Run for Your Life by James Patterson
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Thrillers, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Suspense fiction, Mystery, Serial Murderers, Fiction - Espionage, Rich people
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lips curved in an icy smile. “Very good. What company do you work for? I’ll be sure to use it next time I need a very clever delivery boy.”
The Teacher ignored the sneer as if he didn’t notice it. “Package for a Mr. Joe Miller,” he said, opening the flap of his Chrome courier bag.
“I’m Joe Miller. You sure? I’m not expecting anything.”
“Maybe somebody wants to surprise you.” The Teacher winked as he lifted a large envelope from the pouch. “Maybe you impressed one of your lady customers more than you know.”
Miller obviously found that an interesting thought. “All right, thanks. But next time, the service entrance, got it?”
The Teacher nodded solemnly. “Without a doubt.” You bet, buddy. As if there was going to be a next time.
“Here you go,” Miller said, thumbing a couple of dollar bills out of his wallet.
“Oh, no, I can’t take tips,” the Teacher said. “But I’m supposed to wait for a response.” He winked again as he handed Miller the envelope. “You might not want to open this in front of all those people, if you know what I mean.”
The mâitre d’ glanced around. The crowd waiting to be seated was growing. But his curiosity won out. Impatiently, he stepped into a small anteroom beside the reservation desk. The Teacher followed him, waiting at the doorway.
He watched as Miller tore open the envelope and stared at the letter it held. The maître d’s haughty face looked puzzled.
“?‘Your blood is my paint’?” he said. “?‘Your flesh is my clay’? What the hell is this crap?” He looked up at the Teacher, getting angry now. “Who sent this?”
The Teacher stepped into the room with him.
“Actually,” he said, pulling a silenced .22–caliber Colt Woodsman pistol from his bag and placing the barrel against the sycophant’s empty heart, “I did.”
He waited the split second it took for comprehension to dawn in the other man’s eyes. Then, before Miller could so much as blink, the Teacher pulled the trigger twice.
Even in the small room, the sound was inconsequential, like someone clearing his throat.
As the maitre d’ collapsed in a heap of dead flesh, the Teacher eased him into a chair, then quickly righted a sheaf of menus that had started spilling off a shelf. He tucked the bloody missive between the man’s shoes. Anyone who glanced in would think that Miller had sat down for a moment to read.
Shielding the gun from sight, the Teacher turned to the open doorway and scanned the scene outside. He preferred stealth, but he was more than happy to shoot his way out if he had to.
But in both the crowded dining room and bar, people continued to laugh and drink, talk and eat, like the pointless animatronic jackasses they were. The carnival wheel continued to spin. Nobody had noticed a thing. What else was new?
He slipped the warm gun into his bag, and a few steps later he was back outside, straddling his ten–speed. There was still nobody paying any attention to him. He shrugged. Might as well update the list. He took out his Treo, brought up the Plan on its glowing screen, and deleted “–Self–satisfied Prick at 21.”
“Hey, is that the 750?” a man’s voice said. A sleek, dressed–to–the–nines Wall Street type, jawing a hundred–dollar Havana, pulled out his own smart phone from his pin–striped jacket. “Treos kick ass, boyeee,” he said.
Boyeee? Even Wall Street Journal–reading, Ivy League bond traders were talking like crack dealers these days. It was bad enough that society had become a bunch of amoral, money–grubbing shitheads, but how had it turned into gangsta wannabes, too?
“Yeah, um, word to your moms, home slice,” the Teacher said, and gave the asshole a thumbs–up as he rolled the Frejus out into the street.
Chapter 14
My official NYPD vehicle was in the shop for repairs, so I was reduced to using the family car. It was a sturdy, battle–tested Dodge van, bought used a few months ago,
The Teacher ignored the sneer as if he didn’t notice it. “Package for a Mr. Joe Miller,” he said, opening the flap of his Chrome courier bag.
“I’m Joe Miller. You sure? I’m not expecting anything.”
“Maybe somebody wants to surprise you.” The Teacher winked as he lifted a large envelope from the pouch. “Maybe you impressed one of your lady customers more than you know.”
Miller obviously found that an interesting thought. “All right, thanks. But next time, the service entrance, got it?”
The Teacher nodded solemnly. “Without a doubt.” You bet, buddy. As if there was going to be a next time.
“Here you go,” Miller said, thumbing a couple of dollar bills out of his wallet.
“Oh, no, I can’t take tips,” the Teacher said. “But I’m supposed to wait for a response.” He winked again as he handed Miller the envelope. “You might not want to open this in front of all those people, if you know what I mean.”
The mâitre d’ glanced around. The crowd waiting to be seated was growing. But his curiosity won out. Impatiently, he stepped into a small anteroom beside the reservation desk. The Teacher followed him, waiting at the doorway.
He watched as Miller tore open the envelope and stared at the letter it held. The maître d’s haughty face looked puzzled.
“?‘Your blood is my paint’?” he said. “?‘Your flesh is my clay’? What the hell is this crap?” He looked up at the Teacher, getting angry now. “Who sent this?”
The Teacher stepped into the room with him.
“Actually,” he said, pulling a silenced .22–caliber Colt Woodsman pistol from his bag and placing the barrel against the sycophant’s empty heart, “I did.”
He waited the split second it took for comprehension to dawn in the other man’s eyes. Then, before Miller could so much as blink, the Teacher pulled the trigger twice.
Even in the small room, the sound was inconsequential, like someone clearing his throat.
As the maitre d’ collapsed in a heap of dead flesh, the Teacher eased him into a chair, then quickly righted a sheaf of menus that had started spilling off a shelf. He tucked the bloody missive between the man’s shoes. Anyone who glanced in would think that Miller had sat down for a moment to read.
Shielding the gun from sight, the Teacher turned to the open doorway and scanned the scene outside. He preferred stealth, but he was more than happy to shoot his way out if he had to.
But in both the crowded dining room and bar, people continued to laugh and drink, talk and eat, like the pointless animatronic jackasses they were. The carnival wheel continued to spin. Nobody had noticed a thing. What else was new?
He slipped the warm gun into his bag, and a few steps later he was back outside, straddling his ten–speed. There was still nobody paying any attention to him. He shrugged. Might as well update the list. He took out his Treo, brought up the Plan on its glowing screen, and deleted “–Self–satisfied Prick at 21.”
“Hey, is that the 750?” a man’s voice said. A sleek, dressed–to–the–nines Wall Street type, jawing a hundred–dollar Havana, pulled out his own smart phone from his pin–striped jacket. “Treos kick ass, boyeee,” he said.
Boyeee? Even Wall Street Journal–reading, Ivy League bond traders were talking like crack dealers these days. It was bad enough that society had become a bunch of amoral, money–grubbing shitheads, but how had it turned into gangsta wannabes, too?
“Yeah, um, word to your moms, home slice,” the Teacher said, and gave the asshole a thumbs–up as he rolled the Frejus out into the street.
Chapter 14
My official NYPD vehicle was in the shop for repairs, so I was reduced to using the family car. It was a sturdy, battle–tested Dodge van, bought used a few months ago,
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