Kill Alex Cross (Alex Cross 18)

“Sister, listen to me.” The woman took a step back now and lowered the light. Her voice was calm. Sisterly. “You placed an overseas call. One that you meant to be intercepted, isn’t that so?”

Hala stared up at the two strangers, but it was impossible to gauge their faces in the dark. It was also hard to think clearly. They hadn’t eaten or even had a sip of water in over twenty-four hours. Still, it was hard to argue with the information these people had. And what option was there, anyway?

“All right,” she said, and put the butt of the Sig into the man’s outstretched hand. “But I’m going to want that back.”

“Of course,” the man said.

The Al Dossaris were made to stand and lift their shirts next, to show there were no wires or listening devices of any kind. Then they were each frisked.

“Just a precaution,” the woman assured them. When her hand passed over the pocket in Hala’s skirt, she took the two cyanide capsules as well. “You won’t be needing these anymore,” she said. “You’re heroes. Both of you. Everyone in The Family honors your name and what you’ve done.”

For the first time in days, Hala smiled.

A black Toyota 4Runner was waiting at the top of the alley. In the streetlight, Hala saw that the two strangers both had olive skin and dark eyes. The woman’s hair was bleached blond, and the man’s head was shaved to a rough stubble, his scalp tattooed with an Arabian falcon at the back. In their tailored black clothing, they looked as if they could have just come from one of Washington’s trendier clubs. For all Hala knew, they had. She pushed Tariq into the backseat, then got in beside him.

“My husband’s been shot in the hand by the American police,” she said as soon as they’d pulled away. “I’m going to need antibiotics, disinfectant —”

“Here.” The woman handed a plastic grocery bag over the seat. “This will have to do for the moment. We need to get you out of Washington before we do anything else.”

When Hala looked inside the bag, she almost wept with relief. There were bottles of water, chocolate bars, a jar of almonds, a first-aid kit, and a small pharmacy bottle of amoxicillin. Two weeks ago, she might have wondered how all of this was even possible, but she’d learned — just like the Americans — never to underestimate the power and resources of The Family.

She took Tariq’s good hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. If he’d had his way back in that disgusting alley, she knew, he would have been dead by now.

“Thank you,” she said to the tw

o in front.

“No,” the other woman said. “Thank The Family. And thank Allah.”

MAHONEY DROVE. SAMPSON sat in front. I took the backseat with Glass, who was as high as a kite by now. His eyes occasionally rolled up into the whites.

I waited until we were out on the Beltway. Then I reached over and pulled the silver tape off his face.

“Wha’ the hell’s goin’ on here?” he started right in, running his words together like a drunk. “You assholes are in so much trouble —”

Sampson reached right across the seat and popped Glass hard, upside the head. It must have hurt because it immediately stunned him into silence.

“You listen first, dumbass,” John said with a finger in his face. “Then you talk.”

Glass hunkered down, trying to get away, but he seemed more pissed off than scared. That was the scopolamine, doing its thing.

“Wha’ever,” he said.

“Rodney?” I said. “Listen to me. I’m going to ask you about Ethan and Zoe Coyle. That’s our only subject here. Do you know where they are?”

He smacked his lips a few times. His eyes fluttered. “Wha’d you gimme? Is this thiopental? My mouth’s like a sandbox.”

“Glass! Where are Ethan and Zoe?” I said. “They’re in a basement somewhere, right? There’s a dirt floor. What else?”

“I dunno know … what you’re talking about,” he slurred.

It’s not that scopolamine is a truth serum, per se. But cognitively speaking, lying is a lot more complex than telling the truth. The drug just makes it that much harder to do. My best bet was to keep coming at him with simple, direct questions. Eventually he might slip up.

“Ethan and Zoe are in a basement somewhere,” I said again. “Isn’t that right, Rodney?”

His head lolled back and he swallowed several more times.

“Why should I tell you?” he said. John reached for him, but I put up a hand to stop him.