NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,52
and removed a Ziploc bag. Inside was a handwritten note. “This came with the video. It says, ‘Air this and do not call the cops or she will die.’ I did what I had to do to protect a member of our family.”
“Bullshit,” Kylie said. “You had a responsibility to call us.”
“Wrong, missy. My only responsibility is to keep Erin’s loyal fans informed. That’s why we’re doing a two-hour special tonight, and we will continue to report on this vital news story whether you like it or not.”
“You’re not reporting. You grabbed lightning in a bottle, and all you’re doing is cashing in on these videos.”
“Tell it to the judge, Detective,” Brockway said. “Oh, wait … you did, and the judge told you to back off.”
CHAPTER 46
DUMBEST DAMN PLACE in the world for a fashion show, Bobby thought as he looked through the scope of his Winchester 70 at the abandoned railroad bed four stories below.
The goddamn Brooklyn Army Terminal. Skinny-ass models parading up and down a runway that was built on a bunch of rotting old train tracks. How the hell is that supposed to sell clothes?
He inched the long gun across the crowd of spectators until the puffy face of Jamie Gibbs filled the crosshairs. He was sitting in the front row, smiling at models as they strolled down the runway.
What are you smiling at, asshole? I’ve got your wife. Where’s the rest of my money?
Three hours ago the network had wired a million dollars to Bobby’s offshore account. It was more money than he’d ever had in his life, but it wasn’t enough. He needed the whole twenty-five million to support a woman like Erin. The network was willing to pay, but only in installments of a million bucks.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to make twenty-four more of those videos because you can’t come up with the goods,” Bobby said to the image of Jamie in his scope. “How dumb do you think I am?”
And then, out of nowhere, Oswald popped into his head.
Well, maybe it didn’t come out of nowhere. Bobby was hunkered down in a sniper’s nest, and not only was Lee Harvey Oswald the most famous sniper he knew, he was also his father’s favorite example of piss-poor planning.
“Oswald was the dumbest Marine that ever was,” Bobby’s father had told him. “He worked at the Texas School Book Depository. He shoots Kennedy from the sixth floor of where he works, drops the rifle, and leaves the building. How long do you think it takes for them to do a roll call and realize he’s the only one missing? And then, does he have an exit plan? No, he runs home, picks up a pistol, and starts walking the streets until a cop stops him. He shoots the cop, then hides in a movie theater until the Dallas PD drags him out and arrests him. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
Whenever the subject came up, there was never any discussion about what had possessed an honorably discharged U.S. Marine to shoot and kill the commander in chief. His father always seemed to obsess over how incompetent Oswald was.
Bobby wouldn’t make any of the same mistakes. Getting into the sprawling former military complex had been easy. He blended in with the swarm of journalists, photographers, and invited guests as they entered the venue. His rifle was in a tripod bag, and when others headed for the atrium to gawk at the runway, Bobby made his way across a skywalk to a secluded parapet on the fourth floor of Building B.
The plan was to take his shot and be gone before anyone knew what had happened. All he needed was the right soundtrack.
The show had kicked off with “Eye of the Tiger.” Corny, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. Then came Elton John belting out “The Bitch Is Back,” followed by Springsteen singing “Born to Run.” Good one, but not good enough.
Two more tracks. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.
And then he heard it—the opening notes to his father’s favorite AC/DC song, “Highway to Hell.”
Karma, he thought.
He repositioned himself, laid his cheek on the stock, and looked through the scope.
And then came the thrum, thrum, thrum of the guitars and the driving beat of the drums as the music kicked into high gear.
Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound was pulsing, echoing through the canyon below.
Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom.
It was deafening as the crowd picked up the energy and added to the chaos.
Bam.