Read Online Thriller by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Romance, Thrillers, Short-Story, Anthologies, Suspense Fiction; American, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Fiction - Espionage, Suspense fiction; English
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my
hurt feelings and crawled to an end table, tipping it over and getting behind it.
The shotgun boomed. Had it been loaded with shot, it would
have torn through the cheap particleboard and turned me into
ground beef. Or ground hijo calvo de una perra . But at that distance, the granules didn’t do much more than make a loud noise.
65
The banger apparently didn’t learn from experience, because
he tried twice more with similar results, and then the shotgun
was empty.
I stood up from behind the table, my heart a lump in my
throat and my hands shaking with adrenaline.
The King turned and ran.
His back was an easy target.
I took a quick look around, making sure everyone was down
or out, and then went to retrieve my shotgun. I loaded five more
shells and approached the downed leader, who was sucking carpet and whimpering. The wounds in his back were ugly, but he
still made a feeble effort to crawl away.
I bent down, turned him over and shoved the barrel of the
Mossberg between his bloody lips.
“You remember Sunny Lung,” I said, and fired.
It wasn’t pretty. It also wasn’t fatal. The granules blew out his
cheeks and tore into his throat, but somehow the guy managed
to keep breathing.
I gave him one more, jamming the gun farther down the wreck
of his face.
That did the trick.
The second perp, the one I’d blinded, had passed out on the bathroom floor. His face didn’t look like a face anymore, and blood bubbles were coming out of the hole where his mouth would have been.
“Sunny Lung sends her regards,” I said.
This time I pushed the gun in deep, and the first shot did the
trick, blowing through his throat.
The last guy, the one who made like Pavarotti when I took out
his knee, left a blood smear from the hall into the kitchen. He
cowered in the corner, a dishrag pressed to his leg.
“Don’t kill me, man! Don’t kill me!”
“I bet Sunny Lung said the same thing.”
The Mossberg thundered twice; once to the chest, and once
to the head.
It wasn’t enough. What was left alive gasped for air.
66
I removed the bag of granules from my pocket, took out a handful and shoved them down his throat until he stopped breathing.
Then I went to the bathroom and threw up in the sink.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Time to go. I washed my hands,
and then rinsed off the barrel of the Mossberg, holstering it in
my rig.
In the hallway, the kid I emasculated was clutching himself
between the legs, sobbing.
“There’s always the priesthood,” I told him, and got out of there.
My nose was still clogged, but I managed to get enough coke
up there to damper the pain. Before closing time I stopped by
the bakery, and Ti greeted me with a somber nod.
“Saw the news. They said it was a massacre.”
“Wasn’t pretty.”
“You did as we said?”
“I did, Ti. Your daughter got her revenge. She’s the one that
killed them. All three.”
I fished out the bag of granules and handed it to her father.
Sunny’s cremated remains.
“Xie xie,” Ti said, thanking me in Mandarin. He held out an
envelope filled with cash.
He looked uncomfortable, and I had drugs to buy, so I took
the money and left without another word.
An hour later I’d filled my codeine prescription, picked up two
bottles of tequila and a skinny hooker with track marks on her
arms, and had a party back at my place. I popped and drank and
screwed and snorted, trying to blot out the memory of the last
two days. And of the last six months.
That’s when I’d been diagnosed. A week before my wedding
day. My gift to my bride-to-be was running away so she wouldn’t
have to watch me die of cancer.
Those Latin Kings this morning, they got off easy. They didn’t
see it coming.
Seeing it coming is so much worse.
Heather Graham has spent her life in the Miami area and frequently uses her home arena as the setting in her novels. She
sometimes considers that it’s quite a bit like living in a theater of the
hurt feelings and crawled to an end table, tipping it over and getting behind it.
The shotgun boomed. Had it been loaded with shot, it would
have torn through the cheap particleboard and turned me into
ground beef. Or ground hijo calvo de una perra . But at that distance, the granules didn’t do much more than make a loud noise.
65
The banger apparently didn’t learn from experience, because
he tried twice more with similar results, and then the shotgun
was empty.
I stood up from behind the table, my heart a lump in my
throat and my hands shaking with adrenaline.
The King turned and ran.
His back was an easy target.
I took a quick look around, making sure everyone was down
or out, and then went to retrieve my shotgun. I loaded five more
shells and approached the downed leader, who was sucking carpet and whimpering. The wounds in his back were ugly, but he
still made a feeble effort to crawl away.
I bent down, turned him over and shoved the barrel of the
Mossberg between his bloody lips.
“You remember Sunny Lung,” I said, and fired.
It wasn’t pretty. It also wasn’t fatal. The granules blew out his
cheeks and tore into his throat, but somehow the guy managed
to keep breathing.
I gave him one more, jamming the gun farther down the wreck
of his face.
That did the trick.
The second perp, the one I’d blinded, had passed out on the bathroom floor. His face didn’t look like a face anymore, and blood bubbles were coming out of the hole where his mouth would have been.
“Sunny Lung sends her regards,” I said.
This time I pushed the gun in deep, and the first shot did the
trick, blowing through his throat.
The last guy, the one who made like Pavarotti when I took out
his knee, left a blood smear from the hall into the kitchen. He
cowered in the corner, a dishrag pressed to his leg.
“Don’t kill me, man! Don’t kill me!”
“I bet Sunny Lung said the same thing.”
The Mossberg thundered twice; once to the chest, and once
to the head.
It wasn’t enough. What was left alive gasped for air.
66
I removed the bag of granules from my pocket, took out a handful and shoved them down his throat until he stopped breathing.
Then I went to the bathroom and threw up in the sink.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Time to go. I washed my hands,
and then rinsed off the barrel of the Mossberg, holstering it in
my rig.
In the hallway, the kid I emasculated was clutching himself
between the legs, sobbing.
“There’s always the priesthood,” I told him, and got out of there.
My nose was still clogged, but I managed to get enough coke
up there to damper the pain. Before closing time I stopped by
the bakery, and Ti greeted me with a somber nod.
“Saw the news. They said it was a massacre.”
“Wasn’t pretty.”
“You did as we said?”
“I did, Ti. Your daughter got her revenge. She’s the one that
killed them. All three.”
I fished out the bag of granules and handed it to her father.
Sunny’s cremated remains.
“Xie xie,” Ti said, thanking me in Mandarin. He held out an
envelope filled with cash.
He looked uncomfortable, and I had drugs to buy, so I took
the money and left without another word.
An hour later I’d filled my codeine prescription, picked up two
bottles of tequila and a skinny hooker with track marks on her
arms, and had a party back at my place. I popped and drank and
screwed and snorted, trying to blot out the memory of the last
two days. And of the last six months.
That’s when I’d been diagnosed. A week before my wedding
day. My gift to my bride-to-be was running away so she wouldn’t
have to watch me die of cancer.
Those Latin Kings this morning, they got off easy. They didn’t
see it coming.
Seeing it coming is so much worse.
Heather Graham has spent her life in the Miami area and frequently uses her home arena as the setting in her novels. She
sometimes considers that it’s quite a bit like living in a theater of the
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