Blindside (Michael Bennett)

by James Patterson

  Flash looked troubled. Finally he said, “Then you’ll throw some cash my way afterward?”

  I said, “Have I ever stiffed you on information you gave me?” That seemed to satisfy my informant. He told me everything he’d done to find Tight. It wasn’t much. He had been lucky and had met the pill addict at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Now he was supposed to buy a few thousand dollars’ worth of pills from Tight.

  Once we got to Convent Garden, I made Flash wait at the far end of the park. No one was inside the fence, and I was able to sit on a bench across the park without being seen easily. I ran through the drill in my head quickly. Once I grabbed Tight, I could charge him with attempted robbery. I could articulate how he had been part of the robbery with RJ and had fled after the shooting. Then Terri Hernandez would have to tie him to the homicide. If he had his pistol on him, we could match the slugs. Otherwise, it might be up to DNA.

  I sat quietly, looking across the park, until about three twenty. I wasn’t worried that our target hadn’t shown up yet. He was working on DST, doper standard time. Addicts rarely stuck to schedules. It was one of the things that made it so hard to work in the Narcotics unit.

  Then I looked up and he was there. Standing by the entrance to the park, the tall black man was all shakes and jitters. The time since the murder had not been kind to him. A threadbare coat over ripped sweatpants hardly made the profession of drug dealer look glamorous.

  His eyes darted in every direction, and he never stopped moving. He noticed Flash and began shambling toward him.

  I immediately stood up and started to stroll through the park, headed in the general direction of the two men. I had already told Flash to just walk away once I showed up. No chitchat, no staying to watch, just leave the area. It was the safest thing to do, and that way I didn’t have to worry about Flash getting hurt.

  I approached the two men at an angle where Tight couldn’t see me. They talked for a few seconds. I stood directly behind them. As soon as Tight turned around, Flash started to walk away. I couldn’t believe an informant had actually listened to directions.

  I smiled at Tight. “Remember me?”

  His right hand reached for his waistband.

  But I was ready. My Glock was in my right hand behind my back. I reached out and pinned his arm with my left hand, then brought my pistol up to where it was almost touching his nose.

  I said, “I guess that means you do remember me. Do you remember Sondra Evans and her daughter, Alicia?”

  I yanked the pistol from his waistband. I stuck it in the back of my belt before I shoved him to the ground and put cuffs on him.

  When he was securely in custody, I carefully pulled the pistol from my back. It was the same Colt .45 I had seen the day I was in the shooting.

  I had the right man.

  Tight screamed, “Police brutality. Help me, help me.”

  I pulled him to his feet and dusted him off. “Relax, Tight. The whole park has video surveillance. You need to find a new excuse.”

  Instantly he shifted gears and said, “I been framed. I been framed.”

  “That’s why we have a judicial system. If I’m wrong, you go free and can sue me. But if I’m right, you’re done.”

  That’s when he tried to wiggle free and run.

  I had to catch him hard by the elbow, then swing him onto a bench a few feet away.

  Finally the fight went out of him. He sighed and started to cry. Through the tears, he said, “I need help, man. I don’t even know who I am no more.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Mrs. Evans that.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman whose daughter and granddaughter you shot. The nurse. Do you remember her? I’ve seen a lot of murders, but this is one where I just have to ask you: why? It made no sense to me.”

  He sat there staring straight ahead into the park, deep in thought. Finally he turned his head to look at me and said, “She had access to pills.”

  I said, “Excuse me?”

  Tight said, “She was the nurse in charge of securing the painkillers ’n’ such. I thought she could load me up. She didn’t like the idea of doing something like that.”

  “So you killed her and her daughter?”

  He hung his head and said, “I don’t remember it so clearly. I don’t remember nothin’ so clearly. And I don’t really care. I don’t care if you shoot me right here, take me to jail, or let me go. Nothin’ matters no more.”

  “It may not matter to you, but it matters a lot to the Evans family. And they’re going to be happy to see you behind bars.”

  “Good. Make those people happy for a few minutes, seein’ me behind bars.”

  “I’m sure that’s what everyone will say about you. That he just wanted to make the world a better place.”

  I walked him through the park in handcuffs. I called Terri Hernandez and told her to meet me in front of the Manhattan North Homicide building. I wanted to dump this mope and get on with my real life.

  There were ten kids at home waiting to see me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Lieutenant Luke Miller, NYPD, for his patience and diligence in answering questions and making sure the NYPD’s reputation remains positive.

  Have You Read Them All?

  STEP ON A CRACK

  The most powerful people in the world have gathered for a funeral in New York City. They don’t know it’s a trap devised by a ruthless mastermind, and it’s up to Michael Bennett to save every last hostage.

  RUN FOR YOUR LIFE

  The Teacher is giving New York a lesson it will never forget, slaughtering the powerful and the arrogant. Michael Bennett discovers a vital pattern, but has only a few hours to save the city.

  WORST CASE

  Children from wealthy families are being abducted. But the captor isn’t demanding money. He’s quizzing his hostages on the price others pay for their luxurious lives, and one wrong answer is fatal.

  TICK TOCK

  New York is in chaos as a rash of horrifying copycat crimes tears through the city. Michael Bennett investigate, but not even he could predict the earth-shattering enormity of this killer’s plan.

  I, MICHAEL BENNETT

  Bennett arrests infamous South American crime lord Manuel Perrine. From jail, Perrine vows to rain terror down upon New York City – and to get revenge on Michael Bennett.

  GONE

  Perrine is back and deadlier than ever. Bennett must make an impossible decision: stay and protect his family, or hunt down the man who is their biggest threat.

  BURN

  A group of well-dressed men enter a condemned building. Later, a charred body is found. Michael Bennett is about to enter a secret underground world of terrifying depravity.

  ALERT

  Two devastating catastrophes hit New York in quick succession, putting everyone on edge. Bennett is given the near impossible task of hunting down the shadowy terror group responsible.

  BULLSEYE

  As the most powerful men on earth gather for a meeting of the UN, Bennett receives shocking intelligence that there will be an assassination attempt on the US president. Are the Russian government behind the plot?

  HAUNTED

  Michael Bennett is ready for a vacation after a series of crises push him, and his family, to the brink. But when he gets pulled into a shocking case, Bennett is fighting to protect a town, the law, and the family that he loves.

  AMBUSH

  When an anonymous tip proves to be a trap. Michael Bennett believes he personally is being targetted. And not just him, but his family too.

  OFFICER RORY YATES IS TRACKING TWO KILLERS. THE TEXAS RANGERS ARE TRACKING HIM …

  READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEAK OF TEXAS OUTLAW, COMING APRIL 2020

  I PULL MY Ford F-150 into the small parking lot at the Rio Grande Bank and Trust in Waco. A big Dodge pickup, even bigger than mine, is taking up two handicapped spaces right in front. I drive around to the shady side and find an opening far from the door.

  It�
�s my lunch break, and I need to deposit a check for my girlfriend.

  “Tell me again, Rory,” my lieutenant and new boss says from the passenger seat, “why your girlfriend doesn’t get a bank account in Tennessee.”

  Kyle Hendricks and I became Rangers right around the same time and have always been competitive. Up until about a month ago, Kyle and I were the same rank. Then my old boss, friend, and mentor, Lieutenant Ted Creasy, retired and Kyle got promoted. A lot of Rangers wanted me to take the lieutenant’s exam, but I wasn’t in the right headspace to apply for the job. I’ve been through hell and back in the last year.

  Now that Kyle’s my boss, I remind myself to be respectful of his position. After all, he’s in his late thirties, a few years older than me. The Texas-bred good old boy has hair the color of straw and the long, lean body of the baseball pitcher he was back in high school and college. Since football was my sport, I thought of Kyle and me as two quarterbacks vying for the starting spot, fueled by a mix of mutual respect and distaste—then suddenly one of them became the coach.

  “Coach” invited me to lunch at a local restaurant called Butter My Biscuit, which I took as a good sign that he wants to smooth this transition. But the way he’s been ribbing me about Willow makes me think that maybe he hasn’t changed much after all.

  “Hell,” Kyle says, “it’s the twenty-first century. They got national banks now, you know. Wells Fargo. Capital One. You might have heard of ’em.”

  I ignore him. The guys at work tease me all the time about Willow, who moved to Nashville a good eight months ago. She’s a country singer—a hell of a good one, too. Through most of her twenties, she played in bars and roadhouses from Texas to Nashville. But she never got her big break—until last fall, when she broke her ankle and a video of her singing on a barstool in a leg cast went viral. Suddenly producers and talent scouts were asking for demos of her songs, inviting her to fly out to Nashville for auditions. She and I had really only just started dating. But I encouraged her to go and pursue her dreams. Take her shot.

  She’s done well so far. A couple of songs she wrote were recorded by Miranda Lambert and Little Big Town, and are already earning her royalty checks. Her own album is due out later this summer. People are saying Willow is going to be the next big thing, but she knows every new artist is next up for fame, though fame passes most of them by.

  She’s been cautiously optimistic, and maybe a little superstitious. She doesn’t want to open a bank account in Nashville until she feels sure this is a permanent move. Which also has a little something to do with me. The Nashville Police Department has a job opening for a detective, and she’s asked me to consider applying.

  I’m honored to be a Texas Ranger, born and raised in Texas, and the thought of leaving the top division of state law enforcement isn’t a decision I take lightly. Times have changed since the Wild West days, but not the legendary status of Texas Rangers. The badge still carries a mystique.

  “How much is that check for anyway?” Kyle says, gesturing to the sealed envelope in my hand.

  I ignore this question, too. “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  “Take your time,” he says, leaning his head back and tilting his Stetson down over his eyes. “I’m going to take me a little nap.”

  It’s early June, but already the air is hot and thick with humidity. My clothes stick to my skin. I’m wearing the typical Texas Ranger attire: dress slacks, button-down shirt, tie, cowboy hat, and cowboy boots. And a polished silver star pinned to my shirt.

  I’m wearing my gun, too, a SIG Sauer P320 loaded with .357 cartridges, sheathed in a quick-draw holster. A Texas Ranger should always be ready for anything.

  I walk into the bank head down, not paying attention to my surroundings as I open the envelope Willow sent me. I’m caught off guard by the amount of the check. I’m glad I didn’t tell Kyle—I’d never hear the end of it.

  Not until I hear the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked no more than a foot from my head do I sense anything is wrong. Today I’m not ready.

  “Hold it right there, Ranger,” a voice says from behind me. “One move and I’ll put a bullet right through your skull.”

  I SLOWLY RAISE my head and take in the scene. Besides the guy holding a gun to my head, I see only one other robber. He rises from a crouch behind the counter, where the half dozen tellers are standing. The AR-15 assault rifle he carries is equipped with a bump stock to effectively turn it from semiautomatic to fully automatic.

  “No sudden movements,” he yells at me, “or I’ll light this place up like the Fourth of July.”

  The big Dodge parked out front, blocking the view into the bank, is probably the robbers’ getaway car.

  The guy behind me swivels around, keeping the pistol—a 9mm Beretta—leveled at my head. “Put those hands up,” he says. “Slowly.”

  I do as he says, quickly counting the six customers standing in the bank lobby. The last thing I want is to put innocent bystanders in the midst of a gunfight.

  These guys look like pros. They’re wearing black tactical gear from head to toe, including masks and bulletproof vests, standard issue for law enforcement or military personnel (though your average citizen can get this stuff on the internet).

  Even if these guys are professionals, I still have one question.

  “Why the hell are you guys robbing a bank at lunchtime?” I say. “There probably wouldn’t be a soul in here at any other time of day.”

  “Not that we owe you any goddamn explanation,” the guy with the AR-15 says, “but the vault’s on a time lock.” He checks his watch. “And it’s just about time.”

  With that, he disappears into a back room. Now is the time for me to make a move. But even if I could get the drop on the guy with a gun to my head, Mr. AR-15 would hear the gunshot and come running. He’d open fire with the assault rifle and tear the place apart. He could kill everyone in the room before he needed to reload.

  The eyes of the guy with the Beretta dart to the pistol on my hip, then back up to my face. I can tell what he’s thinking. He’s wondering how to disarm me. If he gets close enough to reach for the pistol, maybe I can disarm and disable him. Asking me to remove it from the holster and drop it will risk putting a gun into one of my hands, even if he insists I use the left one. Or I could leave my hands right where they are, shoulder high and far from my gun belt.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” I say to the guy. “I’m going to let you walk right out of here. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “If anyone’s gonna get hurt, Ranger, it’s you. I hate the fucking Texas Rangers. I might kill you just ’cause I feel like it.”

  The guy’s voice is rough and strained. These guys might be professionals, but this one’s nerves are shot. I need to find a way to keep him under control.

  “Let me remind you,” I say, maintaining a steady, calm voice, “killing a Texas Ranger is capital murder. They’ll give you the needle for it.”

  In other states, death-row inmates die of old age while their lawyers delay their sentences with endless appeals. But this is Texas, which executed more people last year than every other state combined.

  The hand holding the gun trembles slightly.

  “It’s also capital murder,” I say, “to kill someone during the execution of a robbery. If you shoot anyone today, anyone at all, that’s a death sentence. Automatically.”

  I’ve scared him, which isn’t necessarily a good thing.

  “You and your partner are free to go,” I assure him. “I don’t care about the money you’re stealing. Maybe you’ll get caught at a later date. Maybe you’ll get away with it. That’s not my problem today. What I care about is that no one gets hurt.”

  I can’t gauge the impact of my words. The guy watches as his partner lugs two loaded duffel bags, one on each shoulder. He hauls them up onto the counter and then, like a bank robber in a movie, climbs atop the marble. He stands and shoulders the assault rifle, swinging it around at the people s
tanding in the lobby.

  Some are crying. Some are shaking. All of them look scared to death.

  “All right,” Mr. AR-15 announces, breath heaving from carrying the bags, “since we had the bad luck of a Texas Ranger walking in on us, we’re going to have to take us a hostage.”

  “There’s no need to take any hostages,” I say. “I’m going to let you walk right out of here.”

  “We seen you circle the parking lot,” he says. “We know there’s another Ranger out there. We need some insurance we won’t be followed.”

  Mr. AR-15 looks overly confident, crazed almost. But his partner, Mr. Beretta—I can tell he’s spooked. His eyes bulge in his mask. And his arm is getting tired, too. His gun hand is shaking more and more.

  “If you have to take anyone,” I say, “take me.”

  Also by James Patterson

  ALEX CROSS NOVELS

  Along Came a Spider • Kiss the Girls • Jack and Jill • Cat and Mouse • Pop Goes the Weasel • Roses are Red • Violets are Blue • Four Blind Mice • The Big Bad Wolf • London Bridges • Mary, Mary • Cross • Double Cross • Cross Country • Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo) • I, Alex Cross • Cross Fire • Kill Alex Cross • Merry Christmas, Alex Cross • Alex Cross, Run • Cross My Heart • Hope to Die • Cross Justice • Cross the Line • The People vs. Alex Cross • Target: Alex Cross • Criss Cross