Читать книгу Dead Edge: the gripping political thriller for fans of Lee Child - Jack Ford, Jack Ford - Страница 14

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The hard concrete of Jefferson County Parkway pounded through Cooper’s sneakers. Pounding through his head as he sprinted along the tree-lined sidewalk. Pulled down heavy from the drugs whilst the Colorado sun scorched a pattern of fire on his back. Parked car after parked car. Empty vehicle after empty vehicle fuelling his alarm.

He stumbled as he ran, looking for a cab in the deserted streets and not realizing the loud cry for help he’d heard had come from him, until the call of panic cut at the back of his throat. The only thought making sense to Cooper was somehow he had to make the twelve mile trip to Denver.

The sound of a car, an engine, had Cooper spinning round. He squinted. Shielded his eyes from the sun. And there on the other side of the road, driving down the public highway, like water to a thirsty coyote, was a rusting grey Honda.

Cooper exhaled. Long. Hard. Tasting every second of the relief because although the driver didn’t know it yet, Cooper knew that car was going to be his one-way ticket to Denver.

Quickly he darted across the middle section. Scrabbling up and along as the Honda began to drive past him. Briefly Cooper thought about hailing, waving the guy down like he was summoning a yellow Checker taxi in NYC. But for once, sense kept his mouth shut and his hand firmly by his side. His mind was messed up, but even he wasn’t going to bet on the driver stopping for a sweat drenched, wild-eyed guy.

Cooper dug for an energy he wasn’t sure he had, trying to push himself forward, feeling the burn of his legs as he ran to get in front of the station wagon.

He dived.

Threw himself round in a one eighty.

Closed his eyes.

Heard the slamming of brakes accompanied by the noise of the horn which told him he was still alive.

He peeled his fingers off the burning hot metal of the hood, thumping his fist on top of the roof to counteract the pain, then watched as the driver’s eyes welled with terror. Three hundred and twenty pounds of fear. His stunned deliberation – as to whether to risk driving off or not – costing him, giving Cooper the chance to fling open the door.

‘Hey, sir, how’s it goin’?’

The gaping mouth full of nachos and the remains of a cheese dip on his lap made Cooper feel bad for the guy.

‘Here’s the thing, sir. I need your help. I’m not going to hurt you but I need to borrow your car.’

The guy started choking. Real hard. Guacamole-colored saliva dripped from his mouth and onto his chin. He gave no words to Cooper, just nodded like a marionette on a string, his jowls wet with drool as he cowered from the hard pat on his back from Cooper.

‘Look, it’ll be okay… My name’s Thomas J. Cooper. If you go inside the court, ask for an Earl Edwards. He’s my attorney. He’ll vouch for me… I will return your car, sir. But hey, you can always ride along with me if you’re concerned that I won’t bring it back. Or if you prefer, you can always get out here.’

Cooper didn’t blame the guy. Heck, he didn’t blame him at all, though he reckoned it was the fastest the Guacamole guy had run since high school.