James Patterson - I, Alex Cross

"What the hell?"

His first cogent thoughts were of the disk in his glove box, and of Zeus. Jesus, was it possible somebody already knew about the recording? Could it be true?

Not wanting to find out, Nicholson jammed the car into reverse, but even that was too little, too late.

A fat man was already at his side window, pointing a handgun and shaking his head no .

WHAT WAS THIS – The Sopranos ? It certainly looked like it to Nicholson.

There were two of them. A second hoodlum-looking gent stepped into the glow of the headlights, pointing another gun at his face.

The fat one opened Nicholson's door for him and then stepped back. The guy's mouth hung open a little, and his cheap golf shirt was tucked in, leaving an impressive curve of belly suspended in midair. It seemed inconceivable that someone as sloppy as this should be working for Zeus – which left the obvious question.

"Who the hell are you?" Nicholson asked. "What do you want with me?"

"We work for Mr. Martino." The accent was New York, or Boston, or something . East Coast American.

Nicholson slowly got out of the car, keeping both hands in sight. "Okay then, who the hell is Mr. Martino?" he asked.

"No more stupid questions." The corpulent thug gestured Nicholson toward the house. "Let's go inside. We're right behind you, bub."

It occurred to Nicholson that he'd already be dead if this were a straightforward hit. So that meant they wanted something else. What?

They were barely inside the front door when Charlotte Nicholson's thin, very irritating voice came seeping down from the upstairs hall. "Babe? Who's that with you? Isn't it late for guests?"

"It's nothing. Not your concern. Go back to bed, Charlotte."

Even now, he felt like throttling her, just for being where she shouldn't be.

Her bare splayed feet and legs came into the light from the foyer as she took a step down. "What's going on?" she called out again.

"Did you not hear me? Go. Now." She seemed to pick up on his tone, anyway, and floated back into the darkness. "Stay up there," he told her. "I'll come get you later. Go to sleep."

He took his two unexpected guests through to the great room at the back, for more privacy. Also, the bar was there, and Nicholson headed straight for it.

"I don't know about you fellas, but I could use a drink -" he said, then felt a sharp crack at the back of his skull. He stumbled down onto his knees.

"What the fuck do you think this is, a social call?" shouted the fat guy.

Nicholson felt angry enough to fight, but he was in no position to do it. Not even close. So he pulled himself up, then onto the sofa. Thankfully, his vision was slowly coming back into focus.

"So what the hell do you want at four in the morning?"

The fat one hovered over him. "We're looking for one of our guys. He came down here about a week and a half ago, and we haven't heard from him since."

Christ, he wanted to lay out this fat bastard, but that wasn't going to happen, at least not right now. But someday – somewhere.

"I'm going to need more information than that. What guy? Give me a hint."

"The name's Johnny Tucci," said Fatboy.

"Who? Never heard of him. Tucci? Did he come to my club? Who is he?"

"Don't bullshit us, man." The smaller punk pushed in close now, with a rush of cigarette and body stink. "We know all about your little place in the country, okay?"

Nicholson sat up straight on the couch. This might have more to do with Zeus than he'd thought. Or maybe with his business on the side?

"That's right," the punk went on. "You think Mr. Martino sends his people down here for a vacation?"

"Listen, I still have no idea what you're talking about," he told them. That much was partly the truth.

Fatboy hunkered down on the burled-wood coffee table and lowered his gun for the first time. It might have been an opening, if the other punk weren't so close by.

"I'm going to lay it out for you, then," he said, in an almost conciliatory tone. "One of our guys is missing. Whoever's been contracting with our boss isn't easy to track down. So far, all we've got is you. And that means our problem just became your problem. You understand?"

Nicholson was afraid that he did. "What do you expect me to do… about our problem?"

The guy shrugged, then scratched his stubbly chin with the barrel of his gun. "Bottom line, we've got to deliver somebody back to Mr. Martino. So you do some asking around, find out what you can, or you'll be the one we bring back."

"Or the little lady up on the stairs," the other one said.

"You can have the little lady," Nicholson said. "We'll call it even."

The heavy man smiled finally, and then he stood up. Tonight's business was clearly done.

"I'll take that drink to go," he said to Nicholson. "You just stay put."

He waddled over to the bar, where his buddy was already helping himself to as many bottles as he could carry in both arms.

Once the two punks were gone and Nicholson had his drink and some ice for his head, he noticed they'd cleaned him out of Johnnie Walker only to leave a Dalmore 62 sitting right there on the bar. It was a four-hundred-dollar bottle, and seemed as ominous a sign as anything else.

If these two losers were onto him, then everything was unraveling faster than he'd thought possible.

Now, who the hell was Johnny Tucci?

FOR SUAREZ AND Overton, every exchange with Zeus was a dead drop – no face-to-face meetings, ever, by mutual agreement with whoever was actually paying their fees. They went into the suite at Blacksmith Farms after him, sanitized the space, and took away whatever needed taking away, including the bodies.

Just before dawn, their no-profile G6 bumped along the familiar dirt track in the backwoods of Virginia. Its rear end was riding a little low because of the weight in the trunk.

"Let me ask you this," Suarez said to his partner. "He's obviously filthy rich. Why does he risk it? What is he – completely crazy?"

"On some level, sure."

"On some level? How about 24/7/365 he's crazier than a shithouse rat on speed? How does he get away with it – how? "

"Well, for one thing – do you know who he is, Suarez?"

"You're right, I don't. But somebody has to know. Somebody has to stop him eventually."

"What can I tell you – welcome to the wackadoo world of the rich and famous. Can you say wood chipper?"

REMY WILLIAMS DIDN'T trust these two guys at all. Never had, not from the start of the contract. When they pulled up to the cabin and didn't even get out of the car, he knew something was up. Something more than the usual dirtbag routine.

"How's it going, fellas?" He shuffled on over like the piece of white trash he was supposed to be. "What've you got for me this time?"

"Two female." The driver looked up, though not quite into his eyes. What was this: Did the Latino have a conscience? "One of them has a bullet in the chest. You'll see."

"Oh, yeah? What'd you shoot her for?"

"I don't know, maybe because we're still chasing down the last one who ran off."

The guy was baiting him, Remy could tell, but he wasn't sure why or, really, what these murders were all about. He was just a cog, didn't have all the pieces, figured probably no one did. Like JFK. Like RFK. Hell, like O.J.

"Seems to me you shot the last one too," he said, playing along. "Maybe she didn't run off a'tall. Might just be lying out in those woods somewhere, turning into mulch. As we speak. Coulda just been found by hikers."

"Yeah, maybe." The ex-agent took a deep breath, starting to get a little showy with his aggravation. "Listen, if you could just clean out the trunk, we'll be on our merry way."