Cross Country (Alex Cross 14)

They had the number of the cell phone I had borrowed. How did that happen? I wondered.

Not that it was impossible to get—but how had a gang of hoodlums from Nigeria managed to do it?

I wasn’t inclined to conspiracy theories, but it was getting harder and harder to deny the obvious. Someone wanted to know what I had found out in Africa. And to shut me up for good.

Maybe a minute after the call ended, I walked out on the front porch, which I’d decided to keep dark for now. I still couldn’t see anyone watching on the street.

Were they here? Had they left already? Did they have Nana and the kids in a nearby truck or van?

I didn’t want to play the target any longer than I had to. I hurried down the steps and got into the Mercedes—the family car that I had bought for safety.

I started it up, then began to back out of the driveway, feeling the car’s power. I felt like I needed that—the help of some external force.

The cell phone shrilled—and I stopped.

“You continue to be a fool.” It was the older male again. I wanted to curse him out, but I said nothing. He might have my family. That was a hard thing to hope for, but I did anyway. I had to hope for something.

He laughed into the phone.

“What’s funny?” I asked him.

“You are. Don’t you want to know which way to turn out of your driveway?” he asked.

“Which way?”

“Make a left. Then you follow my directions straight to hell.”

Chapter 138

HE STAYED ON the line as I drove along Fifth Street but didn’t say much of anything—and nothing to help me figure out what I should do next. I was trying to think things through, to make some kind of plan—anything that might work, maybe even a wild hunch.

“Let me speak to my family,” I spoke again.

“Why should I?”

I thought about stepping on the brakes, making a stand here, but he had every advantage right now.

“Which way?” I said.

“Make a right, next corner.”

I did as I was told.

“The fight in Africa is not your fight, white man!” I listened to the Tiger spitting rage as I drove along Malcolm X Avenue in Southeast. “You should drive faster,” he said, as if he were right there in the front seat, watching me.

He directed me onto I-295 heading south toward Maryland. I’d been on that road countless times before, but it seemed unreal and unfamiliar tonight.

Next, I merged onto 95 and then Route 210 and followed it for nearly fifteen miles, which seemed much farther than that.

Eventually I found myself on 425.

His voice went low. “Let me tell you something that’s true. You are only coming to collect the bodies. You want the bodies, don’t you?”

“I want my family back,” I said. He only laughed at that.

I said little more to the Tiger unless he asked me a direct question, and he didn’t seem to care. Maybe he wanted to hear himself talk.

I needed to put the rational part of my mind in another place. So I listened to his threats, his cruel insults, but I just let them flow over me. It wasn’t hard, because I was numb anyway. I was here, but I wasn’t.