Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

“Did you get what you needed?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Cellucci swears, hops us up over another rocky ridge. “Good. Because they’re about to get hammered. Saw lots of movement heading their way.”

I say, “How long before we get back to the FOB?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes if I push it,” Cellucci says.

“Push it,” I say. “Can you raise the Ranger detachment there? Major West?”

“I’ll see—”

A flare of light just ahead of us.

Tracer rounds come from a heavy machine gun set in the rocks before us, reaching up and up, wanting to touch us and—

Cellucci swears.

Powers us to the left.

We dive, desperately trying to get ahead of the tracer rounds.

The ground is so close it looks like it can reach up and slap us hard.

Instead the bullets get to us first.

It sounds like a sledgehammer is pounding the metal.

Alarms start sounding from the instrument panel.

Flashing red lights.

Cellucci says, “Brace for—”

We hit, bounce.

Upside down.

Hit again.

Go dark.

Chapter 97

SITTING COMFORTABLY ON the crowded bench in the Sullivan County courtroom, Sheriff Emma Williams doesn’t mind being closed in. She feels like she’s in some sort of religious ceremony, where the powers of right—meaning her, of course—are about to get their due.

The courtroom is as it should be, even with that bitch Peggy Reese of the Sullivan County Times sitting on the other set of benches, quickly scribbling in her reporter’s notebook, as if she’ll be the one to scoop all the media rivals on this. For years Williams has ignored the woman, being just a little irritant in her day-to-day business, but once she gets to DC, she’ll send word to her deputy, Clark Lindsay, that this situation needs to be resolved.

Earlier today she received a text from a detective at the Savannah Police Department, saying that her poor deputy Dwight Dix had been shot yesterday in an apparent robbery at a Waffle House near Savannah, and could she give him a call when she’s free?

Yeah, she thinks. Tomorrow, considering how her day is going.

Before her, Judge Howell Rollins continues his droning, pausing every now and then for a heavy cough.

“…in the name of and on behalf of the citizens of the State of Georgia, charge and accuse Caleb Jefferson with the offense of malice murder, for that the said Caleb Jefferson, in the County of Sullivan and the State of Georgia, on or about the twenty-first of October, did unlawfully, with malice aforethought, cause the death of Stuart Pike, a human being, by shooting Stuart Pike with a handgun, contrary to the laws of the State of Georgia, the good order, peace and dignity thereof.” The judge coughs. “Mr. Jefferson, how do you plead to this charge?”

Williams takes another look around at the quiet spectators, and then she hears the staff sergeant say in that strong voice, “Guilty.”

How confident.

Time to shake that arrogant man’s confidence.

“…on or about the twenty-first of October, did unlawfully, with malice aforethought, cause the death of Lillian Zachary, a human being…”

More blah, blah, blah from that alcoholic judge, and then again, Jefferson’s voice: “Guilty.”

From her pants pocket, she takes out a newspaper clipping from yesterday’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution .

Waits.

“…on or about the twenty-first of October, did unlawfully, with malice aforethought, cause the death of Polly Zachary, a human being…”

At the mention of the little girl, more sighs and muttered voices from the courtroom attendees, and when the noise settles down, Jefferson doesn’t hesitate at all.

“Guilty,” he says.

The last name.

She waits for Judge Howell Rollins to make the final arrangements, gavel everything to a conclusion, so that Jefferson will be taken into her county jail, when he shakes his head, wipes at his lips, and says, “Fifteen-minute recess.”

He slaps the gavel down and stands up from the bench, and the courtroom attendant calls out, “All rise!”

Williams can’t help herself—she turns to the woman standing next to her and whispers loudly, “Looks like the judge needs a rise, too,” and there’s laughter.

The judge’s face flushes in embarrassment. He probably heard what Williams just said, but so what? This is her county, yesterday, today, tomorrow, and next week—forever.

When the judge leaves and everyone sits down, she catches the attention of Cornelius Slate, the district attorney, and beckons him over.

He walks to her, puzzled, and she leans over the court railing, hands him the newspaper clipping.

“Here,” she says. “Take this to Staff Sergeant Jefferson.”

Slate looks at the newspaper clipping. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” she says. “Get a move on, Corny, before the judge comes back.”

Like a good boy, Slate walks over to the Army Ranger, puts the newspaper clipping on the table, and walks back to his chair.

Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson glances at the newsprint, and it’s like he’s just been transported from this safe Georgia courtroom to an FOB in the ’stan, guys yelling, They’re coming through the wire!

The same feeling of danger, of impending death, a dizzying feeling that the safety of one minute ago is gone forever.

The headline reads:

Body of Murdered Ranger Officer Recovered

There’s a small photo of Major Frank Moore, and he doesn’t bother reading the story.

Moore is dead.

The man who was going to protect his stepdaughter, Carol.

He turns in his seat and sees the happy, smiling face of Sheriff Williams looking at him, and if it weren’t for the armed men in this room, he would leap over the railing and strangle her with his handcuffed hands.

Chapter 98 Afghanistan

I COME TO, resting on my side on a bunch of sharp rocks. What a goddamn mess. I turn and grind my teeth at the pain. The crumpled metal and broken glass and torn cables from what was once a multimillion-dollar and gorgeous flying machine lay all around me. All I see is the destroyed Little Bird and lots of rocks.

My legs are stuck.

I gingerly move them.

Both hurt like hell, as well as my left hip.

I cough. Blood in my mouth.

“Hey, Chief,” I call out. “You there, Chief?”

I hear the sound of the wind and the snap-crackle of electric circuitry shorting out somewhere.

Nothing else.

I smell spilled aviation fuel, and the memory of being trapped in that shattered Humvee and seeing the flames approach my trapped legs makes me start shaking.

“Not again,” I whisper. “Please, God, not again.”

There’s a glow of something still working in the shattered instrument panel, and as my eyes adjust, I see the slumped form of Chief Cellucci, still fastened in his seat, dangling upside down, his arms free.

“Chief!” I call out. “Hey, Chief! Are you okay?”

My eyes adjust better to the deepening darkness. A piece of metal broken from the helicopter’s frame has gone right through his neck and out the back.

Guilt hits me like a cold wave. The man is dead because of me, because I bribed him to take me on an unauthorized trip to see a CIA guy…and for nothing.

I tug again at my legs, grit my teeth in pain.

I roll to the left, see my rucksack. I strain and strain with my left arm, grab a strap, drag it over to me.

It takes a lot out of me.

I close my eyes, catch my breath.

At least the crackling of the circuitry is gone.

Maybe the damn thing won’t catch fire after all.

Something is digging into my right hip. I move around, take out my SIG Sauer.

Worthless for the moment.