Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

She wasted no time after the first strike missed me. The woman threw a front kick aimed at my groin.

I blocked it with my right arm, then tried to bring the pistol up again.

She brought the stiletto down and slashed my forearm.

My hand opened involuntarily, and my service weapon clattered to the ground.

The assassin kicked my pistol under the cab and out of my reach.

Blood soaked the shredded sleeve of my jacket. It took a second to register the pain as it shot up my arm.

I took a step back, a little dazed, then faced the assassin as she thrust the stiletto at my heart. She let out a grunt, or maybe it was a “Kiai” she’d learned from her Colombia-based martial-arts instructor.

I shifted a fraction and felt the stiletto skitter across my shirt. That was close.

I lifted my right arm and wrapped my hand around hers — the one that held the stiletto. She was faster than I was and had more pure fighting skill, so I had to use my size advantage. I held on to her hand even as she struck my face with her left elbow.

I lifted her off the ground, then both of us tumbled to the sidewalk. I landed on top of the woman, who, for all her skill, was still seventy pounds lighter than I was.

The stiletto made a clinking noise as it fell onto the sidewalk.

I felt the fight go out of her.

It was over.

It took a moment to secure the assassin with handcuffs and make sure I had all her weapons. She stood up gracefully even with her hands cuffed. She faced me with a look of defiance.

I held my right forearm in an effort to slow the bleeding from the gash she had given me with that stiletto. Blood dripped onto the white sidewalk in a crazy red pattern.

I felt the anger rise off me. This woman had caused me so much pain.

“What’s your name?”

She gave me a pretty smile and said, “At this time, I’m not going to say anything.”

“You won’t tell me who wants me dead?”

“I think you might have already figured that out.” Then she looked at me as if we were having a conversation. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a police officer as relentless as you.”

“You gave me plenty of motivation.”

“You could’ve always taken your family and gone into hiding.”

“There was another reason why I couldn’t let you slip away.”

She looked intrigued as she said, “And what could that reason possibly be?”

“Antrole Martens.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was my partner who was killed by a hand grenade. Or do you not even pay attention when innocent people are killed?”

“I feel it. After my work is done.”

“His wife and two children feel it every day. And now continue to struggle. Maybe the rest of their lives. There’s no way I could ever run from someone like you.”

The woman shrugged and said, “Too bad. It would’ve saved a lot of heartache for everyone.”

I gave her a hard stare and said, “Will you talk to me? We might be able to do some good.”

She shook her head and said, “I’m afraid I can say nothing more until after I speak to my attorney.”

It was over. I felt a wave of emotion rock through me. I managed to say, “You’re under arrest.”

She just nodded. Then, after a moment, she said, “How did you know where I would run to?”

I saw a patrol car down the street racing toward me. I gave her a little smile. “I’m a New Yorker. I know where the tourists will head.”

Two weeks after the shoot-out in Brooklyn, the entire family attended a ceremony for Father Alonzo at Holy Name. He had only been out of the hospital for a week, but the city seemed desperate to honor a brave citizen.

The local media had produced dozens of stories about the “hero priest” who’d risked his life. Even the young doctor who’d treated him at the hospital had gained some notoriety, interviewed by the Today show and Fox News.

The media coverage, as well as his storied career in the Colombian national police, attracted visitors from near and far. All the bigwigs from the NYPD, as well as the Catholic archdiocese, sat just behind us with the mayor, though he had a rocky relationship with the police department.

There were a dozen members of the Colombian national police who came to pay their respects. They seemed pleased that they could make a claim on the priest who had helped capture a killer.

Father Alonzo was not required to speak to the crowd, only to stand and accept an acrylic plaque from the police commissioner. He looked stiff and had told me he was a little sore from the bullet.

Seamus sat next to Alonzo during the short ceremony. He was beaming as if he had trained Alonzo in his fighting skills. I knew he had some remarks to make.

I noticed that he sat during the entire service, and it made me worry about his health and stamina. But when the time came, he stepped to the microphone and was the picture of solemn dignity.

He looked down and smiled at his great-grandchildren, just as he did whenever he gave the sermon during the regular Sunday service.

He cleared his throat and had every person in the room staring at him.

Seamus started slowly at first. “Alonzo Garcia makes a difference in the world. How many people can say that? He was a respected police officer in Colombia until God called him to service in the Church. No matter how you look at him — as a cop, as a priest, or as a man — he is an inspiration.

“I can tell you personally, few people have meant more to me in my life.” He looked down at Juliana, and a tear ran down his cheek.

Then I found a tear running down my cheek. Though I’d never admit it to Seamus.

At the reception following the ceremony, I met many of Alonzo’s former comrades from the Colombian national police. Alonzo sat whenever he could, and I was worried he was getting tired. Seamus was watching him like a mother hen, so I figured he’d keep Alonzo from overdoing it.

One of Alonzo’s early partners was second-in-charge of the entire force, and he was clearly proud of his friend. He stepped over to speak with me.

The tall colonel said, “We’re aware of the woman who was arrested for shooting Alonzo. Alexandra Martinez works on the fringes of the underworld, and there are many rumors. Some people call her the Beautiful Death.”

I said, “She certainly had me running in circles. If it wasn’t for Alonzo, I’d be dead.”

“Every man in this room who came to pay respects from Colombia could say the same thing.”

“I’m sure Alonzo appreciates you guys traveling so far.”

“We were also interested in gathering any information you have on Miss Martinez.”

“She hasn’t said much. But at least we have some clear booking photos and she’s in some computer systems now.”

“You will be able to convict her, correct?”

“I think we have enough. Not just for shooting Alonzo but also for the murder of a receptionist in the building she was escaping from. We’re also looking at several other homicides we believe she was involved in. You can never count on it, but this sure seems like a strong case to me.”

Almost as soon as I was finished speaking to the colonel, a well-dressed man in his early forties extended his hand and said, “My name is Oscar.” He had an accent, but I couldn’t tell from what country.

I said, “Are you here with the contingent from the Colombian national police?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, Detective. I am decidedly not with them. I am from a business organization based in Mexico.”

I gave him a sidelong glance and said, “What kind of business organization?”