Not much time now. With the night-vision goggles on, I collect their weapons and toss them into the bathroom, my breathing heavy but measured, my heart racing.

  I go back to the three dead attackers. Like the ones who went after Alex and me yesterday, they’re well armed. I have no doubt they carry no identification and that their MP5s have no serial numbers.

  There’s a cough.

  I freeze, then look at the first man I shot. I reach down, tug away the night-vision goggles on his bloody head.

  My first shot went a bit too high, hitting his goggles, grazing his forehead, and it looks like my second shot took out a chunk of his neck.

  His right hand is pressed tight against the bloody wound. His eyes roll and then focus on me. “Good shooting,” he murmurs. “Well done.”

  “Hang on,” I say. “Keep holding pressure on that.”

  I get towels from the bathroom and come back. I think, If I can save this guy, I can contact Ned Mahoney, have the FBI take over. At last we’ll have a live connection to the terror attacks. I kneel down next to him. “Give me a sec, guy. Keep that pressure on.”

  “Sorry, not going to happen.” He smiles and takes his hand off his neck wound; arterial blood sprays out, keeps on spraying. I do my best to hold pressure on the wound but the thin towels are quickly soaked through, and my first-aid kit is back in my Cherokee.

  Damn it.

  When the man is dead, I pick up my spent shell casings, go back to the bathroom, and wash my hands.

  Chapter

  33

  I get into my Cherokee, start it up with the lights off, and back out onto the state road. The poor woman holding down the desk overnight is probably calling the cops.

  I feel sorry for the responding units in this small town. They’re going to come across a crime scene with more gunfire and killing than they’ve ever encountered; it’ll be like some upstate New York two-man police department investigating a Mafia-style hit at a local restaurant.

  About fifty feet down the dark road, I turn the headlights on and keep driving.

  A while later, I’m on the busy interstate, joining the early-morning commuters, most of them heading southwest to Fort Bragg and the city of Fayetteville, now just a few minutes away.

  I play and replay in my mind the ambush back there at that small motel out in the proverbial middle of nowhere.

  First things first: I was tracked. No question about that.

  Question: Was I followed from DC or were the attackers somewhere local, ready to respond when I stopped to rest?

  Answer: It doesn’t matter. Either way, it means a real depth and breadth of organizational skills.

  And how was I tracked?

  I pull off the road and take a black box about the size of a small brick out of my duffel bag. It was a gift from Ned Mahoney and the FBI a couple of years back, a sensing device that tells you if there’s a tracking device or wiretap nearby.

  I switch it on. Five red lights come on and remain red. My Cherokee and everything within twenty feet of it is clear.

  I shut the unit off and get back on the road.

  I consider the briefly surviving gunman. He didn’t want first aid, didn’t want to live, didn’t want to face an interrogation. Sheer dedication and a willingness to die for his mission. Not many people like that still around, and it chills me, knowing what we’re up against.

  I should be tired with so little sleep, but I’m wired tight, the smell of burned gunpowder in my nose. I grab my cell to call Alex, and—

  Damn.

  What a fool.

  What about Ned Mahoney of the FBI?

  Tempting, but it’s still early in the morning. The poor guy is surviving on coffee and Red Bulls, trying to make sense of what’s going on.

  The same applies to me. I pick up speed, heading to Fort Bragg, working my cell phone with my free hand.

  Chapter

  34

  I’m in the city of Fayetteville, Fort Bragg’s neighbor and, some would say, its largest parasite. The numerous pawnshops, bars, stores, strip clubs, and other similar businesses that ring the fort are designed to suck as much money as possible from the army personnel stationed there.

  On the All American Freeway, I spot a lane of backed-up traffic leading into the access control point of Fort Bragg, where a brown sign announces in white lettering:

  FT. BRAGG ACP

  PREPARE TO STOP

  By the grass medians, soldiers in full battle rattle are patrolling alongside two armored Humvees with roof-mounted machine guns.

  As traffic crawls, I exchange a series of texts with Mel Carr and set a meeting point at the Drop Zone Café.

  I finally get there, and we sit at the rear, close to the swinging doors of the kitchen.

  Mel is a couple of years younger than me; he has a narrow face, dark eyes, and black hair cut in a high-and-tight. Today he’s wearing civvy clothes: jeans and a dungaree jacket. He sees me remove my Glock 17 and put it on the seat next to me, then shift my position so it’s hidden by my right buttock.

  “Glad to see you’re taking my warnings seriously,” he says.

  “Nothing to do with your warnings,” I say. “In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been shot at twice by men intent on killing me. I want to be ready if they try again. I like to keep my perfect survival record.”

  Mel swears and says, “What the hell happened?”

  I tell him about the ambush yesterday morning that nearly killed Alex Cross and go on to describe what happened at the Pine Grove Motel last night.

  He shakes his head. “Jesus, John, you took one hell of a risk coming down here.”

  “We’re both at risk,” I say. “No getting around that. We need to find out the how and why, and soon. One thing’s for certain—these guys are tough and dedicated.”

  “Dedicated how?”

  “In the motel attack, there was one survivor, briefly, wound to the neck. Looked like my bullet tore open a major artery. I tried to help, but he wouldn’t cooperate. Just smiled at me, lifted his hand off the towels, and bled out within seconds.”

  Mel shivered. “That’s hard core. Not wanting to get saved so you won’t get captured and questioned.”

  A plump young blond waitress in a black uniform takes our orders, and I take stock of the other customers. A few locals, it looks like, but mostly army personnel sitting and talking low. No laughter, no smiles.

  I can feel the tension in the air. It’s like being in an FOB in Afghanistan and getting ready to go out on patrol when you know you’re going to run into heavily armed and strongly motivated bad guys.

  But here, the bad guys aren’t outside the wire. They could be sitting right next to me. I say, “What’s going on at the fort?”

  “Not much since I first talked to you. Lots of guys being shuffled out, lots of rumors. It’s hell on morale and unit cohesion.”

  “I saw one giant traffic backup at the main gate,” I say. “Soldiers were patrolling the median, and there were two Humvees there too.”

  Coffee mugs are placed before us by the waitress, and when she leaves, Mel says, “Yeah, it takes about twice as long to get into base than it used to, but after the attacks on Leavenworth and Fort Irwin, nobody’s taking any chances.”

  “Fort Irwin? In California? I didn’t hear about any attacks on the news.”

  “What, you think all news gets reported? Tell you what, remember Sergeants Ortiz and Powell, they were with us when we went into the ’Stan?”

  “Sure, I remember them,” I say. “Good guys to have at your back. Always had spare dry socks if you needed them.”

  Mel leans across the table, lowers his voice: “They both died this past week. Initial reports are that they were suicides and that they died at their off-base housing. But I’ve got a friend in CID investigating the matter, and she says otherwise.”

  I sure as hell don’t like where this is going, and when Mel speaks again, he confirms what I’m dreading.

  “John, they were straight-up murdered, and it’s being swept under the rug.”

  Chapter

  35

  At George Washington University Hospital, a woman carrying a fake ID that identifies her as Mary Mullen, a nurse at the facility, walks in along with the morning stream of people. She has a black leather purse over her shoulder and a Starbucks coffee cup in her right hand. She also has a key card that gives her access to every part of the hospital.

  She goes through the main lobby with purpose and direction, having earlier memorized the floor plan for the lobby and the floor where the trauma ICU and her target are located.

  She takes the elevator to the sixth floor, gets off, ducks into a restroom, and dumps her purse in a trash bin. On a floor like this one, if you’re walking around with a purse, you don’t belong. And she is determined to blend in.

  She uses her key card to enter the ICU. There is quiet lighting, smooth white floors, and light brown cabinets and wood trim. Voices are low. Nurses and doctors are moving back and forth, and there are plenty of low counters and workstations with black computers.

  There. Around the corner and she’ll be at Alex Cross’s room.

  She pats her right pocket, feels the form of the syringe.

  Inside the syringe is another bit of equipment supplied to her a few hours ago along with the fake ID and key card. It contains a nontraceable and unique drug cocktail that will stop Alex Cross’s heart and won’t show up on any drug screen.

  She’s not sure where the syringe and its contents are from, but she guesses it has something to do with her former employer down in Atlanta, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

  She goes around the corner and thinks, Get in, give the shot, get out.

  But she halts.

  There’s a uniformed DC Metro cop sitting in a chair right outside the door of Alex Cross’s ICU room.

  Chapter

  36

  I say to Mel, “Murdered?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  The homicide detective part of me kicks in. “Any idea how? Methods? Witnesses?”

  “No,” he says. “My CID contact was reluctant to say more. Not that I’m getting paranoid, John, but what are the chances that two of our cross-border teammates randomly get killed in the same week?”

  I nod. “About the same as the chances of two completely different sets of gunmen coming after me. Shit, that shooting yesterday—they weren’t going for Alex Cross. They were after me.”

  As I’m talking to Mel, I’m also watching the interior of the Drop Zone Café. Two women wearing gray business attire, slacks and jackets, come in. They sit two tables away from us. One woman says to her companion, laughing, “And I told the colonel that if he wants those air-intake covers before their next deployment, he’d better light a fire under his general. And then—”

  Contractors, I think. Similar to the pawnshops, jewelry shops, and other stores around here that take advantage of the nearby post and boost their prices: Thank you for your service. All invoices are due within thirty days of receipt.

  I tell Mel, “Alex and I are on a task force in DC that’s trying to find the people responsible for these terrorist attacks along with their supporters and financers. Everybody from the FBI to the NSA and CIA are represented on the task force. Lots of whispers and chatter, but no hard evidence.”

  “Who’s running the show?”

  “General Wayne Grissom.”

  For the first time since I sat down with Mel, he looks relieved. “A good choice. He won’t put up with any bullshit. But there’s something else I need to tell you, John. Maybe something you can bring back to DC with you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There’s a first sergeant in Second Platoon who’s a real asshole. Name of Bravura. He was drunk the other night at a roadhouse up the street, and he told me and others that he was heading out on a TDY. Wouldn’t say for what or for how long. But two things he said to me stuck out. One was that, quote, ‘We screwed up big-time in Afghanistan, but now we’re gonna do it right.’ Unquote.”

  “He explain that further?”

  “Hell no.”

  “And what was the other thing?”

  “The prick said, ‘Hey, Mel, maybe you’ll be a suicide victim by the time I get back.’”

  “Hell of a threat.”

  “You got it,” Mel says. “Like he knew what happened to Powell and Ortiz.”

  Before I can respond, our waitress comes through the kitchen’s swinging doors and drops the tray she’s carrying with a loud bang.

  The two women I thought were contractors are up and away from their table, pistols in hand, walking straight toward us.

  Chapter

  37

  In the trauma ICU, the fake nurse walks past Alex’s room, remembering her training back when she worked security for the CDC.

  He or she who hesitates is lost. No matter where you are or what you’re doing, act like you belong there. The moment you fail to show confidence, you’re dead.

  She goes to the MPD cop sitting outside Alex’s door, a young guy in his mid-twenties. His short legs are spread out, and—to her relief—he seems to be playing solitaire on his cell.

  He looks up and she says, “How many more hours stuck here?”

  The cop smiles. He has a pleasant, soft face. “Too many.”

  “Well, I’m working a double, so pray for me, okay?”

  He laughs and goes back to his game.

  She takes her key card and flashes it against a rectangular black reader. A tiny red light flashes green, and the door slides open.

  Here we go.

  The door slides closed behind her. The room is empty of other staff, thank God. There’s the usual apparatus of monitors and IV stands, and she hears the hiss/hum of the ventilator as it sends air in and out of the target’s lungs. Said target is lying in the hospital bed, nearly invisible under the blanket. IVs are in his arms, and there’s a tube running out of his mouth.

  She steps forward, takes the syringe out of her right pocket, pops off the plastic safety cap, and goes to the nearest IV line. Simplest thing in the world: Just slide the needle into the plastic tubing, depress the plunger, and, by the time she hits the parking lot, so long, Alex Cross.

  She grabs the IV tubing with her left hand and brings up the syringe with her right just as a tired and angry-looking woman rises up from the other side of the bed and says, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing?”

  Ignore her and do your job, she thinks, but now the woman is pointing a pistol at her, and the simplest thing in the world just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

  Chapter

  38

  My hand drops to the Glock 17 at my side, and both women now have open wallets in their non-gun-holding hands. The one on the right says, “I’m Agent Lily Wagner, Army CID, and this is my partner, Agent Camille DeGrasse. I’ll ask you both to show me your hands. Now, Sergeant Carr. Now, Detective Sampson.”

  When you have weapons pointed at you like this, your options drastically narrow. I could kick up the table and cause a distraction, but the place is full of civilians.

  Mel eyes me warily and gives me a look that says: Please, John. Don’t.

  I’ve been known to take good advice occasionally. My hands go up and so do Mel’s, and I say, “Always happy to work with the CID.”

  “Nice lie, Detective Sampson,” Agent Wagner says, pistol covering both of us as her partner comes toward us with handcuffs in her hands. “But if and when charges are drawn up, I’ll be a nice cop and not mention it.”

  Mel and I are separated, and I’m placed in the rear seat of an old black Chevrolet Impala, although it takes a lot of maneuvering and cursing before I can get my six-foot-nine-inch frame into the unmarked CID cruiser.

  Mel goes into another Impala, and I keep my mouth shut as Agent Wagner drives out on Route 24 and, in another surprise of the day, away from Fort Bragg. Several minutes pass and she turns into an office park and drives to the rear of one of the two-story brick buildings. She parks next to a green dumpster, helps me out of the Impala, and brings me into the building.

  About sixty seconds later, we are in an austere, windowless office with bare walls and a metal desk. No phone, no computer. Only a yellow legal pad and a pen.

  There’s a chair for her and a chair for me. The cuffs come off and Agent Wagner says, “Thanks for not putting up any resistance, Detective Sampson.”

  “No problem,” I say. “I left my service weapon back at the diner. Where is it?”

  “In my briefcase under this desk.” She picks up the pen, fiddles with it for a moment.

  I say, “Pretty spartan office.”

  “It serves its purpose.”

  “Like helping you avoid going onto the post and having my visit officially recorded?”

  A pursed smile. “You have a vivid imagination.”

  “It’s worked for me so far,” I say. “Care to disagree? Or is this just the start of having me Gitmo’ed to Cuba or some other black site?”

  “That depends,” she says, “on how cooperative you are.”

  “Thanks for giving me a goal,” I say. “But one-way cooperation has always been something I stay away from.”

  Chapter

  39

  In Alex Cross’s room, his would-be killer freezes. The armed woman steps toward her, revealing a couple of couch cushions on the floor where she’s apparently been napping.

  Always be on offense. “Hey, hey, hey,” she says. “Tell me who you are first! And put that damn gun down!”