James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“As long as it takes,” said Sarah.

But we both knew that wasn’t true. You can only go AWOL from the Bureau for so long. We’d bought ourselves twenty-four hours—thirty-six tops.

One way or the other we were headed for some kind of reckoning.

Chapter 111

“IF YOU NEED me I’ll be in the master bedroom,” I said jokingly, climbing into the back of our rented Grand Cherokee. With the rear seat down and a blanket, it actually wasn’t so bad compared to some of the fleabag motels I’d stayed in when I was undercover with the NYPD.

I glanced at my watch. Twenty-three hours and counting.

We remained parked diagonally across the street from John O’Hara’s house on Stillwater Lane. They sure got the “still” part right. Not only had there been no sign of Ned Sinclair, there was basically no sign of anyone.

Except for real-estate agents, that is. Their signs were everywhere. Half the homes on the block, all ranch-style, all covered in gray, white, or brown shingles, were for sale. Suffice it to say Stillwater Lane had more than its fair share of mortgages in trouble.

All in all, it was a pretty depressing sight, although it did solve a problem for us. Thanks to a real-estate agent that Chief Melvin knew, Sarah and I were able to use a vacant house down the street for bathroom trips and to wash up.

But the sleeping we did in the Jeep. That was a no-brainer. If Ned Sinclair planned on making an appearance, we needed to be close. Real close.

“Try not to snore, okay?” retorted Sarah from behind the wheel.

She’d been busting my chops about the four hours of sleep we took turns getting during the night not being enough for me. I couldn’t help it, though. I was beat.

I stretched out in the back. The Birdwood cop with the 8:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift inside the house was due in a half hour. He was bringing our dinner, too. A little catnap for me beforehand was just what the doctor ordered.

Unfortunately, I’d barely closed my eyes when I heard Sarah mutter under her breath, “He’s early.”

I sat up, looking out the side window to see a patrol car pull into O’Hara’s driveway.

Out stepped Officer Lohman. I remembered his name because he’d brought us Chinese takeout the night before and I had the pork lo mein.

Note to self: never order the pork lo mein in Birdwood, Nebraska.

“Shit, where’s our pizza?” I said, seeing that he was empty-handed. Not only was he early, he’d forgotten our large pepperoni-and-mushroom. Had he no shame?

Apparently he had no excuse, either. Sarah and I waited for him to come over to us and offer up some type of explanation. At the very least he needed to confirm what frequency we’d be using on our radios during his shift.

But he was heading straight for O’Hara’s house. Immediately, Sarah stepped out of the Jeep. “I’ll see what’s up,” she said.

I watched as she crossed the street, calling out Lohman’s name. When he turned around he looked startled, as if Sarah had surprised him.

But that made no sense; he knew we were there.

Something wasn’t right.

Chapter 112

IT HAPPENED SO fast, and yet in some strange and sickening way I felt as if I were watching it in slow motion. Probably because there was nothing I could do to save her.

Halfway between the Jeep and Officer Lohman, Sarah made a desperate grab for her gun. Desperate because Lohman, inexplicably, had already reached for his.

He got off one shot, the blood instantly exploding out of Sarah’s shoulder as she fell backward. His second shot got her in the other arm, spinning her around as she hit the pavement face-first.

I should’ve gone out the back door of the Jeep, away from his line of fire. I was no good to her if I went down, too. But the adrenaline, the anger, the sheer frustration of watching her get blindsided had me bursting out into the street, running straight at him at full speed.

He got off one shot as I raised my gun, the bullet buzzing so close to my ear I could feel the breeze.

Now it’s my turn, asshole.

He knew it, too. With the first squeeze of my trigger he was already on the run, diving behind the grille of his stolen patrol car. When he turned to fire back at me, I unloaded the rest of my clip so fast he dropped his gun trying to duck.

“Here,” said Sarah, her voice straining as I knelt down in front of her. She lifted her arm just enough to hand me her gun. “Get him.”

But I couldn’t even see him. And there was no way I would leave her side.

Shielding her as best as I could, I waited for his next move.

Instead it was someone else’s.

The front door of the house swung open. It was the cop guarding O’Hara from the inside. His gun was drawn and he was confused as hell.

Why is the FBI agent firing at my fellow officer?

Only it wasn’t one of his fellow officers.

Even in the uniform, even with the hat pulled down over his eyes, even in the shadows of the setting sun, even with my having seen only an outdated picture of him—I knew.

“It’s him!” I yelled. “That’s Sinclair!”

I couldn’t blame the cop for freezing for a split second, his mind piecing everything together, including the grim prospects for the real Officer Lohman. You just don’t steal an armed police officer’s uniform and car by saying “pretty please.”

But if there was any doubt as to where this cop should be pointing his gun, Sinclair cleared it up right away. He sprang up from in front of the patrol car like a jack-in-the-box, squeezing off two quick shots at the cop before dropping out of sight again. The second shot splintered the wood frame of the front door, just barely missing the cop’s chest as he ducked back into the house. For sure, he was radioing for backup.

For sure, Sinclair knew that, too.

The next sound I heard was the door opening on the far side of the patrol car, the driver’s side. I couldn’t see him, and that was the plan. He was crawling behind the wheel, starting the engine. Ducking below the dash, he jammed on the gas, blindly backing out of the driveway.

My first shot hit the side window, the glass shattering. I next went for the tires, taking out the two closest to me.

But he was still moving, barreling into the street before shifting out of reverse, his tires squealing against the pavement as he hit the gas.

“Go!” I heard behind me.

It was as if Sarah had pooled all her remaining strength to make sure I wouldn’t do what I was about to do. I did it anyway. I let Sinclair drive off without chasing him, and stayed to help her.

I pulled out my folded handkerchief, pressing it firmly over the shoulder wound to stanch the bleeding.

“Here,” came a voice behind me. The officer from inside the house was handing me a belt. “An ambulance is on the way.”

I tightened the belt above the second wound, this one below the biceps. She’d already lost so much blood.

“You’re going to be fine,” I told her. “Just fine.”

She glanced at the Grand Cherokee, her voice weak. “You should’ve gone after him,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“What, and miss playing doctor with you here?”

I could tell she wanted to laugh, but she didn’t have the strength. “You big dope,” she said.

I lifted her head, cradling it in my hands. Her breathing was slower, more labored. Where the hell is that ambulance?

“Hang on, okay? You have to hang on for me,” I told her.

She nodded ever so slightly, those beautiful jade-green eyes of hers struggling to stay open.

Until, finally, they no longer could.

Chapter 113

THE NURSE HOOKING up Sarah’s fifth blood transfusion at Great Plains Regional Medical Center had no idea that she and her pink smock were all that stood between me and the verbal beat-down that absolutely, positively was coming my way courtesy of Dan Driesen. He’d just walked in the door straight from Casper, his jacket off and sleeves rolled up. He didn’t say a word to me, but if looks could kill I would’ve been toes-up at the morgue.