Dead Drop Jack Patterson (best chinese ebook reader TXT) 📖

begin fixing the tire. His father had instilled in him the importance of helping others. It was a character flaw of his, according to Rebecca. She hated the fact that he always felt the need to play Good Samaritan, often causing them to be late for social functions as he couldn’t resist helping someone who was broken down along the side of the road.

Fifteen minutes later, he finished changing the tire. Mrs. Graham thanked him before he drove off and headed toward the bank. He never even noticed the car that began following him.

***

SID’S PHONE RANG. It was Rebecca.

“Are you there yet?”

“Mrs. Graham had a flat tire, so I helped her with that before I left. I’m almost there.”

“Your Good Samaritan act is getting old, Sid.”

“Act? What are you talking about? I just wanted to help her. She’s elderly, and her tire was flat. What else was I supposed to do—just drive by and leave her there?”

“Just hurry up, okay? We don’t have all day.”

Sid hung up and wondered how his marriage had reached this point. There was a time when Rebecca would’ve never spoken ill of him—to others or to his face. But those days had long since vanished, replaced by constant bickering and complaining about money. They had more than enough, but he could sense her disappointment with him every time the subject was broached. He’d never asked her point blank, but he figured she thought he was going to be a megastar and she’d be jetting between their beachfront house in Bali and their penthouse suite in London. Instead, they had just a modest 2,500 square foot house in the suburbs of Seattle and a small mountain cabin. He had shared her dreams, too, but he’d moved on years ago when he realized they would never be realized. He was satisfied with being a nominal star in the American pro soccer league—and she needed to be satisfied as well. But she wasn’t. Not with the money. And not with him either. He’d held on as long as he could, mostly for Mason’s sake. But Sid couldn’t keep pretending. He had to admit the truth: his marriage was over.

He let out a long sigh and gazed out at the busy streetscape. The time had come. He made a quick phone call as he parked his car and closed the top. He climbed out and locked it with his key fob. He trudged along the sidewalk toward the bank’s front doors. Despite his best efforts to remain anonymous in Seattle, it was impossible. Since the city had lost its NBA team in 2008, the football and soccer teams were the most popular professional franchises, respectively. Seattle’s baseball team hadn’t qualified for the playoffs in nearly two decades and was all but forgotten. And while soccer played second fiddle to football, it wasn’t far behind.

Sid acknowledge a few awkward stares from people who looked as though they thought they knew him but weren’t quite sure. Then a man wearing a Seattle FC jersey rushed over to him.

“Mr. Westin?” the man said.

Sid smiled. “Yes?”

The man clenched his first. “I knew it was you. I made a bet with a friend of mine over there that you were the Sid Westin.”

“Congratulations on your victory, sir,” Sid said.

The man nodded. “Oh, can you do me a favor?”

“A favor?”

“Yeah. Could you sign the back of my deposit slip?” the man said.

Sid laughed. “I’d be honored to.” He scribbled on the piece of paper the man thrust into his hand. “Go Seattle FC.”

“Thanks! And go Seattle FC!” the man replied as he hustled away.

The incident led to more awkward stares and whispers.

Sid didn’t mind, welcoming a few other reluctant fans to sign whatever item they had on them.

One young boy wearing a Sounders’ hat asked Sid to sign it for him.

He smiled at the kid. “How old are you?”

“Eight,” he answered, flashing a toothless grin.

“Eight? That’s how old my son is.” Sid scribbled his signature on the boy’s hat. “Are you playing soccer?”

The boy nodded. “One day, I want to be a star like you.”

Sid tousled the boy’s hair and grinned. “Just keep working hard. You never know.”

Eventually, Sid made his way to the front of the line and asked the teller if he could transfer money between his accounts. She nodded and slid the paperwork to him.

“Just fill that out over there, and when you’re finished, come back to me directly,” she said. “No need for you to get back in line, Mr. Westin.”

He strode toward a tall table and began entering the appropriate account numbers for the transaction. Before he could enter the last two numbers, a loud gunshot startled him.

Sid spun toward the direction of the sound and saw four masked gunmen firing their weapons in the air.

“On the ground, now!” roared one of the men as he fired a few more shots in the air.

Everyone in the bank hit the deck as ordered. The leader of the group jumped on top of the nearest counter.

“Nobody has to get hurt. All we want is the money. But if any of you think about being heroes, it’s going to cost you. You understand me?”

Nobody said a word or moved.

“I said, ‘Do you understand me?’”

The bank patrons all nodded, even Sid.

However, as Sid lay face down on the bank floor, he began to think about what was happening. He was witnessing an armed robbery, an event he could alter. For the moment, he couldn’t tell if it was going to escalate into a hostage situation—but he had no intention of sitting around long enough to find out. He was going to turn the tables on them.

As the leader barked out orders, Sid waited for the right moment. He watched as the frightened employees shoveled stacks of cash into a bag some of the other robbers held open while the leader paced back and forth, still atop the counter.

The leader’s pacing was rhythmic, almost lulling one to sleep. But not Sid. He watched this