Джеймс Паттерсон - Target - Alex Cross

Lester Holt sat at his anchor desk. “Acting president Larkin and Senator Talbot have agreed to let the chief justice of the Supreme Court decide who should lead the nation. In the meantime, Secretary of Defense Harold Murphy clings to life. If Murphy lives, he’ll also have a claim to the Oval Office. Could the situation be cloudier?”

Carstensen’s phone buzzed. She answered, listened, punched her fist in the air, and then looked at us and smiled. “The CIA just snatched Viktor Kasimov from a brothel in Tangier. They’re bringing him here.”

Following Cruz’s instructions, the marina security guard, Jared Goldberg, had driven east by southeast, staying on residential and county secondary roads whenever possible. There were plenty of vehicles out after dark, which was a relief.

In the assassin’s worst-case scenario, he’d imagined a roadblock at every main intersection in a sixty-mile circle around Washington, DC. But he guessed that would have required calling out the National Guard from five or six states. Maybe more.

According to the all-news satellite station Goldberg had turned on, that had not yet happened and was unlikely to, given the projected short period of martial law. Three more days, Cruz thought. Three more days and I can make a real move.

He shivered. He almost swooned. He needed a doctor. Fast.

The radio was saying that the curfew would be in effect again at nine p.m. Any vehicles found traveling afterward could be stopped and searched.

Cruz forced himself alert. He needed medical care and a place to hide until—

“Where now?” Goldberg asked, gesturing at traffic signs.

They were coming up on Virginia State Route 17, a four-lane highway that could take them west toward Storck or east toward Interstate 95 and the bridge to the eastern shore of Maryland.

“Go west,” Cruz said.

On the highway, they passed several dairy farms, one called Mill Creek, and then, a good ten miles on and set well back from the highway on a county road, they saw a ranch house and a steel outbuilding.

Cruz caught more than a glimpse, enough to know that the ranch house was lit and that the parking area near the out-building was empty save for a single pickup truck. He also saw the sign at the entrance to the drive before they went by it.

It took a moment for that to alter his thinking. He glanced at his watch: 8:10.

“Get off at the next exit and go back one,” Cruz said.

Goldberg did. At the assassin’s instructions, the security guard drove beyond the pickup in the animal hospital parking lot and stopped where their car would be shielded from view of the highway and County Road 610. As they passed the glass front door to the vet clinic, Cruz saw through it to an empty lobby that was dimly lit.

Someone, probably a veterinary tech, was on the overnight shift, Cruz thought. Well, it was better than nothing.

“You got a cow,” Cruz said to Goldberg after he’d turned the car off.

“What?”

The assassin jabbed the kid in the ribs with the gun barrel. “You ring the bell, and you tell them you’ve got a cow calf that’s birthing breech at Mill Creek Farm, and you need help.”

“I don’t even understand that,” Goldberg said.

“You don’t have to,” Cruz said. “Just say it. A cow calf that’s birthing breech at Mill Creek Farm.”

The security guard muttered something but climbed from the car. Cruz got out after him and followed him down the walkway toward the entrance. It was cold. Their breath clouded in the air.

The assassin stopped ten feet short of the entrance and aimed the gun low and from the hip at Goldberg, who’d halted at the door and glanced at him.

“Do it,” Cruz said. “Or I’ll shoot you.”

Looking miserable, Goldberg rang the buzzer and stood there expectantly.

A few moments later, a woman’s voice came over an intercom.

“Kerry Hospital,” she said.

The security guard looked up at the camera and, to the assassin’s surprise, said exactly what he’d told him to say.

After a pause, she said, “I’ll be right out. Why didn’t Angelo call?”

“Cell tower’s out,” Goldberg said, without hesitation. “So they sent me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m the new hired hand, ma’am.”

“I’ll be right out to follow you back.”

Although Cruz was impressed by how well Goldberg had ad-libbed in the situation, he felt suddenly nauseated; his skin got hot, and he felt dizzy.

He lowered the gun and rested against the wall so he wouldn’t fall.

“She’s coming,” Goldberg said.

“Step back and smile, Jared.”

Cruz heard a dead bolt thrown, and the door was pushed open. A stout blonde in her forties stepped out. She wore winter gear and carried a large bag.

“Dr. Kerry,” she said, holding out her mitten. “You keep her on her feet? Or is she down?”

Goldberg looked confused.

“The cow?”

Cruz stepped up and aimed the gun at the vet from point-blank range. “She’s still on her feet,” he said. “Get back inside, Doc. Now.”

Dr. Kerry’s eyes widened in shock and fear. She stepped back, and then she saw his face and registered the fact that he was wearing a wet suit and booties. She turned, terrified.

“Now!” Cruz said.

The veterinarian was shaking, but she did as she was told.

“You too, Jared.”

“Haven’t I done enough? Can’t I just go, man?”

“No.”

Goldberg didn’t like it, but he went inside. The assassin followed.

He turned the dead bolt, then looked at Dr. Kerry, who was summoning her courage. She stood straighter, said, “What do you want?”

“You’re going to take care of my left arm,” Cruz said. “Gunshot wound.”

Her chin dipped. “I’m not an MD.”

“Large-animal vet is close enough,” he said. “Get it cleaned out and give me IV antibiotics and some painkillers, and Jared and I will be on our way.”

Forty minutes later, a grim-faced Dr. Kerry taped the last bandage in place.

“That’s the best I can do,” she said. “You’ll need a real surgeon if you want to use that arm properly again.”

Cruz grunted and felt himself on the verge of nodding off, something he could absolutely not do. Not when the veterinarian or Goldberg might overpower him. He shook his head to clear it.

He’d refused general anesthesia, though he’d let the vet shoot lidocaine into the wound before she gave him IV antibiotics. But he’d taken less than half the dose of painkiller she recommended in an effort to stay conscious as long as possible.

Cruz motioned with the pistol in his right hand. “I see zip ties all over the place. Get me six long ones.”

Kerry hesitated, then went to a closet and found six.

Cruz had her put zip ties around her ankles and the marina security guard’s. Then he had them restrain each other’s wrists. With the last two zip ties, Cruz bound their wrists low and tight to one of the steel bars that supported the kennel cages.

“I won’t gag you,” he said. “But if you start yelling, I’ll kill you. Understand?”

Goldberg looked petrified as he bobbed his head. Dr. Kerry just nodded.

Cruz needed sleep desperately, but he had things to do first.

He left them. He turned off the outside lights and found Kerry’s personal office. He sat at the veterinarian’s desk and used Goldberg’s cell phone to dial a number from memory. He heard clicks and hissing before the man he knew as Piotr came on.

“Talk,” Piotr said in Russian.