2nd Chance - James Patterson [73]
So did I.
Chapter 87
I FOLLOWED, ten car lengths or so behind. The Bonneville spun onto the entrance ramp for 280 and headed south. I hung at a distance, my pulse racing. I was pretty much running on adrenaline now. I had no choice except to follow Coombs as best I could.
After a few miles, the Bonneville signaled and veered onto the exit for South San Francisco. It wound through the working-class part of town, then up a steep street that I knew to be South Hill. The streets grew dark, and I shut off my lights.
The Bonneville turned down a dark, isolated street. Middle-class row houses badly in need of repair. At the end of the street, it pulled into the driveway of a white clapboard house perched on a hill overlooking the valley. The location was pretty enough, but the house was a shambles.
Coombs and his partner got out of their car, talking. They went into the house. I turned into a dark driveway three houses down. I’d never had such a chilling feeling of being alone. It was just that I couldn’t let Coombs go, couldn’t let him run on us.
I pulled the Glock out of my glove compartment and checked the clip. Full load. Jesus Christ, Lindsay. No vest, no backup, no cell phone that works.
I crept along the shadowy sidewalk toward the white house, the automatic at my side. I was good with the gun, but this good?
Several beat-up cars and pickups were parked in a random pattern at the top of the driveway. The downstairs lights were on. I could hear voices. Well, I’d come this far.
I made my way up the narrow driveway toward the garage. It was a two-car stand-alone, separated from the main house by a blacktop walkway. The voices grew louder. I tried to listen, but they were too far away. I took a breath and moved closer. Hugging the house, I looked inside a window. If Coombs looked as if he was going to stay for a while, then I could get backup here.
Six outlaw types, beer bottles, smokes, huddled around a table. Coombs was one of them. On the arm of one man I spotted a tattoo that made it all so clear.
The head of a lion, the head of a goat, the tail of a reptile.
This was a meeting of Chimera.
I inched closer, trying to hear. Suddenly came the rumble of another car climbing South Hill. I froze. I clung to the house, hugging the space between the main house and the garage. I heard the car door slam, then voices and footsteps coming my way.
Chapter 88
I SAW TWO MEN coming, one with a blond beard and long ponytail, the other in a sleeveless denim vest with massive tattooed arms. I had absolutely nowhere to go.
They fixed on me. “Who the hell are you?”
Two possibilities: back away with my gun aimed at them, or make a stand and take Coombs in right now. The latter seemed the better idea to me.
“Police,” I shouted, freezing the two new arrivals. My automatic was extended with both hands. “San Francisco Homicide. Get your hands up.”
The two men had measured, unpanicked reactions. They glanced at each other calculatingly, then back at me. I was sure they were armed, and so were the others inside. A terrifying thought flashed through me: I could die here.
Noise erupted from all over. Two other men arrived from the street. I spun around, jerking my gun at them.
Suddenly, the lights inside the house went out. The driveway got dark, too. Where was Coombs? What was he doing now?
I jerked into a shooting crouch. This wasn’t about Coombs anymore.
I heard a noise behind me. Someone coming fast. I spun in that direction—and then I was blindsided by somebody else. I was grabbed, taken down. I hit the ground hard under a couple of hundred pounds.
Then I was looking at a face I didn’t want to see. A face I hated.
“Look what the tide rolled in.” Frank Coombs grinned. He wagged a .38 at my eyes. “Marty Boxer’s little girl.”
Chapter 89
COOMBS CROUCHED down close and leered at me with that haughty, smirking grin I’d come to hate already. Chimera was right here. “Seems you’re the one who’s leaning to the left a little now,” he said.
I had just enough clearheadedness to realize what incredible trouble