London Bridges (Alex Cross 10)

I fell off to sleep again, in my clothes, and didn’t wake until the phone rang. I hadn’t bothered to pull the drapes and it was dark outside. I looked at the clock—Jesus—four in the morning. I guess I was finally catching up on some of the sleep I’d lost.

“Alex Cross,” I said into the phone.

“It’s Martin, Alex. I’m on my way from home. He wants us to go to the Houses of Parliament, to meet him on the sidewalk outside the Strangers’ Entrance. Shall I pick you up?”

“No. It’s faster if I walk. I’ll meet you there.” Parliament at this time of the morning? It didn’t sound good.

Maybe five minutes later I was back outside again, hurrying along Victoria Street, heading toward Westminster Abbey. I was certain that the Wolf was going to pull something and that it would hurt like hell. Did that mean all four cities were about to be hit? That wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would at this point.

“Hello, Alex. Fancy meeting you here.”

A man stepped out of the shadows. I hadn’t even noticed him standing there. Preoccupied, maybe only half awake, a little careless.

He stepped all the way out of the shadows and I saw his gun. It was pointed at my heart.

“I’m supposed to be out of the country by now. But I had this one thing I had to do. Kill you. I wanted you to see it coming, too. Just like this. I’ve had dreams about this moment. Maybe you have, too.”

The speaker was Geoffrey Shafer. He was so cocky and confident, and he clearly had the upper hand. Maybe that’s why I didn’t even think about what I should do, and I didn’t hesitate. I barreled into Shafer, waited for the thundering gunshot to follow.

It came, too. Only he didn’t hit me, at least I didn’t think so. I suspected the shot was deflected to the side. Didn’t matter. I blocked Shafer hard into the building behind him. I saw surprise and pain in his eyes, and that was the motivation I needed. Also his gun had gone flying in the scuffle.

I hit him hard with a roundhouse into his midsection, probably below the belt, maybe a nut cruncher. I hoped so. He grunted and I knew I’d hurt him. But I wanted to hurt Shafer more, for all kinds of reasons. I wanted to kill him right there in the street. I crunched another shot to his stomach and I could feel it go weak under my fist. Then I went for the bastard’s head. I slammed a hard right hand into his temple. Then a left to his jaw. He was hurt badly, but he wouldn’t go down.

“That all you got, Cross? Here’s something for you,” he snarled.

He had a switchblade and I started to step away—but then I realized that he was hurt and that this was my best chance. I hit Shafer again, on his nose. Broke it! He still wouldn’t go down and he swiped out viciously with the knife. He sliced my arm, and I realized how crazy I was, how lucky not to be hurt, or killed.

I had a chance to reach for my own gun and I pulled it out of the holster on the back of my belt.

Shafer charged at me, and I’m not sure if he saw the gun. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t be armed in London.

“No!” I yelled. It was all I had time to say.

I fired point-blank into his chest. He fell back against the wall and slowly slid to the ground.

His face was nothing but shock, as maybe he realized that he was mortal after all. “Fucker, Cross,” he muttered. “Bastard.”

I bent down over him. “Who is the Wolf? Where is he?”

“Go to hell,”

he said, and then he died, and went there instead.

Chapter 69

LONDON BRIDGE IS falling down,

Falling down, falling down.

Minutes after the Weasel died on the streets of London, his old army mate, Henry Seymour, drove an eleven-year-old white van through the night—and he was thinking that he had no fear of death. None at all. He welcomed it, actually.

At a little past 4:30, traffic was already heavy on the Westminster Bridge. Seymour parked as close to it as he could, then walked back and rested his arms on the parapet, looking west. He loved the sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament from the grand old bridge, always had, ever since he was a small boy visiting London on day trips from Manchester, where he’d been raised.

He was noticing everything this morning. On the opposite bank of the Thames he saw the London Eye, which he thoroughly despised. The Thames was as dark as the early-morning sky. The smell in the air was slightly salty and fishy. Rows of plum-colored tourist buses sat idle near the bridge, waiting for the day’s first passengers to arrive in just an hour or so.

Isn’t going to happen, though. Not on this day of days. Not if old Henry has his way this morning.

Wordsworth had written of the view from Westminster Bridge (he thought it was Wordsworth): “Earth has not anything to show more fair.” Henry Seymour always remembered that one, though he wasn’t much for poets, or what they had to say.