James Patterson - Don’t Blink

“No, I don’t want that either, Alan!”

Like an added exclamation point, a bullet ricocheted off the metal roll bar. Ping!

“Make that real low!” Alan added.

I grabbed the thick rubber handle of the flashlight, quickly snaking my way into the cramped quarters of the backseat. Peering into the cargo area I spotted nothing but a few empty water bottles bouncing around like jumping beans.

I was about to tell Alan the bad news when I caught the reflection of something shiny strapped to the side, near the spare tire. It was a lug wrench. Yes!

But was it heavy enough? I had no idea, since I didn’t know what it was needed for.

I handed it up to Alan, who gave it a shake as if weighing it in his hands. “Good enough,” he said. Then he flipped on the Jeep’s headlights. “Now hold the wheel steady for me, all right? Very steady, Nick!”

I climbed back into the shotgun seat, reaching over for the steering wheel as Alan lifted his left foot and yanked off his running shoe. I could just make out the swoosh of the Nike label.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Right back? Where the hell are you going, doc?

What are you doing now?

Don’t leave me, buddy.

ALAN DOVE BENEATH the steering wheel, the lug wrench held like a baton in one hand, his running shoe in the other.

I tried to see what he was doing. Of course, what I should’ve been doing was paying attention to what he asked me to do – hold the wheel steady.

Oh, shit! Look out! Look out!

The Jeep suddenly swerved, the two left tires leaping a foot off the ground and nearly flipping us over. I could hear Alan’s head slam against the driver’s-side door as I struggled to straighten the wheel. Ouch!

“Sorry, Alan!” I shouted. “You okay?”

“Yeah, but throw me some light down here. I dropped the damn wrench.”

“Sorry, man.”

“No, you’re doing fine. Just hold that steering wheel steady!”

I flipped the flashlight back on for him. The wrench had fallen behind the brake pedal. With his right foot still on the gas, Alan scooped up the tool and shoved it into his shoe. I still had no idea what he was doing.

Then it hit me.

Alan was weighing down the gas pedal, wasn’t he?

Sure enough, as I traded glances between him and the road, I saw Alan replace his foot with his weighted-down shoe. Using the laces like stitches, he looped them around the pedal, quickly tying them tight as he could under the circumstances.

Just as fast he came back up and yanked the belt from his pants, securing the steering wheel to a steel rod beneath his seat.

We were officially on cruise control.

Now what?

Only I didn’t really need to ask that question and get an answer. I just didn’t want to believe what was happening.

“Are you ready?” Alan asked. “You better be. We’re out of here!”

“You’re kidding me!”

“No, I’m dead serious. You see that boulder up ahead on the right? There’s an embankment right after it,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“I was a Boy Scout, Nick. Always prepared. All we have to do is tuck and roll and they’ll never see us! Trust me.”

I aimed the flashlight at the speedometer. We were pushing the needle at eighty miles an hour. What’s that, doc? Tuck and roll?

But there was no time to discuss or argue; that boulder and the embankment were a few seconds away. With another bullet whizzing by us, I took a deep breath and told Alan all he needed to hear.

“Fuckin’ A, let’s do it!”

I grabbed my knapsack and turned to grab the roll bar. Ping! went another bullet. And another: Ping! And then dozens of pops and pings.

Gnashing my teeth to build my nerve, I could taste the swirling dirt deep in my mouth. In my four years at North-western as a journalism major, not once did I take a class called Tuck and Roll. Wish I had. Would have been much more useful than some of the things I learned about grammar and ethics.

Geronimo!

I jumped into the darkness, then slammed into the soil. Only it didn’t feel like soil. It felt like concrete, the pain shooting through my body like an exploding bomb.

I wanted to scream. Don’t scream, Nick! They’ll hear you!

So much for my tucking skills. As for the rolling, I immediately had that down pat – as in, down and down and down the embankment. When I finally stopped, dizzy to the point of vomiting, I turned and looked up.

Continuing in hot pursuit of our Jeep was another Jeep of trigger-happy Janjaweed, surely thinking that they were closer than ever to killing a couple of troublemaking Americans. They’d catch on soon enough – maybe another mile or two – but by then Alan and I would be like two needles in a haystack in the dead of night. They’d never find us. At least I hoped that was the case.

“You okay?” came Alan’s voice. He was maybe ten feet away from me.

“Yeah,” I said. “You?” “Never better, man.”

I saw a familiar glow coming from Alan’s hand. It was an iridium satellite phone. I had the same one somewhere on me.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“Domino’s Pizza,” he joked. “You like pepperoni?”

I laughed. Never did a laugh feel so good.

“No, I’m calling for backup,” he said. “It’s time you and I got the hell out of Dodge. A dead surgeon and reporter won’t do much for world peace and all that good stuff we care so much about, huh, Nick?”

BRUISED, BATTERED, BANGED UP – but most important, alive – Alan and I were airlifted at daybreak by a UN World Food Programme plane to Khartoum. The good doctor decided he’d stay a few more days there in the Sudanese capital to help out at another hospital. What a guy – and I sincerely mean that.

“You’re welcome to come with me,” he offered, half joking. “I need a muse.”

I smiled. “Nah, I think I’ve had enough wilderness adventure for a while. I think I have more than enough good material to write my article, Alan.”

“Don’t make me out as a hero,” he warned. “I’m not.”

“I just write what I see, Alan. If that sounds heroic to some people, so be it.”

With that, I thanked him for the twentieth time for saving my life. “Salaam alaikum,” I added.

He shook my hand. “And peace upon you,” he replied.

Too bad that wouldn’t be the case, though. Nosiree.

By that afternoon, I was on a four-hour flight over the Red Sea and Persian Gulf to the United Arab Emirates and the city of Dubai, home of the world’s first cloned camel. The place is surreal, if you’ve never been. If you have, you know what I’m talking about. A few years back, I spent a week there visiting all its “tourist attractions” for a piece I called “ Disneyland on Drugs.” Needless to say, the Dubai tourism board wasn’t too keen on the title, but what did they expect? Their take on Space Mountain is an actual indoor ski mountain, Ski Dubai. Then there’s the man-made archipel-ago of three hundred islands created in the shape of a world map stretching thirty-five miles wide. It’s a small world after all, indeed.

But I was only passing through this time. In fact, after a quick nap at the adjacent Dubai International Hotel – by far the cleanest place you’ll ever stay that charges by the hour – I was back on a plane en route to Paris to interview one of the European directors of the Humanitarian Relief Corps, my final bit of research for the article I was writing.

At least, I thought I was on my way to Paris.

While I was literally on line to board the flight, I felt the vibration of my iridium phone. My editor, Courtney, was calling from New York.

“How are you?” she asked.