Four Blind Mice (Alex Cross 8)

“Do you know why?”

“I might. You’ve heard of the blue wall of silence with the police. In the army, it’s the same, only the wall is gray. It’s higher, thicker, and has been here for a hell of a long time.”

I had to ask another question. I couldn’t hold back. “Are you Foot Soldier, Colonel? If you are, we need your help.”

Handler didn’t seem to understand. “What the hell is Foot Soldier? What are you talking about?”

I told him that a mysterious someone had been periodically slipping me information, including his name. “Maybe you thought it was time we met face-to-face,” I said.

“No, I may be a source for you now. But it’s only because of Bob and Barbara Bennett. I’m not Foot Soldier. I never contacted you. You came to see me. Remember?”

As convincing as he sounded, I didn’t know whether to believe him, but I had to pursue the identity of Foot Soldier. I asked Handler for names, others who might be helpful in the investigation. He gave me a few — some Americans, even a couple of South Vietnamese who might be willing to help.

Han

dler spoke from the darkened backseat of the sedan. “I don’t know who’s been contacting you, but I’m not so sure that I’d trust whoever it was. Right about now, I’m not sure that I’d trust anyone.”

“Not even you, Colonel?”

“Especially not me,” he said, and laughed. “Hell, I’m a college professor.”

I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw a single pair of headlights approaching. I hadn’t noticed much traffic so far, and most of it had been speeding in the opposite direction, heading south.

Suddenly Sampson raised his voice and turned to Handler. “Why don’t you tell us what’s really going on, Colonel? How many more have to die? What do you know about these murders?”

That’s when I heard a gunshot and the sound of glass shattering. The car from behind was already on us.

My eyes darted and I saw a driver, then a gunman leaning out the window of the backseat.

“Get down!” I yelled at Handler and Sampson. “Cover up!”

More shots came from the pursuing car. I violently swerved the wheel to the left. We skidded hard across double-yellow lines, headed for the mountain. Handler yelled, “Watch it, Jesus! Watch it!”

We hit a straight part of the highway, thank God. I stomped on the accelerator, picking up some speed. But I couldn’t lose the other car.

He was still in the right-hand lane, but I was in the wrong lane, the one meant for oncoming traffic.

Sampson had gotten to his gun and had returned fire. More shots struck our car.

The other sedan stayed right with us. I couldn’t shake loose. I was doing over ninety on a twisty road built for fifty or sixty. On my left side was a shoulder and then the mountain wall; on my right, across the other lane, a sheer drop down toward the Hudson River and certain death.

I was going too fast to see faces in the other car. Who the hell was it?

Suddenly I stomped on the brakes, and our car skidded badly. Then it fishtailed. We wound up facing the opposite direction, south.

I took off that way. Back toward West Point.

I floored it again, got back up to ninety in an awful hurry.

I passed two cars heading north, both blaring their horn at me. I couldn’t blame them. I was over the double line and racing about forty miles per hour over the speed limit. They must have thought I was drunk or mad, or both.

When I was sure no one was following, I slowed down.

“Handler? Colonel?” I called out.

He didn’t answer. Sampson hung over the backseat to check on him. “He’s been hit, Alex.” I pulled over to the side of the road and turned on the interior light.

“How bad? Is he alive?”