Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

All she wanted to do now was close out the contract and return to her ranch, in Colombia. At least for a little while, until she had to come back to New York and finish her other business.

Her stomach growled, and she realized she had forgotten to eat. She needed to get out, relax a little bit, and wait for the information she needed to become public.

Alex stepped into the bathroom and combed out her long, dark hair. At five feet six, with muscular shoulders and other curves, she knew she’d never be a model, but she appreciated what God had given her to work with.

Her version of self-reliance would terrify most people. It required constant physical fitness and mental sharpness, without slipping. And right now, self-preservation meant she had to get the hell out of New York as soon as possible.

Despite my arguments, the doctors wouldn’t release me from the hospital that night, and it was too late to let the kids visit me. A day without seeing my kids was torture. When I told the doctor that, all she said was, “Then this is our version of waterboarding.”

Dr. Carole Fredrick looked like she was fifteen, but I could tell by the way she handled me that she was a veteran of emergency-room medicine and experienced at dealing with stubborn patients. Even patients who were with the NYPD and had an army of children to back them up if they needed it.

Dr. Fredrick said, “And please don’t think you can change my mind. I have a three-year-old at home, and I can assure you that if she can’t make me budge on a decision, neither can you.”

I believed her.

They set me up in a semiprivate room where my obese roommate was unconscious when I arrived. I didn’t know if that was a permanent state or one that just occurred nightly, but it was clear that the man wasn’t stirring for the rest of the night.

Mary Catherine tucked the blankets around my chin like I was a child. She began updating me about the kids, speaking so softly it was hard for me to hear.

Seamus said, “You don’t need to keep it down on account of his roommate. That guy is sawing wood.” He chuckled as he looked over at the man.

I said, “Is that any way for a priest to talk?”

“What? I’m not hurting his feelings. I’m not even saying anything bad. It’s just that we don’t have to worry about disturbing him.”

I looked at the thin, eighty-one-year-old man who’d been a pillar for me throughout my life. After my grandmother died, he sold his bar and, to everyone’s surprise, was admitted to the seminary. He became a priest with life experiences unlike anyone else in the Catholic Church, but his new vocation had not changed the man he was one bit. All it did was alter his clothing. He was still obnoxious and opinionated. He was also loyal, caring, and more devout than any man I knew. He loved each one of my ten adopted children as if he had been there at their births, and he cared for my first wife like she was his daughter. When she died of cancer, he was as lost as I was. And now, years later, he had accepted Mary Catherine into the family wholly and unconditionally.

I said, “It’s getting late. Why don’t you guys get some sleep? I’ll be home sometime tomorrow.”

Mary Catherine said, “I’m staying here tonight.”

“In that chair? I don’t think so. Get a good night’s sleep, and I promise it will be better for all of us tomorrow.”

Mary Catherine took a sharp tone, which always brought out her Irish accent more acutely. “I won’t sleep a wink tonight, whether I’m lying in our bed or sitting in that chair. So please stop arguing with me.”

I knew when I was beaten. I had to be satisfied that at least Seamus was going to go home and rest.

Mary Catherine moved to the edge of my bed and carefully brushed hair away from the stitches in my forehead. I liked the feeling of her fingers playing with my hair and the warmth of her body close to mine.

After a few minutes, I said, “Thank you for staying. This is nice.”

“Yes, it is. I’m sorry you have to get blown to smithereens just so I can have a few quiet moments with you.”

“You know that’s not true. I always have time for you.”

She smiled and said, “I know you do. It’s just that with the kids and everything else, alone time is a precious commodity.”

“You know, if we went on a honeymoon, we’d have plenty of time alone together.” I said it casually but was afraid I was crossing a line. We had discussed dates for our wedding, but I kept getting the feeling Mary Catherine wasn’t quite ready.

She said, “If we went on a honeymoon while you were in this kind of condition, I’m afraid you wouldn’t survive.”

Somehow I managed to chuckle. The movement hurt my back.

She said, “Let’s not talk about a date just yet. We’ve got plenty to work out before we take on the planning of the wedding.”

It was hard to argue with logic like that. I was about to suggest she climb under the covers with me when the door to my room burst open.

A tall African American nurse with stylish glasses and a somewhat severe expression stared at us.

The middle-aged nurse said, “I know I’m not seeing a visitor in a semiprivate room more than an hour after visiting hours are over. Tell me that’s not what I’m seeing.”

Mary Catherine stammered, “You don’t understand—”

The nurse didn’t let her finish. “No, sugar, you don’t understand. I can’t show any favorites. Even if this young man is a hero and risked his life for the city today, it’s my job to make sure pretty young things like you don’t throw off his schedule. Now, you need to head out of here, get a good night’s rest, and come back at 10:00 a.m. Not before. Wait until at least ten o’clock.”

I had to smile. That was how you handled someone. She could’ve been a cop or a priest or a teacher. Thank God she was a nurse.

Alex slipped into Aretsky’s Patroon well after the usual dinner crowd had gotten settled. The popular steak house near 46th Street and Third Avenue was one of her favorite stops in the city. There was no denying her South American heritage. She was a meat eater.

Deciding that a seat at the cozy bar was her best bet, Alex slid onto an empty stool at the end of the bar with no one near her. She ordered a glass of 201 °Carmignano from the thin bartender, whom she recognized. He gave her a quick smile and even managed to wink his drooping right eye.

After she ordered her favorite dish, the roasted veal chop with fennel and vegetables, she relaxed for the first time all day. She liked the comfortable atmosphere of the bar. Sports memorabilia hung high on the walls. A bat from Derek Jeter over the door. One of Wayne Gretzky’s hockey sticks from his last game as a New York Ranger behind the bar.

She sipped her wine and thought about her life back in Colombia. That was where she wanted to be. In the open spaces, with people who loved her. Not in a crowded, dirty city with people she was paid to kill.

She was a little bothered that she couldn’t find the information she needed to close her contract on Michael Bennett. The Mexican cartel liaison she dealt with, who constantly bragged about his contacts, wasn’t able to help her, either. She learned a new lesson about depending on the cartel’s contacts. She hadn’t developed her own for this job and was in the dark. She didn’t like the feeling.

Her cartel contact knew only that one of the gunmen she had used was at NewYork — Presbyterian in the ICU.

Alex wasn’t going to let that ruin her night. She lingered over her delicious meal and even chatted with the bartender a little bit. He had an eastern European accent, but his name tag said LARRY.