Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

She watched the couples come and go through the restaurant. This time of the evening it was a decidedly younger crowd, stockbrokers from Wall Street and other young people who thought they would rule the city one day.

Those kinds of ambitions had never interested her. She had wanted to do something creative since she was a little girl. It wasn’t until she was older, after her father was murdered, that she discovered you could be creative in any number of jobs.

Her father’s death, from a single gunshot wound to the head, had affected her in so many ways. Most of them she preferred not to explore too deeply. She’d get nothing of benefit by hanging on to the past.

Her fashion photography had provided a welcome outlet for her creativity. And, surprisingly, she could mix her two occupations with some frequency. It was easy to scout locations for both a photo shoot and a contract. They didn’t necessarily have to be two different places.

Once she had finished most of what was on her plate, just as her mother had taught her to do, Alex raised her hand to catch the bartender’s attention. She noticed that in addition to his drooping right eye, Larry had a shuffle in his gait. He seemed a little young to have suffered a stroke. She wondered if the secret police in his home country were anything like the police she had dealt with in Colombia over the years.

She pulled a simple Yves Saint Laurent leather wallet from her purse. Before she even had it opened, Larry raised his hands.

He had a broad smile when he said, “It’s already been taken care of.”

“What? By whom?”

“The man at the end of the bar by the door.”

Alex turned to see an attractive man a few years older than she was, wearing an expensive suit, raise a glass of Scotch and smile.

She plopped a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and said, “Then this is for you.”

Larry didn’t offer much resistance.

She turned toward the door and walked out with her confident stride. As she was about to reach the man sitting at the end of the bar, she turned her head slightly, smiled, and said, “Thank you for dinner.”

Then she kept walking. The guy was lucky he didn’t try to stop her. She had things to do.

The floor nurse had made the hospital policy clear to Mary Catherine, and my fiancée left without too much fuss. Although I liked having her with me, I felt better knowing she was home and would have a chance to sleep. Besides, it would be more comforting to the kids in the morning if she were there.

The drugs felt like they were starting to wear off, but I wasn’t tired. Instead I found myself staring up at the stained ceiling. I replayed my last moments with Antrole Martens over and over. The sickening sound of the hand grenade as it rolled on the rough, carpeted floor. The stinging of the dust in my eyes from the bullets winging through the wall. The sound of people in the other apartments as they scrambled for their lives. A gunfight could be a complicated and devastating business for a cop. Losing a partner was something you never got over.

I heard my phone ringing somewhere in the room. My son Eddie liked to change the ringtone every few days. For the past week, it had been Robert Plant belting out the words “And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.”

It took me a few moments to realize it was close to me, in the drawer of the night table right next to my head. I fumbled with the drawer and snatched the phone up.

I didn’t recognize the upstate New York number, so I answered it with “Michael Bennett.”

A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Bennett, this is Kathy Morris. I’m the inspector at the Gowanda Correctional Facility.”

Inspectors investigated crimes at prisons. I had a flash of fear about Brian, who was housed at the facility.

I blurted out, “Is Brian okay?”

The inspector said, “I’m sorry to say that your son Brian has been stabbed.”

I thought I might black out for the second time that day.

After I’d heard all the information Inspector Morris was willing to divulge, I lay back down and considered my options.

It was hard to picture my little boy being stabbed. Brian had suffered severe lacerations to the face and two puncture wounds to his abdomen. It had been an official report delivered in clinical terms, but I knew what a knife attack looked like. Knife wounds are ugly and shocking, even if you don’t know the victim. Thankfully the administration had shown some common sense and immediately moved him by ambulance to a hospital near Buffalo.

Brian was serving a term for selling drugs. It was a mistake that would affect him, and me, for the rest of our lives. He never could explain why he did it. Just that he got in deeper and deeper, then couldn’t get out.

He had worked for a lowlife who used kids to sell his shit. Brian was lucky. Some of the kids selling synthetic drugs, including meth and ecstasy, had been killed.

The cartel that ran the business had used a fifteen-year-old boy named Diego to handle competition and potential witnesses. I tracked Diego down to the library on Columbia University’s campus, where we chatted for a few minutes before he pulled a pistol and tried to kill me. Unfortunately, I was forced to shoot him. It troubled me still.

This was no coincidence. The ambush on Antrole and me was connected to Brian’s attack. I just had to think clearly to figure it all out.

Now the question was, how could I escape and make my way to Buffalo? There was no question I was going to see my boy. There would only be a problem if someone was foolish enough to get in my way.

I found my pants folded across the chair at the back of my room with my shoes underneath it. I had no idea where they came from or who had bothered to fold them. My shirt was nowhere to be seen. I can imagine what the person who found it thought when he or she saw Antrole’s blood splattered across it.

My police ID was in the same drawer as my phone. I had what I needed.

I borrowed a shirt from my roommate’s closet. The color matched my khaki pants, but it was way too big. I tucked it in as best I could, looking like a kid wearing his father’s long-sleeved shirt.

Pain shot through me as I adjusted the shirt, then pulled my belt tight to give my back some support. It didn’t help much. The room dipped and spun a couple of times as I got dressed, but the longer I was on my feet, the steadier I felt.

I peered out my door and didn’t see anyone at the nurses’ station. Why would I? It was the middle of the night and nothing was going on. I slid down the hallway quietly, like a ninja. At least in my current state it felt like I was a ninja. I took the elevator all the way down to the lobby. Once there, I walked through as if I were just another visitor. Why not? Security was intent on keeping people out of the hospital, not in.

Out on the street, I realized my plan wasn’t completely thought out. What now? I couldn’t walk to Buffalo. Then I remembered Eddie teaching me about my new apps. I grabbed my phone and hit the Uber app, and a few minutes later a black Dodge Charger pulled up in front of me. It felt like magic.

As I hopped in, all I said was, “Need to go to Buffalo.”

The tubby white guy behind the wheel turned and said, “I can’t drive to Buffalo.”

“Sure you can. Just head north on I-87. I’ll guide you the rest of the way in.”

The driver had no sense of humor and said, “Let me rephrase that. I won’t drive to Buffalo. It’s too far.”

I took a moment to think, then gave him the address of my apartment instead.

The Ford twelve-passenger van we used to tote around my army of a family was in its usual spot in a parking garage across from our building. The family tank would be my chariot on the ride to Buffalo.