Run for Your Life Read online

  “We’re going out over the bay,” I screamed into his headset microphone. “Shoot us down!”

  For the next few seconds I had the edge of surprise, and I managed to wrestle the plane into a sharp westward arc. Banking perilously, we skirted the northwest corner of the Empire State by no more than a couple hundred yards.

  But Meyer was strong and he came back, pounding at my face and trying to regain control. As the plane yawed wildly from side to side, we battled like caged panthers, snarling, butting heads—both of us injured, both desperate. Once again, we were losing altitude fast.

  But this time we were heading out over the bay. I clung to the wheel with everything I had to keep us on that course, my shoulders tensed for the fireball from the fighter jet that was going to blow us into cinders any second.

  “Our Father who art?—” I started mumbling through my teeth, as the expansive emptiness of the last sight I would ever see raced up to meet me.

  Then I heard a high-pitched sort of whining sound.

  Sweet Jesus, this is it, I thought.

  An instant later came one long, continuous, eardrum-rupturing string of explosions that tore the roof and entire back of the plane away like wet tissue paper.

  But I was still there, still alive. I could see streaking fire behind us, but it was a trail of burning fuel, not the entire plane exploding.

  My mind was scrambling to rectify that when I realized that our gliding dive was turning into a plummeting headlong fall. The bolts of my seat groaned as we shook and rattled, and my shoulder harness bullwhipped my chest.

  Strangely, it brought me a window of peace. Not the kind of light at the end of the tunnel that people who thought they were dying sometimes describe, but just calm.

  An instant later, we hit with a tremendous splash, like a returning NASA shuttle.

  Chapter 96

  THE IMPACT WAS CRUSHING, slamming me around the cockpit, but we still had enough forward momentum to skid across the water’s surface for a few more seconds. Otherwise, it would have been like smashing into concrete. That, and the fact that I’d been wedged in tight with Meyer’s harnessed body when we hit, was probably what saved me.

  As I tried to believe that I was still alive, I felt something wrong with my neck. I wiggled my fingers to see if I was paralyzed. They would barely move, but I realized that was because my wrist was broken. Half the dashboard gauges were now sitting in my bleeding lap. But apparently, my neck was only wrenched, and the rest of me was more or less intact. I was able to get my arms going, then my legs.

  Burning debris was scattered all around on the dark surface of the bay, and water was pouring inside, already covering my ankles, as what was left of the plane sank fast.

  Then came a massive flash of orange and a blast of intense heat from the pilot-side wing. Pitch-black smoke that smelled horribly of burning plastic seared my face. Another fuel compartment must have gone up. The flames surged ferociously, eating into the plane’s interior. Within half a minute, they would engulf it—and me.

  Meyer was still strapped into his seat, unmoving— knocked out by the impact, or dead.

  I wasn’t about to find out which.

  With my unbroken hand and my last bit of strength, I pulled myself out of the now doorless passenger-side threshold and dropped into the frigid water. Gasping, I eggbeater-kicked backward as fast as I could.

  Then, through the smoke, I saw movement inside the plane—something struggling in the flames. No! It was Meyer.

  Clothes on fire, he rolled out the same doorway I’d just departed. Both he and the flames disappeared as he hit the water with a sizzling splash.

  He surfaced right next to me! I lurched away, kicking at him, as he clawed at my eyes with a burnt hand, making a sound that was like an animal screech.

  That was when the weirdest thing of all happened. A euphoric, druglike rush swept over me, and my face split into a huge smile. I swung my arms around his neck in a headlock, threw my weight on top of him, and took us both under.

  The sound of the world ceased as I dragged him down through the cold, dark water. With newfound strength, I turned up the pressure, throttling him to crush his throat against his spine.

  It was glorious.

  In my entire life, I had never been as confident or as single-minded as I was at that moment. If there was one outcome that I was sure of in all of my existence, it was that this evil thing I held in an unbreakable headlock, this murderous bastard who had threatened my family and very nearly murdered me, wasn’t ever going to make it up into the land of the living again. I was going with him, but it was the best possible way I could go.

  Time disappeared from my mind. I had no idea how much of it passed before he stopped struggling. But finally, as the air in my lungs gave out, so did my strength. I held onto him until the last possible instant before he slipped out of my fading grip.

  Alone, I kept on twisting through the water—up, down, I didn’t know which, and it didn’t matter. I was done for, numb, too weak to move. My aching, burning lungs screamed for air. In a few more seconds, my body would be forced to inhale cold salt water.

  But even as I paid the ultimate price, that peace was still with me.

  Suddenly, ahead in the water, I saw a pale luminous form floating toward me. It had to be a hallucination. I had just been through about as much trauma as a human being could endure.

  I stared at it in terror as it came closer. Then, with certainty, I knew everything was okay.

  Because it was my wife, Maeve.

  Everything fell into place. She was the reason I’d survived the crash—my guardian angel, watching over me just like I’d prayed for her to do.

  But as I reached out to touch her glowing hand, she shook her head sadly and vanished.

  The next thing I knew, there were other human shapes around me—big dark ones, with nothing ethereal about them. Rough hands gripped me and something rubbery was shoved between my teeth.

  With my mouth forced open, I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. The dam burst, and my starving lungs sucked in desperately.

  But instead of the bilgy water I’d been braced for, it was pure, sweet air—from the Aqua-Lung of a Coast Guard diver, I learned soon afterward, one of a team who’d helicoptered in to intercept the crashing Cessna, and plunged into the chilly bay to find me.

  When those heroes got me back to the surface, other choppers and craft from the Coast Guard and city authorities were converging on the site, to contain the fire and search for survivors.

  Thank God, I was the only one of those.

  The crazy events weren’t quite over yet. After the Coast Guard guys dragged me onto the deck of a cutter, I stood up and actually tried to dive back in. It took two paramedics to strap me, kicking and screaming, into a stretcher.

  “Take it easy, Detective,” one of them said, trying to calm me. “The pilot’s gone. It’s over.”

  “To hell with him!” The muscles in my face and throat felt like they were tearing as I yelled out at the flame-filled dark water.

  “Maeve!” I screamed. “Maeve!”

  Epilogue

  HOCKEY STYX

  Chapter 97

  IN ADDITION TO MY WRIST, I’d broken an ankle and three ribs, which put me in the hospital for the next week. NYPD cops don’t get paid all that much, but our health insurance is hard to beat, thank God.

  The pilot of the F-15 that shot us down, Major Vickers, actually came to my room the night before I got out, in order to apologize.

  “Are you kidding me?” I’d said, clapping the baby-faced twenty-eight-year-old on the back. “With that freak, I should have called in an air strike sooner.”

  A month later almost to the day, I hobbled into Holy Name Church, still on crutches. The altar looked like a formal garden. When the organ started, it played Handel’s Water Music—Maeve’s favorite.

  We’d decided that her memorial would be entirely life-affirming, and all that sort of thing. We were even holding it on h
er birthday instead of the anniversary of her death.

  So why, then, as the sad sweet chords swelled through me, did every cell in my body want to start sobbing?

  I heard someone clear his throat in the vestibule behind me. It was my son, Brian. He was wearing a white robe, holding a brass crucifix. His fellow altar boys, Eddie and Ricky, stood just behind him with glowing white candles.

  Father Seamus was approaching, checking his watch. “If you would be so kind,” he said, glaring at me.

  “I’ll start when you do,” I said.

  “Mike, a moment,” Seamus said in a serious tone as he led me over to the alcove where they did baptisms.

  I thought I knew the sermon he was going to deliver. How much of a wretch I’d been in the last year. How I’d been too sarcastic, too spiteful, too pissed off. How I had to try to lose my anger or it would eat me up. He would have been right, too. I needed to stop. Stop being so hateful. Life was too short. If the Teacher taught me anything, it was that.

  “Mike, listen,” Seamus whispered as he put a warm arm over my back. “It’s been almost a year now, and I just wanted to say how proud I am of you the way you’ve been holding your family together. Maeve’s proud of you, too. I know she is.”

  What? I thought.

  “To your seat now, boy. I have a mass to start.”

  I hurried past pews packed with friends and family to the front row.

  Chrissy smiled, as she did what she called “nuggling” in next to my waist and held my hand. She was fine now. In the first days after the incident, I’d noticed every so often a heart-sickening look of sadness pass across her cherub’s face, especially when the gang came to see me at the hospital. But recently, she’d started doing what kids do—moving on.

  Something I could probably take a lesson from.

  After the Gospel, Jane stood up and read—a poem by Anne Bradstreet, “In Reference to Her Children,” which she’d found folded in the back of one of Maeve’s cookbooks.

  “My mom taught us exactly what Anne Bradstreet wanted to teach her kids,” Jane said, clearing her throat. “What was good, and what was ill, What would save life, and what would kill. Thus gone, amongst you I may live, And dead, yet speak and counsel give. Farewell, my birds, farewell, adieu, I happy am, if well with you.”

  That was it. I couldn’t hold it back. I started crying. And believe me, I wasn’t the only one. I hugged Jane tight as she returned to the pew.

  After the ceremony, the girls surprised me with a picnic lunch in Riverside Park. I looked out over the Hudson, remembering seeing Maeve as a glowing angel in the water. If that was just a hallucination, so be it. Bring them on.

  But a part of me, the best part, didn’t think so.

  I would see her again one day. Before, I had only hoped it was true, but now I knew it was.

  I watched Eddie and Brian tossing a football. The doctor had told me my ankle wouldn’t be ready to walk on for another couple of weeks, but what did doctors know? I dropped my crutches, hobbled out to join them, and intercepted a pass. Chrissy and Shawna leaped up immediately, and I let them tackle me. That’s when the rest of my crew piled on. Even Seamus, who actually stripped the ball from my hands before merrily landing on my chest.

  I closed my eyes as Meyer’s ugly words filled my ears.

  Is this all life is worth? This is what gets you out of bed in the morning?

  You better believe it, you son of a bitch, I thought. And wherever you are, I hope you’re still burning.

  Chapter 98

  WHEN WE GOT BACK to our building, there was a commotion at the entrance—protesters of some sort, circling in front of a News 4 camera, and other media people with microphones.

  One of the picketers was holding up a sign that said KILLER COP.

  What? There couldn’t actually be a group of people who were angry that Meyer was dead!

  But wait a second. This was New York City we were talking about. Of course, there could be.

  Then, on another of the signs, I saw a picture of a young black man. Beneath it, big bold letters read: KENNETH ROBINSON WAS MURDERED. DOWN WITH THE NYPD!

  I was stunned. These people were protesting the drug gang hit man’s death up in Harlem, from what seemed like ten years ago.

  Before I could shut my unhinged jaw, my kids went running into the crowd. My God, what were the little maniacs doing? I watched helplessly as they squirreled through the line of picketers to the guy holding the shoulder cam. Then, taking turns, they just let loose.

  “My dad’s a hero!”

  “He’s the best person in the world!”

  “My dad’s great. You sure ain’t!”

  Eddie stayed frozen for a few seconds.

  Then he shouted, “Ah, up yours with a hockey stick!”

  The reporters thronged around me, hollering questions. I kept my cool and just shook my head. With the heroic assistance of my doorman, Ralph, I managed to wrangle my nutty gang inside the building.

  “Guys, you can’t do or say things like that,” I told them, but Seamus, ignoring me, whooped and delivered high fives to everyone.

  Ralph hurried over as we got to the elevator. “Mr. Bennett, please,” he said anxiously. “The press say they want one statement from you. Then they go.” It was clear that he really wanted them away from his building.

  “Okay, Ralph, I’ll take care of it,” I said.

  When I got back to the front door, the media people thrust an aluminum bouquet of microphones under my chin. I cleared my throat loudly.

  “I do have a statement to make after all,” I said. “I agree with my kids one hundred and fifty percent. Good-bye, everyone. And before I forget, up yours—each and every one of you—with a hockey stick.”

  About the Authors

  James Patterson published his first thriller in 1976 and since then has become one of the best-known and bestselling writers of all time, with more than 140 million copies of his books sold worldwide. He is the author of the two most popular detective series of the past decade, featuring Alex Cross and the Women’s Murder Club, and he has written numerous other #1 bestsellers. He has won an Edgar Award—the mystery world’s highest honor—and his novels Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider were made into feature films starring Morgan Freeman. His charity, the James Patterson PageTurner Awards, has given hundreds of thousands of dollars to individuals and groups that promote the excitement of books and reading. He lives in Florida.

  Michael Ledwidge is the author of The Narrowback, Bad Connection, and, most recently, the coauthor, with James Patterson, of The Quickie and Step on a Crack. He lives in New York City.

  BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON

  Featuring Alex Cross

  Cross Country

  Double Cross

  Cross

  Mary, Mary

  London Bridges

  The Big Bad Wolf

  Four Blind Mice

  Violets Are Blue

  Roses Are Red

  Pop Goes the Weasel

  Cat & Mouse

  Jack & Jill

  Kiss the Girls

  Along Came a Spider

  The Women’s Murder Club

  7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro)

  4th of July (with Maxine Paetro)

  3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross)

  2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)

  1st to Die

  Featuring Michael Bennett

  Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge)

  Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge)

  The James Patterson Pageturners

  The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (with Michael Ledwidge)

  The Final Warning: A Maximum Ride Novel

  Maximum Ride: Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports

  Maximum Ride: School’s Out—Forever

  Maximum Ride: The Angel Experiment

  Other Books

  Against Medical
Advice: One Family’s Struggle with an Agonizing Medical Mystery (with Hal Friedman)

  Sail (with Howard Roughan)

  Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)

  You’ve Been Warned (with Howard Roughan)

  The Quickie (with Michael Ledwidge)

  Judge & Jury (with Andrew Gross)

  Beach Road (with Peter de Jonge)

  Lifeguard (with Andrew Gross)

  Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan)

  SantaKid

  Sam’s Letters to Jennifer

  The Lake House

  The Jester (with Andrew Gross)

  The Beach House (with Peter de Jonge)

  Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas

  Cradle and All

  When the Wind Blows

  Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge)

  Hide & Seek

  The Midnight Club

  Black Friday (originally published as Black Market)

  See How They Run (originally published as The Jericho Commandment)

  Season of the Machete

  The Thomas Berryman Number

  For previews of upcoming books by James Patterson and more information about the author, visit www.JamesPatterson.com.