Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(47)

“You all right, sir?” the girl behind the register asked.

He didn’t even consider answering her. You talkin’ to me? Robert De Niro, right? He was another De Niro—no doubt about that—only he was an even better actor. More range. De Niro never took chances the way he did. De Niro, Hoffman, Pacino—none of them took chances and really stretched themselves. Not in his opinion.

So many thoughts and perceptions were crashing on him, deflecting off his brain. He had the impression that he was floating through a sea of light particles, photons, and neutrons. If these people could spend only ten seconds inside his brain, they wouldn’t believe it.

He purposely bumped into people as he walked away from the McDonald’s counter.

“Well, ex-cuse me,” he said after a jarring hipcheck.

“Hey! Watch it! C’mon, mister,” somebody said to him.

“Watch it yourself, you jerkoff.” Soneji/Murphy stopped and addressed the balding shitkicker he’d bumped. “What do I have to do to get a little respect? Shoot you in the right eyeball?”

He downed both hot coffees as he continued on through the restaurant. Through the restaurant. Through any people in his way. Through the cheesy Formica tables. Through the walls, if he really wanted to.

Gary Soneji/Murphy pulled a snub-nosed revolver from under his Windbreaker. This was it: the beginning of America’s wake-up call. A special performance for all the kiddies and mommies.

They were all watching him now. Guns, they understood.

“Wake the fuck up!” he shouted inside the McDonald’s dining room. “Hot coffee! Comin’ through, you all! Wake up, and smell it!”

“That man has a gun!” said one of the rocket scientists eating a dripping Big Mac. Amazing that he could see through the greasy fog rising from his food.

Gary faced the room with the revolver drawn. “No one leaves this room!” he bellowed.

“You awake now? Are you people awake?” Gary Soneji/Murphy called out. “I think so. I think you’re all with the program now.

“I’m in charge! So everybody stop. Look. And listen.”

Gary fired a round into the face of a burger-chomping patron. The man clutched his forehead and wheeled heavily off his chair onto the floor. Now that got everybody’s attention. Real gun, real bullets, real life.

A black woman screamed, and she tried to run by Soneji. He leveled her with a gun butt to the head. It was a really cool move, he thought. Good Steven Seagal shit.

“I am Gary Soneji! I am Himself. Is that a mind-blower or what? You’re in the presence of the world-famous kidnapper. This is like a free-for-nothing demonstration. So watch closely. You might learn something. Gary Soneji has been places, he’s seen things you’ll never see in your life. Trust me on that one.”

He sipped the last of his McCoffee, and over the rim of his cup watched the fast-food fans quiver.

“This” he finally said in a thoughtful manner, “is what they call a dangerous hostage situation. Ronald McDonald’s been kidnapped, folks. You’re now officially part of history.”





CHAPTER 42


STATE TROOPERS Mick Fescoe and Bobby Hatfield were about to enter the McDonald’s when gunshots sounded from the dining room. Gunshots? At lunchtime in McDonald’s? What the hell was going on!

Fescoe was tall, a hulk, forty-four years old. Hatfield was nearly twenty years younger. He’d been a state trooper for only about a year. The two troopers shared a similar sense of black humor, in spite of their age difference. They had already become tight friends.

“Holy shit,” Hatfield whispered when the fireworks started inside McDonald’s. He went into a firing crouch he hadn’t learned that long ago, and had never used off the target range.

“Listen to me, Bobby,” Fescoe said to him.

“Don’t worry, I’m listening.”

“You head toward that exit over there.” Fescoe pointed to an exit up near the cash registers. “I’ll go around the left side. You wait for me to make a move.

“Do nothing until I go at him. Then, if you have a clear shot, go for it. Don’t think about it. Just pull the trigger, Bobby.”

Bobby Hatfield nodded. “I got you.” Then the two split up.

Officer Mick Fescoe couldn’t get his breath as he ran around the far side of the McDonald’s. He stayed close to the brick wall, brushing his back against it. He’d been telling himself for months to get his ass back in shape. He was puffing already. He felt a little dizzy. That he didn’t need. Dizziness, and playing High Noon with a creep, was a real bad combination.

Mick Fescoe got up close to the door. He could hear the nut case shouting inside.

There was something funny, though, as if the creep were operating by remote. His movements were very staccato. His voice was high-pitched, like a young boy’s.

“I’m Gary Soneji. You all got that? I’m The Man himself. You folks have found me, so to speak. You’re all big heroes.”

Was it possible? Fescoe wondered as he listened near the door. The kidnapper Soneji, here in Wilkinsburg? Whoever it was, he definitely had a gun. One person had been shot. A man was spread-eagled on the floor. He wasn’t moving.

Fescoe heard another shot. Piercing screams of terror echoed from inside the packed McDonald’s restaurant.