Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

She pulled alongside the van again, and this time Madison turned hard to the right, jumped the curb, and hopped onto the lawn, which in July is lush and green, but in the dead of January glistened like glass in the headlights.

The van spun out of control and went fishtailing down a rolling hill. The Maybach didn’t do any better. Kylie hit the brake, but there was nothing for the tires to grab on to, and we whizzed down the icy slope like a million-dollar hockey puck.

Our car was heavier than the van, and we were gaining ground as we moved downhill faster. We could see Tripp clearly now. He had twisted his body sideways and inched his way to the rear. The doors had stopped swinging. With gravity pulling them one way and the wind blowing them the other, they were sticking straight out like fins.

Tripp rolled to his right, then left, then right again trying to build up momentum.

“He’s coming out,” I yelled.

And out he came. With one final roll, he toppled out of the van directly into the path of his father’s car.

Kylie pulled the wheel to the left, missing him by inches. As far as I could tell he’d be all right. But the Maybach wouldn’t.

As a kid I’d been to this section of the park hundreds of times. It’s the best place in the city to sail model boats.

“We’re headed for the drink,” I yelled as we bore down on Conservatory Water, the landmark oval boat pond inspired by those that grace the parks of Paris.

“It’s January,” Kylie said. “They drain it for the winter. There is no water.”

The van, only twenty feet ahead of us, disappeared into the empty boat pond. Seconds later, the Maybach followed, and we nose-dived into the pitch-black concrete hole.

We hit hard. The front bumper took the impact, and in a nanosecond the air bags exploded.

On the plus side, the nylon bag that exploded from the dashboard kept my skull from crashing through the windshield. But I felt like I’d been kicked in the face by a mule. My ears were ringing from the blast, my lungs were filled with chemical dust, and my brain was still reeling.

But I was alive. And so was Kylie.

“Zach,” she said, her nose bloodied, her breathing labored. “Madison at eleven o’clock.”

Our headlights were still working, and I could make out the van on its side to our left. Madison was pulling himself up out of the passenger window.

“He’s getting away,” she said, fumbling to find her seat belt button release.

She was wrong. Madison wasn’t trying to escape. He jumped off the van and charged toward us, gun in hand.

He was enraged, his face bloodied as he staggered up to Kylie’s window, and pointed the gun directly at her head.

As a cop I can think of no greater failure than watching helplessly as someone murders your partner in cold blood. Neither of us was wearing a vest, but had I been on my feet I know I’d have thrown myself between Kylie and the bullet without giving it a second thought.

But I was still harnessed to my seat, unable to move. The deflated air bag clung to my chest, and I shoved my hand under it, desperately grabbing for my own gun. It was too little too late. Kylie was trapped.

She couldn’t move, and Madison couldn’t miss.

He took one step back, screamed something unintelligible into the wind, and pulled the trigger.

I braced myself for the explosion, knowing that there were only two possible outcomes. Either Madison would kill us both with a single shot, or he’d take Kylie down and use his next bullet on me.

But there was a third possibility I’d never even considered.

Madison fired, and the window blossomed into a giant spiderweb pattern. But the glass didn’t shatter. He fired two more times, but the bullets didn’t penetrate.

And then I remembered the casual remark Silas Blackstone had dropped when he was trying to impress us with how rich his client was. This was no run-of-the-mill four-hundred-thousand-dollar set of wheels. This one was tricked out with armor plate and bulletproof windows.

Hunter Alden’s Maybach had saved our lives.

Ryan Madison was as surprised as we were. Realizing he now had two very pissed off cops on his hands, he did the only thing he could do.

He ran.

There was a set of stairs on the east side of the pond, but it was at least two hundred feet away, and the pond floor was patched with ice. So he opted for the same spot where his van had gone airborne, firing over his shoulder as he ran.

I radioed for backup, and the two of us got out of the car and crouched behind our steel-plated doors.

“He needs both hands to get up and over the side of the pond,” I said. “As soon as he holsters his gun, I’m going after him. You cover me.”

Madison fired another shot in our direction.

“And if possible, I’m going to try to take him alive,” I said.

“Now,” she said.

Madison had reached the western edge of the concrete pond, tucked his gun into his jacket, and put his hands on the stone wall.

I darted out from behind the door and ran toward him.

I thought he’d have trouble getting over the wall, but he pushed up, threw one leg over the side, and within seconds he was standing on the edge of the pond, pointing his gun right at me.

I hit the ground, and a bullet splintered the concrete less than a foot from my head.

Kylie fired at him, and the shot went wide.

“You missed, bitch,” he screamed.

I knew better. Kylie was the best shot in our class at the academy. Her shot hadn’t missed. She was trying to draw his fire so I could get to him.

I could hear the sirens and see the flashing lights making their way into the park from East 72nd Street.

“Madison,” I yelled. “You’re surrounded. Throw down the gun.”

“I’ve seen too many movies, Jordan,” he yelled. “Throwing down the gun makes for a piss-poor ending.”

He fired at me. Once again the bullet missed by inches. I rolled.

“Zach?” Kylie yelled.

All she said was my name, but we’d been partners long enough for me to put it in context.

“Do it,” I screamed.

Kylie stood up and fired over the door of the Maybach. The bullet made a neat little hole directly under Madison’s jaw, and a much bigger, much messier one in the back of his skull.

A gurgling growl came from his throat, and for an instant he remained frozen, arms in the air. Then his body pitched forward over the side of the boat pond and landed facedown on the cold stone bottom.

It reminded me of the very first time I’d seen Ryan Madison. He’d been jumping up and down on a desk in his classroom, fighting off imaginary airplanes. Then, mortally wounded, the great King Kong had gently set his captive Barbie doll on the desk, and fallen to the floor.

I looked over at Kylie. She was walking toward me, the flashing strobes of an army of cop cars bouncing off her blonde hair. Once again it was beauty killed the beast.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Go? Kylie, you just killed a man. It was a clean shoot, but you can’t walk out and—”

“Zach, listen to me. I’m going to be doing paperwork on this mess for a week and a half, but I’ll be damned if I’m starting now. Tripp Alden is still on the run. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a fugitive, and we’re bringing him in.”

She headed for the edge of the pond. “You’re either with me, or you’re not,” she yelled over her shoulder. “You decide.”

I followed. “One question,” I yelled back. “How do you propose we find him?”

“First thing I’m going to need,” she said, hoisting herself over the side of the pond, “is a car.”

“We’re not making the same mistake twice,” Kylie said, passing up three sedans until she spotted an empty SUV with the motor running. “Get in.”