James Patterson - Kill Alex Cross

My mind started turning over everything I’d heard that day. Everything I’d learned about Ethan and Zoe from the beginning.

“Is it possible she could have gotten a phone on her own? Something she kept secret?” I asked.

“Of course. This is Zoe we’re talking about,” she said. “She knows how to get what she wants. Honestly, everyone likes to talk about how brilliant Ethan is, but if you ask me, my daughter’s the one with a future in politics.”

I liked that word right now. Future . It was a good thing to keep in mind.

“I trust you’re going to look into this,” Mrs. Coyle said.

“Absolutely,” I told her. “I already am.”

At eleven fifteen that Saturday night, Ned Mahoney and a handpicked team of HRT agents set out from the MPD Third District Heliport in an unmarked FBI van. Mahoney preferred to run his ops in daylight — ultimately at dawn. But this detail was what it was and it had to happen now.

His order had come in to Quantico ninety minutes ago. The arrest plan described four suspects, all Saudi, holed up at a motel just south of Silver Spring, Maryland. Presumably they were Al Ayla, but there was nothing about that in the fax Mahoney had received.

He rode shotgun and looked over the motel diagram as they drove north, at full speed, through the city.

The motel room, number 122, was fairly straightforward: large bedroom, alcove, closet, bathroom. The only way in or out was the door at the front, accessible directly from the parking lot. The FBI entry team would be small, just four agents.

“Command, this is Red Team. We’re on Sixteenth, heading north,” Mahoney radioed over to the command center, set up at an old taxi dispatch a few blocks from the target. “What’s the visual you have on the motel?”

“Copy that, Red Team,” the unit commander came back. “We’re all go on this end. It looks like everyone’s tucked in for the night.”

Advance had already come through and quietly cleared guests out of all the adjacent rooms. SWAT had the perimeter held down, with tactical teams on three different rooftops around the motel. MPD and emergency services were both on standby.

HRT would go in first, as always.

Once the van came into range, Mahoney flipped his goggles down. He gave a thumbs-up to the three agents in back, who flashed the same sign. Samuels, Totten, and Behrenberg were all good to go. The unit was outfitted in full battle uniform — black Nomex flight suits, load-bearing vests, Kevlar helmets, and MP5s. It was heavy gear, enough to slow you down, but the adrenaline would more than compensate.

Before the vehicle even came to a stop, the doors were open and they were out. The team hit the ground running in a single-file beeline for Room 122.

“This is Red Team,” Mahoney radioed on the fly. “We’re going in!”

This had to be Al Ayla.

“FBI! Open up!” Mahoney shouted.

At the same time, a forty-pound battering ram took out the motel room door in one swing. That was the extent of their “knock and announce.”

Before Mahoney was even inside, he saw the bathroom door slam closed at the far end of the otherwise empty room. He went for it, with Samuels at his back.

Totten and Behrenberg fanned out, checking the beds, the closet, the pile of luggage in the corner. A string of white laundry was suspended across the alcove. These people had been living here for a while.

Mahoney’s boot heel was all he needed to obliterate the cheap bathroom lock. The door flew open and he found them there, all four, cowering inside.

It looked a hell of a lot like a family to him. There was a mother, father, and two teenaged boys. The parents barricaded the younger two with their bodies, while the boys squatted in the tub.

All four of them had trickles of blood running down their chins. Oh, Jesus God!

“Hands! Show me your hands!” Mahoney screamed, waving his MP5 in their faces. Samuels repeated the order in Arabic, but nobody moved. They clutched at one another, watching with dark eyes that were wide, but not scared. These people were ready to die.

“Command, this is Red Team. We’ve found all four suspects in the bathroom. I can’t say for sure, but I think they just downed suicide capsules. Cyanide, probably. Requesting immediate medical assistance.”

“We need these people alive,” the unit commander came back.

No shit, Mahoney thought. The whole operation was worth only as much as the intel it uncovered. He motioned Samuels farther inside. “See if you can get some vitals.”

The mother and one of the boys started to convulse first. When Samuels tried to reach them, the other two scrambled over to get in his way. All four were wheezing badly, as if their breath was coming through the tiniest of straws.

“Where are the damn EMTs?” Mahoney radioed.

But then Totten called out from the other room.

“Hold that thought, boss,” he said. “We’ve got another problem.”

Mahoney turned around to see Totten on his stomach, looking at something under one of the beds.

“I’ve got eyeballs on some kind of gray brick,” he said. “Looks wired. I think we need to get the hell out of here pronto!”

Mahoney didn’t wait. “Totten, Behrenberg! Go — now! Samuels, grab one of these people. Whoever’s going to make it.”

Samuels reached for one of the boys. When he did, the mother put her hand in his way. She smiled, her teeth stained bright cherry red with oxygenated blood. In her shaking fist was a small cylindrical detonator.

“Oh, Jesus—”

Instinct took over. Mahoney shoved Samuels farther inside and swung the door closed behind him — just as the blast went off.

The door came right back at them, off its hinges, and knocked both of the agents down.

In the small space, they fell on top of the family in a blind tangle of bodies. Plaster shook down from the ceiling. A long crack ran down the wall, as water began shooting out from the showerhead connection.

Mahoney struggled back to his feet. The bedroom was in flames.

He couldn’t see Totten or Behrenberg anywhere.

Hopefully that meant they were already clear, and not — gone. The explosion had blown out the entire front of the room, picture window and all.

“Go, go, go!” He pulled Samuels off the floor and shoved him out the door.

A quick triage showed him that only one of the four suspects was still moving. It was the boy Samuels had been trying to extricate just a few seconds ago. His eyes were barely open, and his face was almost purple. Mahoney hooked his hands under the kid’s arms and started pulling him out.

In the bedroom, the heat was intense. He could feel his exposed skin prickling as he dragged the kid along, keeping as low as possible. It was painfully slow going.

Too slow. All at once, the boy coughed up some blood, and he spasmed hard, one last time. That was it. Before Mahoney reached the door, he knew he was dragging a dead body.

“Get on your toes! that’s it. Shoulder front. Good. That’s perfect. Now pick up that can of Coke.”

Ava reached out and took the Coke off the shelf where I’d put it.

“Good. Now put it back,” I said.

She set the soda can down, but then dropped her arm in frustration. “I thought boxing was about punching,” she said.

“What do you think you’re learning to do?” I said. “Now go again. But keep your elbow in this time.” I showed her. “Keep it tight. Close to your side.”

“Gotta keep the box closed,” Ali said, mirroring the stance for her. He was loving this, being able to tell a thirteen-year-old what to do. Ava didn’t seem to mind. It was me she rolled her eyes at.