Cross down, p.30
Cross Down, page 30
I shake my head slowly, sorrowfully. “No, Colonel, that’s not going to happen. The current situation won’t allow that.”
“It has to happen. He has to get to the White House,” she says. “General Grissom has sacrificed so much for this nation, has bled for this nation, has lost his family for this nation. The country needs him like they needed Washington, Grant, and Eisenhower. His time has come.”
Another sad shake of my head. I take a few more steps. “Colonel, you’re smart, you’re experienced, you know that General Grissom is not going to the White House. It’s just not gonna happen.”
Wearily, Grissom says, “Kendricks, it’s over. Put your weapon on the ground.”
Kendricks’s face reddens. “I do that, sir, and what happens? I’ll be arrested, and so will you. Am I correct?” she asks me.
I nod. In hostage negotiations, you never lie. “That’s right, Colonel,” I say. “You’ll both be arrested. I don’t see any way out of that.”
“Fine,” she says, her voice even angrier. “Then this man, General Wayne Grissom, this dedicated and tough and patriotic general—his life, his career, his years of service—he’ll be destroyed, won’t he? He’ll be the subject of hate, scorn, humor. His face will be on the front page of every newspaper, every cable show, every internet site, and he’ll be portrayed as a traitor, this century’s Benedict Arnold. His decades of proud service will be reduced to the cliché of a madman. And then will come the trial, months and months of daily humiliation, followed by a life sentence at Leavenworth. That’s what’s ahead for this great man, isn’t it?”
I’m trying to come up with a reasonable response when Kendricks answers her own question.
“I’m sorry, General, I can’t allow this to happen to you,” she says, bringing up her pistol. She places it against his right temple and shoots him once in the head.
There are shouts, moans, and gasps, then a series of gunshots erupt from behind me, and Colonel Kendricks collapses next to her beloved general, both of them probably dead before they struck the pavement.
Chapter
162
Maria Tucker, pistol still holstered at her waist, steps onto the suite’s balcony at the Hay-Adams hotel, thinking, It’s gone to shit, as she brings up her binoculars to survey the scene around the White House.
At noon, the charges secretly hidden at the Secret Service observation posts went off on schedule, and she even heard the muffled chuff-chuff-chuff of sound-suppressed sniper rifles taking down other Secret Service agents out there.
Excellent.
But as seconds and minutes ticked away…nothing! Where was the huge tow truck to tear down the fences? Where were the fake delivery vehicles from UPS and FedEx and Amazon that were to roll in and discharge scores of armed men and women? Where were the helicopters going over the supposedly closed White House airspace to fast-drop operators onto the undefended White House roof?
Where is everybody?
She walks back into the suite, remembering her grandfather who was seriously burned in 1980 when the attempt to rescue American hostages in Iran ended in a flaming disaster in the middle of a desert.
As a child, she’d wondered how Grandpa felt that night.
Now she knows.
To Styles and Flynn, both in front of their terminals, she says, “Updates?”
Flynn says not a word, but Styles says, “Some disjointed and scrambled messages, ma’am. It looks like the assault is failing. Our people are being scooped up and arrested.”
Flynn says, “What now?”
Maria says, “Follow your orders. Wipe all hard drives, thumb drives, anything and everything that’s electronically recorded. I’ll gather up any paperwork and take care of it.”
The next few minutes pass with the techs punching keyboards as Maria feeds sheets of paper into a top-of-the-line GSA shredder, which not only shreds the notes and paperwork but also flash-burns the shredded bits into ashes and soaks them in acid.
When the three of them are finished, there’s the constant sound of sirens outside, along with the thrumming of helicopter blades.
Maria goes to Styles and Flynn. “All done?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Styles says.
“All wrapped up,” Flynn says. “Time for us to slip out?”
Maria shakes her head. “Not right now,” she says. “I’ve got orders as well.”
She takes out her pistol, and Flynn says, “Please, God, no!” and Maria shoots each of them twice, then retrieves the empty casings from the carpeted floor and grabs her go bag.
She goes out to the hallway, closes the door behind her, heads to the nearest elevator bank, and punches the button to bring an elevator car to her floor.
Didn’t work, did it, she thinks. There’s a ding as the door slides open, and Maria whispers, “Maybe next time.”
Chapter
163
It’s nearly noon and the scene is loud, chaotic, with laughter interspersed with sweet insults and a few curses, but this is turning into one of the happiest days of my life—and of the Cross family’s life—and I won’t complain for one second.
We are in a small procession, Alex Cross leading the way in his wheelchair. I have the privilege, having earlier shoved aside Ali, Damon, and Jannie, of pushing him along as he finally leaves George Washington University Hospital.
Bree is on Alex’s right, tightly holding his hand, and Nana Mama is on his left, doing the same. Jannie is holding a bundle of strings belonging to a squadron of balloons, all of which wish Alex good health, and Damon and Ali are both carrying plastic bags containing greeting cards, gifts, and Alex’s discharge papers.
There’s laughter and joking. Nana Mama is running down a week’s worth of planned meals—“’Cause I know they do their best, but their food ain’t fit for anyone, healthy or healing”—and Ali babbles about going on a camping trip once his dad gets better, and Damon occasionally pats his father on the shoulder. Jannie just smiles with tears running down her cheeks.
And grabbing my left leg, making it hard to keep up with folks and maintain a steady pace, is my little Willow, happy to have Daddy home again.
Me too, I think, me too.
Alex turns and looks up at me, smiling. He’s freshly bathed and shaved, and he’s wearing khaki slacks and a dark blue polo shirt from home, but they are baggy around his shrunken frame.
Nana Mama has her work cut out for her, putting meat back on those tired bones.
A male nurse who’s accompanying us shoos away visitors and patients in front of us, and we’re out of the large lobby and into the fresh air of a late Washington, DC, morning, and it’s a beautiful day.
We’re on a curved driveway leading from the hospital lobby to I Street, right near the Foggy Bottom farmers’ market, and through the cars and the pedestrians, many of whom are people from the university, we can see scores of vendors and farmers working under tents and large umbrellas.
The nurse who’s with us bends down to Alex and says, “All right, Dr. Cross, I know you hate to hear this, but it’s hospital rules—you have to stay in your wheelchair until the vehicle taking you home is right in front of you. When that happens, you’ll require assistance moving from the chair to the car. Got that? Any questions?”
“Not a single one,” Alex says, his voice soft but strong.
The nurse leaves and I look around, waiting for the two Chevrolet Suburbans from the Bluestone Group to take this brood home. I still have my service weapon on my hip.
Just in case.
I lock the wheels of the wheelchair and go around and take a knee by Alex. I give him a hard look and say, “How are you doing?”
His bright smile is a relief. “Achy and shaky, but I’m ready to go home.”
He frees his right hand from Bree’s and holds it out, and I give it a good squeeze. I’m thrilled at how strong his return squeeze is. Alex says, “I owe you a lot, John, for keeping my family safe.”
“You’d do the same for me,” I say as Willow comes up behind me and wraps her small arms around my thick neck.
“And the nation owes you a lot too. You and Ned Mahoney. And Elizabeth Deacon. How’s she doing?”
I nod in the direction of the hospital. “Still in a coma, but she’s stable. The next few days will make the difference, the docs say.”
“Sounds like a good woman.”
“She is. I plan to come back here later today for a long visit.”
“Good,” he says, still smiling, but I note something in his eyes. I say, “Give it up, Alex. What are you thinking about?”
His voice is somber. “I’m thinking about getting back to work.”
Thank God Bree didn’t hear that—she’s talking to Jannie—because I’m sure that sentence would have resulted in a slap upside Alex’s head, no matter his condition.
“What work?” I ask. “Alex, Ned and the FBI and others are going twenty-four/seven, rolling up those terrorist networks. The president went on the air yesterday to announce that the threat of future terrorist attacks is now over. Tomorrow, General Wayne Grissom is going to be buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery after being shot by gunmen during his mission to personally protect the president.”
Alex smiles. “How long do you think that cover story will last?”
“Long enough for me to stay in the DC Metro Police and go out on full pension without embarrassing questions being asked of me in front of Congress.”
“You can’t fire a hero, right?”
I say, “That’s right. But let’s get back to what you just said. What do you mean, getting back to work?”
Ali calls out, “They’re here!”
I see two Suburbans approach, and their license plates match the letters and numbers I memorized earlier; the SUVs belong to Bree’s employer.
Alex shifts in the wheelchair and says, “Colonel Carla Kendricks.”
“Grissom’s aide, shot down right after she killed him.”
“But who killed her?” Alex asks. “And why so quickly?”
“Somebody from the National Guard unit standing nearby,” I reply. “That’s what I’ve been told. After Kendricks fired the shot, somebody returned fire instinctively. The National Guard is conducting its own investigation.”
He nods. “I’m sure. But was she killed because she posed a threat, or was there a modern-day Jack Ruby among the National Guard, someone who killed her so she couldn’t talk, couldn’t be a witness? That needs to be checked out. We’re going to do that, John.”
I shake my head and straighten up, my arm around Willow, who is leaning into me. “Damn it, sugar, can’t you take at least one day off?”
He grins. “Okay. I promise. I’ll take off the rest of today. Meet me at the house tomorrow, eight a.m.”
“Nine,” I say. “You need your rest. And I’ve got to drop Willow off at school.”
The Suburbans stop in front of us, the doors swing open, and Bree calls out to the security operators from Bluestone. “Tim and Carlos, come over here and get Alex inside.”
Then something amazing happens.
Alex grabs the armrests of the wheelchair, hauls himself up with a grunt, and starts walking under his own power to the nearer Suburban.
The sight makes my eyes water.
There’s nobody on this earth who can keep my Alex down.
Nana Mama calls out, “You silly man, you’re supposed to follow the rules! Stay in that chair!”
We’re all looking at him as he keeps walking to the Suburban. He grabs the frame of the open door and turns, smiling.
“I’m Alex Cross,” he says. “I make my own rules.”
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Acknowledgments
James Patterson and Brendan DuBois would like to thank the following for their assistance on Cross Down: Dr. Babak Sarani, director of Trauma and Acute Care Surgery and co-medical director of Critical Care at the George Washington University Hospital; Air Force Lt. Col. Robert Carver, spokesman for the Joint Task Force for the District of Columbia; Michael Davidson, former officer, Central Intelligence Agency; Vito Maggiolo, public information officer for DC Fire and EMS Department; and Edie Hicks, retired critical care RN and EMS-Paramedic.
About the Authors
James Patterson is the world’s bestselling author. Among his creations are Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett, and Maximum Ride. His number-one bestselling nonfiction includes Walk in My Combat Boots, Filthy Rich, and his autobiography, James Patterson by James Patterson. He has collaborated on novels with Bill Clinton and Dolly Parton and has won an Edgar Award, nine Emmy Awards, and the National Humanities Medal.
Brendan DuBois is the award-winning author of twenty-seven novels and more than two hundred short stories, garnering him three Shamus Awards from the Private Eye Writers of America as well as the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer for Lifetime Achievement from the Short Mystery Fiction Society. He is also a Jeopardy! champion.
For a sneak peek at the next big case for Alex Cross and
John Sampson, turn the page…
John Sampson and I were inside a brick apartment building in Southeast Washington, DC, near the border with Fairmount Heights, Maryland, so we didn’t hear the machine-gun fire.
But we sure heard the dull thud and roar of the explosion that followed.
“What was that?” a distraught Eileen O’Dell said, her hands trembling. “Oh my God, what was that?”
“Whatever it was, it was far away, Eileen,” Sampson said, trying to keep her calm. “I know this is difficult, but anything you can tell us about Trey’s routine, especially in the morning, might help us figure out who did this to him.”
Eileen’s twenty-five-year-old husband, Trey O’Dell, had been shot to death around four a.m. that same day. He was the fourth young man to die in a very-early-morning ambush on the streets of the nation’s capital since the beginning of the year. Sampson and I had been assigned to the case of what the media was calling the Dead Hours killings.
John was a senior detective with the Metropolitan Police Department’s homicide unit. I used to be with MPD’s homicide unit as well, but now I worked as an investigative consultant to both the department and the FBI, where I’d once served as a profiler. I rubbed at the ache in my chest, still getting over a wound that had almost cost me my life.
“I don’t know what I haven’t told you and the other officers already,” the new widow said, on the verge of breaking down again. “Didn’t anyone see it happen?”
“No one has come forward yet,” I told her. “But you said it was his normal route?”
“Not always, but often enough. He kept a diary of his runs, the routes and everything, you know. You’ll see it all on his laptop.”
“What about the early hour? Was that unusual?”
“No,” she said. “Trey never needed much sleep. He was always up early. And he liked to run before work.”
“What’s the name of the school where he taught?” Sampson asked.
“Woodrow Wilson.”
“Good school,” I said.
“He was a good teacher,” she said, her voice quivering. “The kids loved him. Everyone loved him. I just don’t understand how I can go to bed and he’s there and I wake up and the police are pounding at my door and he’s not.” She started crying again. “This isn’t supposed to happen to newlyweds. It just isn’t.”
I felt terrible. They’d been married in June and moved down from Boston after Trey landed the teaching job.
“You said your mother and sister are on the way?” I asked, handing her a tissue.
Eileen dabbed at her eyes as she nodded, then blew her nose. “Mom and Eva should be here in an hour or so. And Trey’s mom and dad after that. How am I going to get through this?”
“With their help,” Sampson said.
“They’ll hold you up if you hold them up,” I said.
She nodded, looking blank and bleary-eyed. “At least they didn’t have to see him.”
I knew she’d gone down to the morgue earlier in the day to identify her husband. “You were brave, saving them from that.”
“Or I’m an idiot,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forget what I saw.”
“You’ll never forget him,” Sampson said. “But that other memory will fade.”
“I hope so,” she said as more tears rolled down her cheeks. “I can’t take this feeling much longer.”
I said softly, “My first wife was murdered, Eileen. It’s part of why I do what I do. I can tell you the next few days are going to be rough. But your family is coming, and it takes time, a lot of it, but you will get through this. You will have a life again. You will know happiness again.”
She cried harder. “That’s the problem. I don’t want to be happy again.”
Before either of us could answer, my cell phone and then Sampson’s dinged with texts telling us to call dispatch.
“I’ll take it,” I said, walking over to the other side of the simply furnished living area. “This is Alex Cross,” I said when the dispatcher answered.
“Drop whatever you’re doing, Dr. Cross, and head to Reagan Airport,” she said. “A jet just crashed and exploded on the runway. The chief and the FBI want you and Sampson there pronto.”
By the time we left Eileen O’Dell, promising to check on her later, sirens were wailing everywhere as police and fire crews raced to Reagan National. Two helicopters were in the sky when we pulled out, bubble on, our siren joining the chorus.
Sampson headed west toward the river. The police-radio chatter was all about forming a cordon around the airport and the subsequent traffic snarls that were knotting in and around the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
