Nana Mama tried to look skeptical, but then she cracked up.
The doorbell rang. The driver had come for us. Nana Mama and the kids watched us through the front window as we were driven away. Dinner was off-the-charts great. So was the Chilean wine Sampson ordered.
We got to the Havana Breeze around ten thirty, took a booth, and ordered mojitos. Billie told Sampson she wanted to dance right away.
“Who can argue with that?” he replied.
They went out on the dance floor. I was nursing my drink and having a good old time watching my towering best friend try to samba with Billie, who even in high heels barely reached his chest.
“You’re something, I ever tell you that, Alex?” Bree asked.
I glanced over at my wife, who looked dazzling.
“What nonsense are you talking now, woman?” I asked.
Bree smiled, shook her head, said, “No, seriously. I don’t know how you do it, but despite all the chaos you get yourself into and out of, you find a way to keep your balance. I love the fact that even though you’re called into these horrible situations where you see the worst in people, you somehow manage to remain a fundamentally good person.”
I flashed on the hooded men behind Hala Al Dossari’s children. I felt my expression darken, and I looked away from her, saying, “I don’t know about that sometimes.”
She took my chin, turned my face back to her. “Listen to me. You, Alex Cross, are the best man I know.”
I looked into her eyes, hating the fact that I had to keep things from her, hating the fact that I had already secretly met with Father Harris twice so I could try to make sense of what Ned and I had done to prevent a nerve-gas attack on Inauguration Day.
I kissed Bree, said, “And you’re the best woman I’ve ever known.”
A hip-moving salsa tune came over the speakers.
“So let’s dance,” I said.
“You want me to dance with a man in a sling?” Bree asked.
“Uh, you said I wore it well.”
“Did I say that?” she asked, watching me.
“You did,” I said. I slid from the booth and held out my good hand for her.
My wife took it, smiled, and got up. But she hesitated at moving to the dance floor, leaned into me, and said over the pulsing music: “Alex, are you all right?”
“I have the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the club with me,” I replied. “It’s almost twelve. And we’re about to ring in the New Year in each other’s arms. How could I not be all right?”
TRAGEDY STRIKES PRIVATE’S BERLIN OFFICE—AND EXPOSES A HIDDEN PAST.
FOR AN EXCERPT,
TURN THE PAGE
At ten o’clock on a moonless September evening, Chris Schneider slipped toward a long abandoned building on the eastern outskirts of Berlin, his mind whirling with shady images and old vows.
Late thirties, and dressed in dark clothes, Schneider drew out a .40 Glock pistol and eased forward, alert to the dry rustle of the thorn bushes and goldenrod and the vines that engulfed the place.
He hesitated, staring at the silhouette of the building, recalling some of the horror that he’d felt coming here for the first time, and realizing that he’d been waiting almost three decades for this moment.
Indeed, for ten years he’d trained his mind and body.
For ten years after that he’d actively sought revenge, but to no avail.
In the past decade, Schneider had come to believe it might never happen, that his past had not only disappeared, it had died, and with it the chance to exact true payback for himself and the others.