second that her Krav Maga instructor would be proud.

She snatched the case from the floor of the limo and popped open her door, and ran as fast as she could as soon as her feet touched the ground. She heard the driver’s door open behind her, heard him yelling at her to stop. She risked a look back and saw him draw his gun, but she knew he wouldn’t start shooting out here with so many non-compromised cops and Secret Service agents. She sprinted away to find somewhere to hide and think.

Randall, forgive me, she thought. But you’re on your own.

Chapter 35

The Damocles guard—his name was David Cook—shoved and bullied his way from the metal detectors and the screening station to the center of the lobby. He knew the other guards—the ones who weren’t in on the plot, and who weren’t on the secure channel—were probably wondering why he’d abandoned his post, but screw them. The only instructions he cared about now were from Howard. He had to get to Beck. If anyone else should reach him first, they might open his shirt and jacket and see the vest. And then the whole plan would be ruined. There was no way the presidential detail would allow the president anywhere near the building if there was a bomb inside.

One of Pierce’s Secret Service agents—not a Damocles plant, unfortunately—was almost to Beck.

Cook yelled at him, “Protect the senator! I’ve got this!”

The woman nodded and stepped back to flank the senator again.

Cook grabbed and pulled the idiots surrounding Beck out of his way. “Move!” he yelled. “Come on, move it!”

Beck was on the floor, looking like he was hours away from his own autopsy.

Damn it, Cook thought. We’ve come so far, we can’t have it all go to pieces now.

He just had to get Beck on his feet. That was all. Then he had to get out of the lobby himself before the bomb was triggered. It could all still work. The plan could be salvaged.

Cook pulled on Beck’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Beck’s face was pale. Cook couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

Cook leaned down and brought his face close to Beck’s. He felt around the man’s neck for a pulse.

He was surprised to find that Beck’s pulse was strong and steady and fast.

Then he was even more surprised to feel Beck’s hand at his belt as the doctor grabbed Cook’s gun and yanked it from his holster.

Cook looked into Beck’s eyes, which were wide open now.

“Change in plans,” Beck said.

Then he put the gun against Cook’s chest and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 36

The sound of the gunshot worked like a starter pistol. Everyone began running, even if they had no idea where to go.

Beck knew he only had a few seconds before he would lose the element of surprise. He’d managed to fake a seizure and fool everyone, but he didn’t think their shock at seeing him rise from the dead would last long.

He was right. Pierce’s Secret Service detail was already moving between him and the senator, trying to block him as he stepped toward her.

But he was too close, and he already had a gun drawn. They were hampered by the panicking crowd, and they were really not expecting any trouble. The best they could do was shield her.

Which was precisely what Beck expected them to do.

He stepped up to each of the agents guarding Pierce, who was looking at him with shock and horror as—too late, they scrambled to draw their guns.

Beck fired the gun three more times, putting a bullet each into the body armor that the agents wore on their chests.

He looked over to the Damocles guard he’d shot first, who was yelling and cursing on the ground, clutching his chest.

Even with a bulletproof Kevlar vest, a point-blank round to the chest could break ribs. More importantly, it really, really hurt.

Beck had learned that from listening to his patients’ stories in therapy. He was happy to see that it worked in practice, too.

The Secret Service agents were now all on the ground, the breath knocked out of their lungs. Only Pierce was left standing. She turned to run from him.

But there was nowhere to go.

Beck could have shot her. He could have ended her life right there.

But he was not, despite everything that had happened today, a killer. He could not make himself cross that line.

And he wanted the world to see her for what she really was. He didn’t want revenge.

He wanted the truth. For Kevin Scott. For Susan. For Todd Graham. For Jennifer Scott, who he now assumed had been murdered by the woman in her house. And even for Louis, who Beck had a terrible gut feeling had also felt the wrath of Damocles. And for himself, too.

So he grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her close. He jabbed the gun in her side.

Then he used his free hand to snap the handcuff around her left wrist.

The other cuff was already locked around his right wrist.

Pierce tried to pull away from him. Couldn’t. “What did you just do?” she shrieked.

Beck ignored her.

He pointed the gun at the ceiling and fired a round into the air.

The crowd moved like it had a single mind, everyone trying to get away from the madman with the gun. Beck found himself at the center of the lobby with no one but Pierce by his side.

She tried to pull away again. Beck tugged her back, the metal of the cuffs biting into both their wrists. He thought they wouldn’t risk taking a shot at him, for fear they would miss and explode the vest, killing Pierce. But he also knew, as long as he didn’t come anywhere close to President Martin, they wouldn’t detonate the vest remotely.