James Patterson - I, Alex Cross

The pain was instant and stunning. His jaw dropped open even as his throat closed up. Nicholson couldn't breathe, much less scream, and in the strange silence, his tormentor's low voice was easy to hear.

"Because at some point, friend, you're going to stop wanting to live and start wanting to die. Understand? And if you haven't told us what we want to know by then – believe me, you will."

THE CAR DOOR opened and Mara slid in, thin hips first, with the other man's hand cupping her blond head of hair. Nicholson saw him tuck a.45 into his waistband before he slammed shut the car door behind her.

His girlfriend looked understandably freaked out. Hell, she was only twenty-three years old. Her arms came together in front, with a sweater draped over them to hide the cuffs. He'd given her that sweater as a present. Cashmere. From the Polo store in Alexandria. Happier days.

"You okay?"

"Jesus, Tony, what's going on? He told me he was the police. Showed me a badge. Is he?"

"Just don't say anything," Nicholson told her quietly. His injured leg felt as though it were going to explode. It was nearly impossible to focus, and Mara's being here only made matters worse. A whole lot worse, actually. Nicholson loved her.

She was the complete opposite of Charlotte. For one thing, she knew too much. For another, she was New York Irish Italian. Keeping their mouths shut wasn't exactly a strong suit for most New Yorkers.

"What do they want?" she pressed. "Where are they taking us? Tony, tell me. "

"That's a bloody good question." Nicholson said, and kicked the back of the seat with his good foot. He shouted at them. "Where the fuck do you think you're taking us?"

That got him a backhand across the cheekbone with the.45. He felt the pain, but it was getting hard to care. In fact, pain could be considered a good thing – it meant he was still alive, didn't it?

"Whatever this is, I don't work for him anymore," Mara was already telling the two men in front. "You have to believe me. I'll tell you anything you want to know. I was the bookkeeper."

"Shut up, Mara," Nicholson said. "Won't do any good anyway."

"He's been shaking people down. Important people. For money. Taping them and -"

He leaned into her, which was about all he could do. "Mara, I'm warning you."

"Or what, Tony? It's a little late for warnings, isn't it? I shouldn't even be here."

Her dark brown eyes flashed fear and anger, the same things he was feeling, so it was hard to completely blame her. "I'm talking about big names," she rattled on. "Rich guys. Politicians, Wall Street, lawyers, that kind of thing -"

"Yeah, yeah." The driver cut her off. "Tell us something we don't already know. Otherwise, like the man said – shut up, Mara."

MAHONEY CALLED IN our new position as we followed the GPS off the Beltway and onto Eisenhower Avenue. It was getting dark, but the roads were still crowded with commuters. I wondered vaguely when nine-to-five had become an anachronism.

A mile and a half up Eisenhower, we came to a row of identical four-story townhouses fronting the street.

A break in the road marked the entrance with a sign welcoming visitors to Avalon at Cameron Court.

The GPS led us through the mini-maze of the compound inside. It was one of those upscale developments, "communities," with their own everything. Rents here were as high as thirty-five hundred a month, according to Mahoney and his laptop.

"You know, my aunt lives in a place like this, down in Vero Beach, Florida. They have a two-pet maximum, but she's got four identical little dogs. Just walks them two at a time."

I sort of listened, until we came onto Nicholson's block. "Hey, Ned. See that?" A dark blue sedan was just pulling out of a driveway about fifty yards ahead. "Is that Nicholson's building?"

Mahoney sat up and closed the laptop. "Could be. Let's find out."

The other car started up the block, heading right toward us. It had DC plates. Two men in front, two passengers in back who were harder to see.

As we passed, I looked in, and for just a second I locked eyes with Tony Nicholson.

AS SOON AS my siren came on, the dark blue sedan took off up the block and then spun around the corner. I had no idea who these guys were – mob, guns for hire, or what – but the way they tore out of there told me Nicholson and his girlfriend were in some serious trouble.

Ned was already on the phone. "This is Mahoney. I have command of the target, Nicholson. We're in pursuit of a blue, Pontiac G6, DC plates."

We came around another corner, and I saw them stopped at the compound's exit.

"One for the good guys!" Ned said, and pumped a fist. There was a solid stream of traffic on Eisenhower blocking them in, and for maybe a second, I thought we might get through this cleanly.

Then the Pontiac 's doors opened on both sides and two men came out – firing!

A bullet pierced my windshield with a dull popping sound before Ned or I could get out. I threw open my door and rolled onto the street. Mahoney also got out the driver's side and stayed low.

From where I was, in a gully, I could only see the sedan's driver. He looked military to me, tall, with a blond buzz cut – and still firing. I didn't shoot back, didn't dare.

The problem was the traffic stopped behind him. There wasn't a safe shot I could take. He seemed to figure that out, and broke for the nearest building.

As he passed the large Avalon sign fronting the complex, I fired off a fast, controlled double tap. Two shells kicked over my shoulder. The blond man went down with the second one.

But we weren't out of this yet, not by a long shot. Mahoney was up and firing. I could see the other man now, down in the street. He had a wet hole in the leg of his pants, but he got up again.

"Drop your weapon!" Mahoney shouted, as the man began to hobble away.

I came around to cover from a second angle, just as the guy raised a.45 at Mahoney.

Both our shots got off before his. He spasmed twice when they hit, and still managed to pull the trigger one more time. His shot nearly clipped Ned, who dropped and fired back. The last bullet caught the guy in the shoulder.

The shooter was alive when we got to him, wide-eyed and tremoring, his finger still on the trigger. Ned stepped on his wrist and pulled the.45 out of his hand.

"Hang in there," I told him. "Ambulance is on its way."

He was in bad shape, though. A wound in his stomach was pumping blood, too much and too fast. While Mahoney ran to Nicholson and the woman, I pulled off my jacket and pressed it to the wound.

"Who do you work for?" I asked.

I wasn't sure if he could hear me. He didn't look scared, but his eyes were like saucers. When he tried to swallow, foamy blood came through his lips. My jacket was already soaked.

"Tell me!" I finally shouted at him. "Who sent you here?"

The gunman's breath hitched, and his grip went tight on my arm – just before everything went lax. He died without saying a word that might help us understand, well, anything about what was happening.

OUR TWO DEAD soon became three, when Charlotte Nicholson, her face blue, the body still warm, turned up in the Pontiac 's trunk.

Tony Nicholson and his presumed girlfriend, Mara Kelly, were both mute except to say that they hadn't done anything wrong and they had no idea who the dead men were. That's as much as we got before the FBI took them into custody.

By now, the response team had swelled to three Bureau cars, Alexandria police, EMTs, and the local sheriff's department. As soon as I could, I called Bree to check in.

That's when I realized that my phone had been off for hours – ever since the sweep at the private club out in Culpeper. When I turned it on, there were three voice mails waiting – all from Bree.