But he stands his ground.
There have been three more gunshots since the first two woke him up, and he won’t back away.
“Who are you?” he demands, straining to make his voice sound strong.
This is all wrong. His earlier plan was to attack his neighbors if they turned out to be terrorists, but what’s with the gunshots and this guy standing in front of him?
The man—whose eyes are red and swollen—curses and says, “Who the hell do you think I am? Put that gun away!”
“Not until I know what’s going on,” Ronald says. The boy is crying, snot dribbling from his nose. The young girl is…just staring, face frozen.
“What’s going on? I’m a damn state trooper, and I’m ordering you to put that gun away. There’s backup coming.”
Ronald swallows, his throat sand-dry. “Let the kids go. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“You know what else,” Ronald says, again hating how weak his voice is.
“Yeah?” the man says, not moving at all, the kids still in his grasp. “Sorry, old man, I don’t think you’re going to do a damn thing.”
CHAPTER 44
Jason Tyler regains consciousness.
His right ear is ringing like a bell.
His lower chest and belly…feel cold, numb—like he’s been hit twice by a sledgehammer.
You’ve been shot.
Twice.
Because you screwed up.
A memory surfaces from when he was a kid, watching some nature documentary that showed a rattlesnake attack. It attacked so fast, the human eye couldn’t see it…and the camera had to slow down to show the coiled rattlesnake extend in one long, looping motion, mouth open, fangs displayed.
That trooper.
One hell of a rattlesnake.
Okay.
Situation…
We are seriously screwed.
Jason knows from experience that he has just a few minutes before the shock wears off and the real pain kicks in, so it’s time to get to work.
He reaches down to his side, retrieves his government-issued phone. There’s a side switch that he presses…but he misses it. He tries twice more and then…
Success.
All right, then.
Panic button pressed.
Meaning the cavalry—well armed and well equipped—should be here in a few minutes.
But…
Jason rolls over so he’s on his hands and knees.
Look at all the damn blood.
He groans and stands up.
The mission…
Have to do the mission.
The cavalry is on its way, but it’ll get here way too late.
He weaves, finds his weapon under his shirt.
Get to work.
Have to protect…
Have to do the job.
Jason weaves again, going to the door.
It seems like it’s a mile away.
CHAPTER 45
Gray wipes at his eyes. His full vision is almost back.
He stares in disbelief at the old man standing in front of him, skinny as a cornstalk, wearing baggy slacks and a flannel shirt, damn oxygen tank at his side, tubes running out of his big nose, pointing a revolver at him.
“Drop your weapon!” he yells. “I’m a state trooper! Drop it!”
The old man coughs and says, “No…no, you’re not!”
The kids are squirming under his grasp and Gray says, “What do you mean I’m not a trooper, you sonavabitch?”
The old man pulls the hammer back on the revolver, cocking it.
“You have a badge on your uniform shirt,” he says, now gasping, like his lungs are collapsing. “New York State Troopers don’t wear badges on their shirts.”
With his moving hands, Gray finds the long hair of the girl.
Finally!
He pushes the boy away, removes his weapon, and starts to pull the trigger, holding the girl in place with his other hand.
CHAPTER 46
Ronald had seen many amazing things while on the job and working security, but he can’t believe how fast the fake trooper moves when he pushes the boy away, swivels the girl around, brings up his pistol, pushes the muzzle against the back of the girl’s head.
Pulling the trigger on his .38 revolver is a heavy tug for Ronald, and, God, he’s not quick enough, he won’t make it, he’s going to fail again and—
A gunshot erupts, loud and hammering.
He gasps, stumbling back.
The fake trooper grunts, sways, and the little girl breaks away from his grasp.
Ronald starts to squeeze the trigger again but the man before him slowly turns and collapses on the lawn.
God…
From inside the house comes the big guy—the bodyguard, the one he thought was a terrorist cell leader—staggering, an arm tight around his bloody belly, the other hand holding a pistol.
Ronald goes to him, dragging the oxygen tank behind him, clattering. The young boy and girl are standing by the front of the house.
The wounded man comes closer.
He sees Ronald standing there.
Ronald says, “Hold on…the police are coming. They’ll be here any second.”
The man stops, weaves.
He opens his mouth and blood trickles out.
Ronald says, “Hold on, don’t say anything, you should just sit down…”
The man spits out the blood. “The girl…the young girl…is she safe?”
Ronald can’t believe the question. All that’s going on and he asks about the girl?
“Answer me!” the man says, voice stronger. “The girl…is she safe?”
Ronald checks her one more time, standing there with her brother, arms around each other.
“Yes,” Ronald says. “She’s safe. She’s fine.”
“Thanks,” he says. Then he smiles and collapses to the ground.
CHAPTER 47
After she hears more gunshots, Teresa pushes her husband aside and lurches to the front door.
Oh, God, look at that blood on the floor.
Lance is saying something about staying here and staying safe, and Teresa refuses to listen to a single word.
Her children are out there.
And she won’t stay inside.
If there are men out there waiting to kill her because of the photos she took back at that Tunisian marketplace, well, she will die protecting her children and take her punishment.
She unlocks the door, pulls it open, and races out. Outside into the fresh air and sunlight and grass and with Lance right at her heels—
There they are—Sandy and Sam!
She gathers them in her arms, squeezes them, squeezes them, squeezes them, and says, “Oh, my babies, are you all right? Are you all right?”
Sam is sobbing but Sandy says, “We’re not hurt, Mom, but please…”
“What?”
“Stop squeezing me so hard. It’s hurting.”
Teresa bursts out in a sob and turns around, hearing sirens in the distance. A man in a state trooper’s uniform is on his back, mouth open, not moving. Lance goes to him, kicks a nearby pistol away across the lawn. Their nosy neighbor is standing there, shocked, a revolver in a shaking hand, oxygen tank by his side, tubes running from his nose.
He tries to say something, but he coughs and coughs and nearly doubles over from the hacking.
From inside her family’s embrace, Teresa turns to the man and says, “What is it?”
“That man,” the older man says. “He…he died saving your daughter.”
Teresa sobs, turning her head away from the two dead men on the lawn. A helicopter flies overhead, the sirens are louder, and Teresa says, “Lance…it makes sense. God, now it makes sense.”
Lance says, “What in hell makes sense in all of this?”
“You know how I said Jason looked guilty all the time?” Teresa asks. “And you said I was making things up?”
“I remember,” Lance says. “A
nd I’m sorry I said that…I was beginning to see it, too. There was something going on with him.”
Cruisers roar down the road, screech to a halt. Another helicopter swoops overhead. Teresa squeezes her children tight again. She refuses to let go of them.
“He was guilty all right,” Teresa says, feeling tears roll down her cheeks. “Guilty because his job wasn’t to protect us. It was to protect Sandy, first and foremost. You saw how he always put Sandy first in the bathtub, covering her with her brother? How he always was closest to her? How Sandy was first in the Yukon, last one out? That’s why…”
Lance is stunned.
Teresa…she’s right.
He looks to his special daughter, who’s calmly looking out at the chaos of police cars, ambulances, and other vehicles quickly filling up the road.
Their Sandy…. He is so proud of who she is, so scared of what awaits her.
CHAPTER 48
Leonard Brooks is violating about a half-dozen procedures and protocols, racing toward the address in Levittown where his cousin and her family are located, but he doesn’t care.
The sirens are wailing, the lights are flashing, and with every twist and turn in this crowded suburb, he nearly scrapes or rams into a parked car. The radio traffic is one long, anguished chatter: an off-duty trooper has been shot in his home…shots fired at a Levittown residence…possible state trooper down…more shots…officer needs assistance, officer needs assistance…
The tires screech in protest as he slides through another curve, and up ahead…
There.
A confused scrum of police vehicles from what looks to be about a half-dozen jurisdictions are parked in a jagged mess up ahead. He pulls over, grabs his campaign hat, bails out of the cruiser, and starts running.
Civilians are standing on their little front lawns, peering at all the activity, tossing questions at him as he goes by.
“What’s going on?”
“Who got shot?”
“Is this an act of terrorism?”
A police line with yellow tape has been set up, and he is waved through as he ducks under and gets closer, just in time to see Teresa, her husband, Lance, and the two kids—Sam and Sandy—being escorted into an armored SUV. Serious-looking men and women in full SWAT battle-rattle surround them.
“Hey, Teresa!” Leonard yells, and, by God, with all the confusion, sirens sounding, and steady roar of helicopters overhead, she hears him.
She turns and waves with a free hand, and he waves back, and then that’s it.
The family is shoved into the SUV. It backs out of the driveway, escorted by three cruisers, and roars away from the crime scene.
And what a crime scene. Two bodies are on the grass, covered in yellow cloth. Forensics markers are being set up, and measurements and photographs are being taken. There are lots of men and women in civvies, with weapons and handheld radios in their hands, definitely not looking like civilians right now.
A SWAT team guy has his helmet off, and his close-cropped white hair is smeared with sweat. He’s carrying an M4 rifle as he strolls over.
“Hey,” he says.
“How’s it going,” Leonard says, taking in the scene. There’s an old man with an oxygen tank, sitting in a folding lawn chair, gesturing to the house as two women stand next to him, taking notes.
“About as close a run-in as I’ve ever seen,” the SWAT officer says. “That one”—and he points to the ground—“is dressed up in a trooper’s uniform, exactly like yours.”
“He’s not a trooper,” Leonard says. “One of my guys—not in my troop—got shot an hour ago, and his uniform was stolen.”
“Jesus,” the SWAT man says. “Well, the other one”—he points to the second shape— “was some sort of bodyguard for this family. Then the goddamn O.K. Corral broke out here about a half hour ago, gunfire left and right, if you can believe it in this little town.”
“I can believe it,” Leonard says. “The family?”
The SWAT man hesitates. “I saw you call out to the mom. You know her?”
“She’s my cousin.”
“No shit…well, so you know, they’re all safe.”
Leonard looks around at the vehicles, the armed men, the two helicopters hovering overhead.
“Yes,” he says. “But for how long?”
CHAPTER 49
The Big Man is in his office, watching the continuing coverage of that morning’s terrorist attack in London, when the Thin Woman comes in without knocking.
She stands in front of his desk and says, “Under control, but by the thinnest of margins. Cover story will be a drug deal gone bad, something like that, with a heroic state police trooper killed in battle. We might have to give their neighbor—a retired NYPD cop—a clandestine medal to keep his mouth shut about what happened in his neighborhood. I think he’ll be happy with that.”
The Big Man says, “Wasn’t the murdered state trooper at home on his day off?”
“He died for his state and country,” the Thin Woman says. “What else do people need to know? How do we stand on Clarkson?”
The Big Man says, “She’s on her way back to the states, should be landing at Andrews in about six hours. Then the real work will begin.”
The Thin Woman shakes her head. “Hard to believe we’ve been waiting so long for her.”
“We needed an ISIS expert, a cryptography expert, and someone who knows how to work with a child with Asperger’s who’s memorized reams of encrypted intelligence documents,” he points out. “We got Clarkson. Be thankful we do, and that the little girl is still alive.”
“What about the Sanderson family, then?” the Thin Woman asks.
“When the job is done, they’ll be given compensation, new IDs, and a new life somewhere.”
The Thin Woman pauses before turning to leave. “They didn’t volunteer for this.”
The Big Man gestures up to a television screen, showing smoke billowing out of a Tube station in London. “Who does?”
CHAPTER 50
Three months after leaving Levittown, Lance Sanderson returns to his family’s new home, a little beach house on a remote stretch of Florida’s Gulf Coast. He parks the old Chevy pickup in the crushed-shell driveway—imagine him, driving a pickup truck!—and grabs a small leather bag before going around back.
It’s a gorgeous day on the Gulf, with sailboats and fishing boats out there, people playing and working, and birds weaving overhead. At least one of those birds is man-made, because one of the promises given when they moved here was that they would be watched, 24/7, by an unmanned drone.
Lance walks out back and his safe family is sitting underneath a striped awning over the rear deck. Since they’re near the beach now, Sam is fascinated with seashells, and he’s sitting in just a bathing suit, examining his latest haul at a round glass-covered table. One of the first days they had been here, Sam had shown him a bit of metal and plastic and had asked, “Dad, what’s this? Is it important?” And Lance had laughed and passed it back. “An old transistor, from an old radio. Not important at all.”
But for some reason that hadn’t disappointed Sam…in fact, it had seemed to cheer him up.
Sam’s sister is also dressed in her bathing suit, and since she’s near the ocean, now she’s fascinated with navies and warships. She’s been working her way through the fifteen-volume History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, written by the historian Samuel Eliot Morison.
Both of his kids ignore him as he walks onto the deck. Typical…and considering what they’ve all been through, it feels so good that it nearly brings him to tears.
Teresa is working on her laptop, wearing a one-piece black bathing suit and a wide straw hat. Lance gives her a kiss as he sits down next to her. Teresa’s lips taste of salt water and tanning lotion, and Lance hopes he might have some time with his love this afternoon while the kids are otherwise engaged.
Teresa says, “How were things at the range?”
“Getting
better,” he says, putting the leather bag with his licensed Glock pistol on the deck. Even with their movements tracked by a drone, he will never, ever solely depend on anyone else to protect his family. “I managed to get more and more of my shots dead center. How are the kids?”
She says, “Kids are fine.”
“And you?”
“You know, I’m beginning to like writing children’s books, even if it is under a pen name,” Teresa says. “You can make things up, and you can’t do that writing a guidebook.”
Lance stretches his legs out. “Good. Looks like I’m traveling next week. Consulting gig at Air Force Special Operations up at Hurlburt. Telling them what I know about that stretch of Tunisia. And you…?”
Teresa smiles. “And what?”
“Don’t be a tease,” Lance says. “What did the doctor say?”
Teresa shifts in her chair, revealing a slight swell in her belly. “Three months along for sure, everything’s healthy…and, hate to spoil the surprise, but the kids are getting a new brother.”
Lances leans over, kisses and embraces his wife. Their son and daughter continue to ignore them. “You know what we’re going to name him…”
“No debate here, hon,” she says.
Lance gently strokes his wife’s belly and whispers into it, “Little Jason, one of these days, we’ll tell you about the hero you were named after…”
He chokes up. “Until then, you’ll always be safe with us. Forever.”
STORIES AT THE SPEED OF LIFE
www.bookshots.com
ALSO BY JAMES PATTERSON
ALEX CROSS NOVELS
Along Came a Spider
Kiss the Girls
Jack and Jill
Cat and Mouse
Pop Goes the Weasel
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Four Blind Mice
The Big Bad Wolf
London Bridges
Mary, Mary
Cross
Double Cross
Cross Country