The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1) - James Patterson Page 0,86

his legs.

There’s a man dying in the front seat, gurgling and coughing, and Tom doesn’t want to be near him.

There.

The tape is off and Tom works to free the little girl. She’s bawling, and he has no idea who she is—another kidnap victim?—and once her tape is off, she gets up and runs away, screaming.

Tom sees a man on the ground, legs and arms splayed out, and he scrambles over and sees the man’s eyes are open, and his mouth is slowly opening and closing, like a fish out of water, slowly suffocating. His white dress shirt is soaked with blood, he has closely trimmed white hair and beard, and moments ago, he was standing next to his wife, Amy.

“Sir, I’m Tom Cornwall,” he gasps out. “I’m…damn, I’m so sorry this happened. I swear to God.”

Tom leans over as the man softly speaks. “I’m sorry, too, that I can’t answer your questions, Mister Cornwall…but…I think you might have enough for a book, eh?”

The man closes his eyes.

A man of his named Georges is driving the second Yukon, and the screaming little girl is in Pelayo’s lap, and he turns to the rear and says, “My father, did you see my father?”

Casper is there, pistol in his right hand. “Jefe, I saw him fall. I saw blood on his chest.”

The girl is still screaming, and Pelayo slaps his hand over the brat’s mouth.

“Good,” he says, as the girl squirms and struggles on his lap.

Casper sharply says, “Good? For real, jefe?”

Pelayo yells to Georges, “Drive faster, fool!”

The young man swerves the Yukon around a group of children, standing in the middle of the parking lot, and speeds to the gate.

I’ve dumped the silly flip-flops and I’m racing across the hot asphalt of the parking lot, then the grass, then the parking lot again, my SIG Sauer in my right hand, running, running, running, not letting the Yukon get out of my sight.

The black vehicle suddenly stops in front of a group of laughing children, swerves, and then picks up speed.

Running.

Running.

People are watching and pointing at the chunky woman spilling out of her teeny-tiny bikini, running, holding a pistol in her hands, and I ignore them all.

The Yukon is heading right toward the gate.

Running.

Should I stop, aim for the tires?

Can I do that?

But this is no thriller novel, no blow-’em-up movie, no cop show on TV, where the hero can be a hundred yards away and carefully shoot out the rear tires of a racing vehicle. I’m scared, I’m angry, and if I stand and try to shoot, shit, I might take out a tire, a taillight, or—

A high-speed round from my hand, my weapon, could break through the rear window of the Yukon and kill my little girl.

I don’t stop.

I keep on running.

Will somebody call the police after seeing this shootout? Will the cavalry ride to the rescue?

Of course not.

This artificial community created by drug money has no police.

Running.

The Yukon makes a turn to the right and I break right as well, and I screech as my right foot is sliced opened by something but I don’t care.

Now.

The Yukon has stopped.

Finally!

A hand emerges from the left side, works a keypad.

Running.

A stitch starts stabbing hard at my left side.

The pistol feels like it weighs a ton.

My breathing is harsh and ragged.

“Denise!” I scream.

The gate ahead starts rattling to the right.

The taillights of the Yukon blink as the driver takes his foot off the brakes.

In a few seconds the SUV with my kidnapped daughter aboard will quietly go out into traffic and then disappear.

“Denise!”

I bring up my pistol but it feels useless.

I’m too far away.

I’m not going to make it.

“Denise!” I scream one more time.

Oh, God, I’m not going to make it.

CHAPTER 86

GEORGES BRINGS his arm in and the gate starts moving, and Pelayo is confident it will all work out. In just a few minutes, he’ll be at a private airstrip to the northeast of Beachside, and with Casper and this little girl with him, they’ll head back south to Mexico.

There he’ll regroup and think things through.

The little girl is still crying and struggling.

As for her?

Well, he knows that objects can be sent via delivery systems to nearly anywhere in the United States. A small shipping container with frozen dry ice would keep something fresh for several days, until it got to a certain Army captain’s home.

Fresh, like a little girl’s head.

The gate is open, but the way is blocked by a steady stream of tourists and beachgoers, and Casper calmly says, “The