Honeymoon - James Patterson [6]
He didn’t like what he saw.
Twitching!
The fat bastard was going to shoot the girl, wasn’t he? And that just wasn’t acceptable.
Chapter 7
“WHOA,” the Tourist announced with a raised palm. “Take it easy, my man.” He took a step backward, chuckled to himself. “Who am I kidding, right? I’m not that good of a shot. No way I could be sure to get you and not the girl.”
“That’s right,” said the fat man, hugging the young woman even tighter with his puffy right arm. “So, you tell me now, who’s in charge?”
“You are,” said the Tourist with a deferential nod. “Just tell me what you want me to do, my friend. Hell, if you want, I’ll lay my gun down on the sidewalk, okay?”
The man stared hard at the Tourist. His squint returned. “Okay, but slowly you do this,” he said.
“Of course. Easy-peasy-Japaneasy. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The Tourist began to lower his gun, and a gasp could be heard from behind a nearby telephone kiosk. Another gasp followed from behind a parked delivery van on Forty-second Street. The looky loos who’d run for cover but still had to watch the unfolding events were all thinking the same thing: Don’t do it, buddy. Don’t give up your gun. He’s going to kill you! And her, too!
The Tourist bent his knees and crouched down. He gingerly placed the gun on the sidewalk.
“See, nice and easy,” he said. “Now what do you want me to do?”
The fat man began to laugh, his fluffy, unkempt mustache bunching up beneath his nose. “What do I want you to do?” he said. The laughing grew even louder. He could hardly contain himself.
Suddenly he stopped laughing. His face went rigid. The man removed the gun from the side of the young woman’s head and aimed it straight in front of him. “What I want you to do is die.”
That’s when he made his move.
The Tourist.
In the blink of an eye, in one fast, efficient move, he reached up his pant leg and pulled a Beretta 9 mm from his shin holster. He whipped his arm forward and fired, the crack! echoing before anyone knew what had happened. Including the fat man.
The hole in his forehead was about the size of a dime, and for a moment he froze like a statue, an oversize Buddha. The onlookers screamed, the young woman with the knapsack fell to her knees, and with a horrific thud, the fat man collapsed to the dirty, littered sidewalk. His blood spurted like a water fountain.
As for the Tourist, he returned the Beretta to his shin holster and the other gun to his fanny pack. He stood up and walked over to the suitcase. He picked it up and carried it to a blue Ford Mustang that was double-parked on the street. The engine had been running the entire time.
“Have a nice day, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the people who’d been watching him in stunned silence. “You’re a lucky girl.” He saluted the woman holding the knapsack tightly in front of her chest.
The Tourist then climbed behind the wheel of the Mustang and drove off.
With the suitcase.
Chapter 8
THE LIGHT TURNED GREEN and the New York City cabbie hit the gas pedal as if he were trying to squash a bug. What he really almost squashed was a bike messenger—that rare breed of daring and death wish for which red lights and stop signs are merely a crazy suggestion, an un-joke.
As the cabbie slammed on his brakes in the middle of the intersection, the messenger swerved and kept right on going, his speeding bike missing the bumper of the cab by no more than an inch.
“Asshole!” screamed the messenger over his shoulder.
“Up yours!” the cabbie yelled, flipping him the bird. He glanced at Nora in the backseat and shook his head in disgust. Then he floored it again as if nothing had happened.
Nora shook her head and smiled.
It was good to be home.
The cabbie continued his mad dash south on Second Avenue toward lower Manhattan. After a few blocks of relative silence, he switched on the radio. It was 1010 News.
A man with a deep, mellifluent voice was just finishing up a report on the latest city-budget crisis when he announced that there was breaking news in midtown. He turned