Run for Your Life - James Patterson [83]
My mind whirled, too, wondering what Meyer had planned. Where was he heading? Out of the country?
Not that it made much difference to me.
But mostly I thought about Chrissy. I hoped to God she hadn’t seen Meyer shoot the cop—hoped somebody had found her and called home by now.
“You know how crappy it was to lose my brother—not just once, but twice?” he said, raising his voice over the roar of the engines.
I shook myself out of my stupor. All of a sudden, I felt free. I had nothing left to lose if I was going to die, anyway. And I was damned if I’d be listening to his garbage when it happened.
“I’d have some sympathy for you, asshole,” I snapped back. “Except lots of people have it tough and don’t feel the need to go around shooting innocent, defenseless people and kidnapping little girls.”
“Screw that bullshit. When I was in aviation training, they told me, ‘Kid, you see those people down there on the desert floor, looking like little ants? Well, we want you to fire these bullets the size of butter knives down on them one thousand times a minute. Don’t worry that after you’re done, there’ll be piles of bloody rags where human beings were standing. Just ignore it.’
“But I’m also supposed to ignore the real assholes back here in the States. The ones who make people miserable, who don’t give a fuck if they treat somebody so bad it drives them to suicide—the selfish pricks who really make this world a mess. Leave them alone? I think not.” Meyer shook his head. “They can’t have it both ways. They taught me to kill for our country, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. But this time, I’m doing it by my own rules.”
And I thought my fever was making me sick. Now this guy was using a war vet trauma to excuse his evil.
“That was a tragedy, all right,” I said.
“Killing for this country?”
“No,” I yelled into his ear. “That you didn’t die for it.”
Chapter 92
I SWUNG AWAY FROM HIM and stared out the window, trying to figure out where we were. It was hard to tell, but I knew that we’d taken off in an easterly direction.
The plane ride wasn’t helping my stomach any. It was obvious that Meyer’s piloting skills were a little rusty. Every few seconds, we’d pitch to the right or left, swoop down a couple of hundred feet and then back up again.
But after we’d been up there a few minutes, he managed to smooth it out.
“Okay, Bennett, I’m ready for the final act,” he growled at me. “Time to finish what I started. Pay the Blanchettes a little visit. Plow into their bedroom at three hundred miles an hour, and you’re going with me. I told you not to get in my way, you goddamned idiot.”
Something in me had known all along that he intended to kill us both, but I’d refused to really wrap my mind around it. But now it was for sure.
Then I thought, Oh, no, it’s not.
Although my wrists were cuffed, my fingers were free. I furtively started working to undo my lap belt.
Within another few minutes, flying dangerously low and dangerously fast, we were approaching the giant lit-up towers of Manhattan. I recognized the vast, darker rectangle of Central Park, with its tree-lined pathways and glimmering reservoir.
And I shuddered when I spotted our target—the Blanchettes’ Fifth Avenue building. It was directly ahead, looking like it was racing toward us with dizzying speed. In no time, we were so close I could see the tea lights floating moodily on the surface of the rooftop pool.
I gave the seat belt a final yank, and it came loose. Then I lurched as hard as I could to the left and head-butted Meyer.
Seeing stars, I thought I got about as much as I gave, until I saw Meyer’s blood-spurting nose mashed flat against his face. He was making a low animal noise as he went for the gun in his lap. I leaned all the way over against my door. Then I ripped my legs out from beneath the console and slammed my feet up against his chin.
The kick landed hard with both heels. His head snapped back and the gun went flying somewhere behind us. The plane was going crazy, careening into a wild arc and plunging downward. I