Cross (Alex Cross 12)

A classic line and a dynamite delivery.

Now it was Melinda’s turn to say her piece, and she decided to shout her answer.

“He’s the one who was supposed to kill me, Jerry! You paid to have me murdered, you miserable piece of shit! You are total worthless garbage, and you’re a coward too. So I paid him more to have you hit. That’s what this is, honey. I guess you could call him a switch-hitter,” she said, and laughed at her own joke.

Nobody else did—not Jerry and not Sullivan. It was kind of funny actually, but not laugh-out-loud funny. Or maybe her delivery was wrong, a touch too harsh, a little too much of the truth in it.

The husband jumped back into the TV room and tried to pull shut the door, but it wasn’t even a contest.

The Butcher was quick and had a foot, a work boot, wedged in the doorway. Then he put his shoulder to it and followed Jerry right inside.

Jerry, the original contractor, was a tall, potbellied CEO- or CFO-type dude who was balding up top. The den smelled of his body odor and a cigar smoldering in an ashtray by the couch. A two-ball putter and a couple of Titleist spheroids lay on the rug. A man’s man, this guy who had paid to have his wife killed and now was practicing his putting to show he didn’t have the yips.

“I’ll pay you more than she can!” Jerry squealed. “Whatever that bitch paid, I’ll double it! I swear to God! The money’s there. It’s yours.”

Wow—this is getting better and better, thought Sullivan. It brought new meaning to a game like Jeopardy!—or Let’s Make a Deal.

“You total piece of crap!” Melinda snarled at her husband from the doorway. Then she ran in and smacked him in the chops. Sullivan still thought that she was a cool lady in a lot of ways, though not in some others.

He looked at the husband again. Then he looked at Melinda. Interesting couple, to be sure.

“I agree with Melinda,” said the Butcher. “But Jerry does have a point, Mel. Maybe we should have a little auction here. You think? Let’s talk this out like adults. No more hitting or name-calling.”

Chapter 112

TWO HOURS LATER, the auction was complete, and Michael Sullivan was driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Lexus. The car could move reasonably well, and the ride was smooth as a baby’s ass, or maybe he was just feeling good.

There were a few loose details to work out, but the job was done. Let’s Make a Deal had netted him three hundred and fifty thousand, all of it wired into an account at the Union Bank of Switzerland. Truth be told, he hadn’t felt this financially secure in a while, though he’d probably burned his Boston contact for the job. Maybe he’d have to move the family again too. Or maybe it was time for him to break free and set off on his own, something he’d been thinking about a lot.

It was probably worth it—three hundred fifty grand for a day’s work. Jerry Steiner had been the winning bidder, but the

n he tapped the dumb, obnoxious bastard anyway. Melinda was a different story. He liked her, didn’t want to hurt her. But what choice did he have? Leave her around to talk? So he made it painless—one to the back of Mel’s head. Then a couple of pictures to memorialize her pretty face for his collection.

Anyway, he was singing a Stones ballad that he’d always liked, “Wild Horses,” when he came around the bend in the road. There was his house on the hill, right where he’d left it.

And—what the hell was this?

Mistake?

But whose mistake?

He shut off his headlights around the next little crook in the road. Then he eased into a cul-de-sac, where he had a better view of his house and the grounds.

Man, he couldn’t catch a break lately. Couldn’t outrun his past no matter how far away he went.

He’d spotted them right away, in a dark-blue car, maybe a Dodge, with the grille pointed toward the house like a gun. Two men inside that he could see. Waiting for him, no doubt about that.

Mistake.

Theirs!

But who the hell were these two guys he had to kill now?

Chapter 113

WELL, IT DIDN’T MUCH MATTER. They were two dead men—dead over nothing, dead because they were miserable screwups at their jobs. Dead men watching his house, come to kill him and his family.

Sullivan had a three-year-old Winchester in the trunk of the car, which he kept cleaned, oiled, and ready to go. He popped the trunk, took out the long gun. Then he loaded it up with hollow-points.