The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,91

lift my pistol in the approved two-handed grip, when—

The tractor halts.

The driver leaps from the raised seat.

The float—

It falls apart, pieces dropping to both sides, large plywood and papier-mâché pieces tumbling to the still-crowded streets, and—

Armed men emerge from it, where they had been hiding all the while.

Good God!

I’m heavily outgunned, overwhelmed by the force that’s spilling out from the disassembled float, and I can just imagine the carnage that’s about to erupt, all of these men in black battle rattle, holding automatic rifles in hand, lowering them, and I know in seconds I’m going to witness a bloody massacre.

And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

But I can at least make them pay a price.

I take aim and—

“Rooney!” comes a shout. “Don’t shoot, you moron!”

Then I look closer at the armed men jumping off the float.

Bright-yellow NOPD letters are on their backs.

And a near figure comes to me, stripping away a black balaclava from his sweaty face.

It’s Cunningham.

“What a goddamn shit-show, right?” he yells.

Chapter 80

BEFORE I can reply, two other members of the police department’s tactical force run by him, and start shooting with their M4 automatic rifles at the driver on the first float. The driver arches his back and then collapses, and the tractor roars backward, until it hits a hydrant, letting loose a geyser of water.

I join the other two cops as we run to the tractor, and damnit to hell, the driver swivels in his seat, draws out a pistol and—

I fire once, twice, and catch him in the head.

This time he slumps down for good.

Body armor. If there are others out there like him, it’s going to be a long, bloody mess to take them down.

I turn. Cunningham is urgently talking into a radio. I say, “How many dead from the bombs?”

“What bombs?” he asks.

“Jesus, Chief, I heard the goddamn things!”

He shakes his head. “They weren’t bombs. They were concussion grenades! Meant to scare the crowds and move them into a kill zone…which is probably down the block.”

I see more of the tactical cops racing along the sidewalks, and two of them are also providing first aid to the revelers caught by the heavily armored and spiked tractor. Water continues to spout and flow from the shattered hydrant.

“Does Morgan know you’re here?”

Despite the chaos, the shouts, the sound of sirens, and the exhaustion on Cunningham’s face, he grins. “Not yet, but I sent the son of a bitch a memo. Via snail mail. He’ll probably get it next week. Hey, Rooney, love to chat and catch up, but we got work to do.”

Then he trots off, speaking again into the radio microphone.

Even with the injured and the possible dead around me, I feel better than I have in a long while: at least my folks in the NOPD weren’t going to stand by, weren’t going to ignore the threats.

I only pray they’re not too late.

Then I hear more gunfire, and race to the sound.

Chapter 81

THE SOUNDS of the gunfire aren’t the measured, paced reports of police returning fire.

It’s the fast rat-a-tat-tat-tat of someone firing at full auto, trying to cause as many casualties as possible in a short time.

Jesus Christ, the French Quarter is turning into a war zone!

I scurry over to the nearest abandoned float and slam my back against it for cover. After catching my breath, I peek around the side and steal a glance down the street.

More shouts, more screams, more gunfire.

Clusters of people are still frantically running in every direction, and there’s a haze of gun smoke in the air. There’s lots of panic but I practically weep at pride at what else I’m seeing:

A New Orleans EMS ambulance pulled up onto the sidewalk, the rear doors wide open, the two EMS personnel—both women—frantically working on two figures stretched out on the street, ignoring the sounds of the gunfire.

An older African American, standing at the open door of her souvenir shop, waving in people running by so they can take shelter.

A husband and wife team, it looks like, performing CPR on a heavyset man clad in a T-shirt and shorts.

My Crescent City is still alive, unbowed, and standing strong.

And some of us are fighting back.

I get up from my shelter, stay close to the buildings, stop at a corner where an NOPD officer is on her knees, hat gone, peeking around the corner. I race up to her and say, “I’m on the job! What’s the situation?”

She looks up at me, Hispanic, late twenties, tear marks down her cheeks,