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Authors: James Patterson
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next station David Hudson noted was 157th Street Between 110th and there, he and Laurence Hadford talked of the next steps to be taken on Wall Street; the kinds of information needed.
Stenciled numbers announced the train stop on mottled, blue standposts. A sullen black face slowly supped past the spray-painted train windows. The brakes screeched, then let out a loud, gaseous
whump.
The last few passengers besides Hadford and Hudson exited at the 157th Street stop. The subway doors slammed tightly shut. They were completely alone.
David Hudson felt himself tense. The blood coursed rapidly through his veins. All his senses were suddenly alert, and his perceptions had an astonishing clarity. Everything around him stood out as if illuminated by a harsh arc light.
“I’m sorry, Hadford.”
As the train rumbled out of the station, the flashing knife appeared. What made David Hudson’s parlor trick so unexpected was that the blade was so long—six inches at least, the handle another four.
The sharp blade jabbed hard and disappeared into Had-ford’s underbelly, just below the wall of his rib cage.
It shredded the cashmere coat, tearing fibrous material and parting soft flesh and clenched muscle with no effort Almost instantly, the long blade reappeared.
As Laurence Hadford was sliding face up off the subway bench, Hudson relieved him of the weighty envelope. Hadford’s eyes were staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Colonel Hudson quietly slipped off at the next stop. He was shaking. His mind was filled with tiny white explosions. It was the first time he had ever harmed a fellow officer.
Once he was out on Broadway, David Hudson struggled onto a city bus headed south. The Lizard Man screeched at him like a jungle monkey as the bus lurched forward. The Lizard Man screamed so loudly, Hudson had to grit his teeth. The Lizard Man laughed and laughed as David Hudson escaped into the awakening daytime city.
Dignity!
Revenge!
Chapter 16
A LITTLE MORE than an hour later, Hudson reached the Washington-Jefferson Hotel. He had a room at the far end of a depressingly drab second floor hallway. He’d had this room for almost five weeks, and that was pushing his luck perhaps.
But the northern Times Square district was perfectly anonymous, and so convenient for the work he still had to do.
Hudson sat on the edge of his hotel room bed for a moment. His thoughts turned idly back to Laurence Hadford, but he knew he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the man.
He picked up the telephone, and dialed a local number in Manhattan.
“Hello, this is Vintage.”
“Yes. This is David My number is 323.” Hudson spoke in his usual soft but firm voice. “I can tell you exactly the kind of escort I’m looking for. She’s between five foot six and five foot ten. She’s between the ages of nineteen and twenty-six. I’ll be paying cash.”
Hudson waited, then he received a time, and a name for his “date.” “In thirty minutes at 343 West Fifty-first. Thank you. I’ll be expecting … Billie.”
As she walked down the dimly lit second floor hallway Billie shut off her Vintage beeper. It would be tacky to get an electronic message while she was in the middle of a session.
The Washington-Jefferson, though?
She shivered involuntarily.
Billie tapped on the hotel room door. The door swung open almost immediately—and she found herself surprised. He was good-looking, actually. His smile was open and pleasant. He was tall, slender, and…
uh-oh.
She saw the catch! The left sleeve of his mufti shirt flopped open…
Billie couldn’t feel
too sorry
for the man in the hotel doorway, though. There was nothing about him that inspired pity. He was certainly attractive, and his disability didn’t seem to trouble him because he was not at all self-conscious.
“Hi. I’m Billie.” She smiled courteously. “You’re David?”
Colonel Hudson stared at her for a few seconds before answering. Her hair was rich, ash blond with thick
Stenciled numbers announced the train stop on mottled, blue standposts. A sullen black face slowly supped past the spray-painted train windows. The brakes screeched, then let out a loud, gaseous
whump.
The last few passengers besides Hadford and Hudson exited at the 157th Street stop. The subway doors slammed tightly shut. They were completely alone.
David Hudson felt himself tense. The blood coursed rapidly through his veins. All his senses were suddenly alert, and his perceptions had an astonishing clarity. Everything around him stood out as if illuminated by a harsh arc light.
“I’m sorry, Hadford.”
As the train rumbled out of the station, the flashing knife appeared. What made David Hudson’s parlor trick so unexpected was that the blade was so long—six inches at least, the handle another four.
The sharp blade jabbed hard and disappeared into Had-ford’s underbelly, just below the wall of his rib cage.
It shredded the cashmere coat, tearing fibrous material and parting soft flesh and clenched muscle with no effort Almost instantly, the long blade reappeared.
As Laurence Hadford was sliding face up off the subway bench, Hudson relieved him of the weighty envelope. Hadford’s eyes were staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Colonel Hudson quietly slipped off at the next stop. He was shaking. His mind was filled with tiny white explosions. It was the first time he had ever harmed a fellow officer.
Once he was out on Broadway, David Hudson struggled onto a city bus headed south. The Lizard Man screeched at him like a jungle monkey as the bus lurched forward. The Lizard Man screamed so loudly, Hudson had to grit his teeth. The Lizard Man laughed and laughed as David Hudson escaped into the awakening daytime city.
Dignity!
Revenge!
Chapter 16
A LITTLE MORE than an hour later, Hudson reached the Washington-Jefferson Hotel. He had a room at the far end of a depressingly drab second floor hallway. He’d had this room for almost five weeks, and that was pushing his luck perhaps.
But the northern Times Square district was perfectly anonymous, and so convenient for the work he still had to do.
Hudson sat on the edge of his hotel room bed for a moment. His thoughts turned idly back to Laurence Hadford, but he knew he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the man.
He picked up the telephone, and dialed a local number in Manhattan.
“Hello, this is Vintage.”
“Yes. This is David My number is 323.” Hudson spoke in his usual soft but firm voice. “I can tell you exactly the kind of escort I’m looking for. She’s between five foot six and five foot ten. She’s between the ages of nineteen and twenty-six. I’ll be paying cash.”
Hudson waited, then he received a time, and a name for his “date.” “In thirty minutes at 343 West Fifty-first. Thank you. I’ll be expecting … Billie.”
As she walked down the dimly lit second floor hallway Billie shut off her Vintage beeper. It would be tacky to get an electronic message while she was in the middle of a session.
The Washington-Jefferson, though?
She shivered involuntarily.
Billie tapped on the hotel room door. The door swung open almost immediately—and she found herself surprised. He was good-looking, actually. His smile was open and pleasant. He was tall, slender, and…
uh-oh.
She saw the catch! The left sleeve of his mufti shirt flopped open…
Billie couldn’t feel
too sorry
for the man in the hotel doorway, though. There was nothing about him that inspired pity. He was certainly attractive, and his disability didn’t seem to trouble him because he was not at all self-conscious.
“Hi. I’m Billie.” She smiled courteously. “You’re David?”
Colonel Hudson stared at her for a few seconds before answering. Her hair was rich, ash blond with thick
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