Cross the Line (Alex Cross 24)

Brown showed satellite photographs and diagrams of the next target. His followers listened intently. They had to. Their lives and cause depended on it.

When he was done, he opened the floor to questions, comments, and suggestions. They talked for hours, until long past midnight, altering and tweaking the plan until all of them agreed it could work despite the fact there would likely be casualties on their side for the first time. It seemed unavoidable, but no one backed out.

“When do we go?” Cass asked.

“The meeting’s in three days,” Brown said.

“That helps us,” Fender said. “It will be the dark of the moon.”

Chapter

69

Tracking potential mass murderers can be a delicate job in this day and age of instant information and programs that alert someone when certain kinds of data are accessed. This is especially true when the suspects are former employees of the Central Intelligence Agency and the U.S. Special Forces.

Everything about this particular part of the investigation, Mahoney told us, had to operate under the radar. The rest of that day and on into the next, Sampson and I focused on public records. Hobbes and Fender both had Virginia driver’s licenses with addresses that turned out to be mail-drop boxes in Fairfax County. Both paid income taxes from those addresses, and each listed his job as security consultant. Beyond that, they didn’t exist.

“These guys are pros,” Sampson said. “They leave no trace.”

“They’re probably using documented aliases and leading secret lives.”

“Paranoid way to live.”

“Unless you have someone hunting you.”

“Point taken, but I’m feeling like we’re dead in the water until Mahoney comes up with something.”

My cell phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize.

“Alex Cross,” I said.

On the other end of the line, a woman blubbered, “Who killed Nick? Were you there?”

For a moment I was confused, and then I remembered. “Dolores?”

She stopped crying and sniffed. “I loved him. I can’t…I can’t believe he’s gone. Were you there, Dr. Cross? Did he suffer? What do you think happened? Was he really part of this vigilante group?”

I was feeling pinched and unsure how to respond, but then I said, “What’s your security clearance, Dolores?”

There was a strong tremor in her voice as she said, “I helped you, Dr. Cross. Now you help me. That’s how it works in this town. I need to know.”

I thought about Mahoney’s investigative strategy and the need to limit the number of people who knew the truth and weighed that against the obvious grief and pain Dolores was suffering.

“He’s not dead.”

There was a long moment before she said in a whisper, “What?”

“You heard me. Take heart. Wait it out. There are reasons for this.”

Dolores choked, and then laughed, sniffed, and laughed again, and I imagined her wiping her tears away with her sleeve.

“I’m sure,” she said. “Oh God, you don’t know how…I was up all night after I heard. I have never felt such regret, Dr. Cross. For w

hat could have been.”

“I think you’ll get the chance to tell him that yourself before long,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said, sounding stuffy but ecstatic. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you. And if there’s anything else I can do for you, just ask.”