James Patterson - Don’t Blink

“Jump!” he yelled. “Jump now!”

I scooped up Elizabeth, cradling her in my arms as I turned toward the door – and then leaped through the air after him.

There was no tuck and roll, only a thud – my feet barely hitting the ground before I fell onto my back to shield Elizabeth. The snap! I heard was another one of my ribs, the pain shooting through my body like an angry rocket.

Still cradling Elizabeth in my arms, I turned to watch the train zoom by us, the head car that was carrying the bomb getting smaller and smaller. But not small enough.

“Get up!” barked Keller. “Run!”

I scrambled to my feet with Elizabeth as Keller grabbed my arm to lead the way. We raced along the tracks, putting as much distance as we could between us and the -

BOOM!

“DARK SIDE OF the Moon or Wish You Were Here?” asked Anne Gram, one of the two surgical technologists prepping the OR at Jacobi Medical Center. She was cueing up the iPod of Dr. Al Sassoon, the attending surgeon – and massive Pink Floyd fan – who was still scrubbing.

Ruth Kreindler, the frick to Anne’s frack, looked up from the sterile surgical drape she was laying over Joseph D’zorio’s groin area. It was the only part of the guy that wasn’t broken, punctured, lacerated, or ruptured.

“The way this is shaping up,” said Ruth, shaking her head, “we’ll hear both albums and some of The Wall as well. Al and his Pink Floyd.”

“Hey – he’s good, and he’s fun to work with.”

The two women, both in their early forties, were done with their pre-op checklist, even twice testing the suction machines as they’d been clogging as of late. All in all, it was business as usual, although they both knew that the man on the table, unconscious and breathing oxygen, was no ordinary patient.

“Do you believe all people deserve to be saved?” Anne finally asked.

Ruth looked over her shoulder to make sure the two of them were still alone with the infamous mob boss. They were. “Are you speaking medically or spiritually?” she asked. “It might make a difference in my answer.”

Anne shrugged. “Medically, I suppose.”

“I know what you’re saying, but a hospital isn’t a court-room. Know what I mean?”

“I do. Still.”

Ruth glanced down at D’zorio. “I’ll put it to you this way,” she said. “A guy like this puts my faith to the test. It’s righteous anger versus forgiveness.”

“Who wins?” asked Anne.

“Forgiveness, I suppose. Spiritually, all people can be saved.”

Anne nodded but there was little belief in her eyes. She could never say it out loud, but she was secretly hoping that Dr. Sassoon would have an off day, or at least not bring his “A” game to the table.

“What did you say?” asked Ruth.

Anne hadn’t said anything. She was too busy envisioning Dr. Sassoon “accidentally” leaving a sponge in D’zorio’s chest.

But she’d heard it, too. Someone had said something in the operating room.

Simultaneously, they both looked down at D’zorio on the table. His thin, bluish lips were moving. He was mumbling.

“What did he say?” asked Anne.

“I’m not sure,” said Ruth, leaning down toward his mouth. Anne joined her.

“Sorr -” said D’zorio, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry.”

At least, that’s what the two heard.

“He’s confessing his sins,” said Anne.

“Or trying to,” said Ruth, walking over to the phone on the wall.

She called down to the staff chaplain’s office to see if D’zorio’s priest had arrived yet. They had been told he was on his way to administer the anointing of the sick, otherwise known as the mob boss’s last rites.

Apparently, D’zorio was starting without him.

Ruth was still waiting for someone in the chaplain’s office to pick up when the heart monitor alarm sounded.

“Oh, Christ!” said Anne, back at the table with D’zorio. “He’s flatlining!”

Ruth hung up the phone and ran out to where Dr. Sassoon had just finished scrubbing.

But it was too late. There would be no Pink Floyd played in the OR that afternoon. Joseph D’zorio had receded into death.

Like a distant ship’s smoke on the horizon.

BRUNO TORENZI WAS steamrolling his way through the brush and branches, his hands clearing the way forward while his ears listened for anyone coming up behind him.

He was waiting for the explosion back on the train tracks, and with a quick glance at his watch he knew it wouldn’t be much longer. Any second now, really. It was so close to happening, he could practically hear the entire sequence in his head – a symphony of sounds, from the initial thunderous clap to the seemingly endless echo to the relentless squawking of every bird knocked off its perch within a square mile.

Finally, it came. The bomb, the echo, the birds… everything. Almost exactly as he’d imagined it would be.

But Torenzi didn’t stop and look back, not for a second. He had no interest in taking it all in. He didn’t feel the need.

He didn’t feel anything.

There was no glee, no satisfaction, and certainly no remorse – not even the slightest twinge of guilt over the innocent little girl. She had flushed out her uncle as he’d planned. She’d served her purpose from his viewpoint. That was all there was to it.

As for the Rambo who’d crashed the party on the train, Torenzi still had no idea who he was. In hindsight, though, the guy must have known Daniels was wearing a bulletproof vest. There was no way his aim was that bad, the two shots he tagged Torenzi with being evidence of some skill on his part.

Speaking of not feeling anything…

Torenzi had yanked the black leather belt from his pants, making a tourniquet and cutting off the circulation directly below his shoulder. For now, his arm was as numb as rubber in December. Later, he’d tend to it. He’d dig out the bullets with the stiletto blade he kept strapped to his shin and then stitch himself up with a dime-store needle and thread, leaving two more scars on a body littered with them. No big deal. Just another day at the office.

As Hyman Roth said to Michael Corleone in The Godfather: Part II, “This is the business we’ve chosen.”

Now Torenzi’s business was done. Once again, he had won the game.

Finally, he emerged from the trees and saw the car waiting for him. Perfect timing. Things were going his way again – as they always did.

“Is he dead?” he heard as he approached the white Volvo S40.

Torenzi leaned down into the open window of the front passenger side. He smirked. “What do you think? You heard the explosion, didn’t you?”

Ian LaGrange smiled wide, his overly large mouth almost cartoonish. “Indeed I did,” he said. “Get in.”

The Volvo was parked on a deserted dead-end road, the only sign of life being two half-finished spec homes that were destined to stay that way because the builder had gone belly-up when the housing market had collapsed.

Torenzi yanked open the car door and stepped in. “Let’s go,” he said.

LaGrange motioned to Torenzi’s arm, the belt, and his bloodstained shirt beneath his jacket. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. There was someone else on the train.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m the head of the Organized Crime Task Force,” said LaGrange. “What do you think?”

“He was most likely FBI.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, but the bomb surely did,” said Torenzi. “What about D’zorio?”

“He didn’t make it.”

“Lucky break for you.”

LaGrange chuckled. “Better to be lucky than good.”