Cross (Alex Cross 12)

The car was a dark-colored sedan. Suddenly it slowed. Had I hit him?

I ran forward, stumbled over a rock, cursed loudly. I wasn’t thinking about what to do, what not to do, just that this had to end.

Then I saw Sullivan sit up tall inside the car—and he saw me coming for him. I thought I could see his mouth curl into a sneer as he raised his handgun. I ducked just as he shot. He fired again, but I was out of his sight line by inches.

The car started to move again, its engine revving loudly. I quickly holstered my gun and let him slide by me; then I dove onto the car’s trunk. I grabbed onto the sides and held tight, my face pressed against cold metal.

“Alex!” I heard Sampson yell behind me. “Get off!”

I wouldn’t—couldn’t do it.

Sullivan accelerated, but there were too many trees and boulders for him to go very fast. The car hit a rock and bucked high; both front tires left the ground. I was almost thrown off the back, but I held on somehow.

Then Sullivan braked. Hard! I looked up.

He spun around in the front seat. For a fraction of a second we stared at each other, five feet apart, no more than that. I could see blood smeared on the side of his face. He’d been hit, maybe one of my shots through the windshield.

Up came his gun again, and he fired as I jumped off the car’s rear end. I landed on the hard ground and kept rolling.

I scrambled to my knees. Drew my gun and aimed it at the car.

I shot twice through the side window. I was screaming at Sullivan—at the Butcher—whoever the hell he was. I wanted him dead, and I wanted to be the one to do it.

This has to end.

Right here, right now.

Somebody dies.

Somebody lives.

Chapter 119

I FIRED AGAIN AT THE MONSTER who had killed my wife and so many others, usually in unthinkable ways, with butcher hammers, saws, carving knives. Michael “the Butcher” Sullivan, die. Just die, you bastard. You deserve to die if anyone does on this earth.

He was climbing out of the car now.

What was happening? What was he doing?

He started to hobble in the direction of his wife and three sons. Blood was running down his shirt, seeping through, dripping onto his pants and shoes. Then Sullivan plopped down on the lawn beside his family. He hugged them to his sides.

Sampson and I moved forward at a slow run, puzzled by what was happening, unsure what to do next.

I could see streaks of blood on the boys, and all over Caitlin Sullivan. It was their father’s blood, the Butcher’s. When I got closer, I saw that he looked dazed, as if he might pass out or even die. Then he spoke to me. “She’s a good person. She didn’t know what I do, still doesn’t. These are good boys. Get them away from here, from the Mafia.”

I still wanted to kill him, and I was afraid he might live, but I lowered my gun. I couldn’t point it at his wife and his kids.

Sullivan laughed, and he suddenly raised his gun to his wife’s head. He yanked her up from the ground. “Put down the guns or I’ll kill her, Cross. I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’ll kill her. Even the boys. It’s not a problem for me. That’s who I am.”

The look on Caitlin Sullivan’s face wasn’t so much surprise or shock as terrible sadness and disappointment in this man whom she probably loved, or had loved at one time anyway. The youngest boy was screaming at his father, and it was heart-wrenching. “No, Daddy, no! Don’t hurt Mommy! Daddy, please!”

“Put the guns down!” Sullivan yelled.

What could I do? I had no choice. Not in my mind, not in my ethical universe. I dropped my Glock.

And Sullivan took a bow.

Then a shot exploded from his gun.