Джеймс Паттерсон - Cross the Line

The blow was excruciating. Her gun fell into the dust. Gordon flipped the gun again and had the pistol back to Bree’s head before she realized her wrist was probably broken.

“You’ll never get out of here alive,” she said, gasping.

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” he said, dragging her along.

“We have a SWAT team surrounding this place,” Bree said.

Gordon stopped short and jerked Bree tight to him.

“Bring on the amateurs, then,” he said. “I’ll watch them fall one by one, starting with you, Chief Stone.”

“You’re just going to shoot me in cold blood?”

“Just as you would shoot me.”

Bree felt the pressure from his gun barrel increase against her head, and she saw Alex and the kids and Nana Mama in her mind. It broke her.

“No,” she whimpered. “Don’t. Please.”

“To go out in a blaze of glory, you got to start somewhere,” Gordon said.

“Drop the gun, Gordon,” Muller shouted.

Bree caught the old detective in her peripheral vision, crouched in a horse stance between two cars fifteen yards away and aiming a .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver at Gordon.

“Now, I’m nowhere near the shot you are, Mr. Gordon, but I can’t miss from this distance,” Muller said calmly. “And I won’t hesitate to shoot a cop killer. So put the gun down, Mr. Gordon. Put it down real slow, and surrender.”

Muller would later say that he saw Gordon’s shoulders relax and his eyes turn peaceful then, as if he’d gone inside himself, preparing for whatever was to come.

Bree felt the pressure of the pistol muzzle increase, as if Gordon were squeezing the trigger. But then it eased, and Gordon dropped the gun slowly from her temple and then snapped it toward Muller.

The shots were so close, they were deafening and disorienting.

Bree staggered forward, her ears ringing. Several seconds passed before she realized that Muller was still on his feet and at her side and that Lance Gordon was dead on the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes.

Night had fallen. A rainstorm was predicted. Sampson and I were sitting in a black unmarked Dodge pickup parked in a barnyard roughly a thousand yards down the road from Colonel Jeb Whitaker’s place. We’d followed the signal from the bug we’d planted on his motorcycle back to his property.

We called Mahoney and learned that George Potter had died of an embolism. Colonel Whitaker had been there and called for nurses, but by the time they reached him it was too late.

It took an hour and forty minutes for Mahoney to arrive with the first of twenty heavily armed FBI agents. During that time, ten different vehicles had come up the road and then disappeared down Whitaker’s driveway.

Mahoney’s men were now working their way into position around the colonel’s six wooded acres. Mahoney had asked two U.S. Navy CID investigators to participate, since they would have jurisdiction over the Marine colonel, and he’d even called for a U.S. Coast Guard cutter to block the way out of the Chesapeake backwater that adjoined Whitaker’s land.

“Gotta stretch my legs,” Sampson said as my phone rang.

“We got them,” Bree said. “Tommy’s killers.”

“Good for you,” I said, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

After Bree walked me through the events at the shooting range, I said, “Don’t you think you should have gone in with more force?”

“Muller was with me, and ten Maryland state troopers had the place cordoned off. I had the situation under control until Vivian keeled over.”

I didn’t push the point. “The important thing is you’re safe and you caught Tommy’s killers, and you’ll see Vivian behind bars. That’s a job well done no matter how you look at it, Chief Stone.”

“Thank you,” Bree said, the tension in her voice gone. “I love you.”

“Always and forever, sugar.”

“When are you going in?”

“Soon.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m not walking in there alone, if that’s what you mean. I’m going in with a big show of force all around me.”

She sighed and said, “Call me when it’s over.”

I set the phone down, wondering again if Bree and Muller had been foolhardy. Gordon was an exceptional pistol shot. God only knew the carnage he could have caused with his state-of-the-art gun and the six full clips they’d found on him.

Mahoney came to my window, said, “They’re in position. No activity in the yard. The powwow looks to be inside the house.”

“You trace the license plates we gave you?” Sampson asked, getting back in the driver’s seat.

The FBI agent nodded. “A few. The black Suburban? Hobbes. The Range Rover? Fender, who is a scary SOB.”

“So we heard,” I said. “When do I call?”

“Now,” Mahoney said.

I punched in the number of Colonel Whitaker’s cell, courtesy of the Naval Academy, and put the phone on speaker. He answered on the second ring.

“Whitaker.”

“This is Alex Cross, Colonel.”

There was a long pause before he said, “Yes. How can I help, Dr. Cross?”

“You can give yourself up, you and your followers, the Regulators.”

After another, longer pause, Whitaker chuckled softly and said, “Now, why would we ever do such a cowardly thing?”

“Because you’re surrounded, and we want to avoid unnecessary bloodshed,” I said.

“Always the noble one, aren’t you, Dr. Cross?” Whitaker said. “Well, the Regulators are not surrendering. We are prepared to fight to the last man.”

“Why?” I said.

“Ask John Brown,” Whitaker said. “His goals are our goals.”

“You’re wanted for murder and treason, Colonel. The arrest warrants have already been written and are ready to be served. It doesn’t have to end in a firefight.”

“Ah, but it does, Dr. Cross,” Whitaker said. “A fight to the death is how all slave rebellions begin.”

He ended the call.

Mahoney picked up a radio and ordered his tactical team to move closer, probe for booby traps, and try to get infrared on the house. Five minutes later, the same report came back from all sides of Whitaker’s home: The lights were on, but the shades and drapes were drawn. Infrared showed fifteen people in the house, fourteen sitting around the living room and one up front talking.

“No one’s moving inside and no one’s posted outside,” the tactical agent in charge said over the radio.

“All in one room,” Mahoney said. “Take them before they fan out.”

“Roger that. We are go.”

Mahoney’s blue sedan soon squealed out of the barnyard with us behind, tearing up the country road toward Whitaker’s place. We stopped in front of the driveway, barring any exit, and got out, drawing guns even as the first flash-bang grenades went off.

Sampson said, “I promised Billie I wouldn’t play cowboy.”

“And you’re not,” I said. “We’re doing the rational thing, letting the pros handle the rough stuff.”

We trotted down the driveway expecting World War III to erupt at any moment, but all we heard after the grenades was doors and windows breaking and voices calling “Clear.”

The wind had picked up again, and it was starting to rain as we followed Mahoney up into the house and saw the fifteen mannequins arranged around the room in various poses.

Every one of them was connected to electrical lines through sockets embedded in their heels. Their plastic skin was warm to the touch.

A rapid search of the house revealed a fully equipped gunsmith operation in the basement, empty crates of ammunition, empty cardboard boxes for AR-rifle components, and the empty gun racks of a formidable arsenal.