James Patterson - Cross

There were a few loose details to work out, but the job was done. Let's Make a Deal had netted him three hundred and fifty thousand, all of it wired into an account at the Union Bank of Switzerland. Truth be told, he hadn't felt this financially secure in a while, though he'd probably burned his Boston contact for the job. Maybe he'd have to move the family again too. Or maybe it was time for him to break free and set off on his own, something he'd been thinking about a lot.

It was probably worth it – three hundred fifty grand for a day's work. Jerry Steiner had been the winning bidder, but then he tapped the dumb, obnoxious bastard anyway. Melinda was a different story. He liked her, didn't want to hurt her. But what choice did he have? Leave her around to talk? So he made it painless – one to the back of Mel's head. Then a couple of pictures to memorialize her pretty face for his collection.

Anyway, he was singing a Stones ballad that he'd always liked, "Wild Horses," when he came around the bend in the road. There was his house on the hill, right where he'd left it.

And – what the hell was this?

Mistake?

But whose mistake?

He shut off his headlights around the next little crook in the road. Then he eased into a cul-de-sac, where he had a better view of his house and the grounds.

Man, he couldn't catch a break lately. Couldn't outrun his past no matter how far away he went.

He'd spotted them right away, in a dark-blue car, maybe a Dodge, with the grille pointed toward the house like a gun. Two men inside that he could see. Waiting for him, no doubt about that.

Mistake.

Theirs!

But who the hell were these two guys he had to kill now?

WELL, IT DIDN'T MUCH MATTER. They were two dead men – dead over nothing, dead because they were miserable screwups at their jobs. Dead men watching his house, come to kill him and his family.

Sullivan had a three-year-old Winchester in the trunk of the car, which he kept cleaned, oiled, and ready to go. He popped the trunk, took out the long gun. Then he loaded it up with hollow-points.

He didn't quite have the skills to be an army sniper, but he was plenty good enough for this kind of bushwhacking.

He set up in the woods between a couple of tall, fluffy evergreens that provided a canopy of extra cover. Then he took a quick look through the nightscope. It had a bull's-eye rather than a sight post, which was the way he liked it. Actually, it was Jimmy Hats who had taught him to be a long-distance marksman. Jimmy had been trained at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, before his dishonorable discharge.

He let the bull's-eye rest right on the driver's head, and he lightly touched the trigger with his finger. This was going to be easy, not a problem for him.

Then he shifted his aim to the head of the guy in the passenger seat. Whoever these two were, they were definitely DOA.

As soon as it was over, he'd have to gather up the family and boogie on out of here. No contact again with their past. That was the mistake, wasn't it? Somebody from ancient history they had kept in contact with? Maybe Caitlin's family in New Jersey. Somebody had probably tracked a phone call. He'd bet anything that's what had happened.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

And Caitlin would keep making them, wouldn't she? Which meant Caitlin had to go. He didn't want to think too much about it, but Caitlin was a goner too. Unless he just took off by himself.

Lots of decisions to make. Not much time to make them.

He set the bull's-eye back on the driver's head. He was ready for two shots, and both men in the car were dead. They just didn't know it yet.

He slowly let out a breath until his body was calm and still and ready to do this.

He had a sense of his own heartbeat – slow, steady, confident; slow, steady, confident.

Then he pulled the trigger – and heard a sharp, satisfying crack in the night air.

An instant later, he pulled the rifle's trigger a second time.

Then a third and a fourth time.

That should do it.

The killing was done, and he had to get the hell out of here, pronto. With or without Caitlin and the boys.

But first he needed to know who he'd just killed and maybe take some pictures of the deceased.

SAMPSON AND I WATCHED the Butcher approach the car. He was being stealthy all right, but maybe he wasn't as good as he thought he was. He moved in quickly, bent low in a shooting crouch, ready for resistance if it came.

He was about to find out that he'd shot up a pile of propped-up clothes and throw pillows from the local Wal-Mart. Sampson and I were crouched in the woods less than thirty yards behind the car he'd just ambushed. So who was better at this game? The Butcher or us?

"Your call, Alex, how it goes from here," Sampson whispered out of the side of his mouth.

"Don't kill him, John," I said, and touched Sampson's arm. "Unless we have to. Just take him down."

"Your call," Sampson repeated.

Then everything went a little crazy, to put it mildly.

Suddenly the Butcher whirled around – but not in our direction! The opposite way!

What the hell was this? What was happening now?

Sullivan was facing the thick row of woods to the east – not where Sampson and I were coming from. He was paying no attention to us now.

He fired off two quick shots – and I heard somebody grunt in the distance.

A man dressed in black appeared for an instant; then he fell to the ground. Who was it? Then five more men came running out of the woods to the north. They had handguns, Bull Pups, one Uzi that I could make out.

Who were these guys?

As if to answer the question, one of them shouted, "FBI. Drop your weapon! FBI!"

I didn't buy it.

"Mob!" I said to Sampson.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Then everybody started blasting at everybody else, as if we were in the streets of Baghdad rather than somewhere in rural Massachusetts.

THE MOB HITTERS, if that's who they were, fired on us too. Sampson and I shot back at them. And so did the Butcher.

I hit a guy in a leather trench coat – the one with the Uzi, my first target.

The gunman spun around and dropped to the dirt, but then he raised the Uzi to fire again. He got hit square in the chest with a round, and the force knocked him flat. I wasn't the one who shot him though. Maybe Sampson?

Or was it Sullivan who'd shot him?

The darkness was a serious hazard to everybody. Bullets were flying everywhere, slugs of lead slamming into trees, ricocheting off rocks. It was total chaos and bedlam, hair-raising, death-defying madness being played out in the dark.

The Mafia thugs were fanning out, trying to create space between themselves, which would be even more trouble for us.

Sullivan had run to his left and was using the trees and shadows for some cover.

Sampson and I tried to hide ourselves as best we could behind skinny evergreens.

I was afraid we would die here; it felt like it could happen. Too many shots were being fired in too tight an area. This was a kill zone. It was like being heavily armed but up against a firing squad.

A Mafia hitter emptied his Bull Pup at the Butcher. I wasn't sure, but I didn't think he got his target.

He didn't, because Sullivan popped right up and shot the mob guy as he scurried back toward the safety of the woods. The shooter let out a scream, and then he was quiet. I thought that three of the mob soldiers had been shot so far. Sampson and I weren't hit, but we hadn't been primary targets.

Now what? Who would make the next move? Sullivan? John or me?

Then something strange – I heard a boy's voice. A tiny voice called out, "Dad! Dad! Where are you, Dad?"