Джеймс Паттерсон - The Red Book

Half a mile in pure, agonizing pain.

Ahead of him, the tunnel, utter blackness, no lighting, artificial or otherwise.

His night-vision goggles still around his neck. He puts them on. The tunnel lights up in a green glow.

He listens. No footsteps pounding down the staircase behind him. They aren’t chasing him. There were injuries: Harney took one in the forearm he wrapped around Trev while using him as a shield. The other one, the woman, was hit by Nicolas.

They’re hurt and probably headed to the hospital. He has some time.

He drags his foot, shuffling forward. God, he can hardly move.

This wasn’t supposed to be a problem. This was supposed to be a victory lap. Trev and Nicolas, they would carry him through this tunnel like a king after a successful ambush on Harney.

Instead, Trev and Nicolas are dead. And Harney isn’t.

He was supposed to come alone.

Porter assured him that Harney would come alone.

Disco’s fucked now—he knows it. The general, he doesn’t make idle threats. No chance he’ll let Disco live after this.

He has to put Chicago in his rearview mirror, right now, and disappear.

He must go on the run, with a severed toe that all but incapacitates him, with a boot full of blood, with pain so excruciating his eyes water, his jaw aches from clenching.

He has to get to his car. He has to get his money.

As he drags himself forward, firearm in one hand, he pulls out his burner phone, the face lighting up. Finds the caller ID for Porter. Dials it…

No cell reception underground.

He puts the phone in his pocket and keeps slogging forward.

Chapter 97

PORTER SITS inside the car, the police scanner squawking, staring at the burner phone in his hand.

Twenty-one minutes ago, Disco texted him, told him Harney was on his way into the building, just as they planned.

Twenty-one minutes. And no follow-up.

Nothing from Disco. Nothing from the scanner about an officer-involved shooting or the need for an ambulance.

He sends a text message to Disco. A single question mark.

Did Harney sniff out the ambush? Did he know he was being snookered?

It wouldn’t surprise Porter. But it shouldn’t matter. Harney was alone, and he was facing heavily armed men with special-ops training.

Edgy, anxious, he busies himself looking over the short dossier he has compiled on Harney, naming him as a dirty cop on the take, protecting human traffickers.

Compiled might be a generous word. Porter made the whole thing up. Pure fiction. But who will contradict it if Harney’s dead or “disappears”?

And if Harney somehow survived, well, Porter has that covered, too. That’s plan B.

Porter always has a plan B.

Chapter 98

I PUT the cherry on my dashboard and race to the hospital.

“Keep the pressure on it,” I tell Sadie, in the back seat with Carla.

Carla’s head is back against the seat cushion, eyes closed, grimacing like she’s being tortured, as Sadie puts pressure on Carla’s left shoulder wound.

“Who were they, Sadie?” I ask. “Those men who kept you?”

“Trev and Nicolas and Disco,” she says, bracing herself in the back seat.

“Which ones are dead?”

“Trev was on floor. Nicolas was…up.”

“So Disco got away? What’s his name? Full name?”

“I do not know.”

“Where does he live?”

“I do not know.”

“They sent you to me. It was a setup.”

“They sent me, yes. You…knew?”

Not for sure, I didn’t. But it felt a little too easy. Either way, it didn’t matter. Ambush or otherwise, I wanted to meet them.

We roll up to the drive of the ER. I pop out of the car, wave my star inside, get a gurney and medics to my car within seconds.

I put my hand on Carla’s forehead as they place her on the gurney. “I’ll be right here,” I say.

“Go.” She can hardly speak. “Do what you need to do.”

They wheel her in, pop her through some doors, leave us behind in the main waiting area.

“You need to be looked at, too, Officer,” says a nurse.

My bloody forearm. Hurts like hell. “Give me a minute.”

I pull Sadie to the side, whisper in her ear. “When was the last time you scored?”

She shakes her head, denies it.

“Sadie, I’m not looking to jam you up. I’m here to help you. Do you believe me?”

She looks at me. I can imagine what’s running through her mind. She’s probably never been able to trust a man in her entire life.

She makes a decision. Same one she made by getting into my car.

“What’s your real name?” I ask.

“Viviana.”

“Viviana, when’s the last time you scored?”

“Three hours ago. Is okay. Okay for a while.”

For a while. And then she’ll start jonesing. Her skin will start to crawl as she itches for another fix.

I dial my phone. “Sosh, are you sober?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’m at my nephew’s baseball game.”

“I need a strike team. Tonight. I don’t have time to explain. I need you to start mobilizing. I’ll give you the details later.”

I punch out the phone.

“Officer, we need to look at that arm.”

“Fine. She’s coming with me.”

I take Viviana by the hand as they move me into a room behind a curtain. “You need to tell me everything,” I say to her.

Chapter 99

THE DOCTOR looks at my forearm. Not a bad place to be shot, if you’re gonna be shot. The bullet went clean through, so there’s nerve damage—probably physical therapy and maybe surgery down the road. But I’m fine. The doc treats it to avoid an infection and dresses it.

Viviana—“Sadie”—talks to me while I hold her hand. She stutters through her broken English, her tears and sobs. She tells me the different ways the girls come here—they’re abducted; they’re lured away from orphanages under false pretenses; they’re pulled off the street. They’re all young girls who won’t be missed—runaways or junkies who won’t have families looking for them.

The beatings, the rapes, the men they’re sold to, night after night, but mostly the drugs.

The drugs tie it all together. Oxycodone, it turns out, not heroin, taken in pill form, so these girls don’t rake up their arms with needle marks. Once they’re hooked, it’s all that matters. They’ll do anything for more. You don’t need an armada of men to keep them captive in some hideaway. Shit, you probably don’t even need to lock the door. You’ve got the only thing they want, the only thing they need, the only thing in the entire world they care about: the next fix. As long as you let them dress you up fancy, as long as you perform sex acts with some creep every night, those fixes will keep coming.

You think, after you’ve been a cop for a long time, that nothing can affect you anymore.

I call Sosh again. “How we doin’, brother?”

“Getting a team together. Got an unmarked there now.”

“Good. Wait for me if you can. Only if you can.”

I punch out, hear a woman’s voice.

“I’m a cop. And I’m his sister. You better step aside right now.”

Patti, fighting her way through the medical staff to get to me. They try to stop her, they’re gonna need medical attention, too.

She whips the curtain open and sizes me up, touches my arm, quickly looks me over, puts a hand on my face, studying me. “Just the arm?”

“Yeah, and it’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, thank Christ.” She nods, takes a breath of relief, tears welling up.

I stand up, open my good arm. “C’mere.”

She embraces me, dissolves into full-throttle sobbing.

“I’m sorry, Patti. I’m…sorry.”

The doctor, his work done and not wanting to be a part of this emotional family reunion, holds up a scrip for me and mouths to me about a follow-up with my own doctor. I nod to him and thank him.