1st Case - James Patterson Page 0,61

were toying with me, and I had no choice but to play along.

I knew exactly where Carlito’s was and broke into a sprint the rest of the way. I focused on speed, focused on my feet, focused on getting there—and tried not to think about what might happen if I didn’t.

When I reached the coffee shop, I stumbled as much as walked inside. It was after midnight by now. Most of the tables were empty and there was nobody waiting at the counter. I ordered a latte, gave my name, and shoved some money at the aproned dude staring back at me.

Then I looked down to check the Android. Nothing new had come in.

What now? I wrote, and hit Send.

At nearly the same moment, a chime of some kind sounded from across the room. My eyes snapped up to see a guy in a red and black Northeastern hoodie, just picking up his phone.

I held my breath. I watched as he read whatever was in front of him and set the phone back down without ever looking my way.

So I sent another message.

Hello? Are you there?

And again, the guy’s phone dinged.

Maybe it was a coincidence. Phones are constantly going off in a place like Carlito’s. But tell that to the adrenaline pumping like white water through my system just then.

Before I could think about it—or think at all—I was plowing my way across the floor. A few empty chairs tipped over in my wake, and the guy looked up just in time to see me bearing down on him fast.

He jumped up with his phone and backed away.

“What were you just doing?” I demanded.

“What the bloody hell?” he asked in a clear English accent.

“Show me your phone!” I screamed, half out of my mind. I lunged for it and he stepped back again. Someone grabbed my arm from behind.

“Whoa, whoa! What’s going on here?” one of the staff asked.

“This nutter’s trying to take my phone,” the Brit said.

“Where is she?” I yelled at him. “What have you done with her?”

“Calm down, miss!” he shouted back, just as I heard a new message dinging into my own phone. Then another, and another.

If anything was going to re-rack my focus, it was that. I tore my arm free from the barista and looked down to see what I had.

One block north. Right on C Street.

Wait at the corner of C and Cypher.

You have two minutes.

The digital timer was back and had started its countdown all over again.

When I looked up, the Brit was staring at me like I was some kind of lunatic. And in fact, it was just hitting me that I may have made a horrible mistake. Maybe even a fatal one, where Eve was concerned.

But that didn’t mean I was wrong about this guy. He could have been just one part of a larger team. Some kind of diversion, or test.

As I stared back, I could swear I saw him fighting off a smile. His eyes crinkled, like he was taunting me, silently daring me to make the wrong move.

When I checked the timer on my phone, twenty seconds had already evaporated. That left a minute forty to cover the next leg. I had to leave now if I was going to go at all.

I gave the Brit one last look, committing his face to memory—strong nose, sandy-brown buzz cut, cleft chin—and turned to head for the door. The last thing I heard before I hit the sidewalk was “Latte, single shot, for Angela?”

But I was already gone.

CHAPTER 67

IT WAS GETTING surreal. I felt like I was slogging through mud and fog as I covered the next several blocks, texting back and forth on the fly with the architect of my own nightmare.

Where are you taking me? I asked.

Just keep going, he said.

Are you going to release Eve if I do?

Yes.

How do I know that?

You’ll have to take my word for it. Or not.

And then what? Kill me?

Of course not.

Then what? Talk to me!

The replies had been coming in as fast as the questions I sent, but now they stopped. When I reached the designated corner, I stared at the screen, waiting for something to happen.

Hello? I texted.

I looked up and down both streets. There was nothing out of the ordinary to see, and nobody to catch my attention. The intersection was deserted.

I tried again. Where did you go?

My breath caught in my throat as I started to imagine the worst. Was it over? Had I pushed too hard?