Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,15

are too good to ignore. He’ll let it leak that he got you assigned here. In other words, he’s the one who saved my life yesterday.”

“When did Deacon call you? If you want, I could—”

“Needham, I didn’t get where I am by waiting for the mayor to call me. As far as he knows, you were always on the case.”

Elizabeth nodded. She knew what he meant. Mainly, because she knew Mayor Deacon. All too well. His pretty protégée was now the poster girl of bravery for what the press was calling the Times Square Massacre. If Deacon found out that she wasn’t actually working to catch the masterminds behind it, he sure as hell was going to pick up the phone and call Pritchard.

As much as Pritchard hated politics, he was keenly aware of one of its first rules: always get out in front of any potential problem. In other words, anticipate. Just the sort of thing you want to be good at when your job is preventing terrorism.

It all made sense to Elizabeth.

Still, there was this little something kicking around inside her head. An image. It took all of a split second, quicker than quick. It was the look that flashed across Pritchard’s face while he was staring at the footage of Darvish and the woman. That glow obstructing her face wasn’t necessarily a mystery to him.

Or maybe Elizabeth was just imagining the whole thing.

Sure, that had to be it, she told herself. There was a 99 percent chance it was nothing, a figment of her imagination. Besides, it wasn’t as if she were in a position to ask him about it. If there was something Pritchard wanted to share with her about that glow, he would’ve shared it. Right?

“Okay, I’m off the Darvish case,” said Elizabeth, playing the good soldier. “Times Square. What would you like me to focus on?”

She’d barely finished the question when the answer came barging into Pritchard’s office. He was clearly an agent, but she hadn’t seen him before.

“We have an address,” the guy said.

“Where?” asked Pritchard.

“Jersey City.”

Pritchard nodded, rubbed his chin, and turned to Elizabeth. “Want to go for a ride, Needham?”

CHAPTER 17

MEN AND their toys …

Elizabeth stared wide-eyed at all the equipment, the endless gadgets being prepped and primed, during the half hour drive from lower Manhattan out to Jersey City in what was the back of a moving truck, or so it appeared to anyone seeing it from the outside. A1 SHLEPPERS, read the signage.

Inside the truck was a command central that looked to Elizabeth like some Hollywood take on what the future of law enforcement might one day be. Some of the things she could take a stab at based on her training—like what appeared to be an electromagnetic-pulse gun for tripping IEDs from a safe distance. With some of the other items, she had no clue. What the hell is that neon-green goo that guy is mixing?

Screw Hollywood. The future is now.

Elizabeth was one of only two women among the two dozen or so agents, a mixture of the JTTF’s federal, state, and local law enforcement officers, the FBI SWAT team, and the additional FBI agents who had just arrived from the Operational Technology Division at Quantico. A few times she was tempted to lean forward and ask Pritchard what the plan was, and each time she held back. He was sitting in the row of seats on the opposite side of the truck, heavily engaged in conversation with a square-jawed agent in full tactical armor named Munez, presumably the SWAT team leader.

Pritchard’s body language could be summed up in three words: do not disturb.

All Elizabeth knew so far was what the agent in Pritchard’s office had explained. Whoever placed those bombs in the first-wave attack on Times Square didn’t do so randomly. They did their homework to ensure that none of the street-level surveillance cameras would spot anything suspicious beforehand. There were no knapsacks left unattended. No sudden appearance of workmen who couldn’t be accounted for by either the city or any business. Ironically, the one thing the terrorists didn’t account for, especially in light of their second-wave attack, was the mother of all drones: a satellite.

Then again, you can’t really plan for something you don’t even know exists.

“One of the keyholes from NROL-71 picked up a guy wearing a coat into the Lyric Theatre and leaving minutes later without it,” the agent had told Pritchard. “We tagged him returning to a house in Jersey City. Unless he