James Patterson - London Bridges

I'd seen this kind of murder before, exactly this kind. So had Sampson.

"Prostitute." Sampson sighed. "Patrolmen seen her around on South Capitol. Eighteen, nineteen years old, maybe even younger. So who is he?"

It looked to me as if the girl's breasts had been sliced right off her chest. Her face had been attacked, too. A checklist of deviant behavior ran through my head, the kind of things I hadn't thought about for a while: expressive aggression (check), sadism (check), sexualization (check), offense planning (check). Check, check, check.

"It's Shafer, John. It's the Weasel. He's back in Washington. But that's not the worst of it. I wish to hell it were."

We knew a bar that was open, so Sampson and I went for a beer after we left the slaughter scene on New Jersey Avenue. We were officially off duty, but I had my beeper clipped on. So did John. There were only two other guys drinking in the gin mill, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.

Didn't matter one way or the other. It was good just to be with John. I needed to talk to him. I really needed to talk to Sampson about something.

"You sure it's Shafer?" he asked me once we had our beers and some nuts in front of us. I told him about the disturbing tape I'd seen from Sunrise Valley. But not about the other threats, or the ransom. I couldn't, and that bothered me a lot. I'd never lied to Sampson, and this felt like a lie.

"It's him. No doubt about it."

"That's messed up," John said. "The Weasel. Why would he come back to Washington? He almost got caught here the last time."

"Maybe that's why. The thrill of it, the challenge."

"Yeah, and maybe he misses us. I won't miss him this time. Put one right between his eyes."

I sipped my beer. "Shouldn't you be home with Billie?" I asked.

"It's a work night. Billie is cool with it, with my job. Her sister's staying with us for a while, anyway. They're both asleep by now."

"How's that working out? Married life? Billie's sister at the house?"

"I like Trina, so it's okay. Funny, things I couldn't imagine getting used to aren't a problem. I'm happy. First time, maybe. Floatin' on a cloud, man."

I grinned at Sampson. "Ain't love grand?"

"Yes, it is. You ought to try it again sometime."

"I'm ready," I said, and smiled.

"You think so? I wonder about that. Are you really ready?"

"Listen, John, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Figured that out already. Something about that bombing. Then the murder of Thomas Weir. Shafer back in town." Sampson looked into my eyes. "So what is it?"

"This is confidential, John. They've made a threat against Washington. It's pretty serious. We've been warned about an attack. They demanded a huge ransom to stop it."

"Which can't be paid?" Sampson asked. "The United States doesn't negotiate with terrorists."

"I don't know about that. I'm not sure if anybody does, except maybe the president. I'm on the inside, but not that far inside. Anyway, now you know as much as I do."

"And I should act accordingly."

"Yeah, you should. But you can't talk about this with anybody. Not anyone, not even Billie."

Sampson took my hand. "I got it. Thank you."

On the way home late that night I was guilt-tripping and a little shaky about what I'd told Sampson, but I felt I'd had no choice. John was my family, simple as that. Also, maybe I was on burnout because we were working eighteen-to-twenty-hour days. Maybe the stress was getting to me. There was a lot of disaster planning going on behind the scenes, but nobody I talked to knew where we were on the ransom demands. Everybody's nerves were frayed, including mine. About twelve hours were gone on our deadline.

Other questions burned in my mind. Was Shafer the one who had murdered and maimed the woman we'd found on New Jersey Avenue? I was almost sure he was, and Sampson agreed. But why commit that type of grisly murder now? Why risk it? I sure as hell doubted it was a coincidence that the young woman's body had been dumped less than two miles from my house.

It was late and I wanted to think about something else, anything else, but I couldn't get my head off the case. I drove the old Porsche faster than I needed to on the mostly empty streets, knowing I had to focus on the driving. It didn't really work too well, though.

I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head before I went inside. Things to do. I needed to give Jamilla a call-it was only eleven on the coast. I felt as though my head would explode. And I knew when I'd felt this way before: the last time the Weasel went on a killing spree in Washington. Only this was so much worse.

I finally trudged inside the house, past the old piano on the sunporch. I thought about sitting down and playing. A little blues? Broadway? At two in the morning? Sure, why not. I couldn't sleep, anyway.

The phone began to ring and I ran to get it. Awhh, Jesus, who the hell?

I snatched up the phone on the kitchen wall near the fridge.

"Hello. Cross."

Nothing.

And then a hang-up.

Seconds later, the phone rang again. I picked up after one ring.

Another hang-up.

And another after that.

I took the phone off the hook. Set it on the counter inside Nana's oven mitt to muffle the sound.

I heard a noise behind me.

I turned around quickly.

Nana was standing there in the doorway, all five feet, ninety-five pounds of her. Her brown eyes were fired up.

"What's wrong, Alex? What are you doing up?" she asked. "This isn't right. Who's calling the house this late at night?"

I sat down at the kitchen table, and over some tea I told Nana everything that I could.

The next day I was paired up with Monnie Donnelley, which was good news for both of us. Our assignment was to gather information on Colonel Shafer and the mercenaries being used in the attacks; our timetable- fast, incredibly fast.

Monnie, as usual, already knew a lot about the subject, and she talked nonstop while she retrieved even more data for the case. Once Monnie gets going, it's difficult to get her to stop, almost impossible. The woman is relentless about facts being the way to truth.

"Mercenaries, the 'dogs of war,' so-called. Mostly former soldiers from Special Forces-Delta Force, Army Rangers, SEALs, SAS if they're Brits. Many are totally legit, Alex, though they operate in a kind of legal netherworld. What I mean is that they aren't subject to the U.S. military's code of conduct or even our laws. Technically, they're subject to the laws of the countries where they serve, but some of those hot spots have piss-poor judicial systems, if they have any system at all."

"So they're pretty much on their own. That would appeal to Shafer. Most mercenaries work for private companies now?"

Monnie nodded. "Yes, they do, Grasshopper. Private military companies, PMCs. Earn as much as twenty thousand a month. Average probably closer to three or four. Some of the larger PMCs have their own artillery, tanks. Even fighter jets, if you can believe it."

"I can. These days I can believe anything. Hell, I even believe in the big bad Wolf."

Monnie turned away from her computer screen and looked at me. I sensed that one of her famous "stats" was on the way. "Alex, the Defense Department currently has over three thousand contracts with U.S.-based PMCs. Contracts are valued at over three hundred billion dollars. You believe that?"

I whistled. "Well, that sort of puts the Wolf's demands in perspective, doesn't it?"

"Pay the man," said Monnie. " Then we'll go catch him."

"It's not my call. But I don't entirely disagree. At least that could be a plan."