Authors: James Patterson
T
HERE WAS NO question there was federal interest in these cases. The cases were inflammatory and international in scope, and the CIA probably knew something. Two of their people had shown up at Ellie's house the night of the murders. The question was, How much could I get them to tell me, if anything at all?
I was given a whole team: Eric Dana from the National Clandestine Service; two spit-shined analysts in their mid-twenties who never spoke a word the whole time I was there; and one familiar face, Al Tunney, from the Office of Transnational Issues.
Tunney and I had worked together on a Russian mafia case a few years back. I hoped he would advocate for me here, but this was clearly Eric Dana's meeting, his case. We sat at a gleaming wood table with a view of nothing but green forests and lawns as far as I could see. Peaceful, serene, very misleading.
"Detective Cross, why don't you tell us what you know so far?" Dana asked. "That would be helpful to get things going." I didn't hold back, saw no reason to. I walked them through all three crime scenes — the Cox house, the street outside Masjid Al-Shura, and, finally, the landfill out in Lorton.
I also passed around a set of photos, keeping them chronological.
Then I covered everything I'd learned or heard about gang leaders in Africa, including what I'd read in Ellie's book. Only then did I mention the CIA officers who had shown up at the first murder scene.
"We won't comment on that," said Dana. "Not at this point."
"I'm not looking for you to open your files to me," I said to Dana. "But I'd like to know if you're tracking a killer stateside. And if you are, do you have any idea where he is?"
Dana listened to what I had to say, then shoved a stack of papers back into a file and stood up.
"Okay. Thank you, Detective Cross. This has been most helpful. We'll get back to you. Let us do our thing here for a few days."
It wasn't the response I wanted. "Hold on, what are you talking about? Get back to me now."
It was a bad moment. Dana stared at his analysts with a look that said, Didn't anyone brief this guy?
Then he looked back at me, not impolitely. "I think I understand your urgency, Detect—"
"I don't think you do," I cut in. I looked over at Al Tunney, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Al, is this a joint decision?"
Tunney's eyes played tennis between me and Dana. "No one's decided anything, Alex. We just can't turn over information that quickly," he finally said. "That's not how we work. You knew that when you came here."
"You can't or you won't?" I asked, looking at Tunney first, then at Dana.
"We won't," Dana said. "And it's my decision, no one else's. You have no idea what kind of damage this man and his team are responsible for."
I leaned across the table. "All the more reason to drop any turf wars, don't you think? We're here for the same reason," I said.
Dana stood at the table. "We'll get back to you." Then he left the room. How very CIA of him.
B
UT I COULDN'T let it go like that, and I didn't.
Al was giving me a disgusted look as I walked over to him. I knew he had a wife, but unless I was psychic, her name probably wasn't Trish.
I started right in with him. "You know something, or you wouldn't be at that meeting. Neither would Dana. Your guys were at the murder scene. Help me out here. Anything, something, Al."
"Alex, I can't. This case is even hotter than you think it is. You heard my boss in there. It goes right to the top of our group. Steven Millard is involved. Trust me, there is an investigation going on. We're taking it very seriously."
"Eric Dana doesn't know me, and neither does Steven Millard, but you do. You know what I can get done. I don't have to prove that to you, do I?" A large department seal loomed over us in the hall. I took a step to the side so Tunney wouldn't be looking up at it.
"Very funny," he said.
"Come on, Al. Two families have died already. Doesn't that mean anything?"
Then Tunney said a really odd thing. "Not as much as you might think. There are other monsters."
My escort called over from the intersection in the corridor. "Detective Cross? This way?"
"One second." I turned back to Tunney again. "Ellie Cox was a dear friend. Nicole Cox was thirteen. Clara was six. James ten. The four Ahmed kids? All younger than twelve. They didn't just die, Al. Their heads were cut off. Whoever did it is on a par with Hannibal Lecter. Only this is real."
"I know the case by heart," he said. "I've got it."
"You have kids, right? I've got three. Damon, Jannie, and Ali. What about you?"
"Jesus." Tunney shook his head at me. "You got mean somewhere along the way."
"Not mean, Al. I'm trying to solve some horrific murders. Something tells me the trail might go to Africa. Is that true?"
I could tell he was close to giving me something. I put a hand on his shoulder and ratcheted down my tone a little. "I'm not asking for any deep agency secrets. I'm talking about existing police business. In my own jurisdiction. At least for now."
Tunney looked down at the floor tile for a few seconds, then over at my escort, then back at the floor. Without looking up, he said, "There's been some talk about a deal going down. We got this from the FBI. Service Plaza in Virginia. Chantilly, Virginia. Might be your guy. You'd be within your rights to intercept."
"What kind of deal?"
Tunney didn't answer. He put out his hand, with a smile broad enough for the escort to see. His voice rose just a notch. "It was good seeing you again, Alex. And say hello to Bree for me. Like I said, I know this case by heart. It is horrific. Boy shot your friend. And please remember this, we're still the good guys, Alex. No matter what you might read or see in the movies."
B
Y EIGHT O'CLOCK that night, I had gathered together a half dozen handpicked officers from Major Case Squad, plus Bree, Sampson, and myself. We wore Kevlar vests under plain clothes and were heavily armed and wired, waiting at the service plaza in Chantilly, Virginia, where something might be going down involving my killer.
There was no sign of the CIA. Had they not shown up yet?
For the first five hours, there was nothing but radio silence and lots of bad coffee.
Then just after one in the morning, the silence broke.
"Twenty-two-oh-one. Over."
"Go ahead, twenty-two-oh-one."
I looked over from the communications van toward the far corner of the truck lot, where a detective named Jamal McDonald was stationed.
"I got two Land Cruisers. Just pulled up to a tanker in the back. Northeast corner."
"How long has the tanker been there?" I asked McDonald.
"Hard to say, Alex. At least half an hour. Most of these tankers been pulling in and out."
We hadn't known what to expect tonight, but stolen gas or crude would make sense, especially if Nigerians were involved. I was already out of the van and walking quickly in Jamal's direction. Two dozen or more semis, lined up in rows, were temporarily blocking my view of the corner.
"Nicolo, Redman, pull in tighter. Bree, where are you right now?"
"I'm behind the buildings. Headed east."
"Good. Everyone else hold position. What about you, John? See anything yet?"
"Nothing from here," Sampson radioed back. "Nobody's moving around over there. Just you guys."
"Jamal, how close are you?"
"Hang on. Just coming around a semi." I caught sight of him briefly up near the last row of trucks as I crossed the parking lot. Bree fell in silently beside me.
I had my Glock out, low at my side. So did she. Was the killer here with his team? Were they the same ones who had killed the Coxes and the Ahmeds?
"Somebody's getting out of the cab," Jamal McDonald whispered. "No, two people. There's four others I can see approaching from the Land Cruisers. Looks like a satchel of some kind. This must be it. Hang on." There was a brief silence and then, "Shit! I think they see me. Looks like little kids — teenagers!"
Bree and I were running now. "Jamal, what's going on?"
"We're on our way, almost there!"
The next thing we heard were gunshots, lots of them.
B
REE AND I began to sprint at full speed in the direction of the first volley of shots. I could still hear Jamal McDonald — but he was making a wet, gasping sound, as though he might have been hit in the throat and was possibly suffocating.
We were only halfway there when three or four fast-moving shadows ran across our path. Maybe fifty feet ahead. They looked like kids to me, just like Jamal had said.
One of them fired from the hip as he went, not even trying to keep covered. Then they all opened up on us. It was like some kind of Old West shoot-out; they appeared to have no fear at all, no concept of dying.
Bree and I dropped down and fired back from ground level. Bullets sparked off the asphalt and trucks in the dark, but we couldn't see who we were shooting at now or where they were headed.
"Kids," Bree said.
"Killers," I corrected her.
A second heavy exchange of fire came from the next row over of trucks. One of the team members, Art Sheiner, shouted out that he'd been hit too.
Then everything was quiet again.
"Sheiner?" I radioed.
He didn't respond.
"McDonald?"
No response either.
"Sampson, we need medical with that backup."
"On its way. I'm coming down now."
"Stay up there, John. We need a spotter, more than ever. Stay where you are!"
"Sir, it's Connors." He was the rookie of the group and his voice was tight. "I found Jamal. He's down. There's a lot of blood."
"Stay with him! But watch yourself."
"Twenty-two-oh-four." It was Frank Nicolo. "Sheiner's here. He's down. No pulse. I think he's gone."
Then, suddenly, there were more shots!
W
E WERE UP and running again. Two officers had been shot, and an unknown number of assailants were at the service plaza. A second ambush opened up on us. A bullet streaked by my face.
"What the fuck?" somebody shouted on radio. He didn't explain. Couldn't?
"Alex! Bree!" It was Sampson again. "By the pumps! To your left!"
I ran out to where I could see the main buildings. Three of the gunmen had a good fifty yards on us and were running toward the gas canopy, firing as they went. They had black balaclavas pulled over their heads.
Two were short-boys, if the height was any indication. A larger person — huge — was in the first position. Was that the gang's leader? Ellie's killer. It had to be him, didn't it? I wanted to get the bastard, no matter what else happened tonight.
Innocent people ran screaming away from their cars and semis. There was too much confusion for us to fire, A woman in a red parka and baseball cap went down, clutching her stomach. The large man shot her a second time! Was he crazy?
Then he plucked the gas nozzle out of her SUV. He definitely was mad. He locked it in the on position, then left the gas running on the ground.
Then he stepped over to the next car in line and did the same thing.
His team of boys was getting clear of the area, running and shouting as if this were some kind of out-of-control sports match. His pistol was pointed at the pooling gas, and that was all the warning I needed.
"Hold fire! Hold fire!" I yelled, then pulled up short of the pumps. "Bree, take Brighton. Go around the other side. Nicolo, get somebody to shut those things off."
The large man held a third nozzle in his hand now, just letting the gasoline flow onto the pavement. I could smell the vapors, even at this distance.
What the hell was he thinking?
"Just put it down. Walk away!" I shouted. "We won't fire on you."
He didn't move, just stared back at me. No fear in him. A second later, someone shouted behind him. Then came three short blasts of a car horn.
Finally he did what I'd asked. He kept his gun pointed my way, but set the gas nozzle down. He backed away slowly, moving out of the light of the canopy.
We were clear — he was leaving!
Then several shots were fired out of the darkness. It was him — the bastard!
A wall of flame burst from the concrete. It almost seemed like a magic trick. In seconds, the forecourt was burning, flames licking under and around the empty cars.
A white Corolla went up first. It exploded right where the large male had been standing a few seconds ago. Then a black pickup on the other side of the pumps caught fire.
"Clear! Clear! Clear! Clear!" I was shouting and waving both arms over my head, trying to get everybody, civilians and police, away from there.
That's when the first pump head blew.
And then — Armageddon in Virginia.