Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

Part of me still has a sixth sense for animals in distress, an instinct I picked up as a teenager when I used to ride. A friend of my father’s, named Angus, owned a few horses on a farm a couple of miles away. He’d let me exercise them, as long as I cleaned and fed them and swept the stable.

I had dreams of being a show jumper myself someday, maybe even owning a horse ranch of my own, so it was more than a fair deal. I loved those animals more than anything. I came to think of them as my own.

Then one day, poor old Angus had a stroke. His son drove up from Dallas, stuck him in a home, sold the farm and the steeds along with it, and that was that.

It was one of the saddest days of my entire childhood. I remember thinking, even at that young age, it was crazy and scary how sudden a life can change—mine and Angus’s both. Not to mention the horses’. And how quick a person’s lifelong home can disappear.

I have to remind myself: preventing that from happening to ours is why we’re doing all this in the first place.

I head over to the pen. Through the bars I see a stunning brown stallion with a flowing black mane and snow-white hind legs. He’s a real beauty.

“Easy, boy,” I whisper. “You’re not the only one feeling butterflies tonight.”

I stare into the horse’s big wet eyes, willing it to relax. Trying to make a real connection. I hold out my hand as an offering. Slowly he saunters over, sniffs, and nuzzles my palm.

“Now who do you think you’re fooling, young lady?”

My whole body tenses. Damn it, I’m caught, my disguise didn’t work! Abort!

“You’re no horse buyer. You’re a regular horse whisperer. ”

I spin, and see an elderly man—a real one—smiling at me with a set of pearl-white veneers. From his tailored three-piece suit, shiny snakeskin boots, and even shinier gold Rolex watch, I can tell right away he’s got money. But his demeanor is friendly. Gentlemanly. Almost bashful.

“And such a lovely one, too,” he adds, with the tip of his felt cowboy hat.

I realize this old-timer isn’t trying to blow my cover. Far from it.

He’s trying to hit on me.

“You’re very kind, sir,” I say, forcing an innocent smile.

“My name’s Wyland. Cole Wyland.” He gestures at the stallion. “Always been partial to Belgian warmbloods too. Gorgeous creatures, ain’t they?”

I’m confused.

Because he’s dead wrong. That’s not the breed of this horse at all. Is he joking? Or just flat-out clueless? Or maybe…he can’t be a plainclothes Golden Acres security guard testing me, can he?

“Actually, Mr. Wyland—”

“Cole, please.”

“This horse here is a Holsteiner, Cole. See the H branded on his back leg? But mixing up the two breeds, that’s a common mistake.”

Cole says nothing for a moment. Should I start to worry? Did I offend him? Does he sense something’s amiss?

But then he smiles even wider.

“Turns out you’ve got beauty and brains!”

All right, I think, relieved. Enough. I need to wrap this chitchat up quick.

“It’s been a pleasure, sir. Cole. But if you’ll excuse me…”

And I hurry off before he has a chance to stop me. I have places to be. I have a wheelbarrow to find.

I have a heist to pull off.

1 minute

“One minute to opening gavel!” a voice declares over the P.A. “One minute!”

The stable’s main atrium is brimming with anticipation. The crowd is finding their seats. The horses are getting their final primps. The auctioneer is warming up his vocal cords.

Stevie, Nick, and I hover in the wings, ready to spring into action. Meanwhile, Hank and J.D. scurry up a hidden back staircase, into the hayloft. Like most haylofts in modern stables, this one isn’t functional. It’s mostly for decoration.

Or in our case, storage.

As the audience settles in, I scan all of their faces, trying to read each one of them like I did inside the bank. Wondering who might give us trouble. Praying that none of them—like that foolish kid security guard—decides he wants to be a hero.

But with five times the number of folks—and so many clearly carrying weapons—I know the odds aren’t in our favor.

The auctioneer approaches the stage, smiling and shaking hands with some of the ranch’s owners and bigwigs. He turns on his microphone, tapping it a few times to test the sound.

What the hell is taking Hank and J.D. so long? I wonder, starting to fret. Did somebody screw up? Is it not there?

Stevie, Nick, and I trade nervous glances. All worrying about the same thing.

But then, my brother and my might-as-well-be-my-brother reappear—carrying a leather bag the size of a violin case. They rejoin us. They unzip it.

Inside is a cache of high-tech assault rifles fit for a team of Navy SEALs.

I’ve been around guns my whole life—but I’ve never seen any like this. Compact and boxy, fully collapsible, and made of lightweight green titanium alloy.

We all put our latex gloves back on as Hank hands the weapons around. J.D. passes out the ammunition: clear-plastic magazines, small-caliber, but hollow point and deadly. We ready our rifles and flip on their red-laser sights. They were designed to increase shooting accuracy.

But we mostly want them for the intimidation factor.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the honey-voiced auctioneer says into the microphone. The crowd whoops and applauds. “Welcome to Golden Acres!”

That’s our cue.

4 minutes, 35 seconds

“Now please welcome our first animal of the evening. Sebastian, a playful two-year-old Kiger Mustang from—”

Stevie strafes the atrium ceiling with automatic gunfire as we storm the place.

“Hands up and keep ’em high!”

Fear and panic fill the stable. People shriek and gasp and crouch and cry. Some try to flee. But within seconds we’ve all gotten into position, guarding every exit.

“No one move an inch!” Stevie bellows, stepping onto the stage, assuming the role of master of criminal ceremonies.

“Anyone even tries to draw, we’ll take you out!”

The rest of us train our weapons on the anxious crowd…on the auctioneer…on furious Billy Reeves and his bumbling security team—our scopes’ thin red beams slicing through the dusty stable air like a scary laser-light show.

“Now, this can be short and painless…or the opposite,” Stevie continues. “Every one of y’all here with cash or bearer bonds, start passing them down to the aisles. My colleagues will be coming through to make a little collection. Try anything funny…anything at all…”

Stevie fires off another flurry of bullets into the rafters.

More screams of terror echo all around us.

But the audience begins following his orders. Briefcases, purses, and bank ledgers are all slowly handed down.

“Let’s go!” Stevie barks. “Pick it up, pick it up!”

J.D. and I move up and down the aisles, making multiple trips, each time collecting as much as we can carry with one arm—our other hand aiming our rifles. We dump all the wallets and handbags at the feet of Hank and Nick, who start emptying each bag into a giant wooden wheelbarrow that I’d found out back behind the stable.

On one of my trips, I make eye contact with Cole Wyland, the friendly old man who tried flirting with me back by the horse pens.

He gives me a filthy look. I just shrug.

Sorry, Cole, I think. Guess you got unlucky twice today.

Up and down the aisles we go. I’m getting a little winded. My arm’s getting a little tired.

I check my watch: we’ve been doing this for almost four full minutes.