James Patterson - Run for Your Life

Run For Your Life

by

James Patterson

Table Of Contents

Prologue

Fight The Power

One

Two

Three

Part One

The Teacher

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part Two

Puke By The Gallon

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part Three

Life Lessons

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Part Four

The Poor Box Thief

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Epilogue

Hockey Styx

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Prologue

Fight The Power

One

Getting stuck on a bus in New York City, even under normalcircumstances, is a lesson in frustration.

But when the bus belongs to the NYPD Tactical AssistanceResponse Unit, and its parked at a barricade thats swarming with cops, andyoure there because youre the only person in the world who might have achance at keeping several hostages from being killed, you can cancel yourdinner plans.

I wasnt going anywhere on that Monday night. Much worse, Iwasnt getting anywhere.

Wheres my money, Bennett? an angry voice shouted through myheadset.

Id gotten to know that voice really well over the past sevenand a half hours. It came from a nineteenyearold gang hit man known as DRay his real name was Kenneth Robinson who was the main suspect in a tripledrug murder. In truth, he was the only suspect. When police had come after himearlier today, hed holed up in a Harlem brownstone, now behind policebarricades, threatening to kill five members of his own family.

The moneys coming, DRay, I said, speaking gently into theheadset. Like I told you, I got Wells Fargo to send an armored truck up from Brooklyn.A hundred thousand dollars in unmarked twenties, sitting on the front seat.

You keep saying that, but I dont see no truck!

Its not as easy as it sounds, I lied. They run on bankschedules. You cant just call them like a taxi. They dont carry that kind ofcash around, either theyve got to go through a complicated procedure to getit. And drive through traffic, just like everybody else.

Hostage situations call for measured calm, something Imactually pretty good at faking. If it werent for the dozen uniformed EmergencyService Unit and Manhattan North Task Force cops listening in, you might havethought I was a priest hearing a confession.

In fact, the Wells Fargo truck had arrived a good two hours agoand was parked out of sight nearby. I was fighting with everything I had tokeep it there. If it drove these last few blocks, that meant Id failed.

You playin me? DRay barked. Nobody plays me, cop. Youthink I dont know Im already lookin at life in prison? What I got to lose ifI kill somebody else?

I know youre not playing, DRay, I said. Im not, either thats the last thing I want to do. The moneys on its way. Meantime, you needanything else? More pizza, soda pop, anything like that? Hey, it must be hot inthere how about some ice cream for your niece and nephew?

Ice cream? he yelled with a fury that made me wince. Youbetter get your shit together, Bennett! I dont see no armored truck in fiveminutes, you gonna see a body come rolling down that stoop.

The line went dead. Wiping sweat from my face, I pulled off theheadset and stepped to the window of the NYPD bus. It was parked with a clearview of DRays brownstone, on 131st Street near Frederick Douglass Boulevard.I raised my binoculars and panned the kitchen window. I swallowed as I spottedan Eracism magnet holding up childrens drawings and a picture of Maya Angelouon the fridge. His niece and nephew were six and eight years old. I had kidsthose same ages.

At first, Id hoped that the situation would be easier becausehis hostages were his own flesh and blood. A lot of criminals might make thiskind of desperate bluff, but theyd back down before theyd harm someone closeto them, especially little kids. DRays eightythreeyearold grandmother,Miss Carol, was also in there with them, and she was a neighborhoodinstitution, a powerful and respected woman who ran the rec center and thecommunity garden. If anybody could make him listen, it was Miss Carol.

But she hadnt, which was a very bad sign. DRay had alreadyproved that he was a killer, and during the hours Id spent talking to him, Idsensed his rage rising and his control slipping. I was sure that all along hedbeen getting higher on crack or meth or whatever, and by now he was halfinsane. He was clinging to a fantasy of escape, and he was ready to kill forit.

I had helped him build that fantasy, and Id used every trick Iknew to keep it going so we could get those people out of there alive triedto create a bond, talked like a sympathetic friend, even told him my name. ButI was out of both tricks and time.

I lowered the binoculars and scanned the scene outside the buswindows. Behind the sawhorses and the flashing lights of the gathered policevehicles, there were several news vans and maybe sixty or seventy spectators.Some were eating Chinese takeout or holding up cell phone cameras. There wereschoolage kids zipping around on Razor scooters. The crowd seemed anxious,impatient, like picnickers disappointed that the fireworks hadnt started yet.

I turned away from them just as Joe Hunt, the Manhattan Northborough commander, sagged back in the office chair beside me and let out along, deflated breath.

Just heard from ESU, he said. Snipers think they got apretty good bead on him through one of the back windows.

I didnt say anything, but Joe knew what I was thinking. Hestared at me with his almost sad, worldweary brown eyes.

Kid or not, were dealing with a violent sociopath, he wenton. We need to give this to Tactical while those poor people inside still havea chance. Im calling in the Wells Fargo truck. I want you to get DRay back onthe phone and tell him to watch for it. Then Con Eds going to cut the power,and the snipers will drop him with night vision. Joe heaved himself to hisfeet and gave me a rough pat on the shoulder. Sorry, Mike. You did better thananyone has any right to expect, but the kid flatout refuses to live.

I passed my hands through my hair and scrubbed my own tiredeyes. New York City has one of the best reputations in the world for resolvinghostage situations nonviolently, and I hated like hell to be a part of changingthat fine tradition. But I couldnt argue with Hunts logic. DRay definitelywasnt even trying to help me save him.

I nodded, defeated. We had to think about his family now. Therewas no other way.