Cat & Mouse - James Patterson [56]
There he was!
Soneji was moving with a small clique of pedestrians headed north on the sidewalk. I started to go after him. Groza was still with me. We both had our weapons out. We couldn’t risk a shot in the crowds, though. Lots of mothers and children and elderly people, patients coming and going from the hospital.
Soneji peered to the left, the right, and then behind. He saw us coming. I was sure he’d seen me.
He was improvising his escape, a way out of the extreme and dangerous mess. The sequence of recent events showed deterioration in his thinking. He was losing his sharpness and clarity. That’s why he’s ready to die now. He’s tired of dying slowly. He’s losing his mind. He can’t bear it.
A Con Ed crew had blocked off half the intersection. Hard hats bobbed in the rain. Traffic was trying to maneuver around the roadwork, nonstop honkers everywhere.
I saw Soneji make a sudden break from the crowd. What the hell? He was running toward First Avenue, racing down the slippery street. He was weaving, running in a full sprint.
I watched as Gary Soneji spun quickly to his right. Do us all a favor. Go down! He ran along the side of a white and blue city bus that had stopped for passengers.
He was still slipping, sliding. He almost fell. Then he was inside the goddamn bus.
The bus was standing-room only. I could see Soneji frantically waving his arms, screaming orders at the other passengers. Jesus, God, he’s got a bomb on that city bus.
CHAPTER 59
DETECTIVE GROZA staggered up beside me. His face was smudged with soot and his flowing black hair was singed. He signaled wildly for a car, waving both arms. A police sedan pulled up beside us and we jumped inside.
“You all right?” I asked him.
“I guess so. I’m here. Let’s go get him.”
We followed the bus up First Avenue, weaving in and out of traffic, siren full blast. We almost hit a cab, missed by inches, if that.
“You sure he’s got another bomb?”
I nodded. “At least one. Remember the Mad Bomber in New York? Soneji probably does. The Mad Bomber was famous.”
Everything was crazy and surreal. The rain was coming down harder, making loud bangs on the sedan’s roof.
“He has hostages,” Groza spoke into the two-way on the dash. “He’s on a city bus heading up First Avenue. He appears to have a bomb. The bus is an M-15. All cars stay on the bus. Do not intercept at this point. He has a goddamn bomb on the M-15 bus.”
I counted half a dozen blue-and-whites already in pursuit. The city bus was stopping for red lights, but it was no longer picking up passengers. People standing in the rain, bypassed at stops, waved their arms angrily at the M-15. None of them understood how lucky they were that the bus doors didn’t open for them.
“Try to get close,” I told the driver. “I want to talk to him. Want to see if he’ll talk anyway. It’s worth a try.”
The police sedan accelerated, then weaved on the wet streets. We were getting closer. We were inching alongside the bright blue bus. A poster advertised the musical Phantom of the Opera in bold type. A real live phantom was on board the bus. Gary Soneji was back in the spotlight that he loved. He was playing New York now.
I had the side window of the car rolled down. Rain and wind attacked my face, but I could see Soneji inside the bus. Jesus, he was still improvising—he had somebody’s child, a bundle of pink and blue, cradled in his arm. He was screaming orders, his free arm swinging in angry circles.
I leaned as far as I could outside the car. “Gary!” I yelled. “What do you want?” I called out again, fighting the traffic noise, the loud roar of the bus. “Gary! It’s Alex Cross!”
Passengers inside the bus were looking out at me. They were terrified, beyond terror, actually.
At Forty-second Street and First, the bus made a sudden, sweeping left turn!
I looked at Groza. “This the regular route?”
“No way,” he said. “He’s making his own route up as he goes.”
“What’s on Forty-second Street? What’s up ahead?