Why isn’t he answering? Where is he?

  Chapter

  58

  I wait until I can’t wait anymore, then I wait a little longer.

  The yard is quiet.

  Even the smell of gunpowder has dissipated.

  Time to move.

  I slosh my way out from underneath the boat dock, Glock pistol in my shivering hands. I move as quickly and quietly as I can back into the cottage, strip off my wet clothes, rub myself down with the thick towels in the bathroom, and dress in dry clothes. The inside of the cottage is a mess; it looks like the aftermath of a battle in downtown Baghdad. I don’t envy the police detectives who will have to figure out what happened here. I grab my gear bag and leave.

  On the dirt road, I quickly walk to my parked Cherokee. Part of me wants to go back to Mel’s body and maybe say some words or prayers over him, but the practical side of me is telling me to get the hell out of here before neighbors or cops arrive.

  I climb into my Cherokee, switch on the engine, and flip on the heat, and I’m hoping and praying that the spirit of Mel Carr agrees with my decision.

  About an hour later I’m at the Southpark Mall in Colonial Heights, Virginia. I’ve driven here in silence, not wanting to hear the conspiracy theories and hate being spewed across the satellite-radio bandwidths. Jazz would be a good escape, but I don’t want to escape.

  I want to think.

  I find an empty spot at the south end of the large mall, which has all kinds of stores, from Dick’s Sporting Goods to Victoria’s Secret and everything in between.

  I check my phone and see I have several voice-mail messages from a restricted number, which means it’s either someone high up in the Metro Police or Ned Mahoney from the FBI.

  I ignore the messages for a moment, take out the surveillance sniffer I used after the attack at the motel, and switch it on. All five lights remain red.

  Yet I’ve been followed, probably since I left DC.

  But how? It takes at least five cars to shadow a target vehicle, and that’s a lot of work.

  Drones?

  Maybe, but I’ve been in some rural areas where the roads are canopied by trees.

  How, then?

  I get out of my Cherokee, flashlight in hand, and get as much of my large frame under the car as possible, eyeballing every inch of the undercarriage.

  It doesn’t take long for me to find it: a little black box about the size of a matchbox. I tug it free. It’s magnetized. I wiggle my way out along the cold pavement, sit up against the rear wheel, give the little box a close look.

  No opening, no seams, no antenna. Just a little black box.

  I turn it around in my big hands and I’m reminded of something, a training drill a few years back with the Metro Police and technicians from the Nuclear Emergency Support Team, part of the Department of Energy. Their mission is to respond to any number of nuclear emergencies, including—and most important—threats from terrorists or criminals who claim to have dirty bombs or small nuclear devices. If such a threat is received, a team with a variety of detection equipment is sent to the target area to look for the telltale radioactive signatures. During drills, like the one I participated in, low-level radioactive sources were placed around the city. Nothing dangerous, but radioactive enough to be detected with the right equipment.

  I turn the little shape over again. Radioactive sources that looked similar to this one.

  That’s why I’ve been followed so well and so closely: overhead drones—hell, even satellites—are tracking this radioactive source firmly attached to my vehicle.

  Meaning?

  I take a closer look at the radioactive source.

  Meaning that the people out there planning and executing these random terrorist attacks and planning for the big one aren’t members of an oddball militia group or a bunch of misfits who got their hands on weapons and explosives.

  Oh, there are tracking drones that can be purchased on the open market, but nothing you can buy from Amazon has a highly sensitive radiation detector tacked on.

  I rub the metal.

  The people who are chasing me, who nearly killed Alex Cross, and who have murdered hundreds of innocent Americans over these past months are heavily funded and have government or military-level assets.

  People like Harry Maynard. The man who’d said, Later, John.

  Former New York Police officer. Former Army Special Forces.

  Last I heard, he was a Treasury enforcement agent, chasing down financial criminals connected with drug cartels all over the world. Maynard was hard, tough, and smart, and I had gotten to know him over the years at training sessions involving security officers and agents from various federal agencies.

  What made him cross over to whatever the hell is going on out there? Is it a foreign-sponsored group hiring former military? A rogue element in the U.S. government? A militia with deep-pocketed fellow travelers?

  I don’t know, but if it has to do with Afghanistan and our mission, I won’t learn anything by sitting on my ass in a Virginia mall parking lot.

  I get up and take in the buildings and nearby vehicles. I spot a familiar brown UPS delivery truck parked near the sidewalk, flashers blinking, and I casually stroll over and put the tracker under the bumper. In a few minutes, this tracker will be going places.

  I need some supplies, and I need to move quickly, because I’m heading for Vermont and Elizabeth Deacon, the CIA officer who led us into Afghanistan and who has seemingly lit the fuse of one huge explosion.

  Chapter

  59

  My trip north is delayed for a few minutes, because when I get to the entrance of the Southpark Mall, there’s a line outside, and I quickly spot the metal detectors and the security guards with wands slowly letting shoppers in.

  Even with my detective’s shield, I don’t want to pass through while carrying my pistol; people would remember me. I wander away from the line, find a row of shrubbery planted out front, kneel down as if I’m tying my shoe, and hide my Glock there.

  About forty minutes later, I’ve gotten what I need from the shops in the mall, but I’m not finished.

  I need new transportation, because finding one radioactive tracking cube on my vehicle doesn’t mean there isn’t another one, maybe even more carefully hidden. But one tracker is traveling with UPS, which’ll confuse my enemies, and confusing enemies is always a good strategy.

  I take a position outside a chain steak-and-seafood restaurant that has a separate entrance from the mall, and I wait, pacing back and forth behind a set of concrete planters, glancing at my watch like I’m waiting for someone.

  There are some open parking spaces near the restaurant, and I wait and wait, knowing that the people tracking me might be circling the mall parking lot, looking for a very tall and very large Black man who stands out in crowds.

  Since my wife’s death, I’ve not been much of a praying man, but I do offer up prayers and requests to the sweet spirit of my wife: Billie, I need your help. I need some sort of intercession. Please help me.

  I pace some more.

  A silver Lexus comes up and parks in a nearby space. Two young well-dressed women in heels come out, one a blonde, the other a redhead. The redhead is the driver, and as she accompanies her friend to the restaurant, she makes a quick motion with her right hand.

  Beep-bleep.

  The Lexus is now locked.

  But it’s not safe.

  A few minutes later, I follow the women into the restaurant, still without my Glock, and that turns out to be a wise choice, as the entrance to the joint is guarded by two fellows about my weight but a foot shorter, both wearing tight black T-shirts and black slacks.

  They’re quick and polite as they wand me, and one apologizes. “Sorry we have to do this, bro. But it’s new rules, you know?”

  I raise a hand, smile. “No worries. There’s some crazy shit out there and we’ve all got to adjust.”

  I step into the dark and cool restaurant, the dining area to the right, the large bar up ahead. I spot the red-haired woman at the end of the bar and slowly walk toward her, dodging waiters and waitresses exiting the kitchen. The place has leather booths, white linen tablecloths, and exposed dark wooden beams and brickwork.

  I maneuver my way to the bar. The attractive redhead, sitting on a barstool, is deep in conversation with her blond companion, and I stand behind her, hold up my hand, and wave at the overworked bartender at the other end.

  A couple of minutes pass, and the redhead notices me and says, “Trying to get a drink?”

  I smile down at her. “Trying not to die of thirst.”

  She smiles back. “I’ll get up from my seat and you can take it. Maybe he’ll see you better.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, my left arm still up. “But I appreciate it.”

  Her smile gets wider. “I don’t mind at all. Besides, I warmed it up for you.”

  We laugh at the flirtation. I keep trying to get the bartender’s attention with my left hand.

  While slipping my right hand into her purse and removing her Lexus fob.

  Once I’m outside in the fresh air—after lying to the nice redhead and saying I needed to call and check in on my mother (wherever she might be)—I pick up my Glock and head over to the Lexus. I beep-bleep the door open, slide in, adjust the seat quickly, and start it up.

  I drive around to my Cherokee, transfer my duffel bag and other belongings into the freshly stolen Lexus, then exit the mall and get back on I-95, heading north. The Cherokee is left behind; the radioactive source I pulled free is doing its silent job in the moving UPS truck for my unknown watchers out there.

  After about ten minutes, I find what I’m looking for. I say, Thanks again, Billie, and pull the car over on a bridge spanning what looks to be a large stream or small river. I rummage through a plastic bag and take out a burner phone I purchased and activated back at the mall.

  Over the next few minutes I transfer some important phone numbers to the new phone, and when I’m finished, I get out of the Lexus and walk to the bridge railing.

  It’s a beautiful Virginia night, perfectly still, the air warm, and behind me are the rushing red and white lights of good people heading home or going to work. Each set of lights represents a person with a life story to be told, so many tales of love and loss, setbacks and triumphs, all taking place in this wonderful nation.

  But I know there are other powerful and far-reaching forces that are also in play this night, rushing to some type of explosive and dangerous end.

  I look at my old phone in my right hand. It’s a special phone, given to me months ago by Ned Mahoney of the FBI. It’s unhackable and untraceable. It’s a perfect phone for what I’m facing in the next few days.

  I trust Ned Mahoney, and I would trust him with my life and that of my daughter. But I don’t know who put this phone together or who gave it to Ned to give to me.

  I hold my hand over the bridge and drop the expensive, complicated phone into the river.

  It’s time to resume driving and not stop until I get to Vermont and Elizabeth Deacon.

  As I get back into the stolen Lexus, I again remember the urgent cautionary words of Ned Mahoney:

  Don’t trust anyone.

  Chapter

  60

  Bree Stone is yawning as she walks down the hospital hall to see Alex in the ICU. Behind her, in the waiting room, both Nana Mama and Ali are fast asleep, Ali stretched out with his head in his great-grandmother’s lap.

  Damon and Jannie are back at the house, heating up some leftovers to bring with them, since there’s only so much hospital food they can stand. Nana Mama even had a suggestion: “You bring a bowl of my chicken gumbo, and we’ll sneak it into Alex’s room.”

  “But Nana Mama, you know he can’t eat.”

  Arms folded, chin jutting out, Nana Mama said, “I don’t intend to feed him, girl, I’m not stupid. If that good surgeon thinks he’s aware of what’s going on around him in that damn coma of his, then let’s put a bowl of that gumbo under his nose. Maybe the scent will stir him awake.”

  Bree smiles as she walks to the ICU, recalling that brief moment when everyone laughed over Nana Mama’s fine idea.

  A nurse recognizes her and opens the sliding door to the ICU, and as Bree walks in, she senses that something is off, something is disturbed.

  She turns the corner and sees a cluster of folks around Alex’s room, and her hands grow cold. There are DC Metro Police officers there, and two large men from her security firm, the Bluestone Group.

  No one is smiling as she approaches.

  “What’s wrong?” she says to no one in particular.

  A DC Metro officer says, “Ma’am, you shouldn’t go in there.”

  “The hell I shouldn’t,” Bree says, pushing past him.

  The room is crowded with nurses and doctors, and their voices are low and urgent as they work on her Alex. Various medical devices are emitting either alarm signals or a constant tone. One doctor is leaning over Alex’s hidden head, and a nurse is drawing medication into a syringe, and Bree’s mouth instantly goes dry.

  A nurse spots her and says, “Ma’am, you shouldn’t be in here!”

  “The hell I shouldn’t, that’s my husband,” she snaps back, surprised at how cool and even her voice is when her heart is breaking at what she sees. All that’s visible of her Alex—the smart, loving, complex, and sometimes infuriating husband and father—is one bare arm with IV tubes in it.

  Bree can’t even see his face, as swollen and bruised as it is and with the ventilator tube taped to his mouth.

  If Alex is about to pass, she needs to be close.

  “What’s going on?” she demands.

  One of the nurses says without looking at her, “We’ve been weaning him from his sedation, hoping to wake him up so we could remove his breathing tube and get him off the ventilator. But he started crashing. Doctor, his blood pressure is really low, seventy over fifty, and his heart rate is one hundred thirty.”

  “What’s his oxygen saturation?” a doctor asks.

  “Eighty-six percent and dropping.”

  The last time Bree was here, Alex’s oxygen saturation was 100 percent.

  He’s passing. “I’m his wife,” she repeats, “and I’m going to be with him.” Bree steps forward, and no one stops her, no one tells her to go.

  But the frantic work goes on.

  “We need that pulse ox up, damn it,” one of the physicians says.

  Bree gets as close as she can to Alex. “Right here, Alex,” she says through tears. “Right here, forever.”

  Chapter

  61

  In his large yet spartan office at the Pentagon, General Wayne Grissom waits for his next appointment to arrive, and while he’s not looking forward to it, he considers it his duty, as old-fashioned as that sounds. American taxpayers foot the bill for the Defense Department’s annual $725 billion budget, and as one of those accountable for its spending, he sees it as his responsibility to allow himself to be interviewed by certain members of the fourth estate.

  There’s a soft knock on the door, and his aide, Colonel Carla Kendricks, steps in. “Sir, are you ready?”

  Grissom stands up. “Absolutely. Show him in.”

  The door opens wider and a familiar man strides in. He’s in his mid-thirties, with thin brown hair, and he’s wearing black-rimmed glasses, a blue dress shirt with no tie, a navy blue suit jacket, and gray slacks.

  Justin Foote, national affairs reporter for the Washington Post.

  He smiles, nods, reaches over for a quick handshake, and takes a chair in front of Grissom’s wide but clear desk.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice this evening, General Grissom,” Justin says.

  Grissom takes his own seat. “Glad I can help, Justin, but I’m afraid I can only give you ten minutes.”

  Justin takes out an old-fashioned reporter’s notebook and a ballpoint pen. “That should be enough, I hope.”

  “Let’s get to it, then. A reminder that from now on, anything I say is to be attributed to a ‘senior military official.’ Agreed?”

  Justin nods. “Agreed.” He flips a page on his notebook. “It’s just been announced that the president is going to address the nation tonight. Were you aware of this, General?”

  Grissom thinks, Crap, no, and aloud he says, “What do you think?”

  A faint smile. “Any idea what he’ll be talking about?”

  “The current crisis, I imagine.”

  Justin says, “The continuing terrorist attacks that began last April and that have continued right up to this morning. At least several hundred Americans dead, thousands injured.”

  “There’s no question there, Justin.” He checks his watch. “Seven minutes left.”

  “Here’s a question then, General,” he says. “For the past few days, there’s been a secret committee working to locate the command, control, and financing of these terrorist attacks. Local agencies, intelligence agencies, Defense Department. I have contacts in most of those agencies. I hear you’re running this secret committee.”

  Grissom pauses. If Justin has this story, others will get it as well. “That’s true,” he says.

  “Any progress made?”

  “Some, but not enough.”

  “Why is that?” Foote asks.

  He spends a few minutes explaining the technological challenges of trying to track down a well-organized and well-financed organization that reaches across the United States and uses the latest technology to keep two or three steps ahead of investigators.

  “You said you believe it’s a large, organized, and well-financed group,” Justin says. “Some on your committee disagree. Like Secretary of Homeland Security Landsdale.”

  “You’ve talked to her?”