James Patterson: Kill Me If You Can

“Choke points would require some military intelligence,” Zach said. “These guys are thugs, not tacticians. They’re counting cops and checking out security cameras. It’s like they’re planning to stick up a Seven-Eleven.”

“I’m insulted,” I said. “They still don’t seem to think I’m even a threat.”

“Try not to take it personally,” Zach said. “As far as they know, you’re some fey art student. They’re worried about the cops.”

“So am I,” I said. “What else did you get?”

“I can give you the three spots where Chukov is going to position his men.”

“How’d you get close enough to hear that?” I asked.

“Matt, I didn’t have to get close. These idiots were broadcasting. They were pointing there, there, and there. ”

Adam leaned into the speakerphone. “Tell us where, where, and where.”

I had sketched a map of the main concourse while I was wolfing down my rib eye at Michael Jordan’s. Zach rattled off three locations, and Adam marked them on the map.

“Where are they now?” I asked.

“The Oyster Bar, getting primed for the showdown with a few vodkas. Do you want me to follow them when they leave?”

Zach is tough and confident. Sometimes too confident, sometimes too tough. Even if he could follow Chukov’s men without getting caught, I didn’t want him to even think about rescuing Katherine on his own.

“No,” I said. “Let’s just stick to the plan. Did you find a good spot for the rabbit?”

“Best place is across the street from the Vanderbilt Avenue entrance,” Zach said. “I counted half a dozen uniforms who circulate between the main concourse and the lower level. When they’re not on patrol, they cluster upstairs near the Vanderbilt door on the north balcony. One rabbit ought to take care of most of the cops.”

“What about K-nine?” I asked.

“Oh, they got dogs. I haven’t seen any so far, but I chatted up the counter guy at Starbucks, and he told me there are cops with bomb-sniffing dogs who patrol the main concourse randomly. Seems like another reason why the rabbit is better outside the terminal.”

“Good job,” I said. “Call us if anything pops. Otherwise we’ll meet you at nineteen hundred hours.”

I hung up.

The feeling I had in the pit of my stomach was all too familiar. Pre-combat butterflies. Anyone who tells you it doesn’t happen to him is lying to you. Or to himself.

“It sounds like we took out Chukov’s best men, and he called in a bunch of amateurs,” Adam said.

“I think that works against us,” I said. “Amateurs tend to panic and go trigger happy. I don’t want civilian casualties.”

“Matt’s right,” Ty said. “We signed up for this. The people who’ll be walking through Grand Central tonight didn’t. Katherine didn’t. Our job is to make sure none of them gets hurt.”

“Oh, they won’t get hurt,” Adam said, “but when those T-four-seventy-ones go off, they’ll wish they’d never gotten out of bed this morning.”

“You only have a narrow window before the Russians shake off the T-four-seventy-ones and start shooting,” I said. “As soon as Katherine is out of the field of fire, take them out. Every one of them. Fast.”

“Don’t worry, Matt,” Ty said. “We’re gonna kill the bastards who took Katherine, and we’re gonna bring her home safe.”

We had gone into battle before. But this time, I swore to myself, would be different. No matter what the outcome, this battle would be my last.

BY 7 P.M., the four of us were in Position Alpha.

We had three hours to wait for Chukov to arrive, which in our line of work we could do standing on one leg with a full bladder. Waiting in complete silence, barely breathing for hours, even days, at a stretch is what we’re trained to do.

Ty was on East 43rd outside the entrance to the Lexington Avenue subway. Adam was on 42nd, covering the south side of the terminal. Zach was at 45th and Vanderbilt with the rabbit.

I was inside, my hand clutching the medical bag, my eyes scanning the commuters who poured out of the MetLife Building to take the escalator down to the main concourse.

The four of us were fitted with the same wireless communication system the Secret Service uses. Micro earbuds, transmitter necklaces under our collars, and invisible microphones in our lapels. The protocol was for each of us to check in with an update every quarter hour.

Ten o’clock came and went. Ten fifteen. Ten thirty. Ten forty-five. No sign of Chukov.

At eleven o’clock, Adam was the first to check in.

“Cab Forty-two to Dispatch. Our passenger is still MIA. What do you make of it?”

I radioed back. “Dispatch to Forty-two. He’ll be here. He just wants to see me sweat. It isn’t working.”

One of the most critical skills a combat Marine has to hone is patience. I had once sat in a sniper’s nest for seventy-two hours without moving. This assignment was much harder. Knowing that Katherine was in the hands of a sadistic maniac like Chukov made every minute drag and every quarter hour endless.

I paced from one end of the waiting area to the other. The escalator from the MetLife Building whirred quietly. No one had set foot on it for twenty minutes. The traffic in Grand Central had thinned out dramatically. That, at least, was a plus. Fewer people. Less chance of hitting an innocent bystander.

I was ready. My team was ready. But where the hell was Chukov?

Eleven fifteen. Eleven thirty. Eleven forty-five.

At three minutes before midnight, my cell rang. The caller ID said it was coming from Katherine’s phone. I answered. The voice on the other end was ice cold and menacing. It was Vadim Chukov.

“It’s over,” he said.

“Over? Where are you?” I said. “I’ve been standing here in Grand Central with your diamonds since ten o’clock.”

“Shove them up your ass,” he said.

“What are you talking about? We have a deal.”

“The deal is off,” he said. “You lied. You sold the diamonds in Amsterdam.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “I tried, but I couldn’t. I have them right here in my hand.”

“You want to know what’s in my hand, Bannon?” Chukov said. “A seven-inch carbon steel knife, and as soon as my men have finished gangbanging your pretty little girlfriend, I’m going to use it to slit her throat.”

He hung up.

I stood there shaking. Unable to breathe. Sweat pouring off me.

“FORTY-THREE TO DISPATCH.”

It was midnight, and Ty was doing his quarter-hour call-in from Lexington Avenue.

“Slow night,” he said. “No passengers.”

“This is Dispatch to all cabs,” I said. “I just got a call. The Russian isn’t coming. He’s backing out of the deal.”

None of us said a word as each man on the team let the bad news penetrate. And then Adam broke the silence.

“Forty-two to Dispatch. We may have some signals crossed. You said the Russian isn’t coming, but his Benz just pulled into the loading zone at the Grand Hyatt.”

The Hyatt was next door to Grand Central. “There are a lot of Benzes in this city,” I said. “Are you sure it’s his?”

“Hold on,” Adam said. “Let me put on my reading glasses.”

Adam’s reading glasses were a three-thousand-dollar pair of 13x Steiner sniper-grade binoculars.

“Affirmative,” he said. “He’s in the front seat, passenger side. There are people in the backseat, but I can’t get an angle on them.”

“Forty-five to Dispatch.” It was Zach calling in from Vanderbilt. “I have three men looking for a taxi. I recognize two of them from this afternoon. You should see them in a few seconds.”