Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

Goran.

And Goran shot well.

Chapter 7

Milt and I both use revolvers. Revolvers don’t leave much evidence behind because the shells remain in the chamber. It’s a little unorthodox in today’s game of maximizing volume and sheen, but I’ve been in the trade for eleven years, and aside from that one time in Sarasota, I’m proud to report I’ve never been questioned by the police.

Goran’s bodyguard turned around and fired seven of his non-revolver bullets at me.

And missed.

Tsk, tsk. You have a Springfield Armory XD-S 9mm with flush-fitting mag. Capacity seven, my friend. Now you’re out. The other guard got into a fistfight with Milt, which is worrisome on Milt’s behalf. If you saw Milt try to jog on a treadmill, or try to hurry to beat a yellow light, or just try to bend over and pick up a nickel, you’d know that he is a poorly constructed human being.

He could get exhausted just putting on a shirt. And now he was tangled up with the taller, more muscular of the two enemies. Both he and Milt still had possession of their firearms, but both managed to grip each other’s grip.

The guard mounted Milt and was about to force his trembling muzzle into Milt’s rib cage. There were way too many pedestrians around for me to continue in stealth. I had no choice—I stood up, marched directly across the courtyard through the rain, and buried four bullets into Milt’s enemy.

So now everyone around me was aware that I was a participant in the mayhem. Possible male Caucasian. Early forties . I could hear the APB in my head. Dressed in blue. Carrying a Smith & Wesson 686 for some reason. Shots fired. I had to assume at least half of these kids were recording video.

Milt’s adversary was getting up. I emptied my last shot into him. The loud ricocheting of bullets had been sending everyone lower and lower to the ground, facedown onto the concrete. Good instinct. Does modern society simply know to get low when they hear gunfire?

Goran pushed himself up and, in an instant, sprinted toward the Humanities building. He was going toward the crowd, ultimately trying to head deeper into the heart of campus. This would be troublesome.

“Stay down!” I yelled for the benefit of bystanders.

By now the melee had lured two different helicopters. One: the news. Two: the law. They were swirling in the distance, in the wrong area, thanks to false 911s, but they wouldn’t swirl stupidly for long.

Milt started firing at Goran, which was at the crowd.

“Hold fire!” I yelled to Milt.

Milt fired again. Two more shots that didn’t find their target.

“We’re not flushing toward the crowd,” I said to him.

“We gotta contain!” he argued back. He was reloading.

“Not the crowd!” I yelled.

I didn’t have a proper rebuttal. He was right. Forcing the enemies to converge on the crowd left us with the higher ground, left us with better cover from the concrete planters, and left them with no way to escape. But there was a throng of students down there.

“Don’t lose focus,” Milt warned from across the atrium.

Goran had already penetrated through the clumps of students—his human shield—and fled past the one building that leads to central campus. I immediately went after him, full speed.

“Help me!” shrieked Goran. “Help!” A useful thing to say: it cast me as the villain and himself as the hero.

But we were far past the crowd now, running alone. I was forcing him to arc around in one giant circle, back toward the bistro. I could’ve pulled the trigger on him, but didn’t.

I wasn’t sure why, but I couldn’t. Instead, I outpaced him on the ground and finally cornered him behind a series of ventilator units, where he’d ducked down. He had his gun, but I had his flank.

I heard huffing behind me—Milt was finally catching up to the mayhem, rounding the corner.

But our satisfaction was short-lived. Goran was waiting for us. Deliberately. He was standing still, facing me directly. Holding the girl in the scarf, in front of himself. With his gun pointed at her throat.

Chapter 8

My antagonist had the blunt muzzle of his Taurus PT 111 pressed deep into his victim’s esophagus. Deep enough that she struggled just to breathe. I’m sure her adrenaline blunted the pain, but still, it had to hurt.

“Drop your gun,” Goran yelled.

How he knew that this kind of move would work on a good citizen like me I know not. Because in my line of work, chivalry is beyond dead. Milt, for instance, already had his gun pointed at both of them, absolutely unfazed by the collateral cost.

Goran, smart chap—a credit to Harvard—fixated on me. Wisely, he knew I was in charge. “I will kill this girl,” he said to me. “I will.”

His nerves must’ve been blitzing. He was pressing that gun way too hard into her voice box.

“Do it! Shoot her!” yelled Milt. “Then I get to shoot you . Legally. With no fear of hitting an innocent bystander.”

“The hell’s wrong with you?” I whispered to him.

Milt was already fully engaged. “Don’t wait!” he yelled.

The girl screamed, but both Milt and Goran were hell-bent on global destruction.

“I swear I will,” said Goran.

“Stop swearing and do it!” yelled Milt.

I had to do something. I stood up straight, raising my arms and hands. The gesture of surrender. “Goran? You win, okay?” And I started to walk toward him.

“Whoa,” said Milt. “No, no, no.”

I wasn’t listening. “You got the upper hand,” I said to Goran. I lowered my gun. “I’m releasing my weapon…as…you’re able to see…but I’m only doing it on the condition that you let me walk over and get the girl.” I was already walking over. It wasn’t a negotiation. “Then you can go free.”

“Tell your fat monkey to drop his gun, too,” said Goran.

“I’m gonna count to five, you dick!” yelled Milt. “If you ain’t facing the concrete, I’m firing away. Girl or not.”

“I will kill her!” shouted Goran.

“Good!” yelled Milt. “Five!”

I was only twenty feet away. I was within striking distance. The average reaction time for a high-stressed individual in terms of the kinesiological timing of motor neurons is point eight seconds. I can cover roughly ten feet in that amount of time. I’d have ten left to go.

“Please,” begged the girl. “Please…just let me go.”

Her words tore at me. Bottom line, three-hundred-thousand-dollar tuition aside, we were all just human beings that wanted to survive through Tuesday.

“Four!” yelled Milt.

“Goran Mesic,” I said loudly. “I need to tell you something.”

“Go to hell,” he replied.

“It’s about your family.”

“My gun’s in her mouth and if—”

“It’s about your father.”

He stopped. I’d gotten his attention.

“Three,” said Milt.

I talked quickly and clearly for this next part. This was all I had left. “We were assigned to kill you, but we got a change of instructions just one hour ago.” Here came the lie. “Your father and I were friends a long time ago. We worked in the smuggling game.” Like all good lies, this one was based in truth.

“Don’t…” he began. “The…Don’t get any closer.”

“Two!” yelled Milt.

“Milt!” I had to scold him without losing momentum with Goran. “Your father made an enemy of one of my associates. This was a disagreement we had about the IRA. But it was settled one hour— one hour —ago. And now we’re all friends again.”

I turned around to face Milt. I made sure my body was blocking Milt’s aim.

“Friends,” I said, while looking at Milt.