Judge & Jury - James Patterson [85]
A boy and his girlfriend were just turning into the park. He was wearing sandals and a Linkin Park T-shirt, and had a guitar slung around his back. I heard something zing past my shoulder. Right in front of my face the kid wheeled around and hit the pavement, his shoulder exploding in red. His girlfriend put her hands up to her face and screamed.
“Get down! Get down!” people were shouting.
I stared in disbelief.
An innocent person was down. This was way, way out of control now. I knew I should’ve stopped and ended it there. Taken him down, waited for the cops, something logical and sane. There were screams and bedlam everywhere. I took a look back for the blond-haired killer. I had lost him! Policemen were running up to the scene from Ben Gurion. I didn’t know what to do. I made a quick judgment that the kid would be all right.
I took off toward the square.
Concealing myself in the crowd, I tried to put as much distance as I could between me and my assailant. I was praying the police would corral him, but then I spotted him—his blond hair and darting eyes—racing along the perimeter wall, following my path. I pushed deeper into the crowd.
I hurried without a clear destination through the crowded streets, searching frantically for a cab. I could still get out of this. All I had to do was get back to the hotel. They had no idea who we were.
I found myself racing down a narrow street of bazaar merchants, angling away from the park. Hundreds of tiny stalls—leather jackets, embroidered shirts, baskets, spices—crowded with hawkers and tourists.
I zigzagged through the side-by-side stalls, switching sides of the street as I strained to see if he was still behind me. And he was—knocking over racks, pushing people out of his way, gaining. Sirens were coming from the entrance to the park.
This madman wouldn’t stop. I was on a crowded street with no cabs. You don’t know where you’re going, Nick! At some point I was going to have to stop and confront him. I should have shot him when I had the chance.
Two more rounds zinged by my head, slamming into a stall in front of me that was filled with colorful fabrics, toppling it over.
I ducked, picking up my pace. The end of the street was fast approaching. The problem was, I was going to get there quicker than I had a plan for where to go next. It opened to a terraced cul-de-sac, maybe twenty feet above a busy street below. I was trapped. Cold reality set in—Nick, you’re going to have to fight this bastard.
I turned at the corner and just stood there, staring at my options: leaping into the crowded street below or facing him. I gripped my gun. I thought of Andie, the image she had lived with for the past year, the blond man hurrying away from the juror bus.
This was the man who had killed her son.
I stopped behind a stall at the end of the street. Maybe it wasn’t Cavello, but this was the man who blew up the jury. I had no real plan. I wasn’t a cop or a fugitive. Just someone whose adrenaline was racing. Someone who was about to make a stand.
The blond-haired killer finally staggered into the cul-de-sac.
“Put it down,” I said, pointing my gun at him.
“Put it down?” He smirked, coming to a stop. He stared at me. “I don’t know who you were, but you’re a dead man now, friend.”
Chapter 106
HE STARTED TO RAISE his arm, and I jerked off two shots. Both hit home, tearing into his chest. He grabbed the top of a nearby stall, fabric falling all over him as it crashed down. He tried to get up. I saw him elevate his gun hand, frantically tearing garments off himself.
“You blew up that bus!” I screamed.
The blond killer hesitated. It took him by surprise. Then a smile creased his lips, as if he found all of this amusing. “I did.” He winked, trying to free his gun hand. “Boom!”
I hurled myself at him, smashing my fist into his face. He staggered backward into the railing. I held him by the shirt collar, out of control. I hit him again with everything I had in me. Teeth cracked, and blood spurted from his mouth. But he didn’t go down.