The parking enforcement officer gets closer, nods in my direction, takes out the handheld device for issuing tickets.

  “Mel,” I say, “I’ll do my best, but I’m balls to the wall here. It might be a week or so before I’m free.”

  “It can’t wait that long, John. Trust me.”

  The officer is at the front of my Grand Cherokee, noting my license plate. I give the horn a quick beep to get her attention. It works but she doesn’t look happy. “It’s got to wait, Mel, because—”

  “Because you and the Metro Police and every other agency in DC are up to their necks in these terrorist attacks, right?”

  “A good guess,” I say, “but you know I can’t talk about that.” I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out a slim leather wallet, unfold it, and display my detective shield to the parking officer. She leans in to look, sticks her tongue out at me, and gets back up on the sidewalk.

  “That’s why I’ve got to see you,” he says. “I don’t know who might be listening in on my phone calls. But you figure out a way to see me as quick as you can.”

  I try to keep my voice light. “You’re beginning to sound paranoid, Mel,” I say.

  Mel says, “You should be paranoid. All of us who went on that cross-border expedition into Afghanistan should be paranoid. I think what we did and saw there is connected to all these bombings and shootings.”

  Then he ends the call.

  Chapter

  10

  In the counterfeit Amazon delivery van, Pope looks at the uniformed man knocking on the window.

  He could floor the accelerator or lower the window and put a round through the man’s forehead, but the point of this mission is to stay quiet and under the radar until the real shooting begins.

  Pope powers the window down. “What’s wrong?”

  The man passes over a sheet of paper and says, “What’s wrong is how you, me, and thousands of others are being oppressed by this mega-rich corporation that doesn’t pay any taxes and works us to the bone with minimum pay and benefits.”

  Pope looks at the orange leaflet, sees that it’s about some sort of meeting for Amazon workers. He looks again at the man and realizes with embarrassment that the guy is just wearing a private security firm uniform.

  The man says, “Besides being a security guard, I also work over at Amazon Logistics in Springfield, and I know that’s where you get dispatched from. There’s a meeting coming up about filing the proper paperwork to get unionized. Come join us, brother.”

  Pope drops the leaflet on the seat next to him. “I don’t think so.” The light ahead turns green.

  “We’re trying to change the world!”

  Pope takes his foot off the brake, steps on the gas, and says, “Aren’t we all.”

  He drives a few yards and then Leon’s voice comes through his earpiece. “Everything all right up there? We thought we heard you talking to someone.”

  Pope says, “Just a concerned citizen, that’s all. Looking to spread the joys of unionization.”

  “I don’t think there’s a union for what we do,” Leon says, laughing.

  “Me either,” Pope says.

  Chapter

  11

  I park my Grand Cherokee in a rare empty spot across the street from Metro Police headquarters, an old and depressing-looking stone and marble building. If you put a barbed-wire fence around it, it could pass for a state penitentiary.

  I look at the self-important DC residents strolling by—Smithsonian museums don’t open until ten, so tourists aren’t out in full force yet—and wait for Alex to show up. Last night we agreed to meet outside of headquarters at eight thirty so we could make it to the next task force meeting by nine. This one is being held in a secret subbasement of the original Smithsonian building, so we won’t have far to travel.

  At eight thirty, I see my old friend coming up the sidewalk holding two Starbucks coffee containers. I smile as I get out of my Grand Cherokee and stretch my long legs.

  Alex hands over one of the coffee cups and says, “Get Willow to school okay?”

  “Just fine,” I say. “Today I walked her right into the building. They’ve doubled the security personnel, which is good. I also saw a National Guard Humvee patrol drive by.”

  Alex leads me to the crosswalk opposite the entrance, adjacent to a row of Jersey barriers, and says, “News this morning said a few local National Guard units were being deployed as part of a training drill.”

  I stand next to him, waiting for the traffic to ease up. There are the usual cars, trucks, and other vehicles coming our way, and among them I spot the familiar dark blue of an Amazon delivery van. There’s a stop sign on each side of the crosswalk, but several of the drivers barrel past.

  I say, “As long as the attackers are out there, I don’t care if the news says National Guard members are delivering flowers to nursing homes.”

  Alex smiles at that and says, “Hey, it’s clear. Let’s hustle across. I got something to tell you.”

  Chapter

  12

  In the Amazon van, Pope says into the Motorola microphone pinned to his shirt collar, “Target in sight, guys.”

  “Copy,” Leon says.

  “Copy,” Clyde says.

  Pope eases up on the accelerator and says, “He’s on a crosswalk, heading to police headquarters. I’ll pull a U-turn right on the crosswalk and hit the brakes and the horn. That’s your signal.”

  Both men say, “Copy,” and Pope grips the steering wheel tighter, looks at the tall Black man holding a Starbucks coffee container, whispers, “Nothing personal, pal,” and makes a sudden U-turn.

  There’s a few horn blasts and he gets to the widely spaced crosswalk, hits the brakes, and taps his own horn.

  From behind him, he hears the rattle of the sliding door opening up, then the first sweet sounds of gunfire from Leon’s and Clyde’s MP5s.

  Chapter

  13

  When we get to the other side of Indiana Avenue, I say, “What’s going on, Alex?”

  He stops and looks at me, smiling and with his eyes alight, and I know my very intelligent friend has come up with something.

  Alex says, “Remember what I said yesterday, about the patterns in the terrorist attacks?”

  “Of course. Did you figure something out?”

  A quick, satisfied nod. “I did. Spent half the night in my office examining and reexamining the evidence, and Bree got angry at me for not coming to bed at a reasonable hour after she got home. But what I found out…John, the task force is looking at this the wrong way. The patterns are too random, like they’ve been carefully planned to look random and unconnected, which is why I’m going to tell the president and Grissom that we need to—”

  There’s a blare of horns and I turn my head, see the Amazon van slow down and make a U-turn in front of us on the crosswalk—What the hell is that driver doing, I think, hanging an illegal U-turn in front of police headquarters?—then brake to a halt. The side door quickly slides open—Damn, I know they have to hustle to make deliveries on time, but this is ridiculous—and something black and familiar emerges from the van.

  “Gun!” I yell, dropping my coffee cup. With one hand, I reach for my police-issue Glock, and with the other, I grab Alex’s shoulder and push him to the ground just as the first stammer of automatic rifle fire roars out.

  Chapter

  14

  Leon is the first to get out of the van and put his booted feet on the pavement, and Clyde is right behind him, and they both open up, and Leon thinks this will be a straight and easy drive-by, but damn it all to hell, the target ducks, and now return gunfire is coming back at them.

  He fires off another burst, but damn it again, the target is behind a Jersey barrier and out of sight, and Leon knows better than to leave this job undone. People are running, screaming, falling to the ground, but Clyde’s own fire keeps him focused.

  Clyde walks up to the Jersey barrier, firing in disciplined three-round bursts, and Leon moves up on the left in a flanking maneuver. In a few seconds, he will get to the nearest barrier, lean over, and hose the area, taking out the target and whoever else might be seeking refuge there. Sorry, Leon thinks as he echoes Clyde’s three-round bursts. If there’s going to be collateral damage, better it’s these guys than him or Clyde. DC Metro HQ is shit-infested with cops, and in a very few seconds, there’s going to be a heavy response, and he and Clyde need to get the job done.

  He leans over the Jersey barrier and sees a fearsome sight on the pavement below. A determined and angry man is looking up at him with his arms extended and a pistol in his large hands.

  In his last seconds of consciousness, Leon knows he’s looking into the dark and unyielding eyes of Death.

  Chapter

  15

  When I joined the army, the evaluators said I had the ability to go into tunnel-vision mode when a threat emerged, focusing solely on the threat and how to neutralize it, and that familiar feeling drops right into me now, like a heavy bolt into a metal hole.

  Threat.

  A moment ago, when I saw the weapon, I grabbed my Glock and pushed Alex to the ground. Two men holding MP5s jumped out of the van and started firing.

  Response.

  Now I return fire, spoiling their aim, hopefully wounding or killing at least one of the attackers.

  Secondary response.

  Alex grabs his own pistol and starts shooting as well.

  Tertiary response.

  Get cover.

  We are next to a U-shaped row of Jersey barriers, and the near two have a gap between them. I duck down and push through the gap, dragging Alex with me, and he grunts, and the gunfire returns from the two attackers, rounds snapping overhead, the noise getting louder as the two assailants get closer.

  Counterattack.

  I roll to my side and hold up my pistol, my eyes flitting from one set of barriers to the other.

  I won’t wait long.

  Through the gap between the Jersey barriers, I see a parked Volvo, and one of the gunmen is reflected in the Volvo’s side mirror.

  Come to Papa, I think.

  In the mirror, I see the man coming over to the concrete barrier, and I quickly calculate where he’s going to appear. I struggled with math and algebra in school, but in combat situations, I’m golden when it comes to pinpointing the location of a threat.

  Like now.

  I see the MP5 and his arms emerge over the concrete, then his torso, then his face, which has an expression of surprise when I drill a bullet through his forehead.

  Secondary threat.

  I crawl over to the gap between the Jersey barriers. In the distance, I hear my fellow Metro Police officers yelling, “Put the weapon down, hands up, put the weapon down!”

  Waste of breath with professional gunmen.

  I poke my head through the Jersey barrier gap, see the second gunman approaching, and fire off two rounds. One misses but the other strikes his right arm, and he spins around and falls to the ground.

  The action of my Glock has snapped back and remains in position.

  Out of ammo.

  I duck down behind the barrier as gunfire erupts from MPD headquarters; I pop out the empty magazine, grab a spare magazine from my mag pouch, insert it, and release the action as it snaps shut.

  Reloaded.

  With all the gunfire from my fellow officers whistling overhead, I crawl to the street side of the Jersey barriers, and through a smaller gap I spot the van’s driver dragging the second shooter into the van through the side door. After he dumps the guy in, he opens the front door, and I snap off another half a dozen rounds. But the driver’s protected by the open door; my rounds sink into the door and thud against its window.

  Bullet-resistant.

  Serious professionals.

  The driver gets into the Amazon van, and the vehicle screeches out.

  I see cops run to a couple of parked cruisers.

  Good.

  Let them do the chase.

  I turn around, and there are more shouts, sounds of car engines starting up, sirens being tripped on, and I realize it’s too quiet in my little Jersey barrier fort.

  “Alex!” I yell.

  I holster my pistol and run over to Alex, who’s lying on his back, mouth open, gasping. A puddle of blood is slowly oozing across the dirty concrete.

  I kneel down, open up his dark blue suit coat, spot the bullet wound. Mid-left chest area, blood spreading across his white shirt.

  His eyes are open. He whispers, “Oh, John…”

  I pull out an oversize handkerchief, press it against the bloody wound, and turn and yell, “Officer down! Officer down! We need help over here!” I turn back, say, “Alex, hold on, hold on, we got an ambulance coming.”

  His lips move again:

  “Oh, Bree…”

  Chapter

  16

  Thirty seconds earlier, DC firefighter/paramedic Rachel Gonzalez was complaining to her partner, DC firefighter/paramedic Trudy Waxman, that her twelve-year-old son was still phoning her at the station house with homework questions—“I keep telling him, ‘Your father’s equally capable of answering the damn phone at work’”—when the call came in for a shooting outside Metro Police Headquarters, one man seriously wounded and an officer down.

  Now she’s racing south on Fifth Street NW, lights flashing and siren wailing, in the department’s International DuraStar 4300 diesel ambulance—also known as an advanced life system—only two blocks away from the shooting scene, disposable gloves on her hands. Her partner, Trudy, is working the communications system and watching for idiots not stopping at the cross streets, and she says, “Another terrorist attack, I’ll bet.”

  Rachel says, “About time somebody did something to stop this shit.”

  She makes a tight left turn onto Indiana Avenue NW, and unlike nighttime shooting scenes, when bystanders run away and you have to use a spotlight to find the crumpled victim on the sidewalk, the cops frantically waving her in show her exactly where to go.

  The cops move aside and keep waving her in, and Rachel brakes the ALS unit to a halt. Trudy gets on the radio mic and says, “Medic Two arrived.”

  Trudy opens her door, and Rachel switches off the siren and makes sure they have a clear path out of here once they have the vic secured for transport. She gets out and meets Trudy at the rear to gear up with a first-responder bag, a backboard, a cardiac monitor, and a portable oxygen tank.

  Lights flashing, Engine Company 2’s fire truck and a heavy rescue vehicle, the EMS 6 supervisor’s, stop in the middle of the street. Cops are lined up and shouting and waving the two paramedics up onto the sidewalk and then to a U-shaped Jersey barrier structure patrolled by officers wearing tactical gear and helmets and carrying automatic rifles. There’s a well-dressed man on his back, legs and arms spread out. Crouched over him is a large man pressing a cloth to the victim’s chest, blood soaking through.

  Rachel and Trudy drop their gear and get to work. Firefighters from Engine Company 2 follow them in, rolling the ambulance’s collapsible gurney.

  Rachel says, “What do we have? What’s his name?”

  The kneeling man, who’s wearing a detective shield on a chain around his thick neck, says, “Alex. Alex Cross. He got shot a few minutes ago, chest wound, middle left side. I saw the shooting. Gunmen used MP5s, which carry nine-mil rounds.”

  There’s blood on the ground, and Trudy quickly puts a nasal cannula under the man’s nose, cranks up the dial on the small green oxygen tank, and checks his pulse and blood pressure. Two firefighters help Trudy fasten a C-collar around his neck, and then they slide the backboard under Alex and strap him on. Rachel puts gauze on top of the soaked cloth that the detective has been pressing down with his large hands.

  She holds Alex’s hand and says, “Alex? Can you hear me? My name is Rachel. We’re taking you to the hospital. Can you squeeze my hand or blink your eyes?”

  His hand doesn’t move.

  His eyes, closed, don’t blink.

  She stands up. “Let’s get him on the gurney.”

  Trudy gathers up their response bag, and Rachel, accompanied by the other firefighters and the detective—Jesus, look how tall he is!—gets Alex onto the stretcher. More straps are secured, and they go back to the open door of their ALS unit. Curtis Young, a firefighter/EMT assigned to Engine Company 2 who’s dressed in dull yellow turnout gear, yells, “I’ll drive, Rachel. To GW?”

  “Right,” she says. “Level-one trauma center and less than ten minutes away.”

  A police captain yells, “You’re getting an escort—we’ll make sure the streets are clear.”

  The collapsible gurney is pushed into the rear of the unit and secured. Trudy goes left and Rachel goes right and they’re ready to really get to work when the huge detective climbs in.

  “Sir,” Rachel snaps, “you can’t be here.”

  “He’s my best friend,” he says, and she notes tears in his eyes. “Please, I’ve got to be here.”

  Rachel thinks, It’ll be crowded, but there’s no time to argue, and she says, “Stay where you are and keep quiet.”

  The doors are slammed shut and there’s a hard slap of a hand on the rear panel, and up front, Curtis flips on the siren and they’re on their way.

  Chapter

  17

  I hunch over in the rear of the ambulance, trying to keep my balance as it roars its way to George Washington University Hospital. The two female paramedics get to work on Alex. The nasal oxygen tube is removed and replaced by a high-flow oxygen mask. His shirt is torn open, and round adhesive leads from a cardiac monitor are slapped on his chest. They slice off his suit jacket and dress shirt with a pair of shears. The interior of the ambulance has a familiar, metallic smell.