Patterson, James - Alex Cross 14 - Cross Country

I knew I'd taken this too far, and it made me realize how emotional I was about this case, maybe even more than I knew. I let go, and he flipped the elevator back on without a word. We rode to the lobby in silence and I watched the CIA prick leave the building.

The only question now was whether or not I could get around him. Maybe if I hurried. I dialed my cell phone from right there in the lobby of the Daly Building.

“Al Tunney,” I heard a voice on the other end answer.

“It's Alex Cross. I need a favor,” I said.

Tunney said, “No,” and groaned.

Then he asked, “What is it?”

I told him, and he groaned again, and I really couldn't blame him.

Cross Country

Chapter 25

“ALEX, YOU'RE TAKING this too far,” Bree said.

“I know that. It's what I do. It's what I've always done.”

Late that night, Bree and I were taking a ride around town. I like to drive late at night when the traffic thins out, and sixty, even seventy, isn't a dangerous speed on most of these avenues. Once we got back to Fifth Street I was feeling better, but Bree was still wound up. She couldn't stop pacing up in the bedroom. I had never seen her like this, agitated and unsure of herself.

“See, the thing is, I've always been the one on the other side of this particular argument, the one trying to do the convincing. I've never been the person sitting there not buying it. You're going over the top here, Alex. This latest plan of yours. Chase the killer back in Africa? Even under the circumstances, it's-I don't even know what to call it.”

I started to speak, but she went on.

“And you know why I don't buy your arguments now, Alex? Because sometimes in your position, I'd lie. I don't know how many times I've told my family there was nothing to worry about, or how safe I was going to be, when really I had no idea. You have no idea what you'll find in Africa.”

“You're right,” I said, and not just to get her to stop pacing.

"I won't try to sell you some bill of goods here, Bree.

But I will tell you that I'm not going to do anything stupid over there."

It was about eight hours after my confrontation with Eric Dana and my subsequent conversation with Tunney. Tunney had gone as far as setting me up with a CIA officer stationed in Nigeria-just before he told me never to call him again.

I had the frequent-flier miles, so that wasn't a problem.

I had vacation time banked with the MPD. Now I just had to convince two of the strongest women I'd ever known that it made sense for me to do this-Bree tonight, Nana Mama tomorrow.

The air, the tension, between Bree and me was as thick as I'd ever felt it.

“What exactly are you hoping to accomplish over there?” she finally asked me.

"Ultimately? Use Tunney's guy to set up some local cooperation.

Then steer the killer into custody if I can. I can get this guy, Bree. He's arrogant, thinks he can't be caught. That's his weakness."

“Kyle Craig was a lifer, several times over. It's no guarantee, Alex. That's if you catch him.”

I allowed myself a sheepish grin. “And yet we keep doing our jobs anyway, don't we? We keep trying to catch these killers.”

I finally reached out and took her hand. Then I pulled her over to sit next to me on the bed.

“I have to go, Bree. He's already killed more people in Washington than anyone I've seen. Eventually he'll come back and start up again.”

“And he killed your friend.”

“Yes, he killed my friend. He killed Ellie Cox and her entire family.”

Finally Bree shrugged. “So, go. Go to Africa, Alex.” And we hugged each other for a long time, and I was reminded again of why I loved her. And maybe why I was running away from her now.

Cross Country

Chapter 26

HE MET UP with the white devil in a wood-paneled cigar bar just off Pennsylvania Avenue, half a dozen blocks from the White House. They ordered drinks and appetizers, and the white man selected a Partagas cigar.

“Cigars aren't a vice of yours?” the white man asked.

“I have no vices,” said the Tiger. “I am pure of heart.”

The white man laughed at that.

“The money has been transferred, three hundred and fifty thousand. You're going back now?”

“Yes, later tonight, in fact. I'm looking forward to being home in Nigeria.”

The man nodded. “Even in such troubled times?”

“Especially now. There's lots of work for me. I like being lazy. Oil rich. Getting there anyway. By my standards.”

The white man clipped his expensive cigar and the Tiger sipped his cognac. He wasn't certain, but he thought he knew who his employer was. It wouldn't he the first time. This group's contractors in Africa weren't always reliable-but he was. Always.

“There's something else.”

“There always is,” said the Tiger, “with you people.”

“You're being followed by an American policeman.”

“He won't go to Africa after me.”

“Yes, actually he will. You might have to kill him, but we would prefer you didn't. His name is Alex Cross.”

“I see. Alex Cross. Not smart to travel all the way to Africa just to die.”

“No,” said the white man. “Try to remember that yourself.”

Cross Country

Part Two SIGN OF THE CROSS

Cross Country

Chapter 27

THE TIGER WAS an enigma in every way, a mystery no one had ever solved. Actually, there were no tigers in Africa, which was how he got his nickname. He was like no other, one of a kind, superior to all the other animals, especially humans.

Before he went to school in England, the Tiger had lived in France for a couple of years, and he had learned French and English. He discovered he had a gift for languages, and he could remember almost everything he learned or read. His first summer in France, he'd sold mechanical birds to children in the parking areas outside the palace at Versailles. He'd learned a valuable lesson there: to hate the white man, and especially white families.

This day he had a mission in a city he didn't much like because the foreigner had left too much of a mark here. The city was Port Harcourt in the Delta region of Nigeria, where most of the oil wells were located.

The game was on. He had another bounty to collect.

A black Mercedes was speeding up a steep hill toward the wealthy foreigners' part of the city-and straight toward the Tiger as well.

As always, he waited patiently for his prey.

Then he wandered out into the street like some poor drunkard on a binge. The Mercedes would either have to stop very quickly or strike him head-on.

Probably because he was so large and might dent the car, at the last possible moment, the chauffeur applied the brakes.

The Tiger could see the liveried black scum cursing him from behind the spotlessly clean windshield. So he raised his pistol fast and shot the driver and a bodyguard through the glass.

His boys, wild, were already at both rear doors of the limousine, breaking the side windows with crowbars.

Then they threw open the doors and pulled out the screaming white schoolchildren, a boy and a girl in their early teens.

“Don't harm them, I have other plans!” he yelled.

An hour later, he had the boy and girl inside a shack on a deserted farm outside the city. They were dead now, unrecognizable even if they were found eventually. He had boiled them in a pot of oil. His employer had ordered this manner of death, which happened to be common in Sudan. The Tiger had no problem with it.

Finally, he pulled out his cell phone and called a number in town. When the phone was picked up on the other end, he didn't allow the American parents to speak.