Read Online Thriller by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page A

paint was faded and peeling, the door was
    heavy aluminum and the lock solid. But the jamb, as I’d remembered from yesterday’s visit, was old wood. I removed the
    crowbar from my jacket lining, gave a discreet look in either direction and pried open the door in less time than it took to open
    it with a key, the frame splintering and cracking.
    The Kings occupied the basement apartment to the left of the
    entrance, facing the street. Last night I’d counted seven—five
    men and two women—including my three targets. Of course,
    there may be other people inside that I’d missed.
    This was going to be interesting.
    Unlike the front door, their apartment door was a joke. They
    apparently thought being gang members meant they didn’t need
    decent security.
    They thought wrong.
    I took out my Glock and tried to stop hyperventilating. Breaking into someone’s place is scary as hell. It always is.
    63
    One hard kick and the door burst inward.
    A guy on the couch, sleeping in front of the TV. Not one of
    my marks. He woke up and stared at me. It took a millisecond
    to register the gang tattoo, a five-pointed crown, on the back of
    his hand.
    I shot him in his forehead.
    If the busted door didn’t wake everyone up, the .45 did, sounding like thunder in the small room.
    Movement to my right. A woman in the kitchen, in panties
    and a Dago-T, too much makeup and baby fat.
    “Te vayas!” I hissed at her.
    She took the message and ran out the door.
    A man stumbled into the hall, tripping and falling to the thin
    carpet. One of mine, the guy who’d pinned my right arm while
    I’d been worked over. He clutched a stiletto. I was on him in two
    quick steps, putting one in his elbow and one through the back
    of his knee when he fell.
    He screamed falsetto.
    I walked down the hall in a crouch, and a bullet zinged over
    my head and buried itself in the ceiling. I kissed the floor, looked
    left, and saw the shooter in the bathroom; the guy who had held
    my other arm and laughed every time I got smacked.
    I stuck the Glock in my jeans and reached behind me, unslinging the Mossberg.
    He fired again, missed, and I aimed the shotgun and peppered
    his face.
    Unlike lead shot, the gray granules didn’t have deep penetrating power. Instead of blowing his head off, they peeled off
    his lips, cheeks and eyes.
    He ate linoleum, blind and choking on blood.
    Movement behind me. I fell sideways and rolled onto my back.
    A kid, about thirteen, stood in the hall a few feet away. He wore
    Latin Kings colors; black to represent death, gold to represent life.
    His hand ended in a pistol.
    I racked the shotgun, aimed low.
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    If the kid was old enough to be sexually active, he wasn’t
    anymore.
    He dropped to his knees, still holding the gun.
    I was on him in two steps, driving a knee into his nose. He
    went down and out.
    Three more guys burst out of the bedroom.
    Apparently I’d counted wrong.
    Two were young, muscular, brandishing knives. The third was
    the guy who’d worked me over the night before. The one who’d
    called me a bald son of a bitch.
    They were on me before I could rack the shotgun again.
    The first one slashed at me with his pig-sticker, and I parried
    with the barrel of the Mossberg. He jabbed again, slicing me
    across the knuckles of my right hand.
    I threw the shotgun at his face and went for my Glock.
    He was fast.
    I was faster.
    Bang bang and he was a paycheck for the coroner. I spun left,
    aimed at the second guy. He was already in midjump, launching
    himself at me with a battle cry and switchblades in both hands.
    One gun beats two knives.
    He took three in the chest and two in the neck before he dropped.
    The last guy, the guy who’d broken my nose, grabbed my
    shotgun and dived behind the couch.
    Chck chck . He ejected the shell and racked another into the
    chamber. I pulled the Glock’s magazine and slammed a fresh
    one home.
    “Hijo calvo de una perra!”
    Again with the bald son of a bitch taunt. I worked through