Chapter

  103

  The huge dump truck with the snowplow was turning around when I burst from the trees and ran across the VORTAC road onto the runway, waving the flashlight and my pistol wildly at the dump-truck driver and hearing a jet begin its takeoff from the north.

  The driver threw his brights on and accelerated. I realized a gun wasn’t the best thing to be waving at him, so I dropped it in the snow, pulled out my credentials, and waved them instead.

  For a second, I thought for sure he was going to run me down, but then the plow skidded to a stop. I snatched up my pistol, sprinted to the passenger side, got up on the step, and opened the door. I saw a grizzled Black man in his fifties behind the wheel.

  “I’m Alex Cross,” I said, gasping as I climbed in. “I work for the FBI. There’s a terrorist on the grounds. He’s got a missile.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No, sir,” I said, seeing the jet lift off east of us and cross over the top of the runway we were on. “Call the tower. Tell them to stop all—”

  Just then, through the snow, I saw a flash to our two o’clock, no more than a quarter of a mile away. Something arced into the sky, then fell and exploded with a brighter flash. The United Airlines jet gained altitude and vanished into the clouds.

  “Son of a bitch!” the driver said. He threw the dump truck in gear, punched the gas, and raised the plow so it covered the lower windshield. “Grab that radio there. Call ground control. Tell them you’re with Sweet Al Dupris on the south runway.”

  I snatched up the radio mic as he kept shifting gears and we accelerated east toward the explosion site. “Ground control, this is Alex Cross, a consultant with the FBI,” I said. “I am with Sweet Al Dupris in his plow on the south runway. There is a terrorist on the grounds with a Stinger missile. Call the tower. Stop all takeoffs. Repeat, stop all takeoffs.”

  “Who the hell is this?” a woman came back. “Put Dupris on.”

  I held out the mic and pressed the transmit button. Dupris said, “He’s not shitting you, Alfie. Call the tower. Shut all flights down.”

  A tense voice came over the radio. “This is Lieutenant Paula Renfrew with the airport’s fire and rescue department. We have a DC homicide detective here with a severely wounded woman. He’s saying the same thing. There’s a terrorist with a missile on the grounds!”

  To our ten o’clock, and to my dismay, I saw another jet beginning its takeoff down the runway toward us. I swung my attention back to two o’clock and peered through the storm in the direction of those flashes we’d seen.

  For a moment, I saw nothing but big white flakes slashing the windshield.

  But then a figure appeared at the limit of the dump truck’s headlights, running out of the woods through the snow. In the next second, I made out the missile launcher up on his shoulders.

  “There he is!” Sweet Al shouted.

  I lowered the window so I could lean out and shoot at Ibrahim Obaid if we got close enough. The jet was still coming fast at us from our left, about six hundred yards away.

  The terrorist shouldered the launcher. Over the radio, we heard someone in the air traffic control tower yell, “Delta one-one-seven, abort takeoff! Repeat, abort takeoff!”

  Captain Davis burst out of the woods and ran right at Obaid, who saw him coming. He clubbed the former NFL player with the launcher, knocking him down. To our left, the jet’s engines cut off, and the plane began to skid and slide.

  Obaid saw what was happening and ran up the rise onto our runway; the Delta jet fishtailed, then went completely sideways. The left wing almost touched the ground before the plane finally stopped, just short of the end of the runway.

  The terrorist, no more than eighty yards from us, shouldered the launcher again. I leaned out the window, trying to aim through the snow.

  Before I could shoot, Sweet Al laid on the horn and slammed the dump truck’s accelerator. Obaid glanced our way, squinted at the headlights, looked back at the crippled jet two hundred yards away, and realized it was too late.

  He swung toward us, went to his knees, and fired from less than fifty yards.

  The fifty-year-old RPG blew a gout of flame out the back of the launcher. The missile erupted from the barrel, ripped low right at us, and exploded against the massive plow blade.

  The brilliance was blinding. The noise was deafening.

  The dump truck shuddered, and its tail end lurched left and slid.

  We went off the runway and down the bank and came to a stop almost at the trees. My vision returned and I saw we had not run Obaid over.

  The terrorist had dropped the RPG and was running down the bank toward the woods about forty yards from us. Despite the blood running from his head wounds, Captain Davis was on his feet again, racing after him. His hands were zip-tied.

  Obaid must have heard Davis coming because he stopped, pulled out a pistol, and pivoted to shoot the former pilot. Davis tried to duck out of his line of fire but slipped and sprawled on his belly in the snow, right in front of the terrorist.

  Obaid aimed his pistol.

  I fired my gun several times out the open window of the dump truck and hit Obaid square in the chest with the first and second shots and in the face with the third.

  The son of a bitch died where he fell.

  Chapter

  104

  One week later

  Georgetown University Medical Center

  The elevator door opened. Captain Davis, sporting a large bandage on his forehead, pushed a wheelchair containing a wan but very much alive Fiona Plum out of the elevator, across the lobby, and out the front door into the brisk fresh air.

  Bree, Sampson, and I started clapping. “You made it!” Bree cried.

  “I did,” Fiona said, giving us all a weak smile.

  “And so did I, thanks to all of you,” Davis said. “Especially you, Dr. Cross, and you, Detective Sampson.”

  “Our great pleasure, Captain,” Sampson said.

  “You had a hand in saving a lot of people,” Mahoney said. “We thank you.”

  I nodded. “If it weren’t for your relentless attacks on Obaid, who knows what might have happened?”

  Mahoney added, “And again, I deeply apologize for ever suspecting you of involvement in such a heinous scheme.”

  Sampson said, “We’re all sorry for not believing you were being framed.”

  Davis put his hand on Fiona Plum’s shoulder. “It’s all water under the bridge now, but going through all that forced me to see what was missing in my life. Right, my dear?”

  The English teacher grinned and held up her left hand, revealing a large diamond engagement ring. “Right, Captain.”

  We cheered and hugged them. Both Davis and Plum started crying.

  “I honestly feel like the luckiest woman alive,” she said.

  “And I’m the luckiest man alive,” Davis said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Do you know what this fine woman did the second she had enough strength?”

  “Oh, Captain,” Fiona said.

  He said, “She called Hampstead, the headmaster at the Charles School, and told him she was quitting and we were suing him and the school unless he reinstated me as coach.”

  “And?” I said.

  “I’m back on the field this afternoon,” Davis said, grinning.

  “Exactly where he should be,” Fiona Plum said. “But now I just want to go home and recover and plan our wedding. Thank you all again.”

  Two EMTs helped Davis lift her wheelchair into the back of a private ambulance he’d hired. With promises to be in touch soon, they drove away through the last of the slush from the big storm.

  Sampson said, “I’m off to pack. Willow and I are going to Disney tomorrow.”

  Bree said, “She must be out of her mind.”

  John laughed. “It’s all she’s been talking about since I booked it a few days ago.”

  I said, “I could use a few days off myself.”

  Bree said, “I second that. How about Jamaica for a long weekend before Christmas?”

  “Oooh, I like that idea.”

  Mahoney’s phone dinged with a text. He read it and looked up at us. “Paddy Filson died twenty minutes ago of a heart attack in his cell in Alexandria.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “I wanted to talk to him about Maestro again.”

  “I did too,” Bree said. “See if there was any connection to Malcomb.”

  For the past few months, Bree had become convinced that our old nemesis M, the leader of the vigilante group known as Maestro, was Ryan Malcomb, a brilliant, reclusive billionaire who ran a cutting-edge data-mining company called Paladin in Massachusetts.

  I said, “How about we postpone the vacation until after Christmas?”

  “Take a flight to Boston?” Bree asked.

  “I think it’s time we put an end to M and Maestro,” Mahoney said, nodding.

  “I do too,” I said. “Once and for all.”

  Want more James Patterson?

  See what’s coming next, win advance copies, and find deals.

  The official James Patterson newsletter.

  About the Author

  James Patterson is the world’s bestselling author. Among his creations are Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett, and Maximum Ride. His #1 bestselling nonfiction includes Walk in My Combat Boots, Filthy Rich, and his autobiography, James Patterson by James Patterson. He has collaborated on novels with Bill Clinton and Dolly Parton and has won an Edgar Award, nine Emmy Awards, and the National Humanities Medal.

  For a sneak peek at the next big case for Alex Cross and John Sampson, turn the page…

  The District of Columbia is a place of contradictions and secrets. Pockets of extreme poverty where troubled folks shoot up on street corners are only a brisk walk away from gourmet restaurants where the price of an evening meal would cover the cost of a month’s groceries for my daughter and me. And the residents of the District, the hub of American representative government, have no real congressional representation.

  Those are the contradictions. But it’s the secrets—written and geographical—that are the coin of the realm here in DC, and I’m entering one of these secret places along with my best friend, a man I consider my brother, Dr. Alex Cross.

  We’re near Arlington, Virginia, at a Homewood Suites by Hilton, a nice-looking small hotel in the midst of a score of other nice-looking small hotels in one of a score of anonymous strip malls in the area, but this place is different.

  In the small lobby, there’s a coffee service and an unmanned check-in counter with a little bell. I say, “We got time for coffee?”

  “Won’t make a very good impression if you walk in carrying a go-cup,” Alex says.

  “It’s been a rough day and I could use a pick-me-up,” I say. “And when did I ever care about making a good impression?”

  That causes Alex to smile. We go down a short hallway, passing a sign reading EMPLOYEES ONLY, to a metal door with a keypad lock. Alex punches in the combination, then holds the door open for me, and we walk three flights down to a subbasement. There, Alex punches in another series of numbers on a second keypad lock, and after the click, I open the heavy metal door and hold it for Alex. He goes in and I follow, and we both stop at a checkpoint.

  Three unsmiling men wearing green tactical fatigues, body armor, and black knit caps stare at us. Two of them are holding automatic weapons; the third is standing behind a plain wooden lectern stacked with papers and folders. He consults a list, and a smile appears on his fierce face.

  “Dr. Cross,” he says to my old friend. “My daughter is reading your latest book in her criminal justice course at Georgetown. Something about dark minds, dark desires. Is that it?”

  Alex nods. “That’s right. Dark Minds, Dark Desires: Case Histories of the Criminally Insane. What does she think of it?”

  “She says it’s informative and well written, but twice it has given her nightmares. You go ahead, Dr. Cross.”

  I’m next and the man’s frown returns. “Name?”

  “Detective John Sampson,” I say. “Metro Police.”

  He makes a check mark on the list. “ID, please, and place your hand on this biometric pad. And I’ll need you to sign this pad over here too, for signature comparison.”

  All of this means I’m a couple of minutes behind Alex when I enter a low-ceilinged room in the center of which is a large polished wood conference table surrounded by comfortable chairs, each one filled by Someone Important. True to the way of DC, if a meeting is set for eight p.m.—like this one—certain folks will arrive at seven p.m. to ensure they get good places at the table.

  Alex and I make do with two of the less comfortable chairs along the near wall. We both get looks from the important people as we settle in, Alex because he’s Alex, and me because I’m a Black man who stands six feet nine inches. That has its advantages when I’m working the streets of DC as a homicide detective, but it’s a royal pain in the ass on other occasions, like when I’m trying to get comfortable and keep a low profile in a crowded conference room.

  This room is equipped with computers operated by uniformed army and air force personnel and three large, ceiling-mounted screens, each one displaying the seal of the president of the United States.

  I’ve learned from my contacts in the Metro Police and from people I’ve worked with in my army and reserve service over the years that there are multiple White House situation rooms scattered around the Beltway. If all the top officials of the U.S. government are huddled together in a room under the White House, well-armed enemies can drop a single bunker-buster bomb or tactical nuke, and that’s it, the United States is leaderless.

  A side door opens and we all stand up when President Lucas Kent enters and takes a seat at the table. He’s followed by General Wayne Grissom, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and a female army colonel. A couple of seconds later, the president’s chief of staff, Helen Taft, follows and takes a chair next to the president. Seeing the president isn’t all that exciting for me—I learned a long time ago that presidents are like most men and women, and as politicians, they will always break your heart—but I’m pleased to see General Grissom take a seat on the other side of the president.

  Grissom and I served in the army at the same time, probably breathed the same air and dust while stationed in Afghanistan and Iraq, and he still carries himself with the bearing of a working-class guy who fought his way up through the ranks and who saw his first duty as protecting his troops in all branches. If there is a service ribbon for kissing political asses, it’s notably absent on General Grissom’s dress uniform. It’s good to see him here, especially considering what’s going on in the United States three stories above us.

  The president says, “Folks, let’s get right to it. Random terrorist attacks against this country began this past April and continued throughout the summer. A while back, I directed General Grissom to start gathering and collating information from the agencies represented here.” The president glances at General Grissom, then continues. “To cut to the proverbial chase, ladies and gentlemen, these attacks are just the beginning. We have a week to stop them or our nation and its people will be crippled and might never recover.”

  I watch the general’s face. One of these terrorist attacks occurred this morning on F Street, right outside the General Services Administration Building. A red Toyota RAV4 stuffed with C-4 and roofing nails exploded, killing eight and injuring thirty-four. The bomb wasn’t designed to take down the building, although a number of its windows were blown out by the force of the explosion. No, it was designed to scythe down government workers streaming into the building’s lobby, none of whom knew that those would be the last steps they would ever take.

  Like it had in two other recent car bombings in DC, the FBI bigfooted its way into the MPD’s investigation and took over. When the FBI arrives, that’s it. Protocol allows them to be the lead agency in terrorist attacks. As a homicide detective for the Metro Police, I should still be there at the car-bombing crime scene, but an urgent text took me away from F Street to this hidden bunker.

  I fold my arms. There’s a slight murmur from the principals sitting close to the president, among them the secretaries of state, defense, and homeland security. Also at the table are representatives from the FBI, the NSA, and the CIA as well as assorted handlers and assistants. I’m pleased to see a familiar face among the bunch: FBI supervising special agent Ned Mahoney. Alex and I have gotten to know him well over the years.

  The president says, “This is not a time for turf battles, withholding information, or nursing old grudges. General Grissom has my full support to take command of the situation, and I expect everyone in this room to give him his or her complete cooperation. If you feel you cannot work with General Grissom, I want your resignation within the hour. General?”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” he says. “First, I’d like to thank the intelligence and law enforcement agencies who have cooperated with me over these past few months. And as for those who haven’t returned my phone calls yet, an hour after this meeting will work just fine.” He turns to a female officer. “Colonel?”

  The colonel’s name tag says KENDRICKS. From a soft black leather briefcase, she pulls out a sheaf of papers. She splits them into two stacks and sends a stack down each side of the table. Each person takes one, and there are none left for those of us sitting in the cheap seats.

  Grissom says, “This is a single-sheet briefing on the terrorist attacks—the details, locations, and resulting casualties. You’ll see that each page is numbered. When this meeting is over, Colonel Kendricks will ensure that each sheet is returned.”