Джеймс Паттерсон: The 13-Minute Murder

But Beck knew he’d get it sooner rather than later, and in the cramped space of the SUV’s front seat, there was almost no way he could miss Beck if he fired.

If Beck was still being civilized, he might have been scared. But he was far beyond that by now.

And it’s hard to scare a man who already knows he’s dying.

What’s he going to do? Beck thought. Kill me?

He reared his legs back and kicked as hard as he could. He caught Howard in the face. He heard a muffled snap and knew that he’d just shattered the man’s nose.

Howard’s head bounced against the doorpost again. Beck kicked him one more time for good measure.

Beck heard Howard’s gun drop to the floor. He hadn’t realized that the man had been able to get it so soon.

Morrison was thrashing around under Beck by now, pinned by Beck’s weight. Beck struggled to get off him. He realized that Morrison was having trouble using one arm. Then he saw why.

The SUV had been knocked out of the intersection when it was hit. It had come to a halt against a streetlight, which smashed in the driver’s-side door on impact. Morrison’s left arm was trapped in the narrow space between the crumpled door and the steering wheel. It kept Morrison from grabbing Beck or holding him down. Or drawing his gun.

About time I got a little bit of luck, Beck thought. He struggled to sit up again. He had to get out.

Howard was blocking the passenger door, and that was crushed by the impact as well. But the windshield was gone. It was basically an open invitation for Beck.

He used his forehead to smash Morrison’s head as hard as he dared, without giving himself a concussion, and when he saw Morrison’s eyes roll back in his head, he kicked Howard one more time, then rolled across the dash, shedding more glass as he went, and then slid down the hood of the SUV.

He looked up and tried to get his bearings. There was a garbage truck in the middle of the intersection, its front smashed in where it had hit the SUV. The driver stood by, staring at the damage, looking stunned. Morrison, shaking off the hit to his head, was shouting something at Beck.

For a moment, Beck didn’t know what to do.

Then a bullet hit the brick facade of a building, less than ten feet from his head, and he saw that Howard and Morrison had their guns out and were shooting at him.

With his hands still cuffed behind him, Beck began to run.

Chapter 8

Beck ran, his head down, sprinting as fast as he could through the unfamiliar streets.

He had no phone, no wallet, no money, and there were two killers with badges right behind him. There was also the slight matter of him being handcuffed.

He had to get help. He had to get off the streets. Any moment now, a police car could stop him, or someone might see him, and then how would he explain this? He’d be on his way to jail, and probably right back into the custody of Morrison and Howard.

He didn’t think anyone would believe him if he told them that the agents killed Kevin Scott. He barely believed it himself. But he knew what he saw. He just had no idea why.

Beck needed to find out the answers if he wanted to stay alive. He had to find out why Kevin Scott had been killed, and what those men wanted with him.

First, he had to get these damned cuffs off. He felt like a duck, waddling along with his hands locked behind him.

He turned down another corner blindly as he saw a car approaching. He was on a small, mostly residential street with a few businesses tucked in between the blank faces of apartment buildings and crumbling brick buildings. Then he saw exactly what he needed.

An auto repair shop. It was a small, independent operation, not a chain. An older African-American man in coveralls worked in the one-bay garage, spinning a tire off its wheel.

Beck ran across the asphalt to him.

“Hello,” Beck said. And then realized he had no idea what to say next.

The man looked up from the tire at Beck, his expression blank. The name tag on his coveralls read LOUIS.

“Ah, listen,” Beck said, thinking hard. “I’m having a bit of a problem.”

Louis’s mouth curled into a slow grin. “Yeah. I bet you are.”

“I was wondering if you had any bolt cutters? Or anything like that?”

“I might,” Louis said. “What exactly would you want with them?”

Beck wondered if Louis was screwing with him on purpose. Still, he was the only hope Beck had right now. Beck turned around and showed him the cuffs.

“Do you think you could cut these off?”

“I could,” Louis said slowly. “But that’s not exactly my line of work. And I’m not sure that whoever put you in those wouldn’t come looking for me.”

Beck turned back to him. He wanted to scream at the man to just cut the damn things off . But he forced himself to calm down.

“Well, I could pay you.” Damn it. No, he couldn’t. No wallet. “Um. Eventually. I was sort of mugged.”

“Sort of?”

“It’s complicated. But if you can help me, I promise I’ll pay you something later. I swear.”

“I think I’m going to need a little more explanation than that,” Louis said, his eyes serious despite the grin.

Beck thought fast. He imagined trying to tell this man that he was on the run from federal agents who were also murderers. He didn’t think he’d get very far with that story.

He took another look at Louis. One advantage of being a shrink: he was used to reading people quickly. Louis seemed like a basically decent guy. Attentive to detail. A business owner. So, independent and self-contained. Which meant he was suspicious of outside authority. He trusted his own gut.

He’d help Beck, but only if he had a compelling story. A reason.

Beck looked for a wedding ring. Didn’t see one. Looked for any religious paraphernalia—a cross, or a church calendar. Nothing like that on the walls of the shop.

It came to him in a flash.

Beck sighed and his shoulders sagged. He did his best to look embarrassed. It wasn’t too hard.

“You ever have a fight with your girlfriend?” Beck asked.

Louis’s grin got even wider. “No, not me. I do everything she tells me.”

“Well. That’s sort of how I got into the handcuffs,” Beck said, and tried to laugh. “It was supposed to be a game.”

“A game. Right.”

“Yes. She said she wanted to try something a little, um, kinky.”

“Kinky. And that sounded good to you.”

“Well, you know. She made it sound better than it turned out.”

“I’ll bet. So how did you get here, looking like you’ve been beat up?”

“Well. She wasn’t exactly my girlfriend.”

Now Louis shook his head in mock sadness. “Oh, man. Let me guess. She was, uh, what do you want to say, a professional. ”

Beck tried to look ashamed of himself. It was surprisingly easy.

“Yeah. And then her—well, I guess it was her pimp—”

“You got rolled.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Well, you should probably call the police. Those cuffs could be evidence.”

Now Beck knew Louis was screwing with him. But he plunged ahead. “Ah, yeah, see, I would. But—”

“But you don’t want your wife to find out,” Louis said.

Beck nodded.

Louis laughed out loud for a good while. Beck looked down and waited it out. He felt like he deserved an Oscar for this.

When Louis finally stopped laughing, he said, “Stay right here.”

Louis walked into the tiny office off the main garage bay. He was gone for a long time. Beck couldn’t check his watch—because of the handcuffs, of course—but it felt like hours. Beck looked in through a grimy window in the door. Louis appeared to be checking the screen of his phone. What was he doing in there? Was he calling the police himself?