James Patterson - Cross

I SWIVELED MY NECK HARD and peered in the direction of the house on the hill. I saw two of the Sullivan boys running down the front steps. They were dressed in their pajamas and had bare feet.

"Get back!" Sullivan screamed at them. "Get inside the house, you two! Get inside!"

Then Caitlin Sullivan rushed out of the house in a bathrobe, trying to hold back her youngest son, then picking him up in her arms. She was screaming bloody murder at the two other boys to come back inside.

Meanwhile, gunshots were happening everywhere, loud blasts that echoed in the night. Bursts of light illuminated trees, boulders, fallen bodies on the grass.

Sullivan kept yelling – "Get back in the house! Get back! Caitlin, get them inside!"

The boys didn't listen; they just kept coming across the lawn toward their father.

One of the hit men turned his gun on the running figures, and I shot him in the side of the neck. He spun around, fell, and stayed down. I thought, I just saved the lives of Sullivan's boys. What did it mean? That we were even for the time he came to my house and didn't kill anybody? Was I supposed to shoot Caitlin Sullivan now as payback for Maria?

Nothing made much sense to me on this dark, bloodstained lawn.

Another hit man zigzagged in a fast retreat until he reached the woods. Then he dove headfirst into the brush. One final hit man stood out in the open. He and Sullivan faced off and fired on each other. The soldier spun and went down, blood rushing from a gaping wound in his face. Sullivan was left standing.

He turned to Sampson and me.

STALEMATE – at least for the moment. A couple of seconds? And then what happens?

I realized that Sampson's car wasn't a shield between Sullivan and me anymore. His sons had finally stopped running toward him. Caitlin Sullivan had the two smaller ones wrapped in her arms. The oldest boy stood beside her, looking protective, looking a lot like his father. I prayed the boy didn't get into this now too.

"I'm Alex Cross," I told Sullivan. "You came to my house once. Then you killed my wife. Nineteen ninety-three, Washington, DC."

"I know who you are," Sullivan called back. "I didn't kill your wife. I know who I killed."

Then the Butcher took off on a dead run for the woods. I aimed at the square of his back – this was it – but I didn't pull the trigger. I couldn't do it.

Not in the back. Not with his wife and kids here, not under any circumstances.

"Dad!" one of the boys screamed again as Sampson and I took off after his father. "Keep running! Keep running!"

"He's a killer, Alex," Sampson said as we ran over uneven ground covered with high grass, jutting rocks, tree roots. "We need to put him down. You know we do. Don't show mercy to the devil."

I didn't need a reminder; I wasn't going to get careless.

But I hadn't taken the shot when I had it. I hadn't brought down Michael Sullivan when I had the chance.

The woods were dark, but there was enough moonlight to make out shapes and some finer detail. Maybe we'd be able to see Sullivan, but he'd see us too.

The stalemate continued. But one of us was going to die tonight. I knew it and hoped it wouldn't be me. But this had to be finished now. It had been building to this for so long.

I wondered where he was running – if he had an escape plan or if an ambush was coming.

We hadn't seen Sullivan since he'd gotten to the tree line. Maybe he was fast, or maybe he'd taken a sharp turn in another direction. How well did he know the woods?

Was he watching us right now? Getting ready to fire? To spring from behind a tree?

Finally, I saw movement – someone running fast up ahead. It had to be Sullivan! Unless it was the remaining mob guy.

Whoever it was, I didn't have a shot. Too many tree trunks, branches, and limbs in the way.

My breath was coming in short, harsh gasps. I wasn't out of shape, so it had to be the stress of everything going on. 1 was chasing down the son of a bitch who had killed Maria. I'd hated him for more than ten years, and I'd wanted this day to come. I'd even prayed for it.

But I hadn't taken the shot when I had it.

"Where is he?" Sampson was there at my side. Neither of us could see the Butcher. We couldn't hear him running now, either.

Then I heard an engine roar – in the woods! An engine? What kind of engine?

Headlights shone suddenly – two blazing eyes aimed right at us.

A car was coming fast, Sullivan or somebody else crouched at the wheel, down a track the driver knew well.

"Take the shot!" Sampson yelled. "Alex, take the shot!"

SULLIVAN HAD STASHED A CAR in the woods, probably for an emergency escape like this one. I held my ground, and put one, two, three shots into the driver's side of the windshield.

But the Butcher kept coming!

The car was a dark-colored sedan. Suddenly it slowed. Had I hit him?

I ran forward, stumbled over a rock, cursed loudly. I wasn't thinking about what to do, what not to do, just that this had to end.

Then I saw Sullivan sit up tall inside the car – and he saw me coming for him. I thought I could see his mouth curl into a sneer as he raised his handgun. I ducked just as he shot. He fired again, but I was out of his sight line by inches.

The car started to move again, its engine revving loudly. I quickly holstered my gun and let him slide by me; then I dove onto the car's trunk. I grabbed onto the sides and held tight, my face pressed against cold metal.

"Alex!" I heard Sampson yell behind me. "Get off!"

I wouldn't – couldn't do it.

Sullivan accelerated, but there were too many trees and boulders for him to go very fast. The car hit a rock and bucked high; both front tires left the ground. I was almost thrown off the back, but I held on somehow.

Then Sullivan braked. Hard! I looked up.

He spun around in the front seat. For a fraction of a second we stared at each other, five feet apart, no more than that. I could see blood smeared on the side of his face. He'd been hit, maybe one of my shots through the windshield.

Up came his gun again, and he fired as I jumped off the car's rear end. I landed on the hard ground and kept rolling.

I scrambled to my knees. Drew my gun and aimed it at the car.

I shot twice through the side window. I was screaming at Sullivan – at the Butcher – whoever the hell he was. I wanted him dead, and I wanted to be the one to do it.

This has to end.

Right here, right now.

Somebody dies.

Somebody lives.

I FIRED AGAIN at the monster who had killed my wife and so many others, usually in unthinkable ways, with butcher hammers, saws, carving knives. Michael "the Butcher" Sullivan, die. Just die, you bastard. You deserve to die if anyone does on this earth.

He was climbing out of the car now.

What was happening? What was he doing?

He started to hobble in the direction of his wife and three sons. Blood was running down his shirt, seeping through, dripping onto his pants and shoes. Then Sullivan plopped down on the lawn beside his family. He hugged them to his sides.

Sampson and I moved forward at a slow run, puzzled by what was happening, unsure what to do next.

I could see streaks of blood on the boys, and all over Caitlin Sullivan. It was their father's blood, the Butcher's. When I got closer, I saw that he looked dazed, as if he might pass out or even die. Then he spoke to me. "She's a good person. She didn't know what I do, still doesn't. These are good boys. Get them away from here, from the Mafia."

I still wanted to kill him, and I was afraid he might live, but I lowered my gun. I couldn't point it at his wife and his kids.