“Speaking of operational security, what’s the situation with Stuart?”

  She pauses for a second before answering, and that tells Maynard all he needs to know. “Twice I’ve followed him into our training area out in the rear. Both times, he was calling someone on a cell phone.”

  “Were you close enough to hear what he was saying?”

  “No.”

  Maynard sighs. “All right. Go find him, bring him in.”

  Lisa gets up. “You want me to help when I get him here?”

  “You up for it?”

  “Is he threatening the op?”

  “I intend to find out.”

  “Then I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Thanks,” Maynard says.

  Lisa leaves, and Maynard sighs again and looks around the room. On the walls are topo maps of DC and a whiteboard with a list of teams, names, target areas, and responsibilities.

  He opens the left desk drawer and takes out a number of items: Two sets of handcuffs. Plastic flex ties. Ice pick. Two pairs of pliers. One set of tinner’s snips. Ball gag with leather strap. A small butane torch.

  “The burden of command,” he whispers as he hears Lisa’s and Stuart’s voices.

  Chapter

  22

  I go up to the waiting area that’s on the same floor as the operating room where Alex is having surgery, but I can’t sit on the comfortable chairs. I find the remote and turn off the television, then pace back and forth, back and forth.

  Nana Mama comes in, her face creased with worry; Alex’s daughter, Jannie, and his son Ali are each holding one of her hands. We come together in a group hug and Nana Mama says, “Why? Why?”

  I sit them down on the chairs and quickly tell them what happened: the brief gunfight, how Alex was treated at the scene and brought here.

  I hold Jannie’s and Nana Mama’s hands. Ali leans back in his chair, arms folded, quietly sobbing.

  Nana Mama’s face looks like carved granite. “Where’s my boy now?”

  “He’s in the operating room, Nana Mama. He—”

  Bree storms in, tears rolling down her cheeks, and I grab her and hold her tight.

  “John, John—”

  I say, “He’s in surgery. He’s being treated by the best.”

  Bree sobs and says, “What happened? Why? Who did it?”

  I tell the story again, still holding Bree tight, and at the end of the story, I realize I don’t know the why or the who. “I don’t know, Bree,” I whisper in her ear. “But I promise I’ll find out. And kill every last one of them.”

  Bree steps back, wipes at her eyes, then goes over and hugs Ali and Jannie. Their soft sobs cut right through me. Bree says, “Damon’s coming back from Davidson, catching a flight from Charlotte. He should be at Dulles in just over two hours. One of the people from Bluestone will pick him up and bring him here.” She wipes at her eyes again, face haunted, and I know what she’s thinking: Will Damon’s father still be alive when he gets here?

  Nana Mama stands up, face set, her eyes blazing like an Old Testament prophetess, like Miriam, and she says, “Enough of this sobbing and crying. The only thing that makes sense now is to send prayers to guide the hands of those doctors and nurses workin’ to save Alex’s life.” She holds out her wrinkled and strong hands. “Prayer circle, now. I’ll lead.”

  We stand in a circle. I hold Bree’s and Ali’s hands, and Nana Mama closes her eyes, dips her head, and starts reciting the old familiar prayer.

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

  I think, I need to contact Mrs. Doolittle, have her take Willow to her house after school.

  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

  I’m missing the morning principals’ meeting regarding the terrorist attacks, and I don’t really give a shit.

  “Give us this day our daily bread…”

  I should go back to headquarters, make a statement, get involved in the investigation, but there’s no force on earth that’s taking me away from Alex and this family.

  “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

  When I get a free minute, I need to write down what I saw, what happened, and what I did when the gunfire erupted.

  “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…”

  Evil. That was evil right in front of me, riding up in a blue Amazon van, gunmen jumping out, firing without hesitation. No doubt the FBI will try to take the lead on this one, and I’ll pretend to stand back and let them do it, but by God, those who planned and took part in this attack are dead men walking.

  Nana Mama’s once strong and firm voice starts to waver. “For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all repeat, and without anyone saying anything else, we move in for another group hug, and we stand there holding one another, some praying under their breath, others sobbing, until we hear someone coming in, and we turn toward the doorway.

  A tall, tired-looking man wearing scrubs and a scrub cap stands there. He says, “I’m Dr. Sarani Babak. I’m Alex Cross’s surgeon. Is there a family member here I can speak with in private?”

  Bree straightens up, tall and proud. “I’m his wife. Anything you have to say, you can say to all of us.”

  Chapter

  23

  It’s late in the afternoon, and Maynard is not a happy insurrectionist. His bandaged left thumb throbs from a burn he received earlier while interrogating Stuart. Now his crew is down a man and that means reshuffling the remaining crew or bringing a new recruit up to speed—challenging indeed, considering how little time remains before strike day.

  He’s standing in a remote and nearly inaccessible stretch of Virginia woods looking at top-quality training resources: tents, parked vans, and pickup trucks; long folding metal tables where meals are eaten, weapons cleaned, and training modules examined again and again. Overhead are stretched government-issue tarpaulins that hide the assembly from eyes-in-the-skies such as satellites and drones and that mask radio emissions and heat signatures.

  Still, as he watches his highly trained team come back from their latest drill, Maynard feels they are falling short. They move in two lines—eight in one and seven in the other—and somebody laughs, and then there’s another burst of laughter, and that really pisses off Maynard.

  One more burst of laughter.

  Enough is enough. “All right,” Maynard says. “Huddle up, let’s go over a few things.”

  Even though there is anger in his voice, there is also admiration for these men and women. They are not resting on their laurels, bitching to their neighbors about the state of the world, or spending evenings on the internet arguing with strangers around the globe. No, they are men and women of action, people he carefully evaluated and selected. Wearing various types of uniforms and tactical gear, they form a half-circle in front of him, their faces expectant and tired.

  “That was a shitty run-through, and you know it,” Maynard says in a clipped voice. “Only three checkpoints were reached on time, the second squad left a way out for hostages, and you guys were laughing and joking as you came back here like the only thing facing you was the loss of weekend privileges.”

  No one replies; nobody moves.

  Maynard says, “This is a serious operation with serious consequences. I shouldn’t have to remind you just how vital this part of the action is to the success of our goal, but due to your sloppy behavior, I guess I have to. Ruffner!”

  “Sir.” A short, wide-shouldered woman wearing the uniform of the Virginia State Police and carrying an M4 automatic rifle steps forward.

  Maynard says, “You enjoy being the armorer?”

  “Sir, it’s what I’m trained for.”

  “Good,” he says. “Our next drill is in thirty minutes. Between now and then, I want all magazines emptied and placed on the weapons table. We’ve been using blanks in our training modules. That changes now. Each magazine contains fifteen rounds. I want two live rounds randomly put into every magazine.”

  “Sir…” says someone in his assembled team.

  Maynard says, “When the next training starts and you’re firing off your weapons, you won’t know if the one coming at you is a blank or the real thing.” He steps away and heads to his own tent. “I expect to see an impressive improvement in the next drill. Any questions?”

  Not a one.

  Now Maynard is in a better mood.

  Chapter

  24

  In the long seconds after Bree tells the surgeon that he can say whatever he has to say to all of us, I picture those ancient insects stuck in amber, frozen forever in time. I feel exactly like that.

  I’m remembering meeting Alex when we were just kids, the hell-raising we did as children when Nana Mama brought me into her house, and the work I did with Alex over the years after we reconnected at Metro PD. I saved his life numerous times, saw him marry and grieve and then marry again, and I’ve been present when he’s solved the most heinous crimes known to man.

  And, most important, I’ve watched him raise a family any man would be lucky to call his own.

  Dr. Babak says, “He’s alive and—”

  His next words are drowned out by sobs, handclaps, and a murmured “Thank God” from Jannie. Bree hugs the surgeon, and he smiles, gently pats her on the back, and steps away.

  “My assistants are finishing up now, and soon he’ll be on his way to recovery, and after that, he’ll go up to the trauma ICU on the sixth floor,” Dr. Babak says. “When Alex arrived, he was in critical condition, with a bullet wound here.” The trauma surgeon taps the left side of his chest. “He has two broken ribs, and his left lung collapsed. Air got into the chest cavity and couldn’t get out, and the pressure built up until it was crushing his heart. For a brief moment in the ambulance, his heart stopped, but the paramedics with him were able to insert a needle and relieve some of the pressure so his heart could beat again.”

  He pauses as if he’s expecting lots of questions to be tossed at him, but for once in the history of the world, the Cross family and I are at a loss for words.

  The trauma surgeon goes on. “In the operating room, we repaired some of the damage and did a thorough examination. The bleeding has stopped, but he’s on a ventilator and in critical condition.”

  We stand there, quiet, and I find that we’re all holding hands again.

  “The next few days will be important,” he says. “His oxygen level is quite low, possibly because of the damage to the lung, and the ventilator is breathing for him. If we see an improvement, we’ll try to get him off the vent.”

  Voice trembling, Bree says, “And if the oxygen levels don’t improve? What then?”

  Dr. Babak gives her a patient but understanding smile. “We have other options available to us, but let’s wait and see what happens.”

  I ask, “Where’s the bullet?”

  “Still in him,” the doctor says.

  “What?” Bree asks. “Why?”

  “About ninety percent of the time, it makes medical sense to leave the bullet in a patient,” he explains. “If it’s not near the skin or close to a vulnerable part of the body, it’s safer to leave it in than to try and dig it out. The more surgery you do, the higher the chances of complications.”

  Bree nods, biting her lower lip. “I understand.”

  Ali says, “Can we see him?”

  Dr. Babak says, “Absolutely, but only two people at a time. Fifteen minutes per visit. Don’t be surprised at how he looks. His face is swollen and there’s a ventilator tube down his throat. And another thing—be careful what you say.”

  Alex’s daughter, Jannie, says, “What do you mean?”

  Another smile from Dr. Babak. “Even when a patient is unconscious or unresponsive, sometimes he or she can still hear. When you’re in there, be upbeat, hold his hand, kiss his head, tell him all sorts of good things. Trust me, it’ll make a difference.”

  Nana Mama says, “Fine. I’m gonna tell him that he’d better heal up and get his butt out of here soon or he’ll have to answer to me.” And we all laugh through our tears.

  Chapter

  25

  Any other day, seeing Ali leave half a cheeseburger and plenty of French fries on his plate would have had me concerned about his health, but not today. Bree told me to get some food into him, so we’re in the hospital’s cafeteria, but Alex’s youngest child obviously doesn’t feel like eating.

  Truth be told, I don’t have much of an appetite myself.

  An hour ago, a fellow detective, Javier Sanchez, came by for my statement. After I gave it to him, he said, “Word to the wise, Big John: Everyone knows how you feel about Alex, but you not returning to HQ after the shooting is gonna come back to bite you bad.”

  I replied with a creative obscenity I had learned in Iraq, and that was that.

  Now to Ali I say, “How are you holding up, big guy?”

  “Okay, I guess,” he says, looking down, slumped in the chair, eyes red-rimmed from all the earlier crying.

  “Good,” I say. “Bree and your sister and even Nana Mama are going to need your help over the next few days.”

  Around us, hospital staffers are eating their meals, chatting away like it’s just another day. But here and there in the cafeteria, there are family members worrying about loved ones who are being cared for somewhere in this huge complex.

  In a trembling voice, Ali says, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is Dad going to make it?”

  I look into his dark, serious eyes. The boy, as young as he is, doesn’t deserve any bullshit. “He should make it,” I say. “This is one of the best hospitals in the city, he’s getting top-notch care, and he should make it, Ali.”

  “But there’s a chance he might die.”

  I sigh. “Always that chance, Ali.”

  He crosses his arms and holds them tight against his skinny chest. “When you and Dad went on that camping trip to Montana, Dad said I was too young to go. He said maybe next time. Do…do you think if he gets better, he’ll take me this year?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “And I’ll be there too. Maybe with Willow, if she’s up for it.”

  Tears are trickling down his cheeks. “If Dad’s…not around…will you take me?”

  I stand up. “He’ll be around,” I say. “And he’ll be going with us. Come on, let’s go up to his room.”

  Chapter

  26

  Outside of Alex’s room in the trauma ICU there’s a visitor: FBI supervising special agent Ned Mahoney. I go up to him and give him a big bear hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

  He slaps me a couple of times on the back and grunts, then says, “Hey, how about leaving my spine and ribs intact?”

  I pull free and look at him. There’s exhaustion on his face, along with a few bits of stubble he missed shaving this morning. His tie is askew, and there are coffee stains on his normally crisp white shirt. “You look like crap, Ned,” I say.

  “Right back at ya,” he replies, glancing around the busy ICU. “Look, we need to talk.”

  “I’ll find an empty room.”

  He shakes his head. “Not going to work. Come with me.”

  I go with him to a door that leads to a stairwell. Ned makes a point of gently closing the door behind us, and we walk down two flights. He stops at a landing, peers over the banister, then looks up. Apparently satisfied, he says, “Okay, this should work.”

  “A touch suspicious?” I ask.

  He leans against the wall. “You should be suspicious too, John, after this morning.”

  “Because it wasn’t a random terrorist attack but a straight hit?” I ask.

  He says, “What makes you think that?”

  “Alex and I had planned to meet each other outside of headquarters this morning at eight thirty. That’s when the dummy Amazon delivery van pulled up and started blasting.”

  “Could be—”

  “A coincidence? No, not a chance. It wasn’t a random spray-and-run-away. They were coming straight at us. I guess you guys have taken the lead on this one?”

  He sighs. “We have, but we’re running out of resources pretty quick, given all the previous attacks. But this one is personal for me, and for the Bureau.”

  “Well, same here, Ned. And I took it personally when I dropped one of the assholes. What have you been able to find out about him?”

  “Nothing. Blank slate. Fingerprints didn’t come back with anything. We’re running DNA analyses and facial recognition on the guy. Nothing from his clothes or body armor.”

  “His weapon?”

  “Blank, just like the shooter.”

  “But even with the serial number removed by acid or grinding, there’s still a way to recover the info, right?”

  Ned shakes his head. “You don’t get it, John. There was never any serial number on the weapon. You know who has weapons like that?”

  A chill tickled the back of my neck. “Special-ops forces from around the world who have secret contracts with Heckler and Koch because they need weapons that are untraceable.”

  “Yeah,” Ned says. “And you know that Amazon van?”

  “Stolen plates?”

  Another shake of the head. “No. Which is even scarier. From surveillance video and witness accounts, we got that license plate number. Ran it through the DMV in Virginia, and the plates came back belonging to Amazon and its logistics center in Springfield. We contacted Amazon. They said it wasn’t theirs. We sent an agent to the DMV and got a report an hour ago.”

  I think for a moment. “The plate was salted into the Virginia DMV’s database. If a cop had pulled the van over on the way to the hit, its plates would have checked out.”

  Ned steps forward and again looks up and down the stairwell. “That takes a high level of sophistication, John. Plus we heard from witnesses that the van had been up-armored. No return fire was going to hit the driver or engine or take out the tires.”