The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,93

shop.

Inside, it’s eerily quiet. Rack after rack of T-shirts, keychains, and other trinkets have been toppled over in the chaos, as if a tornado had passed right through.

But outside, in the distance, I hear more screaming, more gunfire.

I also hear raging sirens. And two Black Hawk helicopters are circling overhead.

Thank God! The FBI is finally mobilizing a tactical response to this mayhem, joining up with my NOPD. I don’t know what the hell is taking so long. By my count, the first blast went off almost eight excruciating minutes ago.

But in a situation like this? That’s an eternity.

I take out my phone and, no surprise, I get no signal. For years politicians have been talking about increasing redundancy in cell tower coverage, because during a terrorist attack, all service would be overwhelmed.

Those plans went right on top of the pre-Katrina plan to repair and strengthen our vulnerable levees.

I put the phone back. I’ve caught my breath.

I’ve got my pistol, two spare magazines, and evidence of how the terrorists are identifying themselves.

Time to haul ass away from this place of safety and get the job done.

I run back out to the streets, down Bourbon Street, looking for NOPD members, EMS, firefighters, anyone with a working radio, because I’ve got to get the word out.

The street is eerily empty, with piles of trash, empty cups, strings of tangled beads, more sneakers and flip-flops. There are also drying pools of blood and discarded bandage wrappers, but no people, though I do see some scared folks, huddled in the now-quiet bars and stores, looking out with fear and hope that someone will come riding to the rescue.

I trot down the street, weapon out, waiting for something, anything, and wishing right now that I was wearing my NOPD blazer or at least my detective’s shield, bouncing on a chain around my neck, because it sure would be damnably ironic if a SWAT sniper taking position saw me and took me down.

Yeah, real ironic.

As I reach Conti Street, I hear a commotion around the corner. A crowd of civilians, in total panic, are rushing in my direction.

One of them, a middle-aged woman, a crying toddler in her arms and blood dripping from her ear, shouts, “Somebody’s shootin’ back there! Run!”

The crowd blows past me—but I don’t move an inch.

I whip out those two-toned sunglasses. Put them on. Look at the pack.

Sure enough, toward the rear of the group is a man wearing a blue and purple samurai warrior costume…whose torso is mottled with that iridescent paint.

The costumed son of a bitch’s hands are empty, but that could change in an instant, and he could start hammering bullets into the back of the unarmed and frightened civilians running past me.

“Hey, sensei!” I yell. “Police! Don’t move!”

The man in the samurai suit glances back at me.

He’s wearing a pair of red-green sunglasses, too. He does a double take when he sees me aiming at him—and realizes he’s caught.

So he reaches into the folds of his costume and starts to pull out what looks like an HK MP5, and without hesitation, I fire three rapid shots.

POP! POP! POP!

The man grunts and collapses to the ground.

The rest of the civilians disappear around the corner of the block, terrified—but all of them are alive.

“Show me your hands!” I shout at the assailant as I move in closer.

He’s writhing in pain, struggling to sit up. I definitely landed a shot or two, but I guess the real body armor under his fake samurai battle garb did its job.

“Hands, hands!” I repeat.

But he doesn’t obey. He tries to lift his weapon.

So I fire mine again. Twice. Emptying the magazine until the slide of my pistol snaps back and doesn’t slide forward, meaning I’m out of ammunition.

Both bullets strike the gunman’s head, sending a reddish-pink mist into the air.

He slumps back down. Dead.

I rush over and pick up his rifle and sling it over my shoulder. Yes, it’s an MP5, all right, with two spare magazines taped to the one in use. Very professional.

Now I’m better armed.

Which doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.

I resume my run.

Chapter 83

INFORMATION. THAT’S what counts now, that’s what’s important, not what firepower I now possess.

I know how to spot any assailants still lurking among civilians. How to pick out the bad guys from the good and neutralize any remaining threats.

I’ve cracked the terrorists’ code, but I can’t assume the NOPD or FBI have done the same. And my phone is useless with the overwhelmed cell towers, and damnit to hell,