James Patterson - Blindside

I stared up at him. I had my feet ready in case I needed a desperate defense.

Christoph said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

Christoph’s accent was more pronounced as he said, “Turn round so I can cut you loose from the metal ring.”

Oh. I had misread that. I let out the breath I was holding. I turned on my seat and felt him work on one of the ropes behind me. In a moment, I was free of the bolt on the wall. My hands were still cuffed behind me. And I was down a few ounces of sweat.

I said, “Can you do me a favor, pal?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m a little older than you. My shoulders are really bothering me with my hands cuffed behind my back. Can you cuff me in the front?” It was a request I had heard from virtually every person I’d ever arrested. And I always told them, for safety reasons and because I had to follow policy, they would stay cuffed behind their backs.

Christoph didn’t have the same policies. All he said was “These little cord handcuffs cost three euros each.”

“I’ve got maybe ten euros in my pocket. I’ll give it to you.”

“That’s okay. We’re going to keep anything in your wallet or pockets anyway.” He paused for a moment, then added with a smile, “It doesn’t bother me too much that your shoulders hurt.”

A Bronx beat cop couldn’t have said it better.

CHAPTER 77

THIS WAS IT. The Dutch killer, Christoph, had me secured. I could barely move my arms, and his little cord handcuffs were strong. He kept a hand on my right arm and stood behind me where I couldn’t get a decent kick at him. We walked out of the room and turned down the hallway aiming for the loading dock at the back of the building, where his partner, Ollie, could presumably shove me back into their car and drive me to God knows where. I needed some kind of plan. Like right now.

My best chance would be to face only one of the killers at a time. I’d been watching them both carefully. The other guy, Ollie, looked like a slob. No one gave him credit. But I could see he was the brains of the operation. Really smart people try not to let others realize just how smart they are. His partner, Christoph, didn’t notice that Ollie allowed him to make decisions while guiding him to it.

There was something unsettling about Ollie. It was probably his appearance and the fact that he did everything to hide who he really was. This was the guy I wanted to escape from.

Christoph might give me that opening. The way he held my arm and stood just behind me and to the side was textbook NYPD. I knew veteran cops who didn’t transport prisoners as safely. I wondered if he’d learned it from being walked by the police himself.

I tried chatting with him, to maybe distract him. I said, “Is this something you really want to do? Think about it. You want this on your conscience?”

He slowed his walk and looked at me. “Those are separate questions. No, I don’t want to do this. But I need to be paid. As far as my conscience goes, this is business. It has nothing to do with my conscience.”

Great. I couldn’t tell if he was a psycho who lived in a little fantasy world or an actual professional hit man. Hit men for the mob in New York mostly lived seemingly normal lives, with wives and kids. That wasn’t this guy.

I said, “Keep telling yourself it’s just business. Maybe it’ll keep you from going crazy as you get older. I’ve seen a lot of killers in my career. Most of them don’t live particularly long. And the ones who do don’t have much left between their ears.”

“Good to know. Thank you for your advice. Now I would ask you to stay quiet. It will go easier on all of us if you do that.”

“Not to contradict you, but I have a feeling it’s going to go the same way for me no matter what I say or do.”

Christoph just shrugged his broad shoulders. He didn’t seem concerned about my feelings. I find that common among killers. Nothing I said could distract him enough to give me a reasonable chance to escape.

As we approached an archway at the end of the hall that led into the loading dock area, he stepped in front of me to lead me through. On the other side of the archway, a fast blur of movement caught my eye. It took me a second to register the movement and the loud thwack sound that accompanied it.

Natalie Lunden had hit Christoph square in the face with a two-by-four. The pine board broke in half.

Christoph staggered, but he remained upright as he slowly glared at Natalie and said, “Not funny.”

I could see Natalie was scared as she looked up into the killer’s eyes. She managed to say, “Henry won’t let you hurt me.”

“Only if I ask him first.” He seized her wrists and started pulling them up like he intended to rip her arms from her body.

CHAPTER 78

I FELT HELPLESSwith my hands tied behind my back. I also couldn’t believe the tall Dutchman was still on his feet. He’d taken a hell of a blow.

Christoph held Natalie’s wrists like she was an insect and he was about to dismember her. She knew she’d made a mistake. She started to whimper. Her glasses slipped off, and one of the lenses popped out with a clatter as they hit the concrete floor.

I had to do something. I couldn’t just watch Natalie be murdered.

Christoph was focused. On her. This might be the best chance I got. I wasted no time as I stepped a little to my left and used my right leg to kick the big man in his thigh. I was aiming for the common peroneal nerve. It’s tricky to target. But if you connect just right, it can crumple your opponent.

The nice thing about the nerve that runs from the hip past the knee along the back of the leg is that if you miss, the kick still hurts. And I had missed. I didn’t know by how much, but it hadn’t been a direct hit on the common peroneal. Instead, my heel had ground into his muscles and compressed the nerves against his femur, which had a similar effect.

Instead of crumpling him, I managed to send him reeling. He lost his balance and dropped Natalie, reaching for his injured leg as he let out a yowl like an injured cat.

That’s when I threw my whole body into him. He was already off balance, so even with my hands fastened behind my back, I was able to lower my shoulder and really plow into him like he was a tackling dummy. I assumed he didn’t have the benefit of regularly watching the NFL.

Christoph slammed against the edge of the archway. His face made a sickening sound as it hit the rough concrete. When he staggered back and I could see his face, I realized it had been a good blow. Blood poured out of his nose like some kind of emergency ballast release.

Then his knees gave out and he sat down hard, then rolled onto his side. He was done. At least for now. Blood still poured out of his ruined nose.

Natalie stood staring at me, stunned.

I said, “Natalie. Listen to me. He has a knife in the waistline of his trousers. See it?”

He wasn’t dead. I could feel him breathing. We had maybe a minute at most.

When she didn’t move or acknowledge me, I shouted, “Natalie, snap out of it.” Then my message sank in. She inched closer to Christoph’s inert form, paused, then quickly crouched and with both hands jerked the knife clumsily out of its belt-line sheath. After she backed away from him again, she let out a deep, uneven breath.

I turned around and pulled my arms as far apart as I could so the cord would be taut for her. I felt her sawing on it, and my arms burst free in no time. I wiggled my stiff fingers, trying to get blood back into my hands.

I spun and checked Christoph. He was starting to move. I patted him down roughly. His pistol wasn’t on him. Damn.

I turned and gently took the Gerber from Natalie’s trembling hands. Not my weapon of choice. I tossed it to the floor before I was tempted to take it with us. Then I said to Natalie, “Where’s his partner?”