James Patterson - 11th hour

Jimmy Lesko had been in bed when he’d gotten a text message from Buck Barry, who was desperate to make a buy. It was a pain in the butt, but Lesko needed the extra cash.

He parked his sparkling new Escalade on Haight, a two-way commercial corridor, crowded in on both sides by peeling Victorian houses. All of them were shades of gray at this time of night, mashed together with single-story concrete utility buildings and bars and shops and more residences after that.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Lesko watched the entrance to Finnerty’s, a bar between Steiner and Fillmore known for its cheap suds and oversize burgers. Buck would be waiting for him in the men’s room in about five minutes.

A UCLA film-school dropout, former up-and-coming protege of the late Chaz Smith, Lesko traded in good-quality dope, had protection from the cops, and sometimes, like now, could make good money.

Lesko anticipated a quick transaction and an equally quick return to his house and the delicious young medical student who was asleep in his bed. He looked at the time again and got out of the car, then locked it with his remote.

He was crossing the street when someone called his name.

He turned and saw a man coming up Haight on Finnerty’s side of the block. The guy was dark-haired, about forty, looked happy to see him.

“Jimmy. Jimmy Lesko.”

Lesko waited on the sidewalk for the guy to reach him, then said, “Do I know you?”

“I’m William Randall,” the guy said.

Lesko searched for some recognition. The name. The face. An association. Something. Nothing came up. Lesko had a good memory — but he didn’t know the guy.

“What’s this about?” he said.

“I want you to see this.”

The guy took his hand out of his pocket. He was holding something weird. It was a plastic bag covering what looked to be a gun.

Shit. A gun.

This was not happening. This was just not on.

Jimmy jerked back, but he was hemmed in by the clots of boozed-up pedestrians on the sidewalk and cars at the curb. He went for his gun, stuck into the waistband at the back of his pants. But this fucking asshole Randall had pushed him back onto a car and pinned him there. He put the gun right up to his forehead.

Lesko threw his hands up. Dropped his keys. Wet his pants.

What was this? What the hell was this?

Didn’t anybody see what was happening?

Lesko screamed, “What do you want? What do you want? Tell me what you want, for Christ’s sake!”

“I’m Link Randall’s father,” the guy said. “Any idea who that is? Doesn’t matter. You ruined my son’s life. And now I’m going to ruin you. Totally.”

As Will Randall pulled the trigger, he was jostled by a lurching bum in a woman’s coat who grabbed on to his arm to steady himself, saying, “Whooaaa.”

Will’s shot went wild, and Lesko took the split second of confusion to get away.

Will stiff-armed the bum and knocked him aside, then he aimed at Lesko. Jimmy was now a moving target in the dark, running like he was carrying a football under his arm, smashing into a couple of kids holding hands, ramming into a homeless grandma with a shopping cart. He knocked both the cart and grandma to the sidewalk, and she lay there with her limbs splayed out, her cart’s wheels spinning, garbage everywhere.

Forward motion blocked, Lesko took the clearest path, bounding up steps that led to the front deck of a house.

Will fired at Lesko’s back — and missed. And now Lesko crouched on the deck one story above him and shot at Will through the wrought-iron railing.

Will took to the street, then popped out from behind a van and got off six shots. But Lesko returned fire and Randall realized he had to corner this bastard and kill him at close range.

Pedestrians screamed and fled as Will charged toward the stairs, and then tires squealed and voices came from behind him.

“Freeze. Randall, put down your gun. Drop your gun now.”

Will turned his head. He saw cops — cops that he knew. The blond guy with the ponytail — Brady. And the other two. Conklin and Boxer, who had brought him into the Hall.

How had they found him?

They’d been inside the unmarked car on Golden Gate Avenue and had seen him, followed him, that was how.

There was screaming on both sides of the street, Lesko yelling for help, pedestrians freaking, cops shouting, “Drop your gun! Hands in the air!”

Will turned toward the cops, waved his gun, and shouted, “I know what I’m doing. Clear out of here. Don’t make me shoot.”

A cop yelled, “Drop your gun now!”

And then the cops fired at him.

He felt a shot hit his left shoulder and it enraged him. Adrenaline surged. He was right. They were wrong. He had told them to leave.

He fired toward the cops, watched them duck and cover.

Someone shouted, “Officer down. Officer down.”

Cops were down.

It was happening so fast. The blood left Will’s head as he realized, with an almost calming clarity, that he wasn’t going to leave this street alive. But he still had to do what he had come to do.

Lesko was pulling the trigger on his empty gun. He pulled again and again, looked at the gun, swore, then dropped it.

Will took the stairs and advanced on Lesko, the good-looking kid with blood staining his expensive clothes, blood dripping down his pants. He had his hands in the air, was backing up against the side of the house.

Lesko shouted at Will, veins popping in his neck and forehead, “You’ve got the wrong person! I’m Jimmy Lesko. I don’t know you. I don’t know you.”

Will said, “I feel sorry for your father. That’s all.”

He fired two shots into Lesko’s chest, then turned with his gun still in his hand. He felt the blow of a shot to his gut. His legs folded.

Will was on his belly, fading out of consciousness.

Lights flashed. Images swam. Voices swirled around him.

He got Jimmy Lesko.

He was sure. Almost sure. That he’d got him.

Cindy was at the half-moon table in the corner of the living room, what she liked to call her home office, when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock in the corner of her laptop screen, then snatched up the phone.

“Ms. Thomas? This is Inspector May Hess, from radio communications. I have a message for you from Sergeant Boxer. There’s been a shooting. Go to Metro Hospital now.”

“Oh my God. Is it Richard Conklin? Has he been shot? Tell me it’s not Rich. Please tell me.”

“I just have the message for you.”

“You must know. Is Inspector Conklin — ”

“Ma’am, I’m just supposed to deliver the message. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Cindy’s mind slipped and spun, then she got herself together. She phoned for a cab, put a coat on over her sweatpants and T-shirt, stepped into a pair of loafers, and headed downstairs.

She paced in front of her apartment building, calling Richie’s phone, leaving messages when the call went to voicemail, then calling him again.

The cab came after five minutes that seemed like five hours. Cindy shouted through the cabbie’s window, “Metropolitan Hospital. This is an emergency,” then threw herself back into the seat.

She was trying to remember the last thing she’d said to Richie. Oh God, it was something like Not now, honey, I’m working.

What the hell was wrong with her? What the hell?

Her body was running hot and cold as she thought about Richie, about him being paralyzed or in pain or dying. God, she couldn’t lose him.

Cindy didn’t pray often, but she did now.

Please, God, let Richie be okay.

The cabdriver was quiet and knew his way. He took Judah Street past UCSF Medical Center, made turns through the Castro and across Market, all the way to Valencia.