Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

We walked almost to the next block, then as we were about to turn around and head back to the administration building, I noticed two men turn the corner toward us on the sidewalk. Nothing seemed out of place. The calm atmosphere around the church and the cool breeze were too serene to pose a threat.

Now the two men were directly in front of us on the sidewalk, about fifteen feet away. One of the men, about forty-five, with sleeves of tattoos on both arms, casually reached under his shirt as the other man, younger and thinner, reached behind him.

It was a classic gesture of pulling a gun. I was embarrassed I let them get so close to us. I just hadn’t noticed the danger.

The men kept moving and were almost in front of us. I only had time to deal with one of them. It was a dangerous choice to make in a split second. My hope was that the other one would be scared into running away.

I closed the distance on the tattooed man just as his blue steel revolver came up in front of him. I blocked his arm with both hands quickly, then lowered my shoulder and hit him with everything I had.

I don’t know if he planned it or if it was just luck, but at almost the same moment, the man swung the gun wildly to get enough room to fire. The butt of the gun grazed me across the temple. I literally saw stars, like I was a cartoon character.

Now I had both men right next to me. Someone was either going to beat me again with the revolver or shoot me. Either way I was in deep shit.

I was dizzy from the blow to the head and backing away, trying to buy time. That’s when I saw a movement to my right. It took me a moment to realize it was the graceful form of Father Alonzo as he stepped into the fray.

He took out the younger man with a hard right cross, knocking the gun out of his hand as he did it. The young man bounced off a tree and fell onto the sidewalk.

That stole the attention of the tattooed man right in front of me. Now that I was already leaning down, I followed through by throwing my entire body weight into him. He stumbled over his friend.

Alonzo faced off against the man with the tattoos, but I yelled, “Gun!” The single common police command whenever a cop sees someone with a gun. It was like a smack in the face to Alonzo, who, realizing the man was still armed, darted to the other edge of the sidewalk.

Now my head was clear, and I reached back for the pistol on my hip. Both men were on their feet and running toward the next block. They realized this was not going to be their day.

A green Chevy came around the corner. I focused on the man with the gun running from me.

The driver of the Chevy opened fire with a small-caliber machine gun. As a bullet pinged off a car and broke a window behind me, I ducked behind a parked Lincoln. Alonzo managed to leap over the wall at the edge of a courtyard between two buildings. I was shocked at how quickly he could move. Automatic gunfire tended to have that effect on people.

I did a quick survey of the area to make sure there were no civilians in the crossfire. Two women across the street were scurrying away, and some young men walking near the avenue knew it was time to lie flat on the ground. That came from experience.

I fired one round from behind the Lincoln, then the Chevy sped up. When it was parallel to me, and the man with the machine gun had taken a break, I sprang out of my position and popped off two more rounds.

The men who had attacked us piled into the car.

All I could do was stare as the green Chevy Cruze with no license plate navigated the street.

I was panting from the excitement and exertion. My head was pounding from the blow. I was wondering at what point I needed to start worrying about repeated blows to my head causing some kind of serious trauma.

Then I realized I might have a chance. The car was slowing as it approached the nearest intersection. I knew this neighborhood. Even on foot I might be able to at least get into a position to identify them later. Right now I didn’t relish the idea of explaining to a detective that I couldn’t get a license number or a decent description.

With great effort, I stood up, but as I started to run, I felt a hand on my arm. My head snapped to my left, and I saw Father Alonzo.

“Don’t be stupid, my friend. You’ll get them later.”

I looked at the priest who had just beaten back a couple of armed men and dived for cover like he was one of the X-Men, and said to him, “Who are you?” My voice cracked from my confusion. He was like no priest I had ever met.

The tall Colombian smiled and did a theatrical bow.

“Alonzo Garcia, at your service.”

After I got quizzed about the attack by a precinct detective named Toby Reed and his partner, Brian Wong, and after I had answered a few questions from Harry Grissom, I knew exactly what I had to do. I tried not to broadcast my next move. I always like playing my cards close to my vest. So I eased away from my lieutenant and the detectives, who were now badgering Father Alonzo, and made a beeline for one of the places I least liked to go in New York.

I headed south to lower Manhattan, past Little Italy. The FBI office was in Federal Plaza, on the corner of Broadway and Worth Street. The towering glass-and-metal building was a typical federal structure without much flair or imagination. Subtle two-foot-high decorative metal barriers surrounded it to thwart any potential suicide bomber in a vehicle.

Three NYPD Suburbans carrying armed SWAT team members sat outside the building as an off-duty security detail. They were there twenty-four hours a day.

I needed to keep my visit as quiet as possible, so I had made a phone call first. I never did a favor for someone and expected it to be repaid. But in this case, I had to at least ask.

Three years ago, when Marion Wan’s estranged husband kidnapped their five-year-old son, she did what any smart FBI analyst would do and went to the NYPD immediately. I happened to be speaking with one of my old friends in the 105th Precinct, near Floral Park, in Queens, when Marion came in, nearly hysterical.

I was able to short-circuit some of the paperwork and figure out that her estranged husband, who worked for the New York City fire department, listed an emergency address on Long Island. It was the girlfriend he had left Marion for.

An hour after Marion had come into the NYPD, I was honored to see a tearful reunion between Marion and her son.

That’s why she came out the front door of the office building and walked with me to the McDonald’s across the street. After we had coffee and caught up for a few minutes, Marion read my anxious glances at her notes.

She gave me a sly smile and said, “Okay, I guess you want to talk about your best friend, Alonzo Garcia.”

I said, “You may think you’re being sarcastic, but right about now he is my best friend. The son of a gun saved my life. But he did it with skill and experience. I’m just worried about where he might have gotten that skill.”

Marion pulled open her notes and said, “I did all the usual stuff. Public records. Searched media databases in Colombia and New York. No arrests, and he’s here on a work visa through the Catholic Church.”

“Huh. Never even occurred to me that he’d have to have an immigration status. I guess I assumed the Catholic Church could fix anything.”

Marion said, “I had to go an extra couple of steps. I called our legat office in Bogotá. The FBI has more than a dozen agents there. One of their senior people knows Garcia personally.”

“You have my complete attention.”

“The agent in Bogotá knew Alonzo because he was a captain in the Colombian national police. Early in his career, he fought the FARC rebels — some people call them the People’s Army. Then he focused his attention on narcotics. He worked closely with our DEA and has a ton of commendations.”