Kill Alex Cross

Chapter 89

Hala kept her head down, her face averted, as she walked up First Street.

She crossed K Street and then cut left into a narrow alley near the bus station.

It was well screened at the front by several large, gray dumpsters, with stacks of wooden pallets, abandoned furniture, and old bags of garbage at the back, where Tariq was waiting for her.

He was even paler than when she’d left him. It looked like he’d lost a good deal of blood. Tariq was becoming a liability.

“Did you get it?” he asked.

“Some of it,” Hala answered, and knelt down where he was sitting propped against the brick wall. From inside her shirt, she pulled out a small bottle of Tylenol, a roll of gauze, and an Ace bandage. It was as much as she’d been able to lift at the drugstore without being seen.

“Let me see your hand,” she said. “Please. Let me see.”

She pulled away the strip of shirt cloth she’d used to wrap Tariq’s wound the night before. It was in horrendous shape. The bullet had passed right through, probably shattering the metacarpal of his right thumb as it did. He had no flexion, no extension at all. If they didn’t get proper medical attention, and soon, she was going to have to start cutting away the dead and dying flesh.

That part, she kept to herself.

He moaned as she rewrapped it, using the gauze first, then the Ace bandage. Pressure was the only tool she had at her disposal for now, but she could see the agony it put him in.

When she held out several of the Tylenol, he shook his head.

“Hala, please,” he said. “It’s not enough. You know what I want.”

She did. That was exactly why she’d taken the cyanide from him. Both of their capsules were now in her pocket, where she intended them to stay.

The only other thing they had left to their name was Hala’s Sig Sauer pistol. Everything else — their passports, money, computer, all of it — was back at the Four Seasons. It might as well have been locked in a vault. Even on her quick trip to the drugstore and back, Hala had seen her own grainy image gracing the cover of several newspapers.

They didn’t even have the means to get themselves out of Washington. This godforsaken city had become their prison — and Tariq knew it. The empty, defeated look in his eyes said everything she needed to know.

“Please, Hala,” he tried again. “There’s no dishonor in this. We’ve done all we can.”

She pressed the Tylenol into his hand. “Take them,” she said. “Trust me, my love. We’re not done yet. Not even close.”

There was still one possibility she could think of. It was a risk, but less extreme than the option at the bottom of her pocket.

When she got up to leave again, Tariq reached after her like a child who couldn’t bear to be left alone. “Where are you going?” he moaned.

“Not far,” she said. “Just wait here. I’ll be back for you. I promise.”

Chapter 90

Hala left Tariq at the back of the alley and crossed the street to the bus station.

There was every reason to feel terrified right now, but she wasn’t. The more Tariq seemed to be giving up, the more determined she became. Their backs were against the wall, and so what? They’d been there before. They had trained hard for just this eventuality.

And, if the worst did happen — if the capsules proved necessary in the end — there were still nine rounds left in her gun. That meant nine more Americans who would die before she did.

Inside the mostly deserted bus terminal, she crossed the waiting area to a small bank of battered and heavily graffitied pay phones at the back. Surprisingly enough, the first one she picked up gave a dial tone, and she pressed zero.

It took an irritating amount of time to place the call — overseas, collect, to Saudi Arabia. The American operator was virtually useless.

But then all at once a familiar voice was there on the other end of the line, accepting the charges.

“Hala, darling, is it you?” her mother said in Arabic. “Where are you?”

“Still in America, Mama,” Hala said. It was strange, using her native language after so many weeks of English. “Our business isn’t done here yet. Tariq and I are staying on First Street. Between K and L.”

“I don’t know what that means, Hala. K and L?”

“It’s where we’re staying right now,” she said.

“But when are you coming home?” her mother wanted to know. “Fahd and Aamina ask about you every day. They miss you so much.”

Hala squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that wanted to come. She mustn’t do anything to draw attention here, she knew. Not even the smallest thing. She would not let herself cry, or show any other weaknesses.

“Give them my love, Mama,” she said. “Please.”

“But they’re right here,” her mother said.

“No! I can’t stay on the phone,” she tried, but too late. A moment later, Fahd’s sweet voice was in her ear.

“Mama! I miss you!”

“I miss you, too. Are you being a good little man?” she asked. Her own voice was thick. She hoped the boy wouldn’t notice. It was nearly overwhelming.

“Yes, Mama. We’re learning about geology in school. Do you know what sedimentary rock is?”

“I do,” she said. “But, Fahd, I can’t talk right now. Mama has to go.” She could hear poor little Aamina clamoring for a turn in the background. “Back to First Street, between K and L. Across from the bus station.”

“What, Mama?”

“I have to go,” she said quickly. “Tell your sister that Papa and I love her very much. We love you, too. You are the best children in the world.”

“Will we see you soon?” he asked.

Hala gave the only answer she could bring herself to give. “Yes,” she said. “Soon. Very soon.”

Hanging up the phone on Fahd was as difficult as anything Hala had been called upon to do in America. But also just as necessary. Every second she spent in public here was a large risk. As soon as she’d gathered herself, she turned and walked quickly back the way she’d come.

Now all she could do was pray that the right people — and none of the wrong ones — were listening in on her parents’ telephone calls. The Family was very thorough that way, but so much had changed in the past few days.

Whether or not they’d heard what she said, and whether they’d come for her and Tariq, only time would tell.

Inshallah.

Chapter 91

I woke up to a text on my Blackberry the next morning. It had been sent by Peter Lindley’s office assistant: “8:30 AM Liberty Crossing, vital meeting with AD Lindley. Pls confirm.”

The last thing I wanted now was to be pulled back out to LX1. I’d tripled the surveillance on Rodney Glass and had three teams keeping an eye on him around the clock in eight-hour shifts. If he made any more odd moves, I wanted to be close by when they happened.

So I was feeling more than a little anxious by the time I got all the way out to Langley. What I expected was a full meeting of our CIA work group, but when I came into the conference room, it was just Lindley and half a dozen of his own case agents and team leaders. Two stories below, through the glass wall, I could see the command center bullpen, buzzing away.

“You’re here. Good,” Lindley said, waving me inside. It looked like the rest of them had been at it for a while. Ties were loose, sleeves were rolled up, and the table was littered with files. Most of those had the Bureau’s seal stamped on the front.

“First of all, we’ve got a credible line on another accomplice to the kidnapping,” Lindley said.

One of the agents dropped a file in front of me.

I opened it to see a small photocopy of a mug shot, bulldog-clipped to what looked like several arrest reports. The name on the photo was Deshawn Watkins.

“What about him?” I asked. “Who is he?”

“His girlfriend came in through one of the hotlines,” Lindley said. “One of a million calls, of course, but she had a few interesting things to say. Namely, that Mr. Watkins was recruited online and paid five hundred dollars for his services, plus a hit of some kind of high-grade smack.”

“Just like our van driver, Mr. Pinkney,” I said.

“Our first van driver,” Lindley said. “It seems now that maybe there were two.”

I started flipping through the file. Watkins had a mile-long record of misdemeanors and a few felonies, including some jail time for armed robbery when he was sixteen. He’d also done a couple of court-ordered stints in rehab.

“The girlfriend says Watkins was instructed to pick up a vehicle on the morning of the kidnapping, then back it up to the groundskeeping shed at Branaff and wait for some kind of package to be delivered. After that, she says, he drove it out to Reagan National, long-term parking, and walked away. The back of the van was locked from both sides, and he never got a look at what he was transporting.”

“Or who put this ‘package’ into the van,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“Smart. Jesus.”

It was starting to add up... to how Rodney Glass could have gotten Ethan and Zoe off campus and still be around for the aftermath. Then all he’d have to do was drive out to the airport, maybe stop to sedate the kids again, and continue on to wherever he wanted to take them. If anything had gone wrong in the meantime, Glass had a fire wall of anonymity for himself. Pinkney and Watkins couldn’t finger him if they wanted to. They had no idea who he was. None at all.

“Where’s Watkins now?” I asked.

I saw a few smirks around the table. “That’s what the girlfriend wants to know,” one of the case agents told me.

“Apparently, Watkins skipped town two nights ago — along with this woman’s younger sister. Sounds like she ran out of reasons for protecting him. She came in with a lawyer this morning and struck up a pretty quick deal.”

“We’ve got his name out on WALES, and every field office in the country’s looking for him,” Lindley said. “But quite honestly, Deshawn Watkins is not our number one concern right now.”

I looked up from the file. Lindley was just picking up a steel briefcase from the floor.

He set it down in front of him with his hands on the double combination lock. Then he nodded to the half-dozen other staff around the table.

“Excuse me, everyone. Could we have the room, please?”

Chapter 92

As soon as we were alone, Lindley opened the case. The Toughbook inside powered up automatically, and he entered a long string of characters to access whatever it was he wanted to show me in private.

“What you’re about to see is a video that came into the Richmond field office this morning. A copy, anyway. The drive it came on is at the lab, but the First Lady asked personally for you to see this.”

That might have explained why I was the only non-FBI personnel here. Mrs. Coyle trusted me, for better or worse. So far, I felt like I was letting her down.

Lindley turned the case around so the screen was facing me, then hit the space bar to start the video.

At first, it didn’t look like anything was happening. Then I noticed some kind of vague movement, like someone was carrying a camera through a dark room.

My pulse ticked up a notch, anticipating what I was about to see.

A light of some kind came on, wobbly, like a handheld flashlight.

I saw the folds of a dark blue blanket. The camera kept moving, and a hand came into the frame.

Then Zoe’s face.

She seemed to be sleeping. Probably under heavy sedation, I thought, given what Molly Johnson had told me. The shot was too close up to show Zoe’s surroundings — but could this be the basement Molly had described? The one that smelled like dirt? Where the hell was it?

“The date stamp on the video file is for two days ago,” Lindley said. “Not that you can’t fake something like that, but it’s the best sign we’ve had so far that they’re alive.”

In fact it was the only sign we’d had, but I didn’t say anything.

The camera stayed on Zoe for another ten seconds or so. Then there was a blur of movement, and Ethan was there. His face was just as filthy as Zoe’s, and just as gaunt. At least there was no blood or scars, nothing to suggest they’d been beaten.

“The son of a bitch is starving them,” I said. My eyes welled up. I couldn’t help it.

Finally, I had to look away from the video.

Lindley cleared his throat. “There’s twenty-three seconds in all,” he said. “And then... this.”

The screen went dark. This time, it looked like the camera had been turned off.

When it came on again, we were looking at a plain white piece of paper with something printed there, in a small, plain font.

As the image slowly zoomed in, the words on the page became clear.

“Believe what you want, Mr. President.”

“It’s more of the same,” I said. “He’s turning up the torture. He wants Coyle to watch his kids waste away, just like Rodney Glass had to watch his own son die.”

Lindley nodded sedately. He took back the computer case and shut it up tight.

“I’m inclined to agree,” he said. “That’s why we think it’s time to put everything on the table.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “What does that mean?”

“It means if we’re lucky, we’ve got one last chance to save Ethan and Zoe. We’re pulling Glass in for further questioning.”

“What?”

“I know it’s a risk,” he said. “But all we have is circumstantial evidence — at best. We need him to think he’s cornered. A confession’s our only shot.”

“Hang on. Did we just see the same video?” I said. “What do you think happens to Ethan and Zoe if you take him out of commission?”

Lindley didn’t like to have his authority questioned. I could see it in the way he set his jaw when he looked at me.

“What are you suggesting, Cross? We do nothing about this? We wait him out?”

“I’m saying let’s consider all our options while we still can.” I got up and started moving, trying to think clearly. After weeks of walking through molasses on this, it was all happening too fast. “Maybe we create a false story. We say we have his print on the videotape. Something to let Glass think he’s got no room to maneuver.”

But Lindley wasn’t even listening anymore. His phone had just buzzed. He looked down to check whatever message had come in.

“Too late,” he told me. “Glass is already here.”

Chapter 93

Rodney Glass was a damn good actor. He seemed genuinely perplexed about why he’d been pulled in for another interview. But he didn’t fool me for a second. He’d been to medical school. Of course he was bright.

“How many times do I have to say this?” he asked, less than a minute into the interview. “I was treating Ryan Townsend for a bloody nose just after Ethan and Zoe went missing. I’ve got Ryan himself, not to mention at least one Secret Service agent, to back me up on this. So can someone please explain what I’m doing here?”

He had a cocky, almost adolescent quality to him, all the way down to his NBA kicks. Was that part of the act, too? Just another way to get the kids at Branaff to trust him? I also had the impression Glass had taken something, maybe even just a Klonopin, to keep himself loose while he was here. He certainly knew his way around pharmaceuticals.

“What about just before Ethan and Zoe disappeared?” I asked. “Where were you then?”

“Isn’t this already in your files, or whatever?” he asked.

“Humor us,” Lindley said. After our initial argument, Peter and I had agreed on one thing. Now that Glass was here, we needed to hit him with everything we had. And maybe some things we didn’t have.

“I was in the faculty restroom, okay? Taking a dump, if you really want to know.”

Lindley scribbled something in his file.

“And how long does it take to walk from the faculty restroom back to the infirmary?” I asked.

Glass shook his head and frowned. “I don’t know. A minute and a half? You tell me.”

“Just about a minute and a half,” I said. “But you weren’t coming back from the restroom, were you?”

“And that’s not really a question, is it?” he said.

“It also takes about a minute and a half to get back from the tunnel under the school, if you hurry,” I told him. “I timed it myself.”

“Yeah, good for you,” he said.

I hated this guy. I really did. The stakes couldn’t have been higher, and I was feeling edgier by the second. I didn’t care anymore that he’d lost a son. That didn’t excuse what he was doing now.

“Before that, you were using the phone from Emma Allison’s locker to send Zoe Coyle a text. One that would get her down into that tunnel just after homeroom,” I went on. “I guess the only thing I’m wondering is whether you planned for Ethan to be there, too, or if you had to improvise.”

Glass actually grinned and looked around at everyone else in the room. There were five of us, including two of Lindley’s agents, recording the interview with a camera and a laptop.

“Why do I feel like I’m being set up here?” he said right into the camera.

Lindley put down his pen and closed the file in front of him as if we were just getting started.

“Mr. Glass, was there some sort of incident, between you and your ex-wife in March of 2007?” he asked.

Glass did an exaggerated double take, looking back and forth between Lindley and me. “I’m getting whiplash in here. What are you talking about? I’m lost.”

“She says you drugged her and held her hostage for three days, shortly after the death of your son.”

“What?” His face dropped. For the first time, he actually seemed surprised. “So this is how you want to play it? The dead-kid card? Are you joking?”

I stood up. I couldn’t sit still for this anymore. “Do we look like we’re joking?” I said.

Lindley went on in the same monotone. He stayed in his seat. “Would you be willing to show us where you took her?” he asked.

“I can’t!” Glass shouted at him. “I can’t — because it never happened! Did you even bother to check Molly’s medical records? She had a complete breakdown after Zach died. I’m talking clinical. So if she thinks I held her hostage, or whatever, that’s her problem, not mine.”

“You know, your compassion’s a little underwhelming,” I said.

“Yeah, so’s your police work,” he shot back. “Jesus. If Ethan and Zoe do wind up dead, at least we’ll all know whose fault it is.”

That was it. I snapped. The next thing I knew, I was halfway across the table with two handfuls of Glass’s shirt.

“Where are they?” I yelled.

“Alex!”

“Where are they?”

It was a moment of pure adrenaline. If I could have split open his head for the information, I might have done it.

“Get him out of here!” Lindley shouted behind me.

“This isn’t going to bring back your son!” I told him. “Give it up, Glass — for God’s sake! Don’t let those kids die!”

I was still yelling as they pulled me out into the hall. The last thing I saw before they closed the door was Rodney Glass, raising a hand my way to wave good-bye.

Jesus. What had I just done? He’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted, hadn’t he?

I’d risen to the bait.

Chapter 94

I was crouched down in the hall, trying to regroup, still angry but also embarrassed about what had happened with Glass, when I realized someone was standing over me.

“Take a walk?”

I looked up from a pair of black steel-toed boots to see Ned Mahoney, holding out a hand.

“How’d you know I was here?” I said.

“After that little scene? I think everyone knows you’re here,” Ned said. Several other people had stopped and were still staring. “Come on. Let’s go breathe some air.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I told him.

“That’s true,” he said, and headed up the hall. So I stood and followed.

We wound our way down to the ground floor of Liberty Crossing and out through the west lobby. The whole place is a huge X-shaped complex, with one of those sterile concrete plazas in the crook of the two main wings. We stopped there and took a seat on one of several empty benches overlooking the parking area down below.

The dropping temperature outside didn’t do much to cool me off while I told Ned what had happened. In fact, talking about it only made me feel worse.

“I screwed up, Ned. Glass is probably going to be home in his own bed tonight, while Ethan and Zoe...” I shook my head. I couldn’t even finish.

“That would have happened whether you went off the deep end with him or not,” Ned told me. “You said so yourself. He’s too clean, too smart.”

“Clean as dirt,” I said. “Goddamnit. But I know we can get him.”

Mahoney was uncharacteristically slow to respond. Usually his brain has a direct line to his mouth. Then finally he said, “You’re sure Glass is the one?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

“And you can’t prove it?”

“I can prove it,” I said. “Just not fast enough.”

“So maybe it’s time to think about some alternatives,” he said.

I felt a chill down my back, and not because of the stiff breeze blowing up from the parking lot. I let Ned go on.

“Listen, I’m a company man when I need to be one,” he said. “If the system didn’t work at least some of the time, I couldn’t do this for a living. But guess what, Alex? It’s not working. Not on this one. It’s not even coming close to working.”

“Hard to disagree. Glass is unusual, smarter than most.”

I couldn’t get Ned to look at me. He just stared down at the pebbled concrete between his feet while he talked. This was Langley, after all. You never knew which bush had eyes, or which bench had ears.

“Ned, you’re talking about—”

“I’m not talking about anything,” he said. “But if I were, I’d tell you that I could pretty easily put my hands on some things you might need. Also, that I wouldn’t leave you hanging on this, if you’re interested.”

I wanted to say, interested in what? But I was sure I already knew. Before I could say anything else, Ned got to his feet.

“Go home, Alex. You’ve got my number if you want to... you know. Talk.”

“Talk,” I said. “Right. I do have your number.”

He hunched his shoulders against the wind and blew into his hands. “Should have worn a jacket out here,” he said. “Cold as hell.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Cold as hell for sure.

Chapter 95

Record.

“After I left Cross, I was almost overwhelmed by my own emotion. I’d done it, I’d won. I’d beaten all of them and I was still winning every single battle. Every one.

“And yet I felt a subtle change in myself. Was I so filled with guilt... that I was someone different now? Why hadn’t I struck out at Cross?

“The honest truth: I wasn’t as impressed by him as I thought I might be. But was he playing me? Setting me up for the kill? He was certainly physically imposing, and smart, I suppose. He’s definitely passionate about what he’s doing.

“But I don’t believe he’s going to catch me, to stop me, to put me away for what I’ve done, the awful things.

“I’m not afraid of Cross.

“But that’s not what my feelings are about. This isn’t about the detective; it’s about me. I know that to be perfectly safe I should do nothing about him. I’m clever enough to figure out something deadly. I’m good enough to execute it, and get away with it.

“So why haven’t I acted? What’s stopping me? Is it guilt? Remorse over what I’ve done to the children? Maybe something got to me — something about Cross’s kids, or his wife, or Cross himself? His passion is inspiring.

“Or is it this: I know I can’t stop myself and I want Cross to do it for me?

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t believe I want to be stopped. I’ve won... and I rather like that.”

Chapter 96

When I got home that night, I could hear the kids going at it down in the basement. Ever since Ava had come to stay with us, the three of them were getting on like a house on fire, and they’d turned the downstairs into their own makeshift all-in-one clubhouse, boxing gym, and movie theater.

Bree and Nana were in the living room, stuffing envelopes for Southeast Children’s House. That was the name of the charter school Sampson and Billie were still struggling to start up... without much help from me these days.

I flopped down on the couch with my plate of leftovers and a Budweiser.

“What’s the good word?” Bree said, sliding me a sideways kiss, then another. She smelled good, felt even better. I’d missed her.

“All bad,” I finally told her. I couldn’t get Mahoney’s offer out of my head, but this was not the time or place to talk about it. I was home now.

I reached down and picked up a tattered paperback copy of Precious, which someone had left on the floor. It was the movie tie-in version, with the amazing lead actress, Gabourey Sidibe, on the cover.

“Is Jannie reading this for school?” I asked. “Tough story. Good one.”

“Actually, I got that for Ava,” Nana said. “I told her she needed some meat and potatoes to go with those comic books she’s been gobbling down.”

“Speaking of Ava,” Bree said. “We got a call from Anita at Child and Family Services today. Just checking in to see how things are going.”

“I guess that means they don’t have a placement for her,” I said, forking up a mouthful of meat loaf and sweet potato.

“I think Anita’s hoping they have one,” Bree said. “She thinks Ava’s going to make it.”

I looked up from my plate to see both of them staring at me.

“Don’t look so surprised, Alex,” Nana said. “You knew they’d push for this.”

“Let them,” I said. “We still need to get Ava into a real foster home before she gets too settled here. Or too attached.”

Nana threw down the flyer and envelope she was holding. “Well, isn’t that just typical!”

“What?” I asked.

“Apparently, it’s obvious to everyone but you that Ava is already attached to this family,” she laid into me. “And most of us are attached to her!”

I set down my plate and rubbed my eyes. The last thing I needed right now was a lecture from my grandmother. Or a fight. I was home.

“Nana, I can’t tell you how bad the timing is.”

“And, Alex? I can’t tell you how little I care what you think right now. Why do you suppose Ava never smiles at you?” she said. “Why do you think the conversation always drops off when you come into the room? It’s because you’re never here! You think she’s that way with everyone?”

“Excuse me, but I’m trying to help bring two kids home to their parents,” I said, barely holding onto my temper.

“Oh yes, because nobody else is working on that one. Excuse me, but those Coyle children have thousands — thousands — of people looking out for them right now. What does Ava have? She’s got us, that’s what.”

“That’s not fair,” I said.

“Well, someone let me know when everything gets fair around here.”

She snatched the copy of Precious off my lap like she didn’t even want me touching it and she left the room. A second later, I heard the basement door open.

“Who wants ice cream?” she called out, like nothing had happened, and a small army of feet started up on the stairs. “I’ve got Chunky Monkey, Mint Chocolate Chunk, Cookie Dough...”

I took a deep breath. Then I took another.

“What a great day,” I said.

Bree gave me a sympathetic smile. I could tell whose side she was on, but she wasn’t going to beat me up about this. Not right now, anyway.

“Come on, tough guy,” she said. “Let’s go put some Mint Chocolate Chunk on it. You deserve it.”

Chapter 97

Sleep was apparently out of the question that night. With Bree off working another graveyard shift, the bed seemed way too big and I was left alone with my thoughts. Including thoughts about poor Ava.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ethan and Zoe’s dirty, emaciated faces. And every time I opened them, I thought about what Ned Mahoney had said to me after my encounter with Glass. Or rather, everything he hadn’t said. I could feel the idea of it taking shape like a heavy ball in my chest — half dread, half adrenaline.

If I’d understood Ned correctly, we were talking about something I’d resisted ever since I became a cop, a line I’d never crossed. But then again, maybe that was only because I’d never had to.

What if this was the one night — the hour, the minute — that might make a difference for Ethan and Zoe? Could I live with that? And what if it was my own kids out there, I thought, or Ava, for that matter? Would I even be lying here wondering what to do?

Of course not. In a strange way, my fight with Nana only drove that point home. I would do almost anything to save those kids.

Finally, just after midnight, I couldn’t stare at the ceiling anymore. I sat up fast. In the dark, there are two things I always know how to find — my phone and my Glock. I reached for the phone. Dialed Sampson’s number.

“Hullo?” he answered in a thick voice. “Alex?”

“Sorry to wake you,” I said. “I need to talk, John. Actually, I need your help on something.”

“No prob, sugar.”

“Put on a pot of coffee. I’m coming over.”

“See you in a few.”

I threw on some clothes, splashed water on my face, and left the house.

On the way to Sampson’s, I called Ned Mahoney, too.

He answered on the first ring. “I thought you might call,” he said.

Chapter 98

Sampson was on board the minute I told him what I wanted to do. He knew I couldn’t ask outright, so he volunteered, and I was just desperate enough to accept. John is six nine, with the kind of arms Michael Vick might wish for. Plus he had exactly the skill set I needed to back me up.

And Ned Mahoney had the tools. He was carrying a small messenger bag when we picked him up at a Park and Ride in North Fairlington.

With twelve years on Hostage and Rescue, Ned was the break-in expert of our group. For the rest of the ride, he did most of the talking. Planning. I just drove and listened.

By two thirty a.m., the three of us were huddled around the back door of Rodney Glass’s condo in Alexandria. It was an attached duplex with a well-lit shared driveway in front, but a lawn and pool area in the back that was all dark and closed up for the night.

I held a penlight for Ned while he unrolled a leather kit of picks and tension wrenches, each one in its own pocket. Usually Ned’s all about the forty-pound battering ram, but he knows how to do small and quiet, too.

Less than ten seconds after he’d angled the first pick into the dead bolt, it turned with a soft click.

The lock on the doorknob went even faster.

I took it from there and led the way inside. It was dark and quiet on the first floor. We stopped there to pull the black balaclavas down over our faces. Honestly, it wasn’t a good feeling. Seeing Ned and John in their masks really drove home for me what we were doing. This was nowhere I ever thought I’d be, but there was no turning back now.

For that matter, I didn’t want to. I wanted to save those kids if they were still alive.

We went in a line up the hall to the front of the house. The stairs were carpeted, and therefore no problem. It didn’t take long before we were standing outside Glass’s open bedroom door. I could hear him snoring and saw his outline, sleeping on his back with one arm thrown over his head.

I signaled John to take one side of the bed. I hurried around and took the other. Mahoney stayed at the foot with his first syringe uncapped and ready.

Then I counted it down for them on my fingers.

Three — two —

All at once, Glass roared awake. He rolled toward me and reached for something under the mattress, but John was already there to pull his arm back. I stuck my hand into the same place and felt the contours of a pistol. He was an avid hunter, I knew, with several legally registered firearms in his name. I left the pistol where it was.

As soon as Sampson had him, I tore off a length of duct tape and pressed it over Glass’s mouth. Then I pushed him facedown into the mattress while John slapped a pair of speed cuffs onto his wrists.

Mahoney was next. He knelt on the bed, flipped back the covers, and jammed a needle into his hip. Glass tried to scream from behind the tape. Then his whole body went rigid like he was being Tasered.

The rush of adrenaline made him even harder to handle, but that didn’t last long. Within a minute, his limbs started to go slack. Every sound he made got a little weaker, until they’d ebbed into a kind of lazy, constant hum. He shuddered the way we sometimes do at the edge of sleep. He wasn’t completely out, but he was completely useless, for the time being.

“That’s it,” Ned said. “We’re good to go.”

We hustled him into some pants and down the stairs, holding him up, dragging his legs. At the door, I threw a jacket over his shoulders to hide the cuffs. Then we walked him out to the car in a tight group.

As we took off, I had no doubt in my mind that, ultimately, we were doing the right thing. Rodney Glass knew where Ethan and Zoe were. He had to know. But God help us if I was wrong, I thought.

In fact, God help us, period.

We were kidnapping Glass.

Chapter 99

“Wake up. Wake up right now!”

It all happened very fast. Hala hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Now someone was there, shining a bright light in her eyes. By instinct, her hand went straight to the Sig in her lap. Before she could reach it, the point of another pistol came out of the light. It stopped just short of her forehead.

“Don’t, sister!” the other woman said. “Please. We’re from The Family. We’ve come to get you. We’re only here to help.”

“Hala?” Tariq was just stirring. The infection in his hand had left him feverish and bleary. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Someone is here. They say they’re from The Family.”

“We have to hurry,” a man’s voice said. “And I’ll take that weapon.”

Her finger tensed on the trigger. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Sister, listen to me.” The woman took a step back now and lowered the light. Her voice was calm. Sisterly. “You placed an overseas call. One that you meant to be intercepted, isn’t that so?”

Hala stared up at the two strangers, but it was impossible to gauge their faces in the dark. It was also hard to think clearly. They hadn’t eaten or even had a sip of water in over twenty-four hours. Still, it was hard to argue with the information these people had. And what option was there, anyway?

“All right,” she said, and put the butt of the Sig into the man’s outstretched hand. “But I’m going to want that back.”

“Of course,” the man said.

The Al Dossaris were made to stand and lift their shirts next, to show there were no wires or listening devices of any kind. Then they were each frisked.

“Just a precaution,” the woman assured them. When her hand passed over the pocket in Hala’s skirt, she took the two cyanide capsules as well. “You won’t be needing these anymore,” she said. “You’re heroes. Both of you. Everyone in The Family honors your name and what you’ve done.”

For the first time in days, Hala smiled.

A black Toyota 4Runner was waiting at the top of the alley. In the streetlight, Hala saw that the two strangers both had olive skin and dark eyes. The woman’s hair was bleached blond, and the man’s head was shaved to a rough stubble, his scalp tattooed with an Arabian falcon at the back. In their tailored black clothing, they looked as if they could have just come from one of Washington’s trendier clubs. For all Hala knew, they had. She pushed Tariq into the backseat, then got in beside him.

“My husband’s been shot in the hand by the American police,” she said as soon as they’d pulled away. “I’m going to need antibiotics, disinfectant—”

“Here.” The woman handed a plastic grocery bag over the seat. “This will have to do for the moment. We need to get you out of Washington before we do anything else.”

When Hala looked inside the bag, she almost wept with relief. There were bottles of water, chocolate bars, a jar of almonds, a first-aid kit, and a small pharmacy bottle of amoxicillin. Two weeks ago, she might have wondered how all of this was even possible, but she’d learned — just like the Americans — never to underestimate the power and resources of The Family.

She took Tariq’s good hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. If he’d had his way back in that disgusting alley, she knew, he would have been dead by now.

“Thank you,” she said to the two in front.

“No,” the other woman said. “Thank The Family. And thank Allah.”

Chapter 100

Mahoney drove. Sampson sat in front. I took the backseat with Glass, who was as high as a kite by now. His eyes occasionally rolled up into the whites.

I waited until we were out on the Beltway. Then I reached over and pulled the silver tape off his face.

“Wha’ the hell’s goin’ on here?” he started right in, running his words together like a drunk. “You assholes are in so much trouble—”

Sampson reached right across the seat and popped Glass hard, upside the head. It must have hurt because it immediately stunned him into silence.

“You listen first, dumbass,” John said with a finger in his face. “Then you talk.”

Glass hunkered down, trying to get away, but he seemed more pissed off than scared. That was the scopolamine, doing its thing.

“Wha’ever,” he said.

“Rodney?” I said. “Listen to me. I’m going to ask you about Ethan and Zoe Coyle. That’s our only subject here. Do you know where they are?”

He smacked his lips a few times. His eyes fluttered. “Wha’d you gimme? Is this thiopental? My mouth’s like a sandbox.”

“Glass! Where are Ethan and Zoe?” I said. “They’re in a basement somewhere, right? There’s a dirt floor. What else?”

“I dunno know... what you’re talking about,” he slurred.

It’s not that scopolamine is a truth serum, per se. But cognitively speaking, lying is a lot more complex than telling the truth. The drug just makes it that much harder to do. My best bet was to keep coming at him with simple, direct questions. Eventually he might slip up.

“Ethan and Zoe are in a basement somewhere,” I said again. “Isn’t that right, Rodney?”

His head lolled back and he swallowed several more times.

“Why should I tell you?” he said. John reached for him, but I put up a hand to stop him.

“Are they in a basement, Rodney? Or is it some kind of a cave?”

“I, um...”

“Are they? Tell me. Right now.”

“Nah,” he finally said, and my heart lurched. “I mean... yeah. But not a basement. It’s a, uh... you know. More like a root cellar.” His head fell back again, and he let out a bizarre, low chuckle.

“What the hell’s so funny?” Sampson asked him.

“You are, man,” he said, and laughed again. “I mean... you’re all cops, right? But now you’re the ones who’re goin’ to jail. That’s funny, man. That’s fuckin’ classic.”

Chapter 101

It took a second injection and a lot of wrong turns to tease some more details out of Glass. The closer we got to the truth, the funnier he seemed to find it. It was everything I could do to keep from knocking that smile right off his face — or letting Sampson do it.

After two long hours, we found ourselves on a dark secondary road somewhere south of the Pennsylvania border and Michaux State Forest. The middle of nowhere, basically.

Mahoney kept our speed low and the high beams on. The result was — we were going nowhere. We had no final destination yet.

“Hang on,” Sampson said suddenly. “What’s that?”

Ned stopped and angled the car at the side of the road. A wall of high grass and brambles was broken in one spot, like it had been trampled and bounced back. On the other side, it looked like an old ATV trail, or maybe a driveway, running into the woods.

Glass let out another long, drunken laugh.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ned said, and pulled in.

As we drove on, a single set of tracks showed itself in the dirt. Someone had been here recently, but the trail wasn’t well traveled.

Had Glass been coming in from more than one direction? I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

About a hundred yards off the road, the trees cleared and I saw an old farmhouse straight ahead. It was falling down all around itself, barely holding onto the clapboard.

Beyond that was a three-story barn, standing a little straighter in the dark, and my stomach knotted right up. It looked like just the kind of place where you might find an old root cellar.

Ned pulled around and stopped, with the headlights shining inside the barn. Everything about this was eerie and scary, even though we were the ones supposedly in control. But Glass still was, wasn’t he?

“What the hell’s that?” Mahoney said.

A half-decomposed animal carcass, or maybe more than one, was piled right in the center of the open barn doorway.

“Nice welcome mat. That’s supposed to keep us out,” Sampson said. “I think we’re in the right place.”

“Cuff him to the door handle!” I was already out of the car. This thing had me in its own slipstream now.

I ran straight inside the barn, past an empty tack wall on one side and a row of stables on the other.

“Ethan! Zoe!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Anyone here?”

The only sound that came back was Glass’s obnoxious giggle from the car.

At the back, the barn opened up all the way to the beams overhead. Vines and saplings had worked their way in through the walls, but those were the only signs of life I could see.

“You got anything?” I shouted to the others.

“Nothing over here,” Sampson called back.

“Nothing,” Ned said.

“There’s got to be a way down. Stairs, or a ladder, or something.”

I came back and stood in the alley between the tack wall and the stalls, shining my Maglite in every direction. What were we missing? Were the kids even here?

As I came around again, I noticed that all but one of the stalls were empty. The one farthest from the door was piled high with junk. It looked like someone had taken everything they could find and dumped it in one place. Why?

“Hey!” I yelled. “Hey! Give me a hand!”

By the time Ned and Sampson found me, I was already throwing splintered wooden pallets and loose lumber out of the stall. There was a truck axle, a few bundles of rusted wire mesh, some concrete pilings, and an old corn shucker — the kind of thing I hadn’t laid eyes on since I was a little kid in North Carolina.

As soon as the space was clear, we dropped down and started brushing away the dirt and gravel and old remnants of hay.

While I did, I noticed some of the debris was trickling down through a crack in the boards. Right away, it showed itself as a straight line — and then a definite rectangle in the floor.

“It’s a door!” John said, and we dug our fingers into the gap.

We heaved straight up and flung open the whole panel. Then we picked up our flashlights and shone them down into the space we’d just opened.

“Oh, my God,” Mahoney said. “Oh, no.”

Sampson and I stood there, speechless.

Just below floor level, there was a layer of dirt. It was dark, and moist, and looked like fresh earth to me. Like someone had only recently filled this hole.

The only other thing to see was the top of an old wooden ladder, just breaking the surface.

It looked like a grave.

And behind me, I could still hear Rodney Glass laughing in the car.

Chapter 102

By six thirty a.m., the old abandoned farm was a full-blown federal crime scene, and it was lit up like Nationals stadium on a game night. The tension was unbelievable. I could see it on every face. I’m sure the others could see it on mine.

A military excavation crew had been driven up from Fort Detrick. Peter Lindley sent a team from the Crisis Management Unit in DC to supervise the logistics, including security.

Even the Frederick County Sheriff’s department was kept out on the road. And word was that the Bureau director himself, Ron Burns, was on his way to the scene. I didn’t doubt it for a second. I wondered if the president or First Lady would come here. I hoped not, for their sakes.

The toughest part was not knowing what to expect. Nobody was calling this a recovery mission yet, but no one was calling it a rescue, either. The feeling on the farm was incredibly intense. I’ve never seen such a huge operation get under way so quietly, and with so much mystery.

After a fast consult with an engineering unit from Quantico, it was decided that all the digging would be done by hand. There was a rotating auger and mini excavator parked in the yard, but this root cellar was a complete question mark. We couldn’t risk the machinery, or the vibrations it would cause.

Three soldiers in fatigues and headlamps got right to it. They worked with sawed-off shovels, taking shallow scoops as quickly and as carefully as possible.

Even the soil itself had to be loaded out, bucket by bucket, for transport to the Bureau’s forensics lab.

Ned, Sampson, and I split up. John helped haul equipment at first, and then dirt, as the digging got under way. Mahoney ran interference on Rodney Glass, who was sleeping off the last of his scopolamine in the back of a Bureau car. As for what Glass would say, or even remember, when he woke up, I couldn’t be bothered right now. I had other things on my mind.

I spent my time with two of the Bureau’s witness-victim specialists, Agents Wardrip and Daya. Both of them had extensive backgrounds in child and trauma psychology and knew a great deal about the impact that something like this could have on a kid. Survival was just the beginning.

I told them everything I knew about the case, but it was a tough conversation. We needed to be ready for the best and worst possible outcomes at the same time. The longer this went on, the harder it was to stay optimistic.

But then around seven thirty, everything changed.

I was outside with Wardrip and Daya when word started circulating that the crew had found something. We dropped everything and ran inside.

As I came to the edge of the stall, I saw one of the three soldiers, up to his waist in the hole. He was conferring with the special agent in charge from DC, while the other two were crouched down under the floorboards, furiously pulling dirt away from one side with their hands.

So far, the digging had exposed only an old stone and mortar wall under the barn. But now they’d come to a wooden frame of some kind, and beneath that, the beginnings of a steel panel. Or maybe a door.

I could hear the first soldier talking with the SAC now. He was excited, and his voice carried above all the other chatter around me.

“Sir, I don’t think we’ve been digging out the root cellar all this time,” he said. “I think we just found it!”

Chapter 103

Everything intensified as our focus narrowed. Nobody said much while the crew cleared material out of that hole faster than ever. A bucket brigade went up, passing the dirt out of the barn, hand to hand.

Several times, the digging stopped and the soldiers pounded on the door with a shovel.

“Anyone there? Ethan? Zoe?”

So far, there was no answer.

As soon as they’d cleared enough space to cut a hole, two of the crew scrambled out and another soldier climbed down with a reciprocating saw.

A couple of seconds later, the barn filled up with a grinding, squealing sound as he drilled straight in. Then he changed direction and started slicing right through the steel.

It didn’t take long. Once most of the panel was cut, the soldiers used a pry bar to pull it back into the hole, rather than letting it fall through.

Then they cleared out and two EMTs took their place. I was less than six feet away from the digging. Several more medical staff waited nearby with a crash cart and two gurneys. There were also three ambulances in the yard, and two Sikorsky helicopters with aeromedical teams waiting out on the road.

One EMT got down on his belly and crawled straight back into the dark. The other handed through a medical field kit and then followed behind.

Everyone else seemed to hold their breath at the same time. In the silence, I said a prayer.

God, let them be there. Please. Let them be okay.

Chapter 104

Then almost right away, one of the EMTs called up to us. His voice was hoarse — and excited. “Someone’s in here,” he said.

We waited. Everything was silent now. Everyone hopeful... yet afraid.

“We’ve got ’em. They’re both here.”

The rescuer kept his voice low, maybe for the kids’ sake, but I don’t think anything could have stopped the cheer that went up in that barn.

There were handshakes, and hugs, and tears on more than a few faces. The feeling of relief was indescribable. Mahoney gave me a hug. Then so did Sampson. Then even Peter Lindley did.

Agents Wardrip and Daya took over from there. They had the work lights turned way down, and they excused the military crew. Then they climbed into the hole to help bring Ethan and Zoe up themselves. A few minutes later, word came that the kids were ready to be brought out.

Zoe came first. It was a moment of true joy mixed with heartbreak to see the young girl, trembling all over and clinging to Wardrip as he carried her up the ladder.

Her clothes were just filthy rags, and her eyes were wide and glassy. But they weren’t vacant. She knew where she was.

They got Zoe onto a gurney and started oxygen and a saline drip right away. Then they covered her with a heavy blanket all the way up to the shoulders, until you could barely even see her anymore.

Wardrip stayed right there, speaking softly to her while they brought Ethan out.

He looked about the same as his sister, but smaller, more vulnerable if that was possible. As he came up from that prison where they’d spent the last two weeks, he was mumbling something against Daya’s shoulder, over and over.

I could see his dry, cracked lips moving, but I couldn’t hear him.

The second he was on his own gurney, Zoe reached out from under her blanket and took Ethan’s hand. Nobody tried to stop them or separate them.

They stared at each other like no one else was there, and her mouth started moving with his.

It was only as they were wheeled out past me, still holding hands, that I heard what they were saying.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh, thank you.”

The words couldn’t have been simpler, or more eloquent.

Chapter 105

I wasn’t thinking about anything but Ethan and Zoe when I came out of that barn. I wasn’t even thinking about Rodney Glass until I realized they’d already taken him away.

The car where he’d been held was gone, and somewhere in the confusion, I’d lost track of Mahoney and Sampson, too.

Then I saw Ron Burns. Or more specifically, he saw me. “Cross!” he yelled, and wagged a finger.

As I came toward him, he turned and walked farther off, away from the hustle and bustle in the yard. The rescue mission was winding down while the investigative crews were just kicking into gear.

Evidence Response Teams had already started unpacking their vans, photographers were snapping everywhere, and a couple of total-station techs were setting up their equipment — the little black shoebox, I call it — to start a 3-D rendering of the entire farm.

I caught up to Burns at the foot of the porch stairs at the old ruined house. I could see he was already steaming.

“Rodney Glass tells us he has no idea how he got out here,” the FBI director started right in. “He also maintains he knows absolutely nothing about the kidnapping.”

I wasn’t sure where to start. Burns and I have some history together, not all of it good. But all in all I’d always trusted him.

“Ron, I—”

“Not a word,” he said. “The less you say right now, the better off we’ll both be.” He pushed the tail of his jacket back with both fists. I was a little surprised to see he was armed.

“Whatever it was you got from Rodney Glass, and however you and your little A-team got it, none of it’s going to be admissible. You do understand that, right?”

I knew better than to answer.

“As it stands right now, we’ve got nothing substantive to hold Glass on. We’ll be able to detain him for twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours, but unless something new turns up here, he’s going to be out by tomorrow night.”

I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Ron, I’m not done with Glass,” I said. “We’ll get him. I’ve already got a surveillance crew up and running. We can put a GPS on his car—”

Burns put a hand up. “Seriously, Alex. Does anyone ever tell you that you talk too damn much?”

He took a deep breath then. It seemed to let a little of the air out of his tires, and his tone came down as he went on.

“No one’s pretending this is just cut-and-dried,” he said. “It’s likely those kids wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for you, and you’re going to have the gratitude of some very powerful people. Obviously. So I’m not too inclined to start turning over any rocks that don’t need turning over, understand? As long as Glass doesn’t file a complaint — and he’d be a goddamn idiot if he did — I’d say this was your chance to shut up and walk away.”

He pointed over to where someone had moved my car. I saw Sampson was there, too, leaning against the fender and watching us.

“I don’t want to walk away,” I told Burns.

He just shook his head like he felt sorry for me and started back toward the barn. “Yeah, I know,” he said over his shoulder.

Chapter 106

As the sun slowly rose over the horizon, Hala could see that they had arrived at the ocean, the powerful, very gray Atlantic. They were in Massachusetts, maybe. Or this could be Connecticut. Once they’d gotten off the highway, it had been much harder to track the road signs.

A row of shuttered cedar cabanas sat along the beach. Beyond that, waves broke onto an empty shore in the early morning light.

Actually, the beach wasn’t quite empty, Hala realized. A man was there, bent toward the water — toward Mecca — in prayer. She could see only the figure of him, no distinguishing characteristics. Presumably, it was his silver Mercedes parked next to their 4Runner. The rest of the dusty lot was deserted.

Tariq raised his head from her shoulder. His hand was still badly swollen, but he was at least hydrated, with a fresh bandage and the first course of antibiotics in his system.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“We’re... here,” Hala said. It was as much of an answer as she had. For that matter, where seemed less important than who they were here to see right now. Whoever this man was, they’d driven all night to get here.

Neither of the two in the front seat spoke. They waited for the stranger to finish his prayers and only then opened their car doors to get out. Hala and Tariq followed.

The four of them came around and stood by their vehicle while the man walked slowly up from the beach, shaking the sand from his prayer rug as he came.

He was elderly — older than Uncle had been, but fitter. His snowy hair was brushed straight back over his head, and he wore the kind of tracksuit an American businessman might wear on the weekend. Dark blue with a single white stripe. His feet were bare, and he carried a pair of Adidas scuffs in one hand.

Hala could feel the excitement rising in her chest. Before they’d come to America, no one had even suggested that advancement within The Family was possible. But that was before they’d met Uncle. Now, it seemed, anything was possible.

She grinned at the ground. America really was the land of opportunity, after all. The irony in this amused her.

The old man smiled as he came close. He walked right up and embraced Tariq, kissing him on each cheek. Then he shook Hala’s hand warmly but respectfully.

“It is good to meet our famous warriors from Washington, DC,” he said in a thick Najdi accent. “The Family owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude for what you’ve accomplished.”

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Hala said. She’d learned not to appear too proud. “And thank you for saving us. It was more than we deserved.”

“Psh!” The man waved a hand in the air. “You were clever to make that phone call. A risky move, yes? But here we are. It is good.”

He was even more ingratiating than Uncle had been, Hala thought. The fact that he addressed her more than Tariq said quite a bit about what he must already know.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but if I may ask — who are you, sir?”

“I would have thought someone as clever as you might have guessed,” he answered. “In any case, it is not important who I am. In this country, we are all just nameless, faceless monsters. Isn’t that so?”

Hala allowed herself to laugh. And before the man spoke again, she realized all at once who he was.

“You may call me Jiddo if you like,” he said.

Jiddo. It was the first word of Arabic any of these strangers had spoken to them, and exactly what she’d expected to hear.

It meant Grandfather.

Chapter 107

“I love the ocean,” Jiddo said. “As close to a view of home as we have here, yes?”

Hala and Tariq stood with him at the edge of the beach, looking toward the water. The air was cold, but the sky was a brilliant blue with just a few wisps of cloud floating near the horizon. Seagulls rode the breeze over their heads.

“I’ve never seen the Atlantic before,” she said.

“Ah. Well, now you have,” he said, in a way that told Hala the topic was about to turn back to business. Tariq took hold of her hand and stayed quiet. It was unusual for him to take the lead, but that’s what he did now, signaling for her not to talk anymore.

“Our Washington operations are over,” the old man said. “Rather, I should say they’ve been suspended for the time being.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hala said honestly. “We would have liked to have gone much deeper.”

“Don’t be sorry. You are invaluable, an impressive soldier. We trained you quite well, it seems.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“The jihad is not over. America is only just beginning to kneel. While they lick their wounds on one side, we will attack them from another. It will be like that until they are defeated.”

Hala smiled again. It excited her to hear him speak this way. “I hope there will be a role for us,” she said.

“Of course,” he said right away. “In fact it begins right here.”

Hala turned to see the younger man pulling a familiar case from the trunk of Jiddo’s Mercedes. It was the laptop computer she and Tariq had brought from Saudi Arabia. The one she’d been forced to leave behind at the Four Seasons.

She stared. “How did you—”

“Psh!” Jiddo said again. “Please don’t be surprised. That would disappoint me.”

The assistant carried the computer over and opened it on the hood of the car.

“We created a very secure system for ourselves,” Jiddo told them. “Perhaps too secure. With the man you know as Uncle out of circulation, our access to certain information has been... somewhat restricted.”

Hala understood immediately. “You need for me to open my files,” she said, to an approving smile. She stepped over to the laptop, where a flashing cursor waited on the blank screen. It took only a moment to still her racing mind. Then the sixteen characters she needed flowed out of her fingers as if by muscle memory: 23EE4XYQ9R21WV0W.

The screen blinked once, then repopulated itself with a familiar series of icons. Hala scanned through them quickly, making sure everything was as she’d left it — target names, home addresses, public schedules, maps, security contacts.

“I believe it’s all here,” she said.

“Very good,” Jiddo said. “And now—”

Tariq spoke up all at once, in a voice that was oddly grave. “Hala!”

She turned around and saw the other couple standing behind them. The man had his hand out. In his palm were the two cyanide capsules that had been removed from her pocket earlier.

The woman stayed to the side, covering them with her Sig from the opposite angle.

“And now,” Jiddo said again, “we must ask for one last act of dedication to The Family.”

Chapter 108

Hala stared at the old man, understanding everything — and understanding nothing at the same time. The Family was supposed to be smart, wise.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

“I believe you’re familiar with the terms,” he answered. “It is preferred that your deaths be deemed a suicide by the authorities.”

The words hit Hala like scalding water. And the reversal of it all. She remembered the night at the Harmony Suites Business Hotel, when she’d said virtually the same thing to the other couple. The ones she’d thought were traitors.

The ones she’d been told were traitors.

“How can you do this? After all of our service? All we went through?” she said.

Jiddo was unperturbed. “You came to this country prepared to die at any time, isn’t that so?”

“For the cause!” Hala spat back. “Not for this! Not for The Family’s convenience.”

“And how exactly are those different?” he asked. “Please make the right choice. If I’m not mistaken, there are... two little ones at home? Is that correct?”

“You wouldn’t!” she said. But of course, she knew that they would.

“Hala.” Tariq was there now, and as he spoke, there was more clarity in his voice than she’d heard in days. Maybe ever. “We have to, Hala. Fahd and Aamina will be taken care of. Your parents—”

“This can’t be happening!” she said.

“I won’t warn you again,” Jiddo told them.

Like something out of a waking nightmare, she watched as Tariq reached over and took the capsules from the other man. He pressed one into her shaking palm and closed her fingers around it. Then he kissed her, unapologetically. There were tears in his eyes, but love as well. So much love.

“We’ll see each other again,” he said.

“Tariq, no!”

Chapter 109

But it was too late. He shoved the capsule into his mouth and bit down on it. She saw him wince, as the glass cut into his gums. Then the trickle of blood from his lips. Now it was just a matter of time before he was dead. Her Tariq was already dying.

Hala turned to face the old man. She looked from the suicide pill in her hand back up to his pathetic, wrinkled face. The arrogance in his eyes.

“There was one thing you said before,” she told him. Her voice broke more than she would have liked, but she pressed on. “One thing, anyway, that was true.”

“Yes?” Jiddo said solicitously. “And what was that, my child?”

“I was very well trained,” she said.

Hala turned all at once and landed a grip on the other woman’s wrist. She snapped it easily with one clean motion. The woman screamed.

When the gun dropped from her hand, Hala was right there to catch it. Her finger found the trigger, and she shot the woman. Point-blank. In the face. No hesitation.

There were no idle or slow thoughts now. Only intentions. And fast actions.

She fired again, into the younger man’s chest as he came at her. Jiddo had started toward the cover of his car, but Hala put a round into the back of his head before he could get there.

He sprawled onto the hood, sending the laptop flying, then he slid off the Mercedes’s expensive finish to land next to it on the dusty ground. Only a broad paint stroke of red was left behind.

By the time Hala turned back to Tariq, he’d already sunk to his knees. The convulsions had begun. His head hitched with every attempt at a full breath.

“Go!” he wheezed at her. “Go... now!”

“I can’t!” She knelt next to him. For the first time since their so-called mission had begun, she was frozen, unable to act.

Then something moved behind her.

Tariq’s eyes went wide. “Hala!”

She rolled and fired instinctively. The bullet caught the younger man in the temple.

Blind rage took her. Hala was back on her feet. A wild, animal scream sounded in her ears as if it were coming from someone else while she emptied her magazine into their bodies.

Then she kicked and railed at their torsos, their limbs, their heads — even their faces. There was no amount of damage she could do to pay them for their sins, but still, she didn’t stop. They would arrive in the afterlife looking nothing like themselves.

Finally, she fell back to the ground, panting and sobbing as she took Tariq up in her arms.

He lay half on his side where he’d gone down. His wide eyes seemed to be focused on the sky. It was as if he were still regarding the heavens, and it struck Hala that maybe God had been the last thing he’d looked for before he died.

Time slipped away. Later, Hala wouldn’t be able to remember how long she had stayed there with Tariq, but slowly, her senses came back to her.

She had to keep moving now. That much was clear. Grief was one thing, but weakness was quite another. Hala was anything but weak. She was trained to be a warrior — to survive at any cost. That’s what she would do.

Without even standing, she moved over to the others on the ground. She ran her hands through the young man’s pockets until she found the car keys. She took everything else they had, too — cash, credit cards, even the dead woman’s long black coat.

Jiddo’s pockets were empty. The only thing Hala took from him was the laptop computer. There was no knowing when or if the information it held might prove useful. Maybe it could be used to ransom her children.

Finally, she stood up again but felt like she was moving underwater. Everything seemed to flow slowly by as Hala climbed into the 4Runner, backed it up, and pulled out toward the road.

Drive slowly, Hala. Do nothing out of the ordinary.

Coming to this country, she’d been prepared to die at any time. And in a way, she realized, she just had. Hala Al Dossari’s life was over. Another one would have to begin.

Somewhere. Somehow. Her life as a warrior would continue.

But who, Hala wondered, will I fight?

Chapter 110

When I received permission to interview ethan and zoe, it came from the same place as my last invitation to the White House — straight out of the East Wing. It had been a week since the rescue, and the media circus was going full tilt. I’d never seen so many reporters outside the White House, and that’s saying a lot, for Washington.

Security on the other side of the fence was something else again. It took forty-five minutes for Mrs. Coyle’s deputy to get me from the East Visitors Gate up to the residence.

When we reached the second floor hall, Mrs. Coyle was there to greet me herself. She came right up and took both of my hands.

“It’s good to see you, Alex,” she said. “I’m not even sure how to say what I’m feeling. There are no words.”

“Thank you for having me” was all I said. Getting this interview had been no easy thing. I don’t imagine anyone but the First Lady could have gotten me here.

She walked me up the hall in the opposite direction as the last time, while two Secret Service agents followed at a respectful distance.

“Zoe will probably be a little reticent,” she told me, “but Ethan’s actually been eager to talk about the kidnapping. I’ve gone over everything with them, and with their care team. You can ask what you need to.”

We passed the famous Yellow Oval Room and came to a large, sunny den, with a view of the South Lawn. Ethan and Zoe were sharing one of the couches, watching Despicable Me on a huge wall-mounted TV. I recognized the president’s mother, knitting by the window. She smiled and nodded but didn’t get up.

“Ethan? Zoe?” Mrs. Coyle said. “Can you turn that off, please? This is the detective I told you about. This is Alex Cross.”

Chapter 111

The kids both looked over their shoulders at me. Interested, but not too much.

“Hi,” they said together quietly.

“Come in. Please.” Mrs. Coyle motioned me farther inside and we came around the couch to sit down.

I started the interview slowly, asking closed-ended questions at first, then opening it up to whatever they might remember or want to tell me.

Zoe was as quiet as her mother thought she might be. She pulled her feet up under her and drew little circles with her finger on the arm of the couch, mostly with her eyes down.

Ethan was nearly the opposite. He watched me closely, and always answered first, with the kind of quiet clarity you get from kids sometimes after a crisis.

“We just kept talking to each other,” he told me at one point. “I knew we had a chance since we were still... you know. Alive.”

The blessing, if there was one, was that neither of them remembered a whole lot about their time in that cellar. Given the levels of Rohypnol in their systems after the rescue, that was no surprise.

Neither of them could say much about their captor, either. Everything they’d been given to eat or drink came through a sliding panel in the door. There had been no conversation at all.

“He just ignored us the whole time,” Ethan said. “Like we weren’t even there.”

“You knew it was a man, though?” I asked. They hadn’t been told a word about Rodney Glass, particularly the fact that he’d been released from custody for a lack of evidence.

“I saw his hands a couple of times. Man’s hands. And sometimes, I could hear him talking on the other side of the door,” Ethan said.

“Talking?”

He nodded. “I think he thought we were asleep, and sometimes we were. But sometimes I’d only pretend.”

“Did you ever hear what he said? Or recognize the voice?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I tried, but it was too soft.”

Ethan seemed to stop short then. His chest sunk in a little and he looked up, like he was remembering something.

“There were these clicking noises, too,” he said.

Zoe looked over at him.

“What kind of clicking?” I asked.

“It was like—” He held up his hand and bent his thumb back and forth. “Like Dad used to use.”

“The tape recorder?” Mrs. Coyle said suddenly.

“Yeah. Back in Madison.”

“Ed used to dictate briefs from home when he was practicing law,” the First Lady told me. “All the time.”

“I heard it, too,” Zoe said quietly, and we all looked at her. She was mimicking the same hand gesture that Ethan had just been making. “It was like... click on, click off.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Ethan said, nodding enthusiastically. “Like he was always recording himself.”

Chapter 112

Record.

“I’ve been a good boy for a week now. Not that there’s much choice, is there? The only way I could have more cops watching me these days would be if I was actually in jail. Now it just feels that way.

“At least I can get out here, stretch my legs, and get my thoughts down.

“This is probably the last private place I’m going to have for a good long while. And even this is going to get ruined, with people coming around, and gawking, and wanting to know what really happened here.

“It’s kind of depressing. I mean, just because everyone knows what happened, it doesn’t mean they know why. Which of course is the whole point.

“All my new little friends at the FBI and Metro Police think I’m just some sadistic bastard who got away with the crime of the century. Well, I’ve got a news flash for them. As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t get away with anything. We’re all just right back where we started. And I know what I’ll do next. I will kill Alex Cross.”

Stop.

He looked down from the ridge at the old farm. The police and FBI had packed out by now, but you could see how the place had been picked over. There were still some shreds of yellow tape on a few trees, and a few stray pink flags in the dirt.

It was tempting to go down there and have a look around, but not yet. It was still too fresh.

Not that they could arrest him for being curious, but this was close enough for now. In fact, it was getting late. He took one last look, then turned and headed back into the woods.

Record.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should have just killed them while I had the chance. At least if Ethan and Zoe had died, it could have stood for something.

“But instead, all this did was prove my whole point. We live in this world where some kids are more valuable than others, I guess, and the average Joe on the street is just fine with that, so long as it’s not his kid getting screwed over or dying.

“Well, guess what? I’m no average Joe. I’m no kook, either. I’ve got a valid story to tell. People need to hear this, and I’m not going to stop until it’s done.

“You will not be forgotten, Zach. That’s a promise, my man. I’m going to make you proud if it’s the last thing I do. Your death will mean something by the time I’m finished.”

Stop.

He pocketed the recorder and kept the bow in hand as he walked the rest of the way, but even the rabbits seemed to be keeping their distance these days.

Whatever. He was too distracted to do any real hunting, anyway.

It was just getting dark by the time he came out of the woods and onto the old fire road, where he usually parked. His head was so full of angry thoughts, he didn’t even see the other car until he was practically on top of it.

That’s when he saw the cops, too. There were two of them standing there. One, he recognized by sheer size — the guy was closer to seven feet than six.

The other had a face that Rodney Glass would never forget. Not since they’d been nose to nose in that interview room in copland. He was a detective with the Washington police, and his name was Alex Cross, and he would be defeated too.

Chapter 113

“Put down the bow, Glass,” I said. “Put it down right now!”

He had a recurve on his arm, with the arrow pointed down at a forty-five-degree angle. It’s a weapon I’ve never fired before, never gone up against. I wasn’t sure what it would take to get a shot off. That’s why my Glock was out and pointed at his chest.

One reason, anyway.

Glass froze, but only for a split second. Then his face broke into a wide grin. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. This guy was cocky all the way to the final buzzer. It was impossible not to hate the man, no matter what had happened to his son. He was a kidnapper, with the heart of a murderer.

“Well, look who it is,” he said. “Are you going to shoot me out here in the woods? So nobody will know?”

“Is that what you think?”

“You heard the man,” Sampson said. “Put the bow on the ground and step back away from it. Do it now.”

Something flashed in Glass’s eyes. I’m guessing it was the memory of Sampson’s right hook on the car ride. In any case, he crouched down slowly, still watching us, and set the bow next to his car. Then he carefully slid the quiver of arrows off his shoulder.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked. “Seems like a strange choice, all things considered.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just curious. People have been telling a lot of lies about me. I figured I might as well come out here and see what all the fuss is about.”

“Jesus,” Sampson muttered next to me.

“You know, we’ve been a little curious, too,” I told him. “Mostly about that tape recorder of yours. The one you keep in your glove compartment.”

Glass stood with his head cocked to the side, keeping his hands where I could see them, but stealing glances at my gun.

“I like to get my thoughts down sometimes,” he said. “That’s not illegal, is it?”

“Not at all,” I said. “You want to know what else isn’t illegal? Putting a transmitter the size of a match head in that little recorder of yours. Not with the right warrant, anyway.”

I reached into my pocket and took out my own recorder. Mine was a little nicer than his. It was a gift from Ned Mahoney and his technical people at the Bureau.

Then I pressed play.

“... maybe I should have just killed them while I had the chance. At least if Ethan and Zoe had died, it could have stood for something. But instead...”

Glass blinked. That’s all he did. He was as cocky as ever.

“This doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

“Rodney Glass, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Ethan and Zoe Coyle,” I said. “Get down on the ground and put your hands away from your sides.”

“We got you, Glass,” Sampson said. “We finally got you. And that’s fuckin’ classic.”

Chapter 114

Glass stayed where he was. The grin stayed on his face. “You know, there is just so much wrong with this picture. You guys are way out of your jurisdiction. Go back to Washington where you belong.”

Sampson’s Glock was out now, too. “Oh, we’re going back to Washington,” he said.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Glass rolled his eyes at us and turned halfway around like he was walking away.

“Glass—”

But it was only a cover. He swung back around fast, and as he did he pulled something out from under his jacket. A pistol in his right hand.

“Glass, don’t!”

“Glass!”

The words came out at virtually the same time that I fired. Sampson, too. Glass’s own shot went wide as he took two bullets high in the chest. We weren’t messing around. These were kill shots, and he went down hard.

I kept both hands on my gun and sited him as I stepped closer. He was out flat, with both eyes closed. There was no discernible movement. Was this finally over?

“Check him,” I told John. “Careful.”

Sampson kicked Glass’s gun away first. Then he ran his hands down Glass’s sides and each leg to check for other weapons. He put two fingers to Glass’s carotid artery. “There’s a pulse,” he said, and turned toward the car. “I’ll call it in.”

Glass groaned weakly.

“Rodney?” I said. “Can you hear me? Hang on. We’ll get you help.”

He didn’t say anything. But he wasn’t grinning anymore.

I used my knife to cut up the middle of his sweatshirt. There were two dark burn holes in his chest. As far as I could tell, neither of the bullets had passed through.

I could hear John on the radio phone. He sounded urgent. “This is Detective Sampson with Washington PD. We need immediate medical assistance. We’re on an unmarked fire road, just off of Hampton Valley...”

Even as John was talking to dispatch, he handed me a plastic take-out bag from the car. I pressed it over Glass’s chest, trying to seal the two wounds and keep them from sucking air.

Glass shook his head. He reached up with a hand on my wrist and tried to stop me.

“Doesn’t matter,” he gutted out. “No use.”

He’d obviously punctured a lung, if not both. A fine mist of blood was coming out with every labored breath. Essentially, he was drowning, and he knew it. Glass was a nurse, after all.

“My boy... shouldn’t have died,” he said. And then, unbelievably, that awful grin of his returned. “You should have died. You ruined it.”

Then, before Sampson was even off the phone, Rodney Glass let out one last, long hiss of air, and he was gone. Bizarre turnarounds happen sometimes. One second, you’re trying to stop someone from killing you, and the next you’re doing everything you can to save his life.

I’d like to say I felt something when Glass died, but the truth is, nothing came. I wasn’t glad, and I wasn’t sorry, either. After everything that had happened, it all seemed to be over incredibly quickly — just like the story Glass had been trying to tell all this time, in his own deluded way.

He never did get the ending he wanted so badly, but he got the one he deserved.