Cross (Alex Cross 12)

Chapter 94

MICHAEL SULLIVAN WAS BREAKING the time-honored customs and unwritten rules of the Family, and he knew it. And he understood the consequences all too well. But they had started this foolishness, hadn’t they? They’d come after him, and they’d done it in front of his kids.

Now he was going to finish it, or maybe he would die trying. Either way, it had been a helluva ride for him, helluva ride.

Ten thirty on a Saturday morning and he was driving a UPS truck that he’d hijacked less than twenty minutes earlier. First FedEx, now UPS, so at least he was an equal opportunity jacker. The driver was in back, trying his best to recover from a slit throat.

There was a picture of his girlfriend, or wife or whatever she was, on the dash, and the lady was almost as ugly as the dying driver. The Butcher couldn’t have cared less about the incidental murder. He felt nothing for the stranger, and truthfully, everyone was a stranger to him, even his own family most of the time.

“Hey, you okay back there?” he called over the rumbling, rattling noise of the truck.

No answer, nothing from the back.

“I thought so, buddy. Don’t worry about it—the mail and whatnot must go through. Rain, snow, sleet, death, whatever.”

He pulled the big brown delivery truck up in front of a medium-size ranch house in Roslyn. Then he grabbed a couple of bulky delivery boxes off the metal shelf behind the driver’s seat. He headed to the front door, walking fast, hurrying like the Boys in Brown always do on TV, even whistling a happy tune.

The Butcher pressed the doorbell. Waited. Still whistling. Playing the part perfectly, he thought.

A man’s voice came over the intercom. “What? Who’s there? Who is it?”

“UPS. Package.”

“Just leave it.”

“Need a signature, sir.”

“I said, leave it, okay. Signature’s not a problem. Leave the package. Bye-bye.”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t do that. Real sorry. Just doing my job here.”

Then nothing more over the intercom. Thirty seconds went by, forty-five. Might need a plan B here.

Finally, a very large man in a black Nike sweatsuit came to the door. He was physically impressive, which made sense since he’d once played football for the New York Jets and Miami Dolphins.

“Are you hard of hearing?” he asked. “I told you to leave the package on the porch. Capisce?”

“No, sir, I’m Irish American actually. I just can’t leave these valuable packages without a signature.”

The Butcher handed over the electronic pad, and the big ex-footballer angrily scrawled a name with the marker.

The Butcher checked it—Paul Mosconi, who just happened to be a mob soldier married to John Maggione’s little sister. This was so against the rules, but you know what, were there really any rules anymore? In the mob, government, churches, the whole messed-up society?

“Nothing against you personally,” said the Butcher.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

“You’re dead, Paul Mosconi. And the big boss is going to be really pissed at me. By the way, I used to be a Jets fan. Now I go for New England.”

Then the Butcher stooped down and slashed the dead man’s face over and over again with his scalpel. Then he cut his throat, crisscross, right on the Adam’s apple.

A woman popped her head into the living room, dark hair still in curlers, and she started to scream. “Pauli! Pauli, oh my God! Oh, Pauli, oh, Pauli! No, no, no!”

The Butcher did his best little bow for the distrau