James Patterson - Lifeguard

“Someone double-crossed him, Mrs. Stratton. I think you may know who. Who took the art? Who set this in motion? Was it you?”

“Me?” Liz’s mouth twisted into an amused smile. “You want to know what a prick my husband is, well, you’re about to find out. The art wasn’t stolen .” A glimmer of revenge flared in her eyes.

“Only one painting was.”

ONLY ONE PAINTING was stolen . Ellie and I blinked at her, perplexed. “What are you saying?”

Suddenly I heard the roar of an engine coming from down the block. Champ, bent over the bars of his Ducati, was gunning the cycle straight for us. He decelerated in a flash, screeching to a stop next to our Crown Vic. “Time to go, Kemo Sabe. Posse’s on our tail. About a block behind.”

I looked up the street and saw a black Mercedes making the turn, speeding directly toward us.

“It’s me they want,” Liz said, looking at Ellie. “You don’t know these terrible people. They’ll do anything for my husband.” She turned to me. “You’ve got to go!”

She pushed open the car door and, before we could stop her, climbed out and started to back away. “Here’s what I’ll do. Come to the house,” she said. “Around four. Dennis will be there. Then we’ll talk.”

“Liz,” Ellie said, starting after her, “just tell me what you meant, only one painting was stolen? There were four.”

“Think about it, Agent Shurtleff,” Liz Stratton said with a smile, backing farther away. “You’re the art expert. Why do you think he calls himself Gachet?”

The black Mercedes veered toward Liz and started to slow down. “Come to the house,” she said again with a thin, fatalistic smile. “At four.”

Two men jumped out on the run and grabbed Liz Stratton. They glared angrily at us, stuffing her roughly into the backseat. I didn’t like leaving her, but we didn’t have a choice.

“Uh-oh, Neddie.” Champ glanced back up the street. He revved the Ducati. “We’ve got trouble.”

There was a second vehicle behind the Mercedes – a black Hummer – speeding directly for us. And this one showed no signs of slowing.

“Ned, get out of here.” Ellie started to push me out the door. “They’re after you , remember.”

I squeezed Ellie’s hand. “I’m not leaving you.”

“What can they do to me?” Ellie said. “I’m with the FBI. But I can’t be here with you. Go!”

“Ned, c’mon,” Geoff urged, revving the Ducati to a deafening pitch.

I jumped out of the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic and hopped on the back of Geoff’s cycle. Ellie waved. “I’ll call you when we’re clear.”

“Don’t worry about her, mate,” Champ said. “Worry about us!”

I locked my arms around his waist. “Why?”

“You ever been in an F-15?”

“No.” I looked behind. The Hummer was bearing down on us. It wasn’t slowing. In about three seconds it would be right on top of us.

“Neither have I.” Champ said, redlining the Ducati, “but hold on. I’m told it feels something like this .”

THE FRONT WHEEL kicked up, the g-force threw my head back, and with what seemed like a supersonic blast, the Ducati rocketed away.

I felt as though I were being dragged by a jet taking off, holding on for dear life. I pressed myself into Geoff’s back, certain that if I loosened my arms for a second, I’d be hurled onto the concrete like a bouncing ball.

We flew down the street in a tuck, headed in the direction of the lake. I took a glance behind. The Hummer didn’t even stop. It was coming after us for sure.

“Get out of here! They’re coming!” I shouted above the roar into Champ’s ear.

“Your wish is my command!”

The Ducati’s engine exploded and I was thrown back hard as we shot past homes at a hundred miles an hour. My poor, abused stomach tightened in a knot. A stop sign was coming up pretty quick. Cocoanut Row. The last intersection before the lake. There was only one way to go down here, north . Champ slowed just a little. The Hummer was barreling fast behind.

‘Which way?” Champ shouted, glancing back.

“ Which way ? There is only one way,” I said. Right . We were still only a block or two from the poshest shopping street in all of Florida. There could be cops around.

“That’s what you think,” he said.

I felt this monstrous downshift and Champ’s Ducati slid into the intersection – and hairpinned sharply to the left .

I think my stomach was left somewhere behind. We were leaning so low, my jeans scraped against the pavement. We barely managed to avoid a head-on with a Lexus driven by some tourist with his bug-eyed family.

All of a sudden we were zigzagging down Cocoanut.

“How’s that for an exit, mate?” Geoff flashed back a grin.

It was as if we had jumped through the woods on some ski trail, and now we were on another trail, skiing against the flow. I looked around for a cop, exhaling with relief that one wasn’t in sight. Then I looked behind. The Hummer had screeched to a stop at the intersection. I thought for sure he’d yank a right and get out of there. But he didn’t! He swerved to the left – and was coming after us again.

“Jesus,” I shouted, squeezing Champ’s ribs, “he’s still on us!”

“Damn” – he shook his head – “those bastards have no respect for the law.”

He pressed the throttle, but now we were coming up on Palm Beach ’s busiest shopping street, Worth Avenue. We slowed for half a second.

“Always wanted to try this…” Champ gunned the bike again.

He jerked the Ducati to the left. Suddenly we were heading up Worth Avenue. Against traf fi c .

The wrong way !

THIS WAS THE craziest yet!

We were zigzagging through oncoming cars, swerving out of people’s way. Tourists and other shoppers on the sidewalk pointed as if it were some kind of show. We cut between two cars, people pointing, their heads craning. I was praying I didn’t hear the sound of a police siren.

We dodged a man loading an SUV, then sideswiped an antique pedestal. It shattered into pieces on the ground. Oh shit…We drove past the Phillips Galleries. I glanced behind. Amazingly, the Hummer had made the turn and was still behind us, horn blaring madly against anyone blocking the way. It was as if the driver knew he had immunity if he got caught.

“Champ, we have to get out of here,” I said. “Get off this street.”

He nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

We made a sharp right, zipping into an entrance to the Poincietta Country Club. I glanced behind. The Hummer had made its way through the obstacle course of traffic. It was still following us.

Champ hit the accelerator and we picked up speed, approaching a golf course. Through hedges I could see golfers on a fairway. The Hummer was still closing.

I gripped Champ’s waist. “I’m up for ideas.”

“How’s your golf game, buddy?”

“My what?”

“Hold on!” He jerked the Ducati at a sharp right angle, sparks slashing up from the pavement. We blasted right through an opening in the hedges, branches whipping my face.

Suddenly we were off the road and in the middle of a perfectly manicured golf fairway!

Ten yards in front of us some poor guy with a five iron was about to play his shot to the green.

“Sorry, playing through!” Champ shouted as the Ducati sped past. Two golf partners in a cart looked on, as if they were in someone else’s crazy nightmare. Maybe they were. “Dogleg a bit to the right,” Geoff said. “I’d play a fade.”