Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

BREAKING NEWS…TERRORIST HAS TAKEN SENATOR PIERCE HOSTAGE…

Beck had seen headlines like this before. He knew how these stories always ended.

It looked like the cancer wasn’t going to kill him after all.

Chapter 39

On the catwalk, Morrison heard the gunshots from the lobby. Then the screams. He spoke quietly into his throat mike. “Howard. What’s going on?”

No response.

He tried again. “Howard. Do you hear me?”

Nothing.

Damn it, he knew he shouldn’t have let Howard run things from the limo. That idiot couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel.

But they’d needed thugs to pull this off, and Howard loved to hurt people. Unfortunately, most thugs weren’t that bright. Howard would have been bounced out of the Service long ago if Morrison hadn’t found him useful.

Morrison got out of his sniper position and began to crawl. He needed to get to higher ground, where he could scope out the entire situation.

His arm hurt and the H&K rifle jabbed him painfully in the ribs when he began climbing a ladder upward at the back of the auditorium.

Morrison was already planning on killing at least one more person today. Not like he’d been looking forward to it or anything. He wasn’t a psychopath like Howard. It was a part of the job, that was all.

But if Randall Beck had somehow managed to screw them, then it was going to be a pleasure to put a bullet through his brain.

Chapter 40

Beck used to have a patient named Gregory Lucas who was an FBI hostage negotiator. The stress was eating him alive by the time he came to Beck for treatment. Together, they worked through his anxiety—though it’s tough to tell someone to relax when lives are literally at stake every time he goes to work.

However, Beck taught him to live with the fact that he couldn’t control everything.

And in the process, he taught Beck all about how hostage negotiation worked.

Which came in handy for Beck right about now.

“All right, back off,” Beck shouted. “Put those guns away!”

The agents didn’t move. They kept their guns trained on him, their faces grim and frozen.

Which was keeping with what Lucas had told him. You never walk away from a live situation, he said. Never put down your guns unless you absolutely have to.

Beck figured it was time to put all his cards on the table.

“I’ve got a bomb!” he shouted, using his gun hand to open the raincoat and his jacket as best he could.

Now everyone could see the vest with its wires and plastic explosives.

Again, the agents did not move back. But Beck could see their faces grow even more tense.

“You shoot me, and the bomb goes off!” he shouted.

This was not precisely true, of course, unless the bullet hit the explosives. He had no control over the bomb. He wondered why it hadn’t been detonated already. Howard’s voice had stopped yammering in his ear a few moments earlier, and he didn’t miss it.

Beck knew that this bought him just a little time. Eventually, someone was going to take a shot.

That would kill everyone in the room. Beck decided to remind the agents of that fact. “If anyone takes a shot, this bomb will explode!” he shouted. “Put away your guns or I’ll detonate!”

Now he had some leverage. He could see it in their eyes.

At first, Lucas had told Beck, you have to agree to everything. Never say no. We do whatever the wackjob wants until we can get control of the situation. A plane to Cuba? No problem. Luxury box at the Redskins game? You got it. Pizza with anchovies? It’s on its way. Whatever you want.

So Beck was not surprised—relieved, but not surprised—as one by one, the laser-sights dotting his chest winked off, and the armed men and women surrounding agreed with his wish and put away their guns.

Senator Pierce, however, was shocked. And not at all happy about it.

“What are you doing, you idiots?” she shrieked. “Shoot him!”

“They can’t risk it,” Beck said to her, over his shoulder. “A stray bullet might trigger the bomb. Wouldn’t look good on the news if they accidentally blew up a presidential candidate because of an itchy trigger finger.”

Pierce didn’t say anything. Good. At least she’d be quiet for a while.

Then Beck noticed something. He got a weird sense of seeing a mirror in the corner of his eye. He looked up at the big TV screens again, and there he was. Holding a gun on the senator with a bomb strapped to his chest. Bruised and hollow-eyed. He looked very much like the stereotypical lone gunman. For a brief, idiotic moment, he noticed his hair looked terrible.

The footage was going out live over the networks.

He scanned the room and saw that one of the TV news crews covering the debate had not fled with all the other people in the lobby. They’d stuck around to get the story of the year.

The Secret Service noticed at just about the same time. “Get those people out of here,” one of the agents snarled.

That wouldn’t help Beck at all. He needed as many witnesses as possible.

“Wait!” he shouted. “I want them to stay!”

The more people watching, the less likely it was that he’d be shot. He knew Morrison and Howard and Pierce—and whoever else Damocles had here—wanted him dead. But they’d think twice before executing him live on TV.

The agents hesitated. They seemed to be trying to judge how serious Beck was. He decided to amp up the crazy for a moment.

“I mean it!” he yelled. “They can transmit my demands to the American people! I want the truth to come out! Or I pull the trigger!” He shoved his handcuffed hand in his pocket and came out with the useless plastic trigger, still connected to the vest via several wires.

“No way!” shouted one of the Damocles personnel. But two of the Secret Service agents—a man and a woman—exchanged a glance. Beck realized they must be the senior agents on the scene. They were the ones really in charge.

So he held the trigger up as high as its tether would allow, as close to Pierce’s head as possible. “You’ve got five seconds to decide!”

Again, he was following Lucas’s advice. We always try to slow things down whenever possible, Lucas had told Beck. Drag it out. Suck the momentum out of the room. If they start pushing us to do things quickly, make snap decisions, we’ve lost control.

The Secret Service agents nodded. “All right,” the woman said. “They can stay. Now just tell us what you want. Nobody else has to get hurt. What do you want?”

Good question. Beck wanted to get this bomb off him. He wanted a cure for cancer. World peace. Maybe a pony.

He wanted Susan to be safe.

In other words, nothing the agents could supply.

But then, he finally had an idea.

“I want a limo!” he shouted.

Pierce twisted in his grip. “What?” she said.

Nobody else heard her. “We can do that,” the lead agent said, her hands up, her voice soothing.

Beck had to keep them off-balance. “Not just any limo! Senator Pierce’s limo! Bring it out front! Right now!”

The female agent made a face. She was confused. “Okay, we can certainly look into that—”

Beck couldn’t let her waste any time. He had to keep things moving. Keep Damocles—and everyone else—guessing.

“Now!” he said. “Right now!”

“All right, all right,” she said, trying to placate Beck again. “We can do that.”

She spoke rapidly into her radio.

Beck waited. Pierce hissed at him, “What do you think you’re doing?”

He ignored her. He felt the sweat slide down his ribs, under the suicide vest. He could feel his heart beating under the C-4. It could go off at any second.