The Summer House
- Автор: Паттерсон Джеймс, Дюбуа Брендан
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-53955-5
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Summer House». Краткое содержание книги:
To ensure that justice is done, the Army sends Major Jeremiah Cook, a veteran and former NYPD cop, to investigate. But the major and his elite team arrive in sweltering Georgia with no idea their grim jobs will be made exponentially more challenging by local law enforcement, who resists the Army’s intrusion and stonewall them at every turn.
As Cook and his squad struggle to uncover the truth behind the condemning evidence, the pieces just won’t fit — and forces are rallying to make certain damning secrets die alongside the victims in the murder house. With his own people in the cross-hairs, Cook takes a desperate gamble to find answers — even if it means returning to a hell of his own worst nightmares...
When she’s finished, she says, “All right, I’ve reattached her tube... The man on the floor?”
“Not a security guard, I’m sure.”
She starts to walk over. “His condition?”
“Most definitely dead,” Sanchez says, and then he scoots over, leans down, and picks up the man’s Desert Eagle.
The nurse steps back in shock. “You promised.”
“That I did,” he says. “So you could come in and fix things. Now you can leave.”
The nurse heads to the door. “Mister, you better be what you say you are, and that man better be an imposter. The ICU out there is filling up with every cop and SWAT team member between here and Atlanta.”
“I’m sure,” Sanchez says. “And if you get a moment, tell them I’m here, and I’m not leaving. The only people who get in and touch that woman will be two medical personnel at the same time, with full identification.”
The nurse says, “That must be some woman. Who is she?”
Sanchez looks over to the grievously wounded Connie York.
“She’s my boss,” he says.
Chapter 80
Lieutenant John Huang wakes up in the hard plastic chair, back aching, mouth dry, with Captain Allen Pierce tapping his shoulder and whispering in his ear.
“Somebody’s coming,” he says. “Wake up.”
The tone of voice from Pierce has definitely gotten Huang’s attention.
He sits up, rubbing at his eyes. The place is dimly lit. There are three closed doors: one leading to the jail cells, another going into the police department proper, and a glass one leading outside.
Shadows are moving out there.
“What’s going on?” Huang asks. “Reporters?”
“I wish,” Pierce says, standing up. “It’s two in the morning. You ever run into journalists at 2:00 a.m.? Most of the time they’re sleeping it off or getting drunk in a motel bar, complaining about their editors.”
Huang stands up as well, wiping his face once more. He’s hungry and thirsty, and his back is aching something awful.
The shadows are coming closer.
Huang says, “No offense, Allen, but I sure wish Major Cook was here.”
“No offense taken,” Pierce says. “God knows what kind of reception he’s getting in the ’stan.”
A moment slips by.
Pierce says, “Get your service weapon out.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Lieutenant. Now.”
Huang clumsily takes his SIG Sauer out of his side holster, the weight feeling odd and uncomfortable in his hand. Pierce, though, holds his pistol casually, like he’s been around weapons all his life.
“They’re getting closer,” Huang says.
“Yeah.”
“Should we tell somebody here?”
“Marcy, the jail attendant? By the time we get real police here it’ll be too late.”
“At least the door is locked,” Huang says.
“Yeah.”
Two people come to the door, and Huang feels his heart rate thump right along, and the hand holding his pistol is growing warm and moist.
A click, the door is unlocked, and a large man and woman come in, both wearing Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department uniforms.
Pierce says, “Help you, Sheriff Williams?”
Huang recognizes the woman, but her whole demeanor and even the look of her face has changed. Earlier she had a hard and confident smile and bearing, like she was in charge of everything around her.
Now?
Her face is pasty and she looks tired, but her eyes are flashing with heat and anger.
The other officer is a deputy with LINDSAY on his name tag. He is one of the biggest and bulkiest men Huang has ever seen, and Huang can feel violence ready to be released from the man, if the sheriff wills it.
“Holster your weapons,” she says. “Now.”
Huang waits and follows Pierce’s lead. “As a courtesy, Sheriff. No problem.”
Pierce returns his SIG Sauer to his holster, and Huang does the same with his own, though it takes two attempts to do so, making the deputy smile.
The sheriff says, “Mind telling me what the hell you two are doing here?”
Pierce says, “Keeping an eye on the place.”
“You don’t belong here,” she says. “Get out.”
“I’m afraid that’s a nonstarter,” Pierce says. “We’re staying.”
Deputy Lindsay crosses his large arms. “The sheriff told you to leave. Get out.”
To Huang’s shame, his legs are starting to tremble, but Pierce is still keeping cool. Huang wonders, Is this a family thing, learning at a very young age as a black man how to stand your ground in front of the police?
Pierce says, “Gee, thanks for the echo, Deputy. And we’re not leaving. An Army Ranger died here a few days ago. Dr. Huang and I are making sure such an event doesn’t happen again.”
“How?” Williams says. “You’re just sittin’ on your asses in here.”
Pierce says, “Yes, and tired asses they are. But we’re also keeping an eye on who’s coming in and who’s going out.”
The deputy looks at the sheriff like he’s a Doberman pinscher on a leash, begging to be let loose to attack. Sheriff Williams says, “I could have the two of you arrested.”
“For doing our jobs?”
“For trespassing,” she says.
“The Ralston police chief said we could stay. Marcy, the attendant, even came by to tell us some hours ago that she welcomes the vigilance.”
“I don’t care,” Williams says.
Pierce laughs, and Huang notes how he’s casually moved his hand back to his holstered SIG Sauer.
“You want to arrest us, is that right, Sheriff?” Pierce asks. “Restart the whole states’ rights versus federal rights argument? Drag us out into that parking lot full of reporters from Savannah, Atlanta, DC? Get a whole bit of negative publicity? Is that your game plan?”
Huang wonders if Pierce is pushing the sheriff too hard in front of her subordinate. This may tip her to do something violent, something to save face.
Williams just remains quiet for some long seconds, then says, “The court hearing for Staff Sergeant Jefferson begins in a matter of hours. An hour after it does, you and everyone else from Quantico better be heading up to the Savannah airport. Come along, Clark.”
She heads for the door, and Deputy Lindsay shakes his head. “Look at you two. Friggin’ Chinaman and colored boy, thinking you can do anything. You boys can’t do squat.”
Huang wishes he could come back with a good answer, but Pierce does the job.
“You’re wrong, Deputy,” he says. “We’re not a Chinaman or a colored boy. We’re officers in the United States Army.”
Chapter 81
Afghanistan
After the hours traveling on the Gardez Highway to FOB Chadwick — just outside Khost and near the village of Pendahar — the Humvee I’m in finally passes through the barriers, checkpoints, and vehicle traps. I’ve not slept a wink on this long drive, my body tense and nearly trembling, again thinking of what happened to me at another time, in another Humvee.
This vehicle, however, safely gets into the FOB and stops, and I slowly get out, holding my cane in one hand and my rucksack in the other. There are squat buildings all around us, made of metal shipping containers and concrete, the same dull sandy color. The quiet lieutenant who’s in charge of this small convoy comes back to me just as a siren starts wailing, making me feel like I’m in wartime London, 1940.
He swears, says, “Come on, hurry up!” just as a recorded male voice announces over loudspeakers, “Rocket attack, rocket attack, rocket attack.”
We move about ten or so meters before there’s a far-off thud that makes the ground quiver, and I follow the lieutenant and others to a blast shelter. Its walls and roof are made of thick concrete, and the open ends of the roof are protected by a blast barrier that we slip through.