The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,96

You guys all right?”

No response.

I race up to the truck—and see it’s boarded up tight.

The service windows are shut, the metal security grating closed and latched. I can hear the generator running, so they’re either hiding inside…or left in a hurry.

I bang on the truck’s side—hard—as the sound of nearby sirens gets louder.

“Marlene?” I yell. “Vanessa?”

Still no reply.

With a Black Hawk helicopter hovering overhead, I go around to the back.

The truck’s rear doors are shut and locked, too. And of course I left my keys inside when I left.

All I can do is pound on the doors. Frantically. Desperately. Feverishly.

“Vanessa, Marlene, open up! It’s Caleb! Please!”

After a few more painful, futile seconds of this, I frantically look around. I had the crazy thought of shooting off the lock, but that only works in Hollywood. Chances are, it wouldn’t work, or the ricochet could wound or kill me.

There.

Part of a shattered metal police barricade. I wrestle off a length of pipe-shaped metal, about two feet long, and go back to the rear of the truck.

I start hammering the handle.

Again and again. With all my focus and might.

It takes a solid ninety seconds, but at last the handle snaps.

I pry it off and push open the doors.

“Vanessa, Marlene, are you—”

A gunshot rocks the inside of the truck.

Buckshot sails over my head, missing me by mere inches.

I yell and duck back, and then I look in, past the gray cloud of gun smoke.

They are together on the floor at the far side of the truck. Marlene is wielding a shotgun—one I recognize, one she long ago insisted we hide behind the freezer, “just in case.” I told her it was a stupid and dangerous idea. I forbid keeping any weapons inside our truck. Thank God she didn’t listen to me.

“You scared the living shit out of us, Caleb!” she calls out. “Damnit, are you okay?”

I slowly step up and in, looking at the damage the shot caused.

“Marlene, really, I know you’ve threatened to kill me before but…”

Her expression darkens and I add, “Honest, I’m okay. But didn’t you hear me yelling and banging on the door?”

They get up off the floor, and Marlene makes a point of shoving the shotgun away and says, “We heard something out there, but we thought it was some crazy man.”

Vanessa smiles. “Guess we were pretty close, right?”

I burst out laughing. They join in. Uncontrollably.

Our laughter turns to tears of relief and joy as I go over to these two extraordinary women. I embrace them both, pulling them in and squeezing them tight.

We exchange no words. Just deep, heaving breaths. Overwhelmed with relief.

We’re all together. Alive.

Chapter 86

THE SUNSET that evening is heartbreakingly beautiful, even though we only see it through a crack in our windows. The sky is on fire with a deep, luscious crimson.

A fitting end to the day.

The bloodiest one in New Orleans history since the War of 1812, although I feel it could have been much, much worse.

Vanessa, Marlene, and I stay inside our truck, even though there’s still the strong odor of burnt gunpowder from the shotgun blast that nearly took off my head. Sirens are still sounding nearby and Black Hawk helicopters are roaring overhead, and I desperately work my phone to sound the alarm about Billy, placing call after call to Cunningham and the FBI’s hotline.

None of them ever go through. I managed to leave three messages on Cunningham’s voicemail, but he never calls back.

Eventually Vanessa says, “Hey, looks like the cavalry has arrived, Caleb.”

I peer out through a crack between our windows and feel much better. Two National Guard Humvees towing trailers have pulled up, and armed troops are tumbling out, going to the trailers, pulling out wood and metal barricades.

Vanessa says, “What do you think?”

“I think it’s time to get out of here,” I say, “but we’ve got to be careful…those guys are probably nervous as hell.”

I leave the HK MP5 behind and stick my pistol in my rear waistband of my jeans. I open the door and yell out, “Hey, National Guard, coming out! We’re coming out!”

The three of us slowly step out of the truck, hands up, and a sergeant and trooper come over and say, “No civilians allowed here, sorry. Get moving…the city’s under martial law and the French Quarter is being evacuated of all civvies.”

Marlene is somber and quiet, definitely not her usual self. “How…how bad is it?”

“Shit, ma’am,” the trooper says, an African-American private who looks angry and determined. “Dunno about that, but at least