James Patterson - Step On A Crack

“Behind the altar?” he said. “You’re even dirtier than your videos. All right, let’s go.”

Conlan exhaled as Mercedes rose in her pew. This was it.

Two things would happen now. Snow would stomp the hijacker behind the altar, and Conlan would rush the gunman at the back rail. Then they would have two guns, and maybe they’d have a chance to get out of this alive.

Charlie Conlan wiped the sweat from his palms. He knew how risky this was. But it was either fight or wait to be shot like Rooney.

He glanced up at the altar again. Mercedes and the hijacker were glued together as they hurried up the steps.

Now.

Conlan stood in his pew. Suddenly there was an unexpected explosion. What felt like a steel fist slammed into the small of his back.

There was another explosion, and an iron blow caught him in the chin. Without knowing how it had happened, he was down on his back, numb and bleeding, struggling to stay conscious.

He heard Todd Snow yell out. Snow had been rushing toward the gangly hijacker when three others suddenly appeared. They fired on him-rubber bullets!

Conlan watched, horrified, as the quarterback dropped. Then Little John walked out from the larger church. He stepped up to Snow.

“You thought you could take us? You? That old man ?” Little John said as he put his boot on Snow’s chest.

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he took a rubber bullet gun from one of his colleagues. He placed its bore between the athlete’s eyes. Then he seemed to reconsider. Instead, he placed the muzzle on the star’s right hand, his throwing hand. He stepped on the wrist to hold it still.

“Interference,” Little John yelled in a canned ref’s voice. “Ten yards. First down. And I’m placing you on the permanent DL.”

The pop of the gun firing was swallowed by Snow’s scream.

Conlan looked on as Mercedes Freer walked up to Little John. What the hell was she doing now?

He watched as she was handed a cell phone. Then a cigarette. He realized what had happened as Little John chivalrously lit it for her.

“You sold us out,” Conlan croaked. “You insane little bitch.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes at Conlan.

“Merry Christmas, Momma,” Conlan heard her say into the cell phone as the numbness in his face started to warm. “Stop cryin’,” he heard her say. “It’s okay. These boys aren’t so bad. They’ll let me go, don’t you worry about it. One thing you taught Mercedes is how to take care of herself.”

WITH THE ABSENCE of traffic on Christmas morning, I got back to St. Patrick’s in near record time. Even the pedestrian and media crowd had thinned out considerably, but I had a feeling that after they finished opening their presents, they’d be back for their fill of blood sport.

As I was coming across the plaza of 630 Fifth, a red-suited Santa walked past with a tray of coffee and a submachine gun strapped across his back. It was Steve Reno.

“Where you delivering presents, Santa? Fallujah?” I said.

“Trying to keep up morale, Mike,” Reno said through his cotton-ball beard.

“You have a harder job than me,” I said.

Paul Martelli almost tackled me as I got off the elevator at the command center.

“We did it, Mike,” he said. “Five minutes ago, we got the last of it. All the money. It’s ready to go.”

“Any chance we’ll be able to trace it?” I asked.

Martelli shrugged his shoulders. “We know it’s set to go to an account in the Caymans. They will wire it somewhere else immediately, then somewhere else. Eventually, we could probably put enough political pressure on the bank down there to tell us where it was sent, but by then it will probably have been shot to another numbered account in Switzerland or who the hell knows where. The white-collar crime guys are working on it. If we are able to trace it, it’s going to take some time.”

Well, at least we had gotten the money together, I thought. That was something.

I turned as Commander Will Matthews came out of the boardroom. I winced at his stubbled cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes. All he’d gotten this Christmas was an ulcer.

“We ready to go?” Will Matthews said to Ned Mason.

Mason stood up, cupping a phone receiver, and said, “Bank’s just waiting on you to give the final word.” Mason looked eager to get this over with, too. He hadn’t been much help, but at least he had stayed around to observe.

Will Matthews took off his five-point cap and clawed a hand through his flattop before he took the receiver.

“This is Borough Commander Will Matthews,” he said. “I hate like hell to say this. Wire the money.”

I followed my boss back into the boardroom and stood with him as he silently gazed at the cathedral.

Finally, he turned to me.

“You get those bastards on the phone one more time, Mike. Tell them they got their blood money. Now let these poor people go.”

“How do you think they’re going to try to get away, Commander?” I finally said.

“Let’s just see, Bennett,” Will Matthews said, gazing malevolently across Fifth Avenue. “The suspense is killing me.”

I WENT BACK OUT to the communications desk in the outer office. The sergeant, who had been the lead tech guy since this thing began, nodded at me with anticipation. “What’s up, Mike? What now?”

“Can you ring me into the cathedral?” I said.

The sergeant blinked repeatedly, then nodded. He stood immediately, swept the paper off his desk, and flipped open a laptop.

“Give me a minute,” he said, which was about all it took.

“Yello,” Jack said as the sergeant handed me a phone.

“It’s Mike,” I said. “The money’s been wired.”

“All of it?” Jack said.

“All of it. You got what you wanted.”

“Let me see about that,” Jack said skeptically.

I could hear some key clicks in the background. They were checking up on the account from inside the cathedral. Wasn’t the Internet just the best?

“Mikey, me boyo. What a wonderful gift,” Jack finally said after a minute. “I’m about to explode with Christmas joy.”

“We fulfilled our part of the bargain,” I said, ignoring yet another of his wiseass comments. “We’ve done exactly what you wanted. Now you have to do your part. It’s time to let the hostages go.”

“All in due time, Mike,” Jack said calmly. “All in due time. The hostages will be released all right, but on our terms. What would be the point of getting shot like dogs after all this good work? You know what I’m saying? Here’s what we’re going to need. You got a pen?”

“Tell me,” I said.

“Okay. Here goes. In twenty minutes, I want eleven identical black sedans with dark tinted windows, gassed and ready, parked out front at the Fifth Avenue entrance. The doors will be left open , and the engines left running . Fifth Avenue will be cleared all the way to One thirty-eighth, and Fifty-seventh will be cleared river to river. It goes without saying that any effort to stop and detain us will result in a vast amount of death. If all our demands are met, the remaining hostages will be released unharmed.”

“Anything else?” I said.

“Nope, that’s it,” Jack said. “ Arrivederci , Mikey. It’s been a real hoot.”

I almost couldn’t believe it when I heard a dial tone in my ear. That was it?

All they wanted was eleven cars? Where did they think they were going to drive? Mexico?

Behind me, I heard the borough commander speaking into his radio, telling the task force cops to clear Fifth and 57th and to block the side streets off. He got on another radio and told all the rooftop snipers to get ready.