Free Dead Heat by James Patterson Page A

Lewis’s life. Behind me, Lewis’s coach calls to him, and I realise for the first time that we have an audience.
    ‘Time to come back over, Steve,’ he says. ‘We’re all waiting for you, fella. You’re scaring the shit out of us.’
    On the edge of the cliff, Steve Lewis starts to cry. He drops his head and weeps as he watches the hawks riding the thermals. His Lycra-clad ribs shake as he sobs.
    ‘Take it easy,’ I tell him.
    I move towards him and get an arm under him. It’s the point of no return. If he decides to go over the edge now, then I’m going over, too. I clasp his hand in mine, and he leans into me. We both breathe a sigh of relief. I drag him back from the precipice, and he scrambles to his feet. I put an arm around his waist and guide him back to the bamboo barrier, where his coach gets an arm around his neck and grabs a hold of him as if he’s never going to let go.
    Once I’m on the other side of the barrier, it takes me five seconds to register that Paz has gone.
    ‘She left in a hurry,’ Wilson says, as I give Steve Lewis a bear hug and tell him everything’s going to be fine. ‘She told me to tell you she was heading for Vila Cruzeiro.’
    I stop short. Vila Cruzeiro is not a good place to visit alone.
    ‘Did she say why?’
    ‘Something about her boy,’ Wilson says apologetically. ‘She seemed panicked. She wasn’t very clear.’
    I have to go. Right now. I turn back to Lewis and look him straight in the eye. I mention a name that has been rattling around my head for the last five minutes, and watch his face for a reaction. He looks at me blankly, and then slowly but surely he nods. And all of my suspicions are confirmed.

CHAPTER 21
    I PULL OUT my mobile as I walk away from the cyclists, scrolling to Paz’s number and hitting green. A single bleep. No damn signal . There is a slow stream of traffic rolling past the Vista Chinesa, and I hold my badge aloft and head out into the road. The first car to stop is a Mercedes SUV.
    The driver – a woman in her late twenties – looks relieved that I’m a cop and not a carjacker and, within seconds, I’m powering the SUV back down the asphalt towards the city. I try Paz’s number again, but there’s still no signal. I put my foot down hard and the SUV lurches forward. I cut corners. I slam into pavements. I’m heading for a street in the Vila Cruzeiro, a slum built on a rubbish dump outside Rio de Janeiro. As I drive, I find myself thinking about Paz’s car, and the tiny holes in the foam in her passenger seat, and Felipe’s tiny fingers. Every image gets me pushing harder on the accelerator.
    Vila Cruzeiro is a grim place, full of red-brick huts holding each other up, and kids playing football in the dusty streets. Bathtubs on the roofs slowly collect rainwater for residents below. The place feels lawless, and I know I should wait for backup, but I can’t. Pazis already charging headlong into trouble and I’m her partner. I’m not waiting for anyone.
    I pass the garish Haas & Hahn block, painted in vivid carnival colours by crazy Dutch artists, then I plunge back into the redbrick and grey-slab concrete. I watch small children – the eyes and ears of the favela – receding into alleyways. If feels like the clock is already ticking.
    I cruise for two minutes before I spot Paz’s car, parked outside a dilapidated place with a barbed-wire roof and a crumbling façade. There is movement behind the grimy first-floor windows and I waste no time getting inside. I slam through the rotten wooden front door – peeling paint exploding as I kick. Pain shoots through my knee and I recall the long list of doors I’ve smashed through during my career. How easy it used to be. How worn I have become. I wonder if this will be the very last time.
    ‘Police!’
    Upstairs there is movement on bare floorboards. People moving into position. I pull my gun and take the creaking stairs two at a time. I emerge into the half light of the dirty