I, Alex Cross (Alex Cross 16)

“Sir, I know what I’m doing. I really do. I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you? You’re walking me right into them!”

Cormorant shoved his radio hand into his pocket, and his voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Haven’t I proven anything to you by now? For God’s sake, Teddy, get it together. They just want to ask you some questions.”

/> “Why don’t I believe that, Dan? This is bad. This is very bad, isn’t it?”

“Listen to me.” The agent’s eyes traveled to the farthest exit and back again. “The only viable way out of this is straight through those doors. We either keep moving or they’re coming in after you. There’s nowhere to run, Teddy. If they come in here, it will be an embarrassment for the president.”

He could see them now, a collection of dark suits out on the River Terrace—including that MPD detective who had been dogging him. Alex Cross. The one who should have been dead and disposed of a long time ago.

“Sir, we have to go.”

“Don’t rush me, goddamnit! Are you forgetting? I’m Teddy Vance.”

Teddy straightened his tie and took a fluted glass off a passing waiter’s tray. It was a struggle not to down it all at once. Just a swallow for now, and another casual smile for the room, while the blood pounded in his ears.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s do this. I can certainly answer a few of their questions.”

Chapter 112

DAN CORMORANT WAS smooth and efficient, I’ll give him that much. He disappeared into the Grand Foyer and reappeared about forty-five seconds later with Theodore Vance at his side. Everything seemed to be right on track so far.

Then Vance stopped before they actually reached the door. He turned to say something to the Secret Service agent. Cormorant pocketed his mic. This wasn’t good, not good at all.

Next to me, Angela Riordan cupped a palm over her earpiece, trying to hear. “Dan, what are you doing?”

He didn’t respond.

“Cormorant, keep it moving. Dan! Get Montana out of there now,” said Riordan.

She motioned to Agent Ridge that he should go in, but then pulled him back when Vance turned on his own and started to come our way. He was looking right at us now.

Was he Zeus? According to Hannah Willis he was. And I believed her.

Cormorant followed a step behind, with three other members of the spousal detail just ahead and on either side of the First Gentleman. An agent at the door pushed it open and stepped out first, then held it for Vance to come through.

The next happened in a blink. One of those instants that comes and goes but is photographed in the mind, then never, ever forgotten.

Cormorant was mostly obscured behind Vance, and I just saw the back of his jacket flip up.

My Glock came out an instant later, but already it was too late.

The .357 rose in Cormorant’s hand, and he fired into the back of Theodore Vance’s head. Vance flew forward and landed hard on the cement outside.

Chaos followed. Incomprehension. Terror. Disbelief. Almost immediately, Cormorant took some number of simultaneous shots from the agents around him. Within seconds, he was down too and the place had erupted into sheer madness.

Hundreds of people were screaming and trying to run for the exits. Right away, the foyer drapes started to close, cutting off the scene of the shootings.

As they did, I spotted a tight cluster of Secret Service agents, running with what I assumed was the president toward whatever nearest hard room they had set up. I wondered if she knew her husband had been shot.

Riordan was shouting into her radio, trying to be heard over the other noise. “Shots fired! Montana is down; I repeat, Montana is down! We need an advanced life support team to the River Terrace. North side. Now!”

Teddy Vance’s detail had formed two circles around him, one close on the ground and the other facing out, weapons drawn. Mahoney and I spread out as part of a wider perimeter.

Already, the press corps was pushing in at the edges, frantic to get their stories, to get anything. Cops were everywhere, sirens were blaring in the street, and there was deafening shouting coming from all sides, all at once.

It was too early for official theories, but I thought I knew what we’d just witnessed. Cormorant was a veteran agent, a patriot, at least in his own mind. He’d waited for Teddy Vance to clear the building, then fired one lethal bullet, knowing he’d take kill shots in return. It was a suicide as much as an assassination—the last act in a bloody cover-up and, in Agent Cormorant’s own way, the last piece of damage control he could offer his president.