Read Online Cross Country by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
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next defied all logic. My duffel bag was ripped from my arm. Then my small suitcase. One of the officers spun me around and I felt cuffs on my wrists. Then a hard pinch as they snapped down too tightly.
“What’s going on?” I struggled to turn to look at the policemen. “What is this? Tell me what’s happening.”
The officer with my luggage raised a hand in the air as if he were hailing a cab. A white four-door Toyota truck immediately pulled up to the curb.
The cops yanked open a rear door, ducked my head, and pushed me in, throwing my travel bag after me. One officer stayed on the sidewalk while the other jumped in next to the driver, and we took off.
I suddenly realized —
I was being kidnapped!
Chapter 37
THIS WAS SURREAL. It was insane.
“Where are you taking me? What is this about? I’m an American police officer,” I protested from the back of the truck. No one seemed to be listening to a word I said.
I leaned forward in my seat and got a baton hard in the chest, then twice across the face.
I felt, and
heard,
my nose break!
Blood immediately gushed down my face onto my shirt. I couldn’t believe this was happening — not any of it.
The cop in the front passenger seat looked back at me, wild-eyed and ready to swing the baton again. “You like to keep quiet, white man. Fucking American, fucking terrorist, fucking policeman.”
I had heard that some people here didn’t like American blacks referring to themselves as African American. Now I was feeling it firsthand. I breathed hard through my mouth, coughing up blood and trying to focus though my head was spinning. Humidity and diesel fumes washed over me as the truck weaved through airport traffic, the driver repeatedly sitting on the horn.
I saw a blur of cars, white, red, and green, and several more bright yellow buses. Women were walking on the side of the road with swaddled babies held low on their backs, some of them with baskets balanced on top of their
geles
. There were a great number of huts in view, but also modern buildings, plus more cars, buses, trucks, and animal-driven carts.
All around me, business as usual
.
And business as usual inside this truck,
I feared.
Suddenly the cop was on me again. He stretched over the seat and pushed me onto my side. I braced for another strike of his billy club. Instead, I felt his hands patting me down.
Then my wallet was sliding out of my pocket.
“Hey!” I yelled.
He pulled out the wad of cash I had — three hundred American, and another five hundred in naira — then threw the empty wallet back in my face. It sent a shudder of pain deep into my skull.
I coughed out another spray of blood, which hit the seat and earned me another baton strike across the shoulder.
The dark blue nylon sheet covering the backseat suddenly made sense to me. It was there for bloodstains, wasn’t it?
I had no bearings, no idea why this was happening, no idea what to do about it either.
In spite of my own better judgment, I asked again, “Where are you taking me? I’m an American policeman! I’m here on a murder case.”
The officer barked out something in dialect to the driver. We swerved, and I fell against the car door as we came to a fast stop on the shoulder of the road.
They both got out! One of them tore open the door on my side and I dropped to the ground, cuffed and unable to break my fall.
A world of dust and heat and pain swam around me. I started to cough up dirt.
Powerful hands were under my arms now, lifting. The cop, or whoever he was, brought me up to my knees. I saw a little boy staring from the back of a packed Audi station wagon as it passed.
“You are a brave man. Just as brave as you are stupid, fucking white man.”
It was the driver talking now, stepping in for his turn. He slapped me hard, once across the left side of my face and then back across the right. I struggled to stay upright.
“You two are doing an excellent job —” I was definitely punchy. Already I
“What’s going on?” I struggled to turn to look at the policemen. “What is this? Tell me what’s happening.”
The officer with my luggage raised a hand in the air as if he were hailing a cab. A white four-door Toyota truck immediately pulled up to the curb.
The cops yanked open a rear door, ducked my head, and pushed me in, throwing my travel bag after me. One officer stayed on the sidewalk while the other jumped in next to the driver, and we took off.
I suddenly realized —
I was being kidnapped!
Chapter 37
THIS WAS SURREAL. It was insane.
“Where are you taking me? What is this about? I’m an American police officer,” I protested from the back of the truck. No one seemed to be listening to a word I said.
I leaned forward in my seat and got a baton hard in the chest, then twice across the face.
I felt, and
heard,
my nose break!
Blood immediately gushed down my face onto my shirt. I couldn’t believe this was happening — not any of it.
The cop in the front passenger seat looked back at me, wild-eyed and ready to swing the baton again. “You like to keep quiet, white man. Fucking American, fucking terrorist, fucking policeman.”
I had heard that some people here didn’t like American blacks referring to themselves as African American. Now I was feeling it firsthand. I breathed hard through my mouth, coughing up blood and trying to focus though my head was spinning. Humidity and diesel fumes washed over me as the truck weaved through airport traffic, the driver repeatedly sitting on the horn.
I saw a blur of cars, white, red, and green, and several more bright yellow buses. Women were walking on the side of the road with swaddled babies held low on their backs, some of them with baskets balanced on top of their
geles
. There were a great number of huts in view, but also modern buildings, plus more cars, buses, trucks, and animal-driven carts.
All around me, business as usual
.
And business as usual inside this truck,
I feared.
Suddenly the cop was on me again. He stretched over the seat and pushed me onto my side. I braced for another strike of his billy club. Instead, I felt his hands patting me down.
Then my wallet was sliding out of my pocket.
“Hey!” I yelled.
He pulled out the wad of cash I had — three hundred American, and another five hundred in naira — then threw the empty wallet back in my face. It sent a shudder of pain deep into my skull.
I coughed out another spray of blood, which hit the seat and earned me another baton strike across the shoulder.
The dark blue nylon sheet covering the backseat suddenly made sense to me. It was there for bloodstains, wasn’t it?
I had no bearings, no idea why this was happening, no idea what to do about it either.
In spite of my own better judgment, I asked again, “Where are you taking me? I’m an American policeman! I’m here on a murder case.”
The officer barked out something in dialect to the driver. We swerved, and I fell against the car door as we came to a fast stop on the shoulder of the road.
They both got out! One of them tore open the door on my side and I dropped to the ground, cuffed and unable to break my fall.
A world of dust and heat and pain swam around me. I started to cough up dirt.
Powerful hands were under my arms now, lifting. The cop, or whoever he was, brought me up to my knees. I saw a little boy staring from the back of a packed Audi station wagon as it passed.
“You are a brave man. Just as brave as you are stupid, fucking white man.”
It was the driver talking now, stepping in for his turn. He slapped me hard, once across the left side of my face and then back across the right. I struggled to stay upright.
“You two are doing an excellent job —” I was definitely punchy. Already I
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