Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

She hated a poor work ethic.

He had driven a rented Ford Mustang from the hotel across town to this Irish pub almost two hours earlier. Alex had watched him park two blocks away and followed him at a discreet distance to the pub.

As she passed his car, with her target more than a block ahead, she casually stuck a toothpick in the driver’s-side door lock, then broke it off.

She entered the pub about ten minutes after he did.

Again, she was not impressed with his work ethic or his self-preservation skills. He sat down with a group of his friends and started drinking dark ale and eating potato skins and fried chicken wings. It was a happy bunch, and no one noticed her sitting by herself at the end of the bar, pretending to be engrossed in her phone.

When she sensed that the party was about to break up, she slipped out the door a few minutes before he did. She knew where he was headed. She was good at her job. Even if he wasn’t.

She had uncovered a few rumors about the burly Alain. He was known to be a little rough and crude with his victims. He didn’t seem to care if they were male or female. He was the kind of guy who may have enjoyed his work a little too much. There was no art in it for him.

Alex watched him come down the street, then casually fell in behind him. Everything was in position. Even the street was empty of pedestrians. That was the sort of thing you couldn’t plan for. She just needed him to hold still for about three seconds, then she could do what she needed to do.

It felt good to be active, not worrying about what happened to the cop, Bennett. No matter what happened tonight, she had a flight booked for Colombia in the morning. She needed to get home to her ranch and people she could trust. She could always come back later and finish up the rest of her contracts with the cartel.

She reached into her purse and felt the small Kahr 9mm pistol. It was either that or a stiletto on jobs like this. It depended on the target. This guy was tough, and a gun was the safer choice.

The French Canadian was almost to his Mustang. She kept walking at a normal pace as he came up to his car and tried to insert the key into the driver’s-side lock.

Breaking off a toothpick in a lock was an effective old trick.

It drew all his attention and held him in place. Alex heard him curse under his breath as he tried to force the key into the lock.

When he glanced up and saw her standing there, he still wasn’t alarmed. Idiot.

He gave her a smile and said, “Hello there.”

She could barely make out his accent as he spoke in English.

“Hello yourself.”

“Aren’t you the pretty one.”

Alex knew those were the last words he’d ever utter. She silently raised the pistol and sighted down the barrel. The two 9mm rounds slipped through the barrel and silencer with just a popping sound. Both rounds hit her target in the face, and he dropped to the sidewalk without a sound.

She walked past him, glancing down to make sure the shots were as devastating as she thought. Blood leaked out of the two holes in the Canadian’s face on the sidewalk. One was in his cheek, and one was just above his left eye.

She took a quick photograph as proof that he was dead and was on her way. One more contract closed, and now she could think about how she would get to the airport in the morning.

Those were the kinds of problems she liked.

I had to make myself useful if I was just going to be around the house, so I let Mary Catherine sleep in and managed to feed all the children and get them to Holy Name on time. Even the principal, Sister Sheilah, seemed to be happy with my performance. Believe me, that had not happened often in my life. I sometimes had the feeling that I was her white whale. The one that had gotten away. She had tried to break me as a child, and sometimes it felt like she was trying to break me as an adult.

But the kids liked her. Sure, she was tough and a disciplinarian, but there was something about the way she made things run and how she treated the kids that made her almost lovable to them. The conspiracy theorist in me made me think it was just another way to get to me. Make my kids love her so that it annoyed me. My grandfather was the only one I liked to share those theories with.

So I decided I would. I pulled my giant Ford van around the block and parked in front of the church’s administration building.

As soon as I stepped in the door, a priest I didn’t recognize greeted me and said, “How may I help you?”

He looked to be a few years older than I was and in excellent shape. I detected a slight accent and looked past him to find my grandfather. I said, “I’m Michael Bennett, Seamus’s grandson.”

A smile spread across the priest’s face as he said, “The detective with an army of children.”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Alonzo Garcia. I’m the new priest here.”

“ You’re the priest Seamus is mentoring?”

“The very same.”

I blurted out, “But you’re...” I managed not to say the word old aloud.

A smile spread across his face as he said, “Much more handsome than you expected?”

We both laughed.

Father Alonzo said, “I’m new to the priesthood. The church thought a man like your grandfather, who had a similar experience, might be of some use.”

“You owned a bar, too?”

He chuckled. “Hardly.”

I was hoping for some elaboration, but I let it go. For now.

I followed the priest back into the spacious offices, which had boxes stuffed in every corner. He picked up a cup of hot tea he had been brewing and set it on the desk in front of Seamus.

My grandfather said, “I see you two have met.” He coughed, then blew his nose.

Father Alonzo put a plate with a sliced orange on it in front of my grandfather before he could say anything. I liked that.

We’d all been worried about Seamus’s health in the past few months. He had lost weight since his heart attack, and he tended not to look after the details of his life, such as needing to drink enough fluids and eat enough fruit.

We all chatted for a few minutes, and Father Alonzo invited me out to the athletic fields to look at the soccer game going on in the back. He was clearly proud of teaching some of the students at Holy Name new ways to approach the most popular team sport in the world.

As soon as we were outside, he turned to me and said, “Your grandfather can be quite a stubborn man.”

I let out a snort. “No” — then I remembered who I was talking to — “kidding.”

Father Alonzo said, “He stays up too late, doesn’t get any rest during the day, and doesn’t eat nearly as much as he needs to.”

Now we were talking as we circled the soccer field. My grandfather had come out separately from us and was on the sideline.

It was a spirited and competitive game. I was impressed. I had seen a lack of enthusiasm about soccer for years here at the school.

Two boys, about ten, got into a shoving match after a ball had rolled out-of-bounds. I was impressed with Alonzo’s casual intervention as he sent one boy running to the goal and the other to the opposite side of the field.

Then my grandfather shouted after them in Spanish. I had never heard him speak any Spanish before, despite the fact that almost a third of the students were Hispanic.

Seamus looked at me and smiled. “I showed Alonzo some of the important aspects of leading a flock, and he’s been teaching me Spanish. It seems to be working out well for both of us.”

I had to agree.

Two days later, at exactly nine in the morning, I entered the office building that housed Manhattan North Homicide. It was on Broadway near 133rd Street, across the street from an elevated number 1 train. There was nothing to indicate that the building, owned by Columbia University, housed specialized units of the New York City Police Department, including Homicide and Intel.