The 13-Minute Murder

by James Patterson

  Howard caught the movement from the corner of his eye and turned to face her.

  “What do you think you’re—”

  Susan snapped her legs straight in a double-footed kick that caught him full in the face, bouncing his skull off the roof of the limo.

  He screamed in pain and dropped the gun. He used both hands to clutch at his broken nose, now gushing blood again.

  Susan thought for a second that her Krav Maga instructor would be proud.

  She snatched the case from the floor of the limo and popped open her door, and ran as fast as she could as soon as her feet touched the ground. She heard the driver’s door open behind her, heard him yelling at her to stop. She risked a look back and saw him draw his gun, but she knew he wouldn’t start shooting out here with so many non-compromised cops and Secret Service agents. She sprinted away to find somewhere to hide and think.

  Randall, forgive me, she thought. But you’re on your own.

  Chapter 35

  The Damocles guard—his name was David Cook—shoved and bullied his way from the metal detectors and the screening station to the center of the lobby. He knew the other guards—the ones who weren’t in on the plot, and who weren’t on the secure channel—were probably wondering why he’d abandoned his post, but screw them. The only instructions he cared about now were from Howard. He had to get to Beck. If anyone else should reach him first, they might open his shirt and jacket and see the vest. And then the whole plan would be ruined. There was no way the presidential detail would allow the president anywhere near the building if there was a bomb inside.

  One of Pierce’s Secret Service agents—not a Damocles plant, unfortunately—was almost to Beck.

  Cook yelled at him, “Protect the senator! I’ve got this!”

  The woman nodded and stepped back to flank the senator again.

  Cook grabbed and pulled the idiots surrounding Beck out of his way. “Move!” he yelled. “Come on, move it!”

  Beck was on the floor, looking like he was hours away from his own autopsy.

  Damn it, Cook thought. We’ve come so far, we can’t have it all go to pieces now.

  He just had to get Beck on his feet. That was all. Then he had to get out of the lobby himself before the bomb was triggered. It could all still work. The plan could be salvaged.

  Cook pulled on Beck’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Beck’s face was pale. Cook couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

  Cook leaned down and brought his face close to Beck’s. He felt around the man’s neck for a pulse.

  He was surprised to find that Beck’s pulse was strong and steady and fast.

  Then he was even more surprised to feel Beck’s hand at his belt as the doctor grabbed Cook’s gun and yanked it from his holster.

  Cook looked into Beck’s eyes, which were wide open now.

  “Change in plans,” Beck said.

  Then he put the gun against Cook’s chest and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 36

  The sound of the gunshot worked like a starter pistol. Everyone began running, even if they had no idea where to go.

  Beck knew he only had a few seconds before he would lose the element of surprise. He’d managed to fake a seizure and fool everyone, but he didn’t think their shock at seeing him rise from the dead would last long.

  He was right. Pierce’s Secret Service detail was already moving between him and the senator, trying to block him as he stepped toward her.

  But he was too close, and he already had a gun drawn. They were hampered by the panicking crowd, and they were really not expecting any trouble. The best they could do was shield her.

  Which was precisely what Beck expected them to do.

  He stepped up to each of the agents guarding Pierce, who was looking at him with shock and horror as—too late, they scrambled to draw their guns.

  Beck fired the gun three more times, putting a bullet each into the body armor that the agents wore on their chests.

  He looked over to the Damocles guard he’d shot first, who was yelling and cursing on the ground, clutching his chest.

  Even with a bulletproof Kevlar vest, a point-blank round to the chest could break ribs. More importantly, it really, really hurt.

  Beck had learned that from listening to his patients’ stories in therapy. He was happy to see that it worked in practice, too.

  The Secret Service agents were now all on the ground, the breath knocked out of their lungs. Only Pierce was left standing. She turned to run from him.

  But there was nowhere to go.

  Beck could have shot her. He could have ended her life right there.

  But he was not, despite everything that had happened today, a killer. He could not make himself cross that line.

  And he wanted the world to see her for what she really was. He didn’t want revenge.

  He wanted the truth. For Kevin Scott. For Susan. For Todd Graham. For Jennifer Scott, who he now assumed had been murdered by the woman in her house. And even for Louis, who Beck had a terrible gut feeling had also felt the wrath of Damocles. And for himself, too.

  So he grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her close. He jabbed the gun in her side.

  Then he used his free hand to snap the handcuff around her left wrist.

  The other cuff was already locked around his right wrist.

  Pierce tried to pull away from him. Couldn’t. “What did you just do?” she shrieked.

  Beck ignored her.

  He pointed the gun at the ceiling and fired a round into the air.

  The crowd moved like it had a single mind, everyone trying to get away from the madman with the gun. Beck found himself at the center of the lobby with no one but Pierce by his side.

  She tried to pull away again. Beck tugged her back, the metal of the cuffs biting into both their wrists. He thought they wouldn’t risk taking a shot at him, for fear they would miss and explode the vest, killing Pierce. But he also knew, as long as he didn’t come anywhere close to President Martin, they wouldn’t detonate the vest remotely.

  Pierce wasn’t going anywhere. They were locked together. Their fates were now inextricable.

  Chapter 37

  Susan decided to risk it. She snuck out from between the two news vans where she’d been hiding, and forced herself to walk slowly, to try to look normal, like she was supposed to be there, the laptop tucked under one arm.

  She had no idea where she was going. She was behind the performing arts center, trapped inside the security cordon for the event. There were temporary barriers and police tape strung all around the building. The street was blocked by heavy, military-style Humvees. And every few feet, there were police and Secret Service and private security all wearing the Damocles uniform and logo.

  Any one of these people could be an enemy; any one of them might grab her or shoot her or turn her back over to Howard.

  Susan wasn’t sure what to do. The only person she could trust was wearing a suicide vest and was stuck inside the center. She had to figure this out on her own.

  If she went to the police barriers, she was going to have to face the Secret Service and the Damocles guards. They might be in on the plot, or they might not. She was already getting suspicious looks.

  But she had to do something fast. She heard a bellow of anger a block behind her. “Somebody stop that woman!”

  She turned in time to see Agent Howard stumbling from the limo, clutching at his face with one hand, blood spilling down his shirt. She took satisfaction in that. She’d hurt him. Good.

  Unfortunately, now people were really gawking at her. A pair of police officers moved away from their posts at the barriers. One began walking toward her; another toward Howard.

  “Get her!” Howard screamed, his voice clogged like someone suffering a bad cold.

  Susan turned and walked away, as calmly as she could. The media had been set up in their own holding pen, TV news vans and mobile satellite trucks, all parked together. The reporters clustered toge
ther near the front of the pen. They all seemed agitated about something.

  If Susan could just reach them, forty feet away, she might be able to blend into the crowd.

  “Excuse me, miss? Miss?” It was the police officer behind her. He was polite. Still confused, still unsure of what was going on. Which meant he wasn’t a part of the plot. But he would detain her, still ask questions. And there was no way he would take her word over Howard’s. In his mind, she’d just be some crazy person who had assaulted a Secret Service agent.

  She kept walking, forcing herself to go at a normal pace, as if she hadn’t heard. Just another reporter, just another random woman in the crowd.

  “Miss, please stop right there,” the cop said, and his voice was louder and harder now. Not being polite anymore.

  She kept walking. He wouldn’t shoot her in the back.

  Would he?

  She was almost at the media pen. None of the reporters or technicians were looking at her. Their eyes were all glued to the front doors of the building.

  She sprinted through the crowd of reporters, then ducked the police barrier, and—she hoped—blended into the crowd there. She didn’t risk a look back to see if the cop was able to stay on her tail.

  The big black car known as the Beast—the presidential limo—glided to a halt at the front steps.

  Secret Service agents jumped from their cars to open the door for the president.

  Susan realized that the president was about to walk right into the lobby, and within range of the bomb strapped to Randall.

  They would kill her. They’d trigger the bomb and kill her, and Randall, and everyone close to him.

  They were all about to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Then Susan heard someone say, “What the hell is going on in there?”

  Susan finally risked a look over her shoulder. She saw Howard half-running, half-staggering toward her. The police officer spotted her when she turned around and began running toward her, his hand on his holster.

  She turned away quickly and picked up the pace.

  She pushed her way through the huge crowd that had shown up to try to glimpse the president, or to just cheer her on or boo her.

  Susan had almost made it. They wouldn’t try anything in front of so many witnesses.

  Would they?

  Then she heard gunshots, and flinched, expecting to feel a bullet between her shoulder blades.

  But the shots came from inside the building.

  And then she and the crowd and the reporters and the cops were engulfed in a flood of people running from the exits of the building, all of them fleeing in panic. It was chaos, like opposing tidal waves crashing into each other.

  She heard someone shout, “Run! He’s got a gun!”

  Everyone was now trying to get away from the building.

  But not Susan. She pushed her way closer, fighting against the tide.

  Randall, she thought. Whatever you’re pulling, I hope it works.

  Chapter 38

  “Would someone please just shoot this man?” Senator Pierce screamed as Beck yanked her closer. She kept trying to pull away, and it caused the metal cuff to dig even deeper into his flesh.

  They were surrounded by a circle of Secret Service agents, police officers, and Damocles guards. A half-dozen laser sights danced over Beck’s face and body as they searched for an angle that would not also harm the senator, or explode the bomb. Beck looped his non-handcuffed arm through her free arm, so that they were back to back. He started turning them in circles, at different rates of speed and changing direction without notice. Getting a clean shot at him in this position and with this movement would be nearly impossible.

  A few yards away, Beck could see the people he had already shot, still writhing on the ground in agony. They were all going to be very sore, and as furious as he was at them for what they were, and for putting him in this situation, he was glad they weren’t dead.

  Which was more than Beck could expect when this was over. He and Susan would probably be killed.

  Pierce tried to pull away. Beck tightened his grip, using her as a shield. He kept his gun pointed out toward the officers and Secret Service men surrounding him. He wasn’t sure he could hit anyone, shooting from this angle and being jostled by Pierce, but he tried to look confident and hoped the threat would be enough.

  “Shoot him!” she screamed again. She sounded more outraged than scared, as if some barista at the coffee shop had just given her the wrong flavor of latte.

  Beck jabbed her with his elbow. She squawked in pain and shut up.

  Beck looked around frantically. He just had to stall them for long enough. The president had to get away. That was the best he could hope for.

  Through the big glass panels of the lobby, he noticed the big limousine. The Beast. It slowed down, rolling to a stop. A Secret Service agent went to the back door, ready to open it—

  No, Beck thought.

  And then, suddenly, the limo picked up speed again. The agent was left standing as the Beast accelerated, and made a smoking-tire exit from the front of the building, out of Beck’s view.

  Beck almost couldn’t believe it. The president was safe now. He’d actually done it.

  Despite everything, he allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction.

  “Looks like the debate is canceled, Senator,” he said, over his shoulder.

  “You idiot,” she hissed back. “You are never going to get out of here alive.”

  Sadly, Beck knew she was right. He’d managed to save the president, but this was as far as he’d gotten in his master plan.

  Now he was out of ideas, and he was just waiting for someone to shoot him.

  For the first time, he noticed the big screens on the walls of the lobby, all tuned to CNN. They were supposed to show the debate to the overflow crowd, Beck supposed. Now, they showed the panicked crowds outside the center with the chyron scrolling across the bottom of the screens:

  BREAKING NEWS…TERRORIST HAS TAKEN SENATOR PIERCE HOSTAGE…

  Beck had seen headlines like this before. He knew how these stories always ended.

  It looked like the cancer wasn’t going to kill him after all.

  Chapter 39

  On the catwalk, Morrison heard the gunshots from the lobby. Then the screams. He spoke quietly into his throat mike. “Howard. What’s going on?”

  No response.

  He tried again. “Howard. Do you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  Damn it, he knew he shouldn’t have let Howard run things from the limo. That idiot couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel.

  But they’d needed thugs to pull this off, and Howard loved to hurt people. Unfortunately, most thugs weren’t that bright. Howard would have been bounced out of the Service long ago if Morrison hadn’t found him useful.

  Morrison got out of his sniper position and began to crawl. He needed to get to higher ground, where he could scope out the entire situation.

  His arm hurt and the H&K rifle jabbed him painfully in the ribs when he began climbing a ladder upward at the back of the auditorium.

  Morrison was already planning on killing at least one more person today. Not like he’d been looking forward to it or anything. He wasn’t a psychopath like Howard. It was a part of the job, that was all.

  But if Randall Beck had somehow managed to screw them, then it was going to be a pleasure to put a bullet through his brain.

  Chapter 40

  Beck used to have a patient named Gregory Lucas who was an FBI hostage negotiator. The stress was eating him alive by the time he came to Beck for treatment. Together, they worked through his anxiety—though it’s tough to tell someone to relax when lives are literally at stake every time he goes to work.

  However, Beck taught him to live with the fact that he couldn’t control everything.

  And in the process, he taught Beck all about how hostage negotiation worked.


  Which came in handy for Beck right about now.

  “All right, back off,” Beck shouted. “Put those guns away!”

  The agents didn’t move. They kept their guns trained on him, their faces grim and frozen.

  Which was keeping with what Lucas had told him. You never walk away from a live situation, he said. Never put down your guns unless you absolutely have to.

  Beck figured it was time to put all his cards on the table.

  “I’ve got a bomb!” he shouted, using his gun hand to open the raincoat and his jacket as best he could.

  Now everyone could see the vest with its wires and plastic explosives.

  Again, the agents did not move back. But Beck could see their faces grow even more tense.

  “You shoot me, and the bomb goes off!” he shouted.

  This was not precisely true, of course, unless the bullet hit the explosives. He had no control over the bomb. He wondered why it hadn’t been detonated already. Howard’s voice had stopped yammering in his ear a few moments earlier, and he didn’t miss it.

  Beck knew that this bought him just a little time. Eventually, someone was going to take a shot.

  That would kill everyone in the room. Beck decided to remind the agents of that fact. “If anyone takes a shot, this bomb will explode!” he shouted. “Put away your guns or I’ll detonate!”

  Now he had some leverage. He could see it in their eyes.

  At first, Lucas had told Beck, you have to agree to everything. Never say no. We do whatever the wackjob wants until we can get control of the situation. A plane to Cuba? No problem. Luxury box at the Redskins game? You got it. Pizza with anchovies? It’s on its way. Whatever you want.

  So Beck was not surprised—relieved, but not surprised—as one by one, the laser-sights dotting his chest winked off, and the armed men and women surrounding agreed with his wish and put away their guns.

  Senator Pierce, however, was shocked. And not at all happy about it.