James PATTERSON: Cross Country

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.”

BY 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.

We were scheduled for a twelve-hour shift, eight to eight if we needed it. The team was already spread out over five sectors: front car park, restaurant, gas station, and both sides of the big truck lot in back. Sampson had a hip problem, so he was on the roof observing for us. Bree and I traded off roaming and covering the communications van parked near the entrance, with another good view of the service plaza.

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.

BREE 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.

The other officers were shouting “twenties” over the wireless and also converging on the tanker. Sampson stayed put on the roof and radioed Fairfax County for more help.

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!

WE 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.

Someone had fired from the roof of a tractor trailer as he ran down the length of it. I shot back and couldn’t tell if I’d hit the sniper or not. Everything was happening like fireworks – there and gone – then quiet again.

“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?