The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,71

tattoos. Not the kind of guy you hope takes your daughter to prom.

“I said we’re closed,” he repeated. “Get outta here.”

“I’m just getting some gas,” I say, keeping my back to him.

“You’re not hearing me, pal,” he says. “Get back in your car and go. Now.”

“Just a second. I’m almost done.”

“I said now. If I gotta tell you again, there’s gonna be…what the hell?”

The man looks down at his feet—and sees he’s just stepped in a stream of fast-moving amber liquid: gas.

I haven’t been filling my tank at all.

I’ve been letting the fuel flow onto the concrete.

I’ve also been crumpling up all the stray paper I found in my car—napkins, receipts, sugar packets—into a tight, combustible wad.

I drop the still-gushing nozzle to the ground and spin around.

I’m holding the bundle of papers in one hand.

And the Bic in the other.

Chapter 60

“OKAY, ALL of you get on your knees with your hands on your heads!” I shout. “Right now! Or this whole place goes up in flames!”

The man freezes as he realizes what’s happening. His eyes dart around, watching the gasoline spreading around him and toward his accomplices.

“Aw, shit,” he mutters, and gropes for his gun.

“Bad idea,” I say. “The spark from one shot could blow it all up…that is, if I don’t light the liquid first myself.”

A look of confusion and terror spreads across the man’s face.

“Whoa, okay, take it easy,” he pleads, and holds up his empty hands. He stumbles backward toward his friends, calling to them: “Hey, uh, we got a problem!”

The other three catch on fast—especially when they notice the river of fuel streaming their way.

One of the men standing by the bathroom door, a wiry middle-aged fellow in a grimy trucker hat, draws out a dirty-looking revolver.

I light my paper bundle and hold it out like a torch.

“Angus, don’t shoot!” the first man screams, waving his arms in the air like a driver of a disabled vehicle, desperately seeking help.

“You heard him!” I shout back. “Now I’m gonna count to three! One! Two!”

The men share some words I can’t make out. They’re clearly starting to panic. They think I’m crazy. Which is exactly the point.

It doesn’t take much longer for them to decide to run like hell.

Cursing under their breath, none of them do what I ask. Two of them make a dash for their cars. The other two—including the trucker-hat man with the gun—take off on foot, in the opposite direction.

Once they’re gone, I relax, and toss the fiery wad of paper to the ground. It lands right in the fuel…and sizzles out, completely harmlessly.

Those idiots, I think, ecstatic my little ruse worked. They clearly grew up watching action movies. But in real life, it’s almost impossible to light gasoline like that, despite the Hollywood cliché. I picked diesel fuel, too. Even less combustible.

But my celebration doesn’t last long. I sprint over to the bathroom door and drum my hands against it. “Vanessa? It’s Caleb! Are you okay?”

Silence. I keep banging on the door. I keep calling her name. Still nothing.

My stomach starts to feel heavy with dread. Is she even in there?

Is she still alive?

After what feels like a week, I hear the lock click.

I slowly open the door.

She’s there. Cowering like a scared animal. Her cheeks are lined with rivulets of tears and mascara. She’s terrified, but looks unharmed.

I don’t say another word. Choked up, I’m not sure if I could.

I crouch down and wrap her in my arms. It’s the tightest, most protective embrace I’ve ever given anyone. I’m flooded with relief…and then with anger.

I need to catch one of those sons of bitches and make them pay—especially if they’re connected in any way whatsoever to the Mardi Gras attack!

“Get in my car, lock the doors, and call 911,” I tell her, thrusting my keys and phone at her. When she seems to hesitate, I bark, “Just do it! It’s okay to call the cops now. You’re safe now. I’ll be back, I promise.”

Before she can say anything that might change my mind, I leap to my feet again and start running, splashing through the diesel fuel and back onto the sidewalk. I look left, right. The vehicles are long gone. That skinhead has disappeared, too.

But I do get a glimpse of the trucker-hat man, the one called Angus. He’s only a couple blocks away. He’s moving pretty fast—but it looks like he has an injury: a limp.

Poor baby.

Like a lion picking out the slowest gazelle in the herd, I spring into