Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,44

a meeting that no one was supposed to see.

First decision? Whether I stake out the mayor’s residence at Gracie Mansion or the Excelsior Hotel on the Upper West Side, where Deacon hunkered down during his reelection campaign. The Excelsior was also where he met up with his mistress, the woman Elizabeth unwittingly provided cover for when she was first brought in as a member of his security detail. The guy had no shame. Of course, that’s job requirement number one of any successful politician.

“Start with the hotel,” Elizabeth told me. Then she told me what to look for. “He never uses the front entrance. Always the back. If you see his limo, he’s there.”

I saw the limo.

It was parked by an unmarked door next to the loading dock used for deliveries. The engine was off. The driver looked to be sleeping. That made things a little easier.

Perched on my bike in an alley near the back of the hotel, I watched through the visor of my helmet and waited for that unmarked door to open. A half hour became an hour. The sun was officially up. Could you actually be sleeping in, Deacon? Of all days?

I didn’t care. I was prepared to sit there on my bike for as long as it took. That was the plan. It was all about finding Eli. One way or another the mayor was going to lead me to him.

One way. Or another.

The more I kept staring at that unmarked door, the less I could hear of the city. The traffic, a plane overhead—every noise was fading into the background. That’s when something strange happened. My phone rang.

It shouldn’t have. That was the strange part. The ringer was off. But it still rang.

I glanced at the caller ID before quickly removing my helmet. It was Elizabeth.

“Hi, there,” I said. “How’d you sleep?”

I knew right away from the laugh that it wasn’t Elizabeth. “I slept like a log,” he said with an Israeli accent.

“Who is this?” I asked, although I already knew. He must have air-swiped the IMEI from Elizabeth’s phone at Starbucks. He was now piggybacking on her line. This guy was Mossad, all right.

“I’m the guy you’re looking for,” he said. “Now say ‘Cheese.’”

And like that, I was Al Pacino and his fellow detectives in Heat. I’d been made. Eli had gotten me to take my helmet off. He was probably now clicking away nearby with a long-range lens.

On second thought, I should’ve been so lucky.

CHAPTER 54

FUNNY THING about the mind. You get a certain idea stuck in it and then all other thoughts funnel through like lemmings. That is, until it turns out you had the wrong idea.

I looked everywhere in front of me, trying to spot Eli. Was he on a rooftop? A terrace? In a window nearby? If he wanted to identify me, he had to be able to see my face. That was the idea.

I had my helmet in one hand, my cell in the other. Eli was no longer on the line. Say “Cheese” was the last thing he’d said.

I’d taken the bait.

He wasn’t taking my picture. He was just making sure I kept looking in front of me.

“Nice bike,” came his voice behind me.

I turned to look. It was pure reflex and exactly what he was banking on. He was tall, wore dark sunglasses, and never broke stride in his black blazer and turtleneck as his left hand went up. Pzzzz!

The spray hit my eyes like a thousand tiny needles, the sting nearly knocking me to the ground. It was mace. Military grade. The kind that could stop a grizzly dead in its tracks, never mind a person.

My helmet and phone hit the ground as I reached up to my eyes. Again, pure reflex. I was all but blind, blinking furiously to try to keep seeing—if only for a split second at a time. The Glock holstered above my ankle was useless.

That’s when he raised his right hand.

I could just make out the movement. The grip. The steel. The suppressor attached to the end of the barrel. Pffft!

The muffled sound pierced the air with barely a wake. Once, then twice. He’d shot my back tire followed by the front. It was all happening frame by frame, like clicking through one of those old View-Masters. My mind was desperately trying to fill in what my eyes couldn’t see.

He could’ve killed me if he’d wanted to. He didn’t want to. All he was looking for was a captive audience.