Blindside (Michael Bennett)

by James Patterson

  I made my move.

  The situation was almost identical to what they put us in during training with the NYPD. It’s tough: a gun is extended toward you, the shooter’s reaction is slower than the captive’s action, and you have no other choice. Though there was the added complication of that knife.

  My hands and feet moved at almost the same time. My hands came down, one arm swinging to knock the knife out of his left hand almost too easily, just as I stepped forward and closed the distance. My other arm swung toward Christoph’s gun hand a fraction of a second later.

  Then the gun went off.

  CHAPTER 89

  I HEARD THE roar of the gun as soon as my body had cleared the path of Christoph’s pistol. It echoed along the dark banks of the lake. The heat from the blast penetrated my shirt. That’s how close it was. The smell of gunpowder crowded my nose. The bullet missed me on its way to God knew where.

  As soon as he fired, the slide from the pistol automatically rocked back from the gases in the cartridge. It sliced the top of my left hand, which was holding Christoph’s wrist. That kept the slide from slamming forward again.

  While the gun was useless, I used my right hand, which was closer to the pistol, to reach down and press the magazine release. I didn’t know the make of the pistol, but there are two main methods for dropping a pistol magazine. Thank God the button for the magazine was near the trigger. The other way would be on the butt of the pistol itself.

  My index finger found the button and I heard the satisfying click followed by the thunk of the magazine bouncing off the bridge and dropping into the water below.

  The fight was a little more even now.

  I liked the way the Dutchman just gawked for a moment when I popped out the gun’s magazine. I guess no one had ever fought back against him. Or, like most people, he had seen just a tad too much TV. That wasn’t a move people saw very often. Honestly, I’d never done it before. But I wasn’t about to fight fairly.

  Christoph stepped back and stared at his useless gun. I took the opportunity to throw a knee into his thigh. As he grunted and took another step back, I got a chance to throw a big punch at his face.

  He surprised me by blocking it with his left arm. There was fight left in him. And he was still pretty fast.

  But I was able to also grab his right wrist and rip the pistol from his hand. The force drove us apart. When I turned, Christoph was standing with both hands balled into fists.

  He smirked. “The gun’s empty. What good is it going to do you now?”

  It was a good question. I decided to demonstrate rather than explain. I flipped the pistol so I was holding it by the barrel, then swung it like a bludgeon. I kept swinging the pistol in wide arcs. Most of the blows bounced off his forearms, but I could feel the butt of the pistol dig into skin and bones. He yelped as each blow landed.

  Then I threw a new wrinkle into the pattern. I kicked out with my left leg. I didn’t expect it to do much. Just catch his attention. Which it did. As soon as he shifted and looked down at my leg, I swung hard with my right arm, the pistol still in my hand, like the head of a hammer. I caught him hard, across the chin. His head snapped back and blood sprayed out from his split lips.

  I stepped back to give him room to fall. Instead, the tall Dutchman stood on wobbly legs. It was like a point of pride for him to remain upright. He was gasping for breath, and every time he breathed out, blood spewed from his mouth.

  When he didn’t drop to the ground immediately, I recognized I didn’t have time to wait for his show. The fight had pushed him back almost to the end of the bridge, only four feet away. I quickly glanced over the side and saw that the muddy shore was underneath us.

  I couldn’t see or hear Natalie or the other killer. I couldn’t wait any longer. I tossed the pistol far into the lake. Then I grabbed Christoph in a bear hug. I lifted the tall Dutchman off his feet and tossed him over the side of the bridge. It was a lot harder than when I threw Natalie over.

  I knew he’d miss the water. That was the point.

  CHAPTER 90

  I RACED OFF the bridge and scrambled down to the banks of Pae Lake. Christoph had landed almost exactly like I needed him to. He was stuck in the mud up to his shoulders. His left arm was pinned under him in the dark muck that surrounded the lake. Just his head and right arm had escaped the gooey prison. He looked like an alien from a cheap science-fiction movie.

  But he was conscious and appeared to be unharmed. He looked at me and screamed, “Get me out of here,” the disembodied head turning frantically to see how close the water was.

  I wondered if there were tides in the lake. That would be terrifying in Christoph’s position.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” yelled the Dutchman.

  “Defiant to the end. Good for you.”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  There was an edge of panic in his voice. I wondered if he had a phobia. Although, to be fair, I’d be a little freaked-out stuck in the mud like that.

  As long as he wasn’t sinking past his nose, I shifted my attention to the lake itself. I started running from the bridge and the half buried killer to search for Natalie. But I hadn’t forgotten about the other killer, Ollie.

  I sprinted as fast as I could away from the bridge. The bank proved to be slick and littered with boulders and drainpipes. This was not the place to run with no light at all shining on the ground.

  I skidded to a stop fifty yards away from the bridge. I thought I’d heard something. I balled my hands into fists in case I stumbled into Ollie.

  Then I heard it again. A faint cry and water splashing. I screamed, “Natalie.”

  I heard a response, I thought. And I just caught a glimpse of the water moving, twenty yards offshore just ahead of me.

  I couldn’t wait to ensure the other killer wasn’t nearby. Natalie was in trouble. I dove in, shocked by how cold the water was. I knew that whatever I did, it had to be fast. If I’d known beforehand how cold the water was, I probably wouldn’t have thrown Natalie into it. But at the time, I hadn’t had a choice.

  I had a hard time distinguishing the splashing sounds I was making in the water from the sounds I heard. There was very little light on the lake and I couldn’t see anything past a few feet.

  I knew I sounded panicked when I yelled, “Natalie, Natalie,” on an almost unending loop.

  Then I saw something just break the surface of the water a few feet in front of me. I kicked hard in the water and closed the distance in a couple of seconds. There was nothing there.

  I frantically moved my hands under the water and felt something brush my leg. I ducked underwater and followed its path. My hand closed around something. It was a wrist. Oh, my God, it was Natalie.

  I pulled with all my might, kicking my legs to counterbalance the force of pulling Natalie up. It felt like it took forever. It could’ve been wet cement I was pulling her through. Progress was so slow it hurt me physically.

  Finally I had her head above water. I waited for that first big gasp to suck in air. It didn’t come. Her face was ice-cold and her eyes were closed. I had to get her to shore to give her CPR. It was her only chance.

  I swam hard with Natalie hooked under one arm. I hadn’t done a water rescue since I was a patrolman and dove in for a kid who had fallen into the East River. When I brought him back to the seawall, there were a dozen people who helped us out of the water. That wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  CHAPTER 91

  WE THRASHED IN the water as Natalie drifted in and out of consciousness. She’d wake up and panic, elbowing me and kicking wildly. Then she’d pass out and be deadweight. It was exhausting. Murky water splashed into my mouth, and I kept swallowing it.

  My legs and lungs started to burn as I swam. It took me a minute to realize that in the darkness, I hadn’t gone in the right direction. I had been swimming parallel to the shore. Wasting precious energy wasn’t something I could afford to do right now.

  Finally I got my beari
ngs. A tiny red light flashed in the distance and gave me a focal point. I kept heading toward the tiny light until my feet brushed the sandy bottom of the lake. I lifted Natalie out of the water as I trudged toward shore.

  It took longer than I had expected, but I pulled Natalie onto the shore and wasted no more time. I stripped off the wool sweater that had weighed her down. I fell right into the training I’d received over and over again from the NYPD. I shook her to make sure she wasn’t responding. I checked her pulse, then cleared her mouth with my finger. There was nothing in her mouth, and she gave no reaction.

  Water rescues are no fun and dangerous. But CPR in a situation like this was positively terrifying. I pinched her nose with two fingers. Since she was ice-cold, I wondered if some of her problems were related to hypothermia.

  I sealed my lips over hers and started my first rescue breath. It was longer and deeper than I intended.

  As I raised my head slightly to take in more air, I felt Natalie move. At least I think I did.

  Just as I was about to give another serious rescue breath, she coughed. Gurgled is more accurate. I’d seen it a dozen times. I knew just what to do: jump out of the way.

  She sat up quickly and turned to one side. Water cascaded out of her mouth as she coughed and vomited. She cleared her throat several times and coughed up more water. It felt like she’d been in the lake for hours, but maybe it’d been only minutes.

  As long as she was coughing, she was breathing. That was a win. I sat by her and put my hand on her shoulder.

  After almost a full minute, she turned and looked at me. Then she threw her arms around my neck and gave me a hug.

  When I wrapped my arms around her and patted her back, she started to sob. At first, I thought it was a reaction to the drowning. Then she said, “How’d I end up here? With men trying to kill me. Almost getting you killed.” She just started crying again.

  I got it. I really did. I had experienced this with my own daughters. Maybe not in so dramatic a fashion, but I understood the release.

  Then I remembered there was another killer out there. I let go of Natalie and stood up to scan the area. I could see the approach to the park because of the lights out on the street nearby. Just the lake and its banks were completely dark.

  Then I saw him. He was standing on a hill not far from the street. Ollie looked a little like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the way he moved. He had apparently jumped into the lake at some point. His wet shirt, plastered to his wide chest, showed that he wasn’t just a big lump of fat.

  He turned and faced me. It was pretty far for a pistol shot. I didn’t know what I was going to do if he started shambling back toward us with that stiff-legged gait both the wet pants and the earlier car crash had given him.

  But he stayed right where he was. Then he did something that surprised me. Ollie gave me a casual salute.

  He called down to me in English, “You’re both too much trouble. As a professional, I have to know when to cut my losses. Good luck.” He turned quickly and disappeared across the street.

  Then I heard faint sirens. That’s what had scared him off.

  I helped Natalie over to where Christoph was stuck in the mud.

  He screamed, “Dig me out of this. You’re just trying to torture me. Get me out right now.”

  I figured it was a job for a local fire-rescue team.

  Natalie and Christoph both looked like they’d just survived the worst day of their lives.

  I hoped this really was the worst day Natalie ever had. I knew Christoph was going to have many that would be worse.

  CHAPTER 92

  NATALIE AND I were checked for injuries at East Tallinn Central Hospital. There weren’t a ton of hospitals in Estonia’s capital, at least not by New York standards, and I was glad to find it was the same hospital where Bill Fiore was recovering from his gunshot wounds.

  I was anxious to see the crusty FBI man, but first I needed to make sure Natalie was okay. I sat on a hard, plastic chair in the hallway outside an examination room.

  It was midmorning, I’d been up more than twenty-four hours, and the bright lights of the hospital were brutal on my tired eyes. No one seemed to notice me. I wore surgical scrubs someone had given me and a pair of tennis shoes that were a size too tight. But I wasn’t going to complain. I was alive. Natalie was alive. And we were both safe. All that was left now was the plane ride home.

  Somehow I’d resisted calling Mary Catherine once we were safe. It would’ve been the middle of the night in New York. She would be just as happy to hear about my success and return after a full night’s sleep.

  I found the FBI agent’s room on the fifth floor. None of the nurses gave me a second look. I guess it was the surgical scrubs that confused them. Or maybe they just didn’t care as much in Estonia if you had extra visitors.

  There was an Estonian police officer sitting on a stool outside Fiore’s room. Luckily, he had met me earlier when I shared everything I knew with him and another police officer. He motioned me into the room without any fanfare. I nodded to him.

  The police were clearly concerned about the security measures. Maybe Henry hadn’t been pulling my chain when he told me what a badass he was. He hadn’t yet been picked up, but I’d given the Estonian police and anyone else who would listen all I had on the cybercriminal.

  The cops had been impressed by the way I’d managed to stick the Dutch killer, Christoph, in the mud. Apparently there were John Doe warrants for him in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Latvia. New York would throw some more warrants in for him and his former partner, Ollie.

  It could’ve been a hospital room anywhere in the States. White, clinical, dull, with a TV anchored to the wall. The only thing that surprised me in the room was Father Marty Zlatic sitting on the far side of the bed, chatting with a silent Bill Fiore. The FBI man was sitting up, with the bed elevated. He had tubes in his nose and two IVs in his right arm, with one of them bandaged into his hand.

  Fiore turned his head as I walked in. Father Marty let a huge smile spread across his face as he stood up to greet me. He came around the bed and embraced me. “I felt Agent Fiore deserved some extra attention from me. Especially after you told me how he saved your life. God surely guided him into our lives.”

  “It all worked out for the best, Father.”

  “You had us so worried last night.”

  “Sorry to cause you all this trouble, Father.”

  The priest laughed. “Trouble? This is the most interesting week I’ve had in years. I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. Especially since you rescued the girl. I’ve been filling in Agent Fiore on everything. He is most impressed.”

  I couldn’t help but smile when I looked toward the FBI agent. No employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was ever going to admit he was impressed by the NYPD. Especially in another country.

  Fiore motioned me over to his bed with a movement of his left hand. I came closer, but he couldn’t speak clearly. He was weak and had too many tubes. He motioned me closer.

  I lowered my ear toward his mouth in case he wanted to speak. I knew it would be hard for him to admit I had done the right thing saving Natalie. I didn’t intend to rub it in his face. Much.

  As I leaned over, he tried to form a word. At first, it was just air brushing over his vocal cords without much response. Finally, after great effort, he managed to make his word clear.

  I steadied myself on the bed, my head just above his mouth. Then he said, “Asshole.”

  I started to guffaw. It was hard not to. A man who had risked his life, been shot twice, barely out of the operating room, and he still managed to summon enough strength to call me a name. I loved it. It completely restored my faith in the FBI.

  I wouldn’t repeat to Father Marty what he’d said, even after the priest asked.

  I looked down, and Fiore managed a smile under the tubes. I said, “I agree with you. If someone had come into my jurisdiction and ignored every reasonable warning I g
ave them, I would have choice words as well.” I patted the FBI man on his unbandaged shoulder. “Let me say it clearly in front of a witness. You saved my ass.” I quickly looked up at the priest, ready to change ass to life. Father Marty motioned to me to continue.

  “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told an FBI agent.” I liked the look of anticipation Fiore managed even under these difficult circumstances. I sucked in a breath of air and said, “You are one hell of a cop.”

  I meant it.

  CHAPTER 93

  I’D NEVER FELT so safe preparing to board a flight in my life. Natalie and I were in a lounge at Lennart Meri Airport with several Estonian police officers and Bill Fiore’s FBI partner, Matt Miller. The Estonian police were growing more concerned about how Henry’s operation had flown under their radar for so long.

  The cops could’ve been from any country. Command staff in suits, detectives in cheap jackets, and a few patrol officers, years younger than the others. Lots of bald spots and graying hair, a phenomenon that happens to all police officers, regardless of nationality—stress takes years off our lives. One of the less-talked-about aspects of police work, and one of the contributing factors to an early death after retirement.

  I knew how uncovering an operation like Henry’s would lead to speculation about corruption, and that sometimes affects an investigation, because no one is sure who to trust.

  Besides all the damage to the concrete columns, they’d found only a couple of casings and some blood in the warehouse room where the big shoot-out took place. I wasn’t much help finding the second office. Natalie was able to point them to where it was located, but Henry and his crew had cleaned the place out by the time the cops showed up.

  As I sat in a comfortable cushioned chair, I muttered, “This is a lot of protection.”