James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

Oh, great. I’m lost in Brooklyn.

“Excuse me,” I say to the next person I pass, a young woman with a backpack. She can’t be more than twenty. “Do you know where I can find the F train?”

She barely slows down. “Sorry, I’m not from around here.”

You and me both.

Farther down the block I see an older man, perhaps in his seventies, sitting on a stoop reading theDaily News. He looks sort of like Ernest Borgnine.

“The F train, huh?” He points over my shoulder. “The first thing you want to do is turn around.”

I do exactly that as he begins to rattle off the lefts and rights I need to take. I’m listening as best I can, trying to keep track. Did he say two lefts before the right or one?

I’m about to ask him to repeat everything when I see something I don’t want to see.

Someone, actually. A man.

It may be dusk, but I can see him clear as day. That’s what having darkroom eyes will do for you.

I wait a second, and again he pokes his head out from behind the white delivery truck double-parked at the corner. I don’t even need to see the face.

All it takes is the ponytail.

“HEY, LADY, YOU’RE GOING the wrong way again!” growls the old man on the stone stoop.

Not as far as I’m concerned. Lost in Brooklyn is one thing. Killed is another.

I’m not quite running. It’s more like speed walking. Nervously, I glance over my shoulder, my eyes scanning the entire street.

I don’t see the Ponytail now, and that only scares me more because I’m sure -really sure – it’s him again. Does he want to give me another warning? Or are we out of warnings?

I turn a corner and I’m picking up speed. What I need to find is a cop or someone big enough to protect me. Better yet, someone bulletproof. But there’s no help to be found. All I can see is a deserted street, lined with warehouses and heaps of trash.

Is the Ponytail behind me? I look back again, staring hard at the corner.

I don’t see him anywhere coming after me. Not yet, anyway.

The shadows are disappearing, though. Not good news. It’s getting darker by the second.

I keep looking until eventually I’m standing still in the middle of the block. I’m waiting and waiting. Where is he? What does he want with me?

Maybe he took off. Like, for some reason he didn’t want me to see him this time.

A minute passes. Then another. It’s officially night. I can barely make out the corner anymore. The only available light is a streetlamp at the next intersection. With one last glance over my shoulder, I head that way. I still need directions. I’m still lost in Brooklyn.

Then I see it.

A taxi!

It creeps to a stop at the red light hovering over the crosswalk. Twenty feet away – thirty tops. I can hear the engine rumbling.

Hurry! Before the light turns green!

I break into a sprint, my eyes locked on the taxi, desperately willing it not to move.

With one last surge, I close the gap to a few steps. I wave my arms again and shout, “Taxi! Taxi!” There’s no way the cabbie can miss me.

Or so I think.

The light turns green, and the taxi lurches forward. “No!” I yell. “Wait! Hey, stop!”

It doesn’t. I’m steps away, and it’s about to pass right in front of me.

Over my dead body!

I jump right into its path. The cabbie slams on the brakes, the screech of bald tires piercing the air. By the time the substantial chrome bumper rocks to a halt, it’s inches from my kneecaps.

Ignoring the cabbie’s evil eye, I stomp around to climb into the backseat. But when I reach for the door, out of no-where comes another hand.

“Allow me,” he says.

BEFORE I CAN RUN, the Ponytail grabs my arm with an iron grip. Then he swings open the taxi door and roughly shoves me in. I tumble onto the seat, and he slides in right next to me. I’m trapped!

“Shhh,”he immediately whispers, pulling back the lapel on his black sport coat. There’s barely any light, but I can still see it. His gun.

Through the Plexiglas divider, I spot the cabbie – a stocky bald guy like that actor on The Shield – glaring at me in his rearview mirror. “You’re lucky I didn’t run you over,” he says. “I almost hit you.”

“Sorry about that,” I answer while glancing at the Ponytail. “Finding a taxi around here can be murder.”

The Ponytail grips my arm again, even tighter. Ow! He leans in, close to my ear. “Don’t get cute. There’s nothing funny about this, believe me.”

“Where you headed?” asks the cabbie. “I’m not a mind reader, y’know.”

“Just drive,” says the Ponytail. “Stay in the general area. But drive.”

The cabbie flips the meter on and shrugs as if to say, “Hey, it’s your dime.”

And off we go.

I look over at my backseat companion. I don’t want to show fear, but I shudder anyway. His narrow, sharp-featured face is menacing up close. I see a scar beneath the three-day stubble on his cheek. I suspect it’s the kind you don’t get by “accident.” Why is he following me? Is he a cop? Is this about what happened at the Fálcon?

The cabbie fiddles with the radio, turning the volume up on a jazz station.

As scared as I am, there’s a part of me almost emboldened by the idea that my fate is seemingly out of my hands. I’ve got my Bronx up. Or, I should say, my Brooklyn.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Your worst nightmare,” the Ponytail answers, his voice a deep baritone. No accent that I can decipher.

“That’s a very crowded category these days.”

“Serves you right,” he says. “You did this to yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been a bad girl, Kristin. You must know that. You deserve what you’re getting. And it’s going to get worse.”

Another shudder goes through me. “How do you know my name?”

“Trust me; I know a lot more about you than just your name. I know when you moved down here from Boston and why. I know where you live and where you work.”

The conversation flows like the jazz on the radio. Fast and choppy. Also random. Where’s the Ponytail going with this?

Right for my jugular, it turns out.

“Do you love those two kids?” he asks. “Those cute little kids?”

Sean and Dakota?

“What does this have to do with them?”

“Everything, I expect. Those kids are very important in all this.”

“Don’t you dare hurt them,” I snap at him, and raise a fist.

“No,” he says. “Don’t you dare hurt them.”

“Ha! You’re wrong, then,” I say. “You don’t know anything about me.”

The volume dips abruptly on the radio. “Everything okay back there?” asks the cabbie.

It’s clearly not a courtesy question. There’s a note of suspicion and alarm in his voice. He can probably tell something’s wrong.

I don’t want to get this driver killed, but I know about the “panic button” – most every New Yorker does. It triggers a light on the back of the taxi that signals to police that something’s wrong, like a robbery or carjacking in progress.

Or whatever this is.

How do I tip off the driver to push the panic button without getting caught?

The Ponytail clears his throat. He’s not about to let me figure that out.

“Everything’s fine,” he announces.

The cabbie seeks out my eyes in his mirror. “Are you sure, lady?” he asks. “Everything’s fine?”

The Ponytail whispers fast and forcefully in my ear. The way he’s squeezing my arm really hurts. “Tell him to mind his own business.”

I take a deep breath and sigh. “We’re okay,” I say. “No need to panic.”