Fear No Evil

Chapter 38

Denver

I’d been sitting in a cowboy-themed restaurant at Denver International Airport with an hour to kill until my flight home, still trying to wrap my head around everything Marco Alejandro had told me, when I dialed Bree’s phone in Paris.

“Alex?” Bree said, answering for the first time in two days.

“You finally picked up,” I said.

“It’s been crazy,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Denver airport. Heading for home and Sampson. Did you hear?” There was a noise like glass shattering; Bree grunted with surprise. “Bree?”

A woman screamed. There was another shattering sound, and the woman screamed again. I heard scuffling, then a clatter.

“Valentina!” Bree shouted. “Get down! Now!”

I could hear the slapping of shoes coming closer to the phone and a woman saying hysterically, “Luc’s dead. He’s really dead!”

“Bree!” I said, loud enough that the other patrons in the restaurant looked over at me. I didn’t care. “Bree! Talk to me!”

An automatic weapon opened fire with a quick burst that clanked off metal. As the bullets pinged, the woman screeched with fear.

A gun went off closer to the phone, two rounds. I jumped up, digging in my pocket for cash.

“Call the police, Valentina!” I heard Bree shout. “I can’t find my phone.”

I threw two twenties on the table, grabbed my carry-on, and left the restaurant.

There was another burst of automatic gunfire, and the woman went insane. “Philippe!” she screamed. “No! Don’t!”

I heard another burst of weapon fire, longer this time, and more pistol shots. “Bree?” I shouted.

“Valentina!” Bree called. I heard scuffling and more shots going off very close to the phone. And then the line went dead.

“Bree!” I shouted, not caring that other travelers in the hall were staring at me.

A female police officer walked up to me. “Sir? You’ll have to lower your voice or—”

“I’m Dr. Alex Cross and I’ve been in law enforcement for twenty years, Officer Finch,” I said, my voice trembling as I read her nameplate. “Working homicide in DC and now consulting for the FBI. That was my wife, a former police chief, on the phone. She’s in the middle of a firefight in Paris with automatic weapons.”

“No lie?”

“No lie,” I said, trying to call Bree back, though I was shaking so badly, I could barely hold the phone.

“How can I help, Dr. Cross?” Officer Finch asked. “Anything.”

I handed her the phone and said, “Can you hit Redial for me?”

The police officer took it, punched Redial, and gave it back to me.

After two rings, it went to voice mail. “Bree, it’s Alex, call me as soon as you can.” I hung up, feeling breathless and more frightened than I had in a long time. I hit Redial again, but nothing happened. I tried a third time, with the same result.

Knowing I was no use to anyone in this state, I forced myself to breathe deep and slow so I could make a decision based on logic rather than impulse.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Finch asked. “Someone I can call?”

I looked beyond her at the big electronic display showing flight departure and arrival times. A United Airlines flight to Paris was leaving from the international concourse in twenty-seven minutes.

“Dr. Cross?”

I pointed at the board. “Call the gate for the Paris flight. Tell them I have my passport and credit cards and I need any seat on that plane. It’s an emergency.”

Then I turned and took off like my life — and Bree’s — depended on it.