Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [12]
He stumbled over his own flopping black sneakers.
He weaved sideways toward the left, before moving suddenly toward the right rear corner of the dining room.
He hoped to God he looked cockeyed drunk and absolutely helpless. Maybe even a little funny right now. Everybody should start laughing.
Carroll groped down his body with both hands, graphically scratching between his legs. A middle-aged woman turned away with obvious disgust.
“Bayt-room?” Carroll convincingly slobbered, rolled his eyes back into his forehead. “Gotta go to the bayt-room!”
A young bearded man and his girlfriend started laughing at a front table. Bathroom humor got the youth crowd every time.
Hussein Moussa had stopped eating. His teeth finally showed—a serrated blade of shining yellow. It was the smile of an animal, a brutal scavenger. He apparently thought this scene was funny, too.
“Gotta go to the bayt-room!” Carroll continued a little louder, sounding like a drunken Jerry Lewis. Jesus, you had to be a decent actor in this line of work.
“Mohamud! Tarek! Get bum out! Get bum out now!” The owner was screeching at his waiters.
Suddenly, fluidly, Arch Carroll wheeled hard to his extreme left.
The Browning automatic flew out of the ratty and cumbersome parka.
It was completely out of place in the family restaurant: a gun as ugly and menacing as unexpected death. Women and children began screaming.
“Freeze! Don’t move! Freeze God damn you!”
At the same time, one of the Lebanese waiters hit Carroll hard from his blind side, spinning him in a fast half circle to the right.
He had ruined the drop Carroll had on the three terrorists; he had turned everything into a complete, instantaneous disaster.
Moussa and the Rashids were already scattering, rolling sideways off the red vinyl dining chairs. Anton Rashid yanked out a silver automatic from under his brown leather car coat.
Movies sometimes show particularly violent scenes in flowing slow motion. It wasn’t like that, Carroll knew. It was a jumpy collage of loud, shocking still photos.
The disconnected photos clicked at him now in random order. They stopped. They started. They stopped. They started again.
“Everybody hit the floor!” Carroll screamed. At the same instant, he fired the Browning.
He didn’t watch the results. The first bullet brutally uncorked the right side of Anton Rashid’s throat, spilling his blood like wine from a broken jug.
Hussein Moussa’s gun flashed; it roared as Carroll dove across the backs of a couple already lying on the floor.
Seconds later, Carroll peered back over the table. His eyes and forehead were exposed for an instant. He fired off three more quick shots.
Two of the bullets drove stocky Wadih Rashid hard against a hollow partition wall, decorated with black skillets. Twin holes opened in the terrorist’s chest. The heavy skillets clattered noisily to the tile floor.
“Moussa! Hussein Moussa! You can’t get out! You can’t get past me.” Carroll began to scream, to negotiate with the man.
There was no answer.
Somewhere in the front of the restaurant, an old woman was wailing like an Arab imam. Several people were crying loudly.
“Give up now, and you live…. Otherwise, I’ll kill you.”
Carroll had to chance another fast look. He was gasping for a breath. One, two, three. He raised his head.
He saw nothing of the Butcher this time. Moussa was down under the tables as well, hiding and crawling, looking for some advantage.
He was moving either toward the front door or the kitchen. Which one was it?
Carroll guessed it would be the kitchen.
He began to scramble toward the kitchen.
“I have antipersonnel grenades!” The Butcher suddenly let out a piercing, high scream. “Everybody dies in here! Everybody dies in this restaurant! Everybody dies with me! Women, children, I don’t care.”
Carroll stopped moving suddenly; he almost didn’t breathe.
Straight ahead, he stared at a badly shaking, very frightened woman curled like a snail on the floor. She looked about thirty years old.