Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

Pierce wasn’t going anywhere. They were locked together. Their fates were now inextricable.

Chapter 37

Susan decided to risk it. She snuck out from between the two news vans where she’d been hiding, and forced herself to walk slowly, to try to look normal, like she was supposed to be there, the laptop tucked under one arm.

She had no idea where she was going. She was behind the performing arts center, trapped inside the security cordon for the event. There were temporary barriers and police tape strung all around the building. The street was blocked by heavy, military-style Humvees. And every few feet, there were police and Secret Service and private security all wearing the Damocles uniform and logo.

Any one of these people could be an enemy; any one of them might grab her or shoot her or turn her back over to Howard.

Susan wasn’t sure what to do. The only person she could trust was wearing a suicide vest and was stuck inside the center. She had to figure this out on her own.

If she went to the police barriers, she was going to have to face the Secret Service and the Damocles guards. They might be in on the plot, or they might not. She was already getting suspicious looks.

But she had to do something fast. She heard a bellow of anger a block behind her. “Somebody stop that woman!”

She turned in time to see Agent Howard stumbling from the limo, clutching at his face with one hand, blood spilling down his shirt. She took satisfaction in that. She’d hurt him. Good.

Unfortunately, now people were really gawking at her. A pair of police officers moved away from their posts at the barriers. One began walking toward her; another toward Howard.

“Get her!” Howard screamed, his voice clogged like someone suffering a bad cold.

Susan turned and walked away, as calmly as she could. The media had been set up in their own holding pen, TV news vans and mobile satellite trucks, all parked together. The reporters clustered together near the front of the pen. They all seemed agitated about something.

If Susan could just reach them, forty feet away, she might be able to blend into the crowd.

“Excuse me, miss? Miss?” It was the police officer behind her. He was polite. Still confused, still unsure of what was going on. Which meant he wasn’t a part of the plot. But he would detain her, still ask questions. And there was no way he would take her word over Howard’s. In his mind, she’d just be some crazy person who had assaulted a Secret Service agent.

She kept walking, forcing herself to go at a normal pace, as if she hadn’t heard. Just another reporter, just another random woman in the crowd.

“Miss, please stop right there, ” the cop said, and his voice was louder and harder now. Not being polite anymore.

She kept walking. He wouldn’t shoot her in the back.

Would he?

She was almost at the media pen. None of the reporters or technicians were looking at her. Their eyes were all glued to the front doors of the building.

She sprinted through the crowd of reporters, then ducked the police barrier, and—she hoped—blended into the crowd there. She didn’t risk a look back to see if the cop was able to stay on her tail.

The big black car known as the Beast—the presidential limo—glided to a halt at the front steps.

Secret Service agents jumped from their cars to open the door for the president.

Susan realized that the president was about to walk right into the lobby, and within range of the bomb strapped to Randall.

They would kill her. They’d trigger the bomb and kill her, and Randall, and everyone close to him.

They were all about to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Then Susan heard someone say, “What the hell is going on in there?”

Susan finally risked a look over her shoulder. She saw Howard half-running, half-staggering toward her. The police officer spotted her when she turned around and began running toward her, his hand on his holster.

She turned away quickly and picked up the pace.

She pushed her way through the huge crowd that had shown up to try to glimpse the president, or to just cheer her on or boo her.

Susan had almost made it. They wouldn’t try anything in front of so many witnesses.

Would they?

Then she heard gunshots, and flinched, expecting to feel a bullet between her shoulder blades.

But the shots came from inside the building.

And then she and the crowd and the reporters and the cops were engulfed in a flood of people running from the exits of the building, all of them fleeing in panic. It was chaos, like opposing tidal waves crashing into each other.

She heard someone shout, “Run! He’s got a gun!”

Everyone was now trying to get away from the building.

But not Susan. She pushed her way closer, fighting against the tide.

Randall, she thought. Whatever you’re pulling, I hope it works.

Chapter 38

“Would someone please just shoot this man?” Senator Pierce screamed as Beck yanked her closer. She kept trying to pull away, and it caused the metal cuff to dig even deeper into his flesh.

They were surrounded by a circle of Secret Service agents, police officers, and Damocles guards. A half-dozen laser sights danced over Beck’s face and body as they searched for an angle that would not also harm the senator, or explode the bomb. Beck looped his non-handcuffed arm through her free arm, so that they were back to back. He started turning them in circles, at different rates of speed and changing direction without notice. Getting a clean shot at him in this position and with this movement would be nearly impossible.

A few yards away, Beck could see the people he had already shot, still writhing on the ground in agony. They were all going to be very sore, and as furious as he was at them for what they were, and for putting him in this situation, he was glad they weren’t dead.

Which was more than Beck could expect when this was over. He and Susan would probably be killed.

Pierce tried to pull away. Beck tightened his grip, using her as a shield. He kept his gun pointed out toward the officers and Secret Service men surrounding him. He wasn’t sure he could hit anyone, shooting from this angle and being jostled by Pierce, but he tried to look confident and hoped the threat would be enough.

“Shoot him!” she screamed again. She sounded more outraged than scared, as if some barista at the coffee shop had just given her the wrong flavor of latte.

Beck jabbed her with his elbow. She squawked in pain and shut up.

Beck looked around frantically. He just had to stall them for long enough. The president had to get away. That was the best he could hope for.

Through the big glass panels of the lobby, he noticed the big limousine. The Beast. It slowed down, rolling to a stop. A Secret Service agent went to the back door, ready to open it—

No, Beck thought.

And then, suddenly, the limo picked up speed again. The agent was left standing as the Beast accelerated, and made a smoking-tire exit from the front of the building, out of Beck’s view.

Beck almost couldn’t believe it. The president was safe now. He’d actually done it.

Despite everything, he allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction.

“Looks like the debate is canceled, Senator,” he said, over his shoulder.

“You idiot,” she hissed back. “You are never going to get out of here alive.”

Sadly, Beck knew she was right. He’d managed to save the president, but this was as far as he’d gotten in his master plan.

Now he was out of ideas, and he was just waiting for someone to shoot him.

For the first time, he noticed the big screens on the walls of the lobby, all tuned to CNN. They were supposed to show the debate to the overflow crowd, Beck supposed. Now, they showed the panicked crowds outside the center with the chyron scrolling across the bottom of the screens: