He flipped his cell closed, accepted a glass of very nice champagne from a passing waiter, and walked toward Dr. Post, who was laughing at something Suzette from Monk’s Café was saying to him.
Funny how life worked, he thought, and waved to Dr. Post, who turned and lost his smile.
The cell tower party lasted until midnight. Everyone was calling everyone else, even when they stood three feet apart, and everyone was exchanging cell numbers.
It was a glorious night, a half-moon high in the sky, the music slow and dreamy now, couples dancing.
Dougie Hollyfield didn’t think there was any more champagne in Slipper Hollow.
Keep reading for a look at
Catherine Coulter’s newest FBI thriller,
KNOCKOUT
Now available from G. P. Putnam’s Sons!
Everyone shut up! All of you—get down and put your faces on the floor!” The man punctuated his order with a half dozen shots fired into the air from a submachine gun. Chunks of ceiling plaster fell onto the marble floor. In a few seconds, everyone lay flat, no one moving a muscle, the echoes of their shocked screams thick in the air.
Savich’s first thought was Thank God Sean’s not here with me. He slipped his hand in his jacket pocket, pressed two keys on his cell phone and lay as still as the twenty other people in the First Union Bank of Washington, D.C. He heard some sobs, but for the most part everyone lay on their stomachs in heart-racing, petrified silence, noses against the marble floor.
He heard Sherlock’s voice. “Hello? Hello?”
The man screamed, “You worker bees behind the counter, don’t even think of pressing the alarm! You, yes you, Mr. Loan Officer. Get me the bank manager now! Now, or this asshole dies!” Savich slowly shifted his head to see Buzz Riley, the security guard, an ex-cop Savich had known for five years, with a snub-nosed .38 barrel stuck in his ear by a man maybe two inches taller than Riley was, with a lanky build and big hands that made the .38 look like a toy.
Savich knew who they were and it wasn’t good. The media had dubbed them the Gang of Four, and they had been making a name for themselves as they zigzagged their way across Kentucky and Virginia during the past four weeks. And now they were making their debut bank robbery here in D.C. What was different about this group was that two of the four robbers were women. That, and the fact they were killers. When they burst into a bank, people died. To date, six people had been killed, all four bank security guards and two customers. Riley had to be scared out of his mind.
Another robber fired a spurt of bullets into the air that thudded against the high, old-fashioned ceiling, raining down more plaster, digging into the graceful 1930s molding, sending chunks of wood flying down. This time there weren’t any screams, only a couple of sharp, gasping breaths, then silence. No one moved. From the corner of his eye, Savich saw they were using Colt 9mm submachine guns, deadly and fast, thirty-two rounds a clip.
Another robber, this one a woman, yelled, “Where is the manager?”
Mac Jamison, proud of his thick mustache, too heavy, but just about ready to join the gym, he’d told Savich, walked slowly through the doors from the back, his hands clasped behind his head. “I’m Jamison. I’m the manager.”
The woman said, “Think of me as your friendly Easter Bunny, here to gather up my eggs,” and laughed. Like the other three, she was dressed all in black, a black ski mask covering her head and face. “I know you got your delivery from the Federal Reserve, so don’t give me any butt-stupid crap about not having any money here. Now, you and I are taking a trip to the vault and loading up.”
“But—”
“Move!” She screamed and sprayed a dozen bullets from her Colt not a foot away from Jamison’s head. Savich heard a window explode. The woman walked right up to Jamison and poked the gun barrel in his gut. “NOW!”
One of the robbers followed her, fanning his Colt around, whistling, of all things, and covering her back. That left the other woman and the man holding Riley around the neck. She was in Savich’s line of sight, small and in constant motion, sweeping her weapon over the employees and the bank customers. Fear poured off the rows of still bodies, lacing the air with a rancid smell. Savich lay flat on his belly at the edge of the group.
He saw her scuffed black booted feet coming toward him. She stopped. He felt the weight of her gaze, her sharp intake of breath. “Hey, I know who you are.”
This wasn’t a woman, this voice was young, high with excitement, a girl’s voice. She kicked him in the ribs. “Well, ain’t this my lucky day. Jeff, look at what we got. He’s that FBI guy. Remember, we saw him on TV a couple of weeks ago?” She kicked him again, harder. “Big bastard federal cop. You’re the one who brought down those rich old dorks, right?”
Jeff, the guy holding Riley, shouted, “Pay attention, kid. You’re supposed to keep your eye on all these bugs, make sure they don’t try to crawl away or do anything dumb. Mind your own. He’s not important.”
Her voice went higher, shriller. How old was she? “Didn’t you hear me? I said he’s this hotshot FBI agent!”
“Yeah, so who cares? Flat on his belly now, isn’t he?” And Jeff laughed. For the hell of it, he kicked a woman bank employee in the leg. She flinched but didn’t make a sound.
The girl said, her voice pumped with adrenaline, “Hey, jerk, you are him, aren’t you?”
Savich looked up full into her masked face. She was fine-boned, thin, probably had to stretch to make five foot three. He stared into her wild, excited dark eyes glittering behind the black ski mask. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m that jerk.”
She sang out, laughing, “I got me a bona fide FBI agent, right here at my feet. What a suuu-prize! You scared yet, big man? I’m gonna get to kill me a real-life FBI agent!”
Jeff said, “Until we’ve got our money, we’re not popping anybody.” Jeff sounded on the manic side himself, forty years old, maybe fifty, a smoker’s voice, and like the girl, he seemed in perpetual motion.
Savich heard Mac Jamison yell “No!” and then there was a single gunshot, obscenely loud in the close confines of the vault. The two robbers came running out carrying dark cloth bags stuffed with money. In a voice frenzied with manic pleasure and excitement, the girl sang, “You got my birthday present?”
The woman yelled, “I sure do, sweetie! Now, let’s get out of here. Okay, Jeff, take care of business!”
“I got me some business too!” the girl sang out, her voice jumping high and uncontrolled.
Jeff, the robber holding Riley, shouted out, “Bye bye, dirt-bag!”
Savich had a second, no more, and no choice.
KnockOut
ALSO BY CATHERINE COULTER
THE FBI THRILLERS
TailSpin (2008)
Double Jeopardy (2008): The Target and The Edge
Double Take (2007)
The Beginning (2005): The Cove and The Maze
Point Blank (2005)
Blowout (2004)
Blindside (2003)
Eleventh Hour (2002)
Hemlock Bay (2001)
Riptide (2000)
The Edge (1999)
The Target (1998)
The Maze (1997)
The Cove (1996)
KnockOut
CATHERINE COULTER
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017,
India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2009 by Catherine Coulter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Coulter, Catherine.
KnockOut / Catherine Coulter.
p. cm.
ISBN: 1-101-10138-5
1. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Fiction. 2. Savich, Dillon (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Sherlock, Lacey (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 4. Telepathy—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O843K66 2009b 2009012999
813'.54—dc22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my brother-in-law Larry Horton,
who has the biggest heart I’ve ever seen
and kindness of spirit that’s bone-deep.
You are well loved.
—Catherine
KnockOut
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Epilogue
1
“EVERYONE, SHUT UP! All of you—get down and put your faces on the floor!” The man punctuated his order with a half-dozen shots fired into the air from a submachine gun. Chunks of ceiling plaster fell onto the marble floor. In a few seconds, everyone lay flat, no one moving a muscle, the echoes of their shocked screams thick in the air.
Savich’s first thought was Thank God, Sean’s not here with me. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, pressed two keys on his cell phone, and remained as still as the twenty other people in the First Union Bank of Washington, D.C. He heard some sobs, but for the most part everyone lay on their stomachs in heart-racing, petrified silence, noses against the marble floor.
He heard Sherlock’s voice. “Hello? Hello?”
The man screamed, “You worker bees behind the counter, don’t even think of pressing the alarm! You—yes, you, Mr. Loan Officer—get me the bank manager, now! Now, or this asshole dies!” Savich slowly shifted his head to see Buzz Riley, the security guard, an ex-cop Savich had known for five years, with a snub-nosed .38 barrel stuck in his ear by a man maybe two inches taller than Riley was, with a lanky build and big hands that made the .38 look like a toy.
Savich knew who they were, and it wasn’t good. The media had dubbed them the Gang of Four, and they had made a name for themselves as they zigzagged their way across Kentucky and Virginia during the past four weeks, and now they were making their debut bank robbery here in D.C. What was different about this group was that two of the four robbers were women. That, and the fact they were killers. When they burst into a bank, people died. To date, six people had been killed, all four bank security guards and two customers. Riley had to be scared out of his mind.
Another robber fired a spurt of bullets into the air that thudded against the high, old-fashioned ceiling, raining down more plaster, digging into the graceful 1930s molding, sending chunks of wood flying down. This time there weren’t any screams, only a couple of sharp, gasping breaths, then silence. No one moved. From the corner of his eye, Savich saw they were using Colt nine-millimeter submachine guns, deadly and fast, thirty-two rounds a clip.
Another robber, this one a woman, yelled, “Where is the manager?”
Mac Jamison—proud of his thick mustache, too heavy but just about ready to join the gym, he’d told Savich—walked slowly through the doors from the back, his hands clasped behind his head. “I’m Jamison. I’m the manager.”
The woman said, “Think of me as your friendly Easter Bunny here to gather up my eggs,” and laughed. Like the other three, she was dressed all in black, a black ski mask covering her head and face. “I know you got your delivery from the Federal Reserve, so don’t give me any butt-stupid crap about not having any money here. Now, you and I are taking a trip to the vault and loading up.”
“But—”
“Move!” she screamed, and sprayed a dozen bullets from her Colt, not a foot away from Jamison’s head. Savich heard a window explode. She walked right up to Jamison and poked the gun barrel in his gut. “Now!”
One of the other robbers followed her, fanning his Colt around, whistling, of all things, covering her back. That left the other woman and the man holding Riley around the neck. She was in his line of sight, small and in constant motion, sweeping her weapon over the employees and the bank customers. Fear poured off the rows of still bodies, lacing the air with a rancid smell. Savich lay flat on his belly at the edge of the group.
He saw her scuffed-black-booted feet coming toward him. She stopped. He felt the weight of her gaze, her sharp intake of breath. “Hey, I know who you are.”
This wasn’t a woman’s voice; this voice was young, high with excitement, a girl’s voice. She kicked him in the ribs. “Well, ain’t this my lucky day. Jeff, look at what we got. He’s that FBI guy. Remember, we saw him on TV a couple of weeks ago?” She kicked him again, harder. “Big bastard federal cop. You’re the one who brought down those rich old dorks, right?”
Jeff, the guy holding Riley, shouted, “Pay attentio
n, kid. You’re supposed to keep your eye on all these bugs, make sure they don’t try to crawl away or do anything dumb. Mind your own. He’s not important.”
Her voice went higher, shriller. How old was she? “Didn’t you hear me? I said he’s this hotshot FBI agent!”
“Yeah, so who cares? Flat on his belly now, isn’t he?” And Jeff laughed. For the hell of it, he kicked a woman bank employee in the leg. She flinched but didn’t make a sound.
Her voice pumped with adrenaline, she said, “Hey, jerk, you are him, aren’t you?”
Savich looked up full into her masked face. She was fine-boned, thin, probably had to stretch to make five-foot-three. He stared into her wild, excited dark eyes glittering behind the black ski mask. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m that jerk.”
She sang out, laughing, “I got me a bona fide FBI agent, right here at my feet. What a suuuprize! You scared yet, big man? I’m gonna get to kill me a real-life FBI agent!”