NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,80

but I could see the grin spread across her face. Some bored-out-of-his-gourd detective who had been cruising the streets of the Bronx on a stolen-car detail just hit the high-speed-chase lottery.

“Red One, Central. We are north through Van Cortlandt Park.”

“Auto Crime, Central. Show us responding toward that location.”

When something big breaks on citywide, any cop who picks it up is going to radio his buddies and tell them to roll over to that channel. Within minutes half the cops in the city would be tuned in to the drama on the Deegan and hoping it would come their way.

The radio lit up, and by the time we crossed the city line into Yonkers, Bronx Narcotics and Highway One had signed on for the ride. And by the time we passed the Empire Casino, three more cars and an ESU truck were en route to join the posse.

“No shortage of volunteers,” I said.

“NYPD chasing FDNY. Who wouldn’t want a piece of that?” Kylie said. “At best, these cops figure they have a shot at being on the six o’clock news. At worst, they’ve got a war story to spin at the bar tonight. I bet for most of them, it’s better than sex.”

I checked in with DOI. “Joe, what do you got?”

“He jumped off the Deegan. He’s on the off-ramp to the Sprain.”

“We are about a mile shy of the Sprain,” I said. “We’re gaining on him.”

“Hold on, he didn’t get on the Sprain. He took a right on Tuckahoe Road.”

“He had a clear shot to the thruway,” I said. “Siren or no siren, how does he expect to outrun us if he’s taking local streets?”

“He’s not getting on the highway. He just turned onto East Grassy Sprain Road.”

“I never heard of it. Where the hell does it go?”

“It runs parallel to the parkway. It goes through Yonkers, past a bunch of businesses, private homes, a golf course, a school—makes no sense.”

“We’re on East Grassy Sprain now,” I said. “I have eyes on him.”

I called our location in to Central, which was still getting units responding left, right, and center. Wherever Banta was going, there was a shitload of cops going with him.

We were less than two city blocks behind him when I saw the big green and white sign: sprain lake golf course.

There was a redbrick guardhouse with a flimsy wooden barrier at the front gate. Banta could have easily crashed through it, but his siren worked its magic. The guard lifted the gate just as he sailed through. Kylie gave him a whoop-whoop, and he wisely kept it open.

If I’d thought Gary Banta were stupid, I might’ve assumed he’d just driven himself into a dead end. But Gary was a planner. He knew where he was going, and clearly, he had played this course before.

I scanned the fairway. The grass was lush—soft, green, and wet. Emphasis on wet. The golfers were either carrying their bags or pulling them along with two-wheelers. The course was too soggy for motorized golf carts.

That didn’t stop Gary from turning his five-ton beast off the road and powering it onto the perfectly manicured green carpet.

Kylie followed.

Clods of mud as big as basketballs flew up and pelted our windshield. She goosed her washers and turned on the wipers, but that only made it worse. We were driving blind.

By the time Kylie saw the sprinkler head, it was too late. It chewed up our left front tire, and we came to a sudden hard stop.

I jumped out of the car. The EMS bus was at least two football fields away. And then I heard it.

Helicopter.

But it wasn’t one of ours. It was Gary Banta’s ride out.

CHAPTER 71

WE CAN DO IT,” Kylie said. She got out of the car and broke into a run.

And then we heard the howl. Siren.

We both turned. A chocolate-brown Chevy Impala, strobe lights white-hot and flashing in the windshield, was tearing up the fairway, regurgitating mud-caked green divots, thick as yesterday’s porridge, onto the already ravaged hallowed grounds.

“Cavalry,” Kylie said.

The back door flew open, the car slowed, and Kylie and I piled in.

There were three of them in the car, one white, one black, one brown—young, lean, and undercover. They had the requisite tats on their arms and seven-day stubble on their faces; their shirts and jeans were just ratty enough to be urban cool. They looked more like a boy band than the cavalry.

“Are you the Red team who needs help catching a bus?” the guy in the front passenger seat