James Patterson - Cross

Then he heard, "This guy can't hit worth spit! This guy's nothin'! You own this mutt!"

Seamus and Jimmy were the trash-talkers for the family baseball games. Michael Jr. was as focused as ever. Sullivan saw it in his oldest son's bright-blue eyes – a need to strike out the old man once and for all.

His son wound up and let fly. A sharp-breaking curveball, or maybe a hard slider. Sullivan exhaled as he swung – then heard the smack of the ball as it hit Jimmy's catcher's mitt behind him. Son of a bitch had brought some heat!

Something like pandemonium broke out on the otherwise deserted American Legion field where they practiced. Jimmy, the catcher, ran a circle around his father, holding the ball in the air.

Only Michael Jr. stayed calm and cool. He allowed himself a slight grin but didn't leave the pitching mound, didn't celebrate with his brothers.

He just bad-eyed his old man, whom he had never struck out before.

He ducked his chin, ready to go into the windup – but then stopped.

"What's that?" he asked, looking at his father.

Sullivan looked down and saw something move onto his chest. The red pinpoint of a laser sight.

He dropped to the dirt beside home plate.

THE VINTAGE LOUISVILLE SLUGGER, still in his hand, splintered apart before it hit the ground. A loud metal ping sounded as a bullet ricocheted off the backstop. Someone was shooting at him! Maggione's people? Who else?

"Boys! Dugout – now! Run! Run!" he yelled.

The boys didn't have to be told twice. Michael Jr. grabbed his youngest brother's arm. All three of them sprinted for cover, fast little bastards, running like they just stole somebody's wallet.

The Butcher ran for all he was worth in the opposite direction; he wanted to draw fire off of his boys.

And he needed the gun in his car!

The Humvee was parked at least sixty yards away, and he ran as straight a line as he dared to get there. Another shot came so close that he heard it whiz by his chin.

The gunshots were coming from the woods to the left of the ballfield, away from the road. That much he knew. He didn't bother looking around though. Not yet.

When he got to the Humvee, he threw open the passenger-side door and dove inside. An explosion of glass followed.

The Butcher stayed low, face pressed against the floor mat, and reached under the driver's seat.

The Beretta clipped there represented a broken promise to Caitlin. He pulled the loaded weapon loose and finally took a look up top.

There were two of them, coming out of the woods now – two of Maggione's wiseguys for sure. They were here to put him down, weren't they? And maybe his kids too.

He unlatched the driver's door, then rolled outside onto gravel and dirt. Chancing a look under the car, he saw a pair of legs headed his way in a shuffling run.

No time for deep thought or any kind of planning. He fired twice under the chassis. Maggione's man yelped as a blossom of red opened above his ankle.

He went down hard, and the Butcher fired again, right into the hood's twice-shocked face. The bastard never got off another shot, word, or thought. But that was the least of his worries now.

"Dad! Dad! Dad, help!"

It was Mike's voice – coming from all the way across the park, and it was hoarse with panic.

Sullivan jumped up and saw the other hit man headed for the dugout, maybe seventy-five yards away. He raised his gun but knew he'd be firing toward his boys, too.

He jumped in and slammed the Humvee into Drive.

HE FLOORED IT, as if his boys' lives depended on it. Probably they did. Maggione was the kind of coward who would kill your family. Then he held the Beretta out the window, looking for one clear shot. This was going to be close. No way to tell the outcome, either. Suspense city!

The hit man was sprinting across the infield, really moving now. Sullivan guessed the guy had been a decent athlete when he'd been younger. Not too long ago, either.

Michael Jr. watched from the dugout steps. The kid was a cool head, but that wasn't necessarily helpful now. Sullivan screamed at him. "Get down! Michael, down! Right now!"

The hit man knew Sullivan was coming up behind him. Finally, he stopped and turned to make a shot of his own.

Mistake!

Possibly fatal.

His eyes went wide just before the Humvee's grille caught him in the chest, moving at fifty miles an hour plus. The vehicle didn't slow down until it had given the hitter a swift ride, then rammed him into the chain link of the backstop.

"You boys all right?" Sullivan yelled, keeping his eyes on the hit man, who wasn't moving and looked like he'd have to be peeled off the fence.

"We're okay," Michael Jr. said, sounding shaky but still in control of his emotions.

Sullivan walked around to look at the punk, what was left of him anyway. The only thing keeping him on his feet was the steel sandwich he was trapped in. His head lolled lazily to one side. He seemed to be looking around through the one eye not totally obscured with blood.

Sullivan went and picked up the remains of the Louisville Slugger from the dirt.

He swung once, twice, again, and again, punctuating each blow with a shout.

"Don't.

"Fuck.

"With.

"My.

"Family!

"Ever!

"Ever!

"Ever!"

The last swing went wild and missed; Sullivan put a huge crater in his hood. But it helped him remember where he was.

He got in the car and backed up to where his boys were watching like a crowd of zombies at somebody's funeral. When they climbed inside, none of them spoke, but nobody cried, either.

"It's okay now," he told them. "It's over, boys. I'm going to take care of this. Do you hear me? I promise. I promise you on my dead mother's eyes!"

And he would keep his word. They had come after him and his family, and the Butcher would come after them.

The mob.

John Maggione.

I HAD ANOTHER SESSION with Kim Stafford, and when she came in, she was wearing dark sunglasses and looked like someone on the run. My stomach just about dropped to the ground floor of the brownstone. It struck me that my professional worlds were colliding on this case.

Now that I knew who Kim's fiance was, it was harder for me to respect her wish to keep him out of this. I wanted to confront this piece of crap in the worst way.

"Kim," I said at one point, not too far into the session, "does Sam keep any weapons in the apartment?" Sam was the name we had agreed to use in our sessions; Sam was also the name of a bulldog that had bitten Kim when she was a little girl.

"A pistol in the nightstand," she said.

I tried not to show the concern I was feeling, the alarm sounding loudly inside my head. "Has he ever pointed the gun at you? Threatened to use it?"

"Just once," she said, and picked at the fabric of her skirt. "It was a while ago. If I'd thought he was serious, I would have left him."

"Kim, I'd like to talk to you about a safety plan."

"What do you mean?"

"Identifying some precautionary measures," I said. "Setting aside money; keeping a packed suitcase somewhere; finding somewhere you could go – if you needed to leave quickly."

I'm not sure why she took off her sunglasses at that moment, but this is when she chose to show me her black eye. "I can't, Dr. Cross," she said. "If I make a plan, I'll use it. And then I think he truly would kill me."

After my last session that day, I dialed into my voice mail before heading out. There was only one message. It was from Kayla.

"Hey, it's me. Well, hang on to your hat because Nana is letting me cook dinner for all of us tonight. In her kitchen! If I weren't scared silly, I'd say I can't wait. So, I've got a couple of house calls to make, and then I'm stopping at the store. Then I might shoot myself in the parking lot. If not, I'll see you at home around six. That's your house."