Patterson, James - Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

I laughed. Then I went over and put my arms around Nana. Couldn't help myself lately.“I love you, old woman,” I said. “I don't tell you that enough, and when I do, it isn't with the passion I feel.”

“That's nice to hear,” she said. “You can be so sweet sometimes. I love you too, and I always say it with the passion that I feel.”

“You feeling all right?” I asked.

Today's good. Tomorrow, who knows?“ She shrugged. ”I'm making some lunch. Don't ask if you can help. I'm fine. Still on the right side of the grass."

After lunch, I went upstairs to my office in the attic to think about what my next steps should be. There was a fax waiting. I wagged my finger at it. “Unh, uh.”

It was a copy of a news story in the Miami Herald. I read about the execution last night of a man named richter at the Florida State Prison in Starke. Abraham richter had been in Vietnam. Special Forces.

Scrawled at the bottom of the fax was the following:

Innocent of these murders in Florida. Wrongfully accused, convicted and executed. Abraham richter makes six. In case you aren't keeping count.

Foot Soldier

I was keeping count.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Ninety

Ever since Nana had been under the weather I'd been doing the grocery shopping and most of the household chores. Usually I took little Alex with me to the small Safeway on Fourth Street. That's what I did early in the afternoon.

I carried him high on my shoulders, out the kitchen door and down the driveway to my car.

Alex was giggling and yapping as he always does. The boy never shuts up or sits still. He's a bouncing ball of pure energy and I can't get enough of him.

I was absently thinking about the last message from Foot Soldier, so I don't even know why I happened to notice the black Jeep traveling down Fifth.

It was moving at around thirty, right about the speed limit.

I don't know why I paid it much attention, but I did. My eyes never left it as it came toward little Alex and me.

Suddenly, the barrel of a black Tec protruded through the side window of the Jeep. I pulled down the baby, then dropped to the ground, whipping my body sideways to avoid landing on Alex.

The shooting started.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

I bellied across the lawn, shielding my baby under my left arm, and then dragging him behind a shade tree. I needed cover between us and the gunman.

I didn't get a good look inside the Jeep, but I did see that the driver and the shooter were white. Two of them -not three.

I couldn't tell if they were the men from Rocky Mount. Who else could it be, though? The shooters from West Point? Were they the same? What was happening now on Fifth Street? Who had ordered it?

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

Bullets cracked into the walls of the house and a front window shattered. I had to stop the attack somehow. But how? I crawled to the porch, and made it just before another round of fire.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

Unbelievable, even for Southeast.

I pushed Alex down behind the porch. He was screaming bloody murder now. Poor frightened little boy. I kept him down on the ground. Then lifted my head and got a quick peek at the Jeep stopped in front of my house.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

I returned fire. Three carefully aimed shots, so as not to hit someone in the neighborhood. Then two more shots. Yes! I knew that I got the shooter. Possibly in the chest, but maybe the throat. I saw him jerk back hard and then slump over the seat. No more shots came.

Suddenly the Jeep took off, tires screeching, backside shimmy-shaking as it skidded around the nearest corner.

I carried Alex inside and herded Nana and the baby into her room. I made them stay down on the floor. Then I called Sampson and he was at the house in minutes. I was just about past being shocked and afraid for my family, when I became as angry as I'd ever been. My body shook with rage and the need for retaliation.

“Lot of broken windows, some bullet holes in the walls. Nobody hurt,” Sampson said after a quick walk around the house.

“It was a warning. Otherwise I think they would have killed me. They came to the house to deliver a message. Just like when we went to Starkey's house in Rocky Mount.”

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Ninety-One

It was just past four in the morning when Thomas Starkey waltzed out the kitchen door of his home. He walked across a dewy patch of lawn, then climbed into his blue Suburban. It started right up. Starkey always kept it in perfect condition, even serviced it himself.

“I'd like to take a few potshots at the fucker right now,” Sampson said at my side. We were parked in deep shadows at the end of the street. “Blow out a few windows in his house. Spread a little terror his way.”

“Hold that thought,” I said.

A few minutes later, the Suburban stopped and picked up Warren Griffin, who lived nearby in Greystone. It drove on to Knob Hill and picked up Brownley Harris. Then the Suburban sped out of Rocky Mount on US-64, heading in the direction of Raleigh.

“None of them look shot up,” Sampson said. “That's too bad. So who'd you shoot on Fifth Street?”

“I have no idea. Complicates things though, doesn't it? These three know something. They're in this conspiracy we've been hearing about.”

The silent gray wall?"

“That's the one. Seems to work pretty well, too.”

I didn't have to follow too closely, didn't even have to keep the Suburban in sight. Earlier that morning, around three o'clock, I'd slapped a radio-direction-finding device under the vehicle. Ron Burns was helping me in any way he could. I'd told him about the shooting at my house.

I kept a good distance behind the killers. The Suburban stayed on US-64 past Zebulon, then 1-440 to 85th South. We went by Burlington, Greensboro, Charlotte, Gastonia and then entered South Carolina.

Sampson sat beside me on the front seat, but he fell asleep before we got to South Carolina. He had worked a shift the day before and he was exhausted. He finally woke up in Georgia, yawned, and stretched his big body as best he could in the cramped space.

“Where are we?”

“Lavonia.”

“Oh, that's good news. Where's Lavonia?”

“Near Sandy Cross. We're in Georgia. Still hot on their trail.”

“You think this is another hit coming up?”

“We'll see.”

At Doraville we stopped at a diner and had breakfast. The state-of-the-art device attached to the Suburban was still tracking. It seemed unlikely that they'd check and find it at this point.

The breakfast cheese omelets, country ham and grits -was a little disappointing. The diner looked just about perfect, and it sure smelled good when we walked inside, but the generous portions were bland, except for the country ham, which was too salty for me.

“You going to follow up with Burns? Maybe become an FBI man?” Sampson asked after he'd downed his second coffee. I could tell he was finally waking up.

“I don't know for sure. Check with me in a week or so. I'm a little burnt out right now. Like this food.”

Sampson nodded. “It'll do. I'm sorry I got you involved in all this, Alex. I don't even know if we can bring them down. They're cocky, but they're careful when they need to be.”

I agreed. “I think they did the hits solely for money. But that doesn't explain enough. What happened to start the killing? Who's behind it? Who's paying the bills?”

Sampson's eyes narrowed. “The three of them got a taste for killing in the war. Happens sometimes. I've seen it.”

I put down my knife and fork and pushed the plate away. No way could I finish off the omelet and ham. I'd barely touched the grits, which needed something. Maybe cheddar cheese? Onions, sauteed mushrooms?