Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

A microsecond later, he heard the gunshot.

Chapter 49

Morrison had Beck lined up perfectly. The senator was clear. One squeeze of his finger, and Beck was going to disappear in a puff of red mist. That would show Damocles. That would prove Morrison was still loyal.

Then he heard what was coming out of Pierce’s mouth.

She was spilling everything. The word “Damocles” over and over. All on live, national TV.

Morrison sighed. He knew, in the back of his head, that Howard had done the right thing. Morrison should have run while he had the chance. There was no way anything he did now would make a difference.

But it was still worth a shot.

He pulled the trigger.

Chapter 50

Beck felt blood hit his face.

But he didn’t fall.

Pierce did.

She looked stunned. Her mouth was still open, even though blood was pouring out of it now, as she tried to draw breath into lungs that had just been punctured by a bullet.

People screamed. The police shouted at Beck. Confusion reigned. Nobody knew where the bullet came from.

Then the red dot struck Beck in the eye again.

Susan was telling her story again, as clearly as she could with all the interruptions—and then every head in the crowd turned.

They all heard the gunshot. First from the limo, and then, after a microsecond delay, from their screens that were carrying the live feed.

For a second, Susan thought her heart would stop.

“Holy shit,” someone said. “They just shot the senator.”

Relief flooded into Susan. Her legs went weak. Surely that would be the end of it. Surely this was where the insanity had to stop.

Then they heard the next shot.

Morrison looked at Beck, standing like an idiot as Pierce lay there, blood already pooling on the asphalt.

It didn’t seem right that he should get out of this. That he should be the one to walk away, after screwing up all their plans.

Morrison thought about waking up in prison every day. Eating that industrial slop. Sleeping on a cot in a concrete room. Watching for the knife in his back.

Knowing that Beck won.

Revenge was all Morrison had left, really.

Might as well take it.

He pulled the trigger.

Beck knew what the red dot meant. He thought about running, but he knew he wouldn’t have made it two steps.

And he was tired. The pain in his head was the only thing he felt anymore. His legs were already failing him. His vision had narrowed to a black tunnel.

He said, “Susan.”

He didn’t hear the second gunshot.

Didn’t feel his body hit the ground.

Chapter 51

Morrison smiled to himself as he went down the stairs from the roof.

Everything around him was pure pandemonium. His badge got him past the cops in the lobby with little more than a glance.

A dozen yards away, there were paramedics clustered around two bodies. Beck and Pierce. The paramedics had put them on stretchers. A bomb squad tech was standing by. Every eye, every camera, was focused on the drama as the emergency crews worked desperately to save them.

There was Beck’s girlfriend, held back by a Secret Service agent, sobbing.

And there was the limo, completely forgotten. Totally unattended.

Morrison got into the driver’s seat.

The crowds had cleared, clustered around the latest spectacle, leaving the road open to the exit.

He started the engine. Pulled forward so quietly he could hear the crunching of gravel under the tires.

One of the cops gave him a look, but Morrison just flipped his credentials and his badge out the window, and the cop moved on. More important things than a Secret Service agent moving a car out of the way.

He hit the road. It was empty. All traffic was blocked coming into the university. But not going out.

Morrison started grinning. He could barely believe it. He was not only going to get away, he was going to do it in style.

Maybe he wouldn’t get paid, but at least he wasn’t going to die in prison. That would have to be enough.

There was just one last thing.

He needed to cover his tracks completely. He needed one last big distraction.

And if there was any chance that Beck or his girlfriend was going to live—well, Morrison needed to take care of that, too.

He took out his phone. He entered the code for the vest, and paused before he hit the Send button.

Morrison wondered, for a moment, if he’d hear the explosion.

He hit Send.

He heard a beep from the seat right behind him.

And then nothing else, ever again.

SIX MONTHS LATER

Chapter 52

Beck opened his eyes.

The room was dark. He didn’t bother to check the clock. He’d been waking at 3:00 a.m. for a month now. Sometimes he would look at the ceiling until his alarm went off.

But usually, he got out of bed, like he did now. He’d been on his back long enough in the hospital, after the surgery to remove the bullet that struck him in the upper chest when Morrison shot him.

Either Morrison was a lousy shot, or Beck slipping into unconsciousness and falling backward the moment the trigger was pulled had caused Morrison to miss. He certainly would have been aiming at his head.

Beck had been arrested in the ICU. He woke up to find that someone had put another pair of handcuffs on him, locking him to the bed.

Eventually, however, the police sorted it out. He was hailed as a national hero. Or an assassin who’d gotten away with it, depending on which cable news channel you watched.

Beck looked out the window of his new condo. Bulletproof glass. One of the upgrades he’d installed when they moved.

The information on Kevin Scott’s laptop had led to the first indictments within a couple of weeks, and now, the fallout was still coming down all over Washington, DC. At first, it seemed as if the damage would be contained to just Pierce and Morrison—whatever they’d managed to scrape off the sidewalk—and Howard, and a few of their fellow conspirators. Damocles issued a statement that blamed everything on a small number of rogue employees, and then the board and executives hid behind their lawyers.

But it’s never a good idea to take a shot at the president and miss. Damocles was now the subject of no less than five congressional inquiries, not to mention the FBI investigation, the Department of Defense probe, and the ongoing housecleaning in the Secret Service. All the company’s contracts had been suspended. There were new arrests almost daily. High-ranking officials were cutting deals.

President Martin was grateful, at least. She’d arranged for Beck to be bumped to the head of the line of an FDA trial for a new cancer-fighting treatment. It used genetically altered cells to target inoperable tumors.

It seemed to be working. His cancer, miraculously, was in remission. His fingers no longer went numb. He was hitting the gym every day to rebuild muscle that had atrophied during his recovery. He had an MRI every week, and his tumor just kept shrinking.

It looked like he was going to live.

At least until he testified.

The first trial, of the former Secret Service agent Howard—he’d been captured before he boarded a flight to Rio—began in a few weeks. Then Beck would appear before a joint House–Senate commission. And he would also go on TV, and tell his story as many times as it took.

He was putting a target on his head again.

Beck heard something behind him, and turned to see Susan sitting up, the sheet pulled around her waist.

“Come back to bed,” she said. “You can’t keep brooding about it.”

She always seemed to know what he was thinking. It made sense. She’d been his shrink, after all.

“They’re not going to let me testify,” he said. “Damocles. They’ll try again. At me. And you.”