The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  “Was it smoked, then?”

  “Yes,” Aaron says. “But that’s not what went wrong. In the last few minutes, her Nellis partner, he was fighting the flu, and he had to leave to hit the latrine, otherwise he would have shit his drawers. That meant Captain Cornwall was in charge. And she followed the orders. She pulled the trigger and destroyed the SUV.”

  Rosaria says, “A foul-up then, was it?”

  Aaron sighs. “Yeah. Bad intelligence. It seems there was a family in that SUV…going to a wedding. And there was some old feud between the father of that family and another tribe, and they used us…used us to do a contract killing. That’s what happened.”

  “Crap,” Rosaria says.

  “But that wasn’t the worst part.”

  Rosaria says, “There was a worse part?”

  Aaron turns, his skin looking pale in the artificial lights. “Oh, yeah. A couple of days later, it came out what really happened. Although there was never an official report, Captain Cornwall lost it, lost it bad.”

  “How?”

  Aaron says softly, “She said, ‘Damn you all, I killed an innocent family out there, and now they’ll be looking for revenge, and they’ll be coming after my family for it.’”

  “Crap,” Rosaria says again.

  “Yes,” Aaron says. “And she finished it up by saying, ‘And if they come after my family, I’ll be coming after all of you.’”

  CHAPTER 28

  TOM CORNWALL’S heart is pounding harder than it ever has in his life. In those tight times doing stories overseas, with explosions, with the thud-thud-thud of automatic rifle fire, and seeing black-clad armed figures come toward him, he has always kept a steady calm, doing his job.

  Not today, not here.

  His hand is on Denise’s shoulder as he peers again through the open door. He squats down and holds her thin shoulders tight. “Now,” he whispers. “Listen, and listen to me good, Denise. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a game. This is serious. Do you understand?”

  She nods her head, biting her lower lip, her eyes red-rimmed. But Denise seems to be listening.

  “We’re going out now, all right? We’re going out together…but if something happens, if the bad men come, you run. All right? Run hard, run fast, and get out of here. Find a grown-up, a woman, and tell her what happened. Tell her to call the police and take you someplace safe.”

  “Daddy, I’m so scared…” The tears are trickling down her cheeks.

  “Me, too,” he admits. “But I’m counting on you, honey. You were brave, putting the gum in the lock. But you have to be brave again. And if I tell you to run, run!”

  He stands up, takes her hand, and they’re out the door.

  Tom takes two steps, looks to the left and the right. Where now?

  Move, he thinks. Don’t be frozen by indecision.

  Move.

  He takes his daughter’s hand, starts walking quickly. They’re both in bare feet, and if they’re someplace warm, he needs to get them both outside. If this is somewhere in the tropics, being outside in bare feet will fit in. But not in a building’s basement.

  More pallets, more construction equipment. There’s a corridor to the right and he takes Denise down the corridor and—

  It ends in a jumble of piles of Sheetrock and metal frames.

  Damn it!

  He backs out and there are voices, and he picks her up and pulls her behind a pallet of shoulder-high cardboard boxes, wrapped in light-green plastic.

  “Shhh,” Tom says, “stay quiet.”

  It seems like two men walk by, arguing in a foreign language, and Tom can’t believe it, but he recognizes a couple of the words the men are using.

  Pashto.

  The language of people in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

  What the hell?

  The voices fade away.

  “Come on,” he whispers, and he holds her hand, and when Denise shrieks, it hits him like a blow to the back of his head.

  CHAPTER 29

  GOOD GOD, that shriek…Tom thinks it’ll be a miracle if no one within a mile has noticed it.

  “Shhh, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?” he says, and Denise goes, “Ow, ow, ow…I stepped on something!”

  She lifts her right leg and there’s blood on the bottom of her foot, and he sees a discarded piece of scrap metal his girl has stepped on.

  “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” and he has a flash of memory from two years back, in northern Syria, after a mortar attack, a poor wounded Kurdish fighter saying the same thing, It hurts, it hurts, and Tom had the brutal realization back then, Well, better you than me, pal, as he ran to a trench for safety.

  There is no running here, no safety.

  This is his little girl. He can’t run away, can’t leave her.

  “Shhh,” he whispers. “Please, be quiet. Let me see.”

  He gently puts her down, examines her right foot, notes a widening splotch of blood. He presses his handkerchief against it, removes it, tries to wipe away more of the blood, as Denise moans and tightens her tear-filled eyes.

  “Daddy…”

  “C’mon,” he says, “we’re still leaving. I’ll carry you.”

  He picks up Denise and she squeezes him tight, burrows her head into his shoulder, and he starts walking fast, knowing it’s only up to him now, that if things go bad, he can’t rely on Denise running to safety with that cut on her foot.

  He has to make it.

  He has to.

  Tom catches a smell of salt air, maneuvers past piles of long plastic pipe, sees light up ahead.

  Move, move, move.

  The light is coming from an open roll-up door.

  Open to the outside.

  His bare feet slap on the concrete as he kicks up his speed. Denise is as light as a feather. He has no real plan, just the base, raw emotion of getting his girl out of here, into the daylight, and finding someplace safe, any place.

  “Yes,” he whispers, and now they’re outside.

  A parking lot.

  Dump trucks.

  Two white vans with tools and construction equipment inside. He quickly thinks of checking to see if the vans have their keys inside, but both vans are occupied, one by a guy drinking a cup of coffee, the other by an older guy checking his cell phone.

  He keeps on moving, slowing down. Running attracts attention. Can’t do that.

  Denise lifts her head. “Daddy?” and her voice is stronger.

  “Almost there, hon, almost there.”

  He gets them out of the parking lot, and now they’re in a set of little green parks, walkways, other parking lots. Palm trees. Spiky bushes. Men and women and children walking around, almost all in beach gear. His heart is thumping so hard he’s sure that Denise can feel the vibration in her chest.

  Where now?

  The beachgoers are looking at them with open curiosity, and it’s easy to see why, for they’re not dressed for rest and relaxation, haven’t bathed in a while, and the panic on both of their faces is probably as clear as a siren cutting through the night.

  “Almost there,” he whispers. “Almost…”

  But where the hell is “there”?

  There are four- or five-story resort-type buildings, with brass numbers on the doorways, but if they are in some foreign land, can he waste the time to try to talk to whoever’s on duty, to find a phone, to find someone in authority?

  Now they are on a smooth paved road, curving to the right, that leads to a metal gate and a high stone wall, but the gate is open iron and there is a crowded street out there, with lots of pedestrians and traffic, and yes, that’s where they are going. Get lost in the crowd. Find out where the hell they are, find a phone, or a cell phone, or a goddamn telegraph station.

  Next to the large gate is a smaller opening allowing pedestrians in and out, and at the gate is a black SUV with dark windows, and the gate starts rattling to the right.

  Fine, he thinks, fine.

  We walk past the SUV, get through the pedes
trian gate, and we’re out, we’re free.

  Tom kisses the top of Denise’s head.

  “Just a few seconds, hon, just a few seconds more.”

  “Daddy…my foot really, really hurts…”

  “I know, I know,” he says, and now the weight of his ten-year-old girl has suddenly materialized, and he realizes how damn bone-tired he is, but seeing the open street out there and the lines of people…

  Make it, he thinks. We’re going to make it.

  Just a few yards more.

  He can hear the people out there talking as they walk by, the rumble of the traffic, a few horns.

  Just a couple of yards more.

  He squeezes Denise’s waist, hunches her up more so her legs are wrapped around his waist, and then—

  The rear passenger door to the SUV suddenly opens up.

  He dodges to the left, and a man is blocking his way, smiling.

  Pelayo Abboud is blocking his way, wearing a light-blue linen suit, crisp white shirt, a wide smile on his face, holding a glass Coca-Cola bottle in his beefy hand, a straw jutting out.

  He lifts up the bottle in a salute.

  “Are you sure I can’t offer you both a drink?” he asks. “You two look very, very thirsty.”

  CHAPTER 30

  TROOPER CLAY Hancock from District Two, Troop C, of the Tennessee Highway Patrol spots a black Jeep Wrangler with Virginia license plates pulled over on the side of southbound I-75 and slows down his white Chevrolet Caprice. He switches on the overhead light bar and pulls in right behind the Wrangler, lifts up his Motorola radio handset, and calls in the traffic stop.

  He waits for just a second, to see if anyone’s in the area. Nope, the near grassy strip is clear, which means the driver hasn’t let a passenger out for an unofficial rest stop. There also doesn’t seem to be anyone lurking in a nearby grove of trees. The driver has both hands on the steering wheel and is looking back at him via the Jeep’s rearview mirror.

  All right, he thinks. Let’s see what’s what.

  He picks up his round campaign hat, steps outside, and tugs it on. It looks routine—maybe the driver needed a break, or to check the GPS, or heard something funny from the engine—but Hancock knows no traffic stop is ever routine. Last year he pulled over an RV with Kentucky plates that was weaving back and forth on this same stretch of highway, and the little old lady said she was just tired and needed a cup of coffee.

  Maybe she was tired, but a quick search revealed about a hundred pounds of plastic-wrapped weed hidden in the RV’s rear storage unit.

  He approaches the Wrangler and presses four fingers on the Jeep’s rear, leaving his fingerprints behind. If something untoward were to happen in the next few minutes, at least his fellow troopers would have forensic proof that he had stopped this Jeep.

  Not being paranoid, he thought. Just being careful.

  Careful highway patrolmen live to go home at end of shift.

  A Tennessee highway patrolman is pulling his cruiser right up behind my Jeep Wrangler, and thoughts and options are rattling through my mind like an avalanche of rocks and stones.

  Relax, I think, just relax. Keep the hands on the steering wheel. Act calm and courteous. These guys are professionals, and they have a sixth sense if anything appears odd or unusual.

  My goal now is to get a ticket for whatever Tennessee state law I may be violating and get going, but above all, don’t let him search the Jeep. I’m not sure what the law here is concerning driving with two concealed firearms, but I’m sure it’s not a laugh and a lollipop and being sent on one’s way.

  I lower the window and put my hands back up on my steering wheel.

  The highway patrolman comes up and stands at a distance from the door, so I have to crane my neck to look at him. He’s a male, early thirties, and his lean face is impassive. He has on dark-green trousers and a light-tan shirt with dark-green pocket flaps. With his round campaign hat firmly on his big head, he looks like he could be an Army drill instructor in his spare time.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” he says. “Are you all right? Is there a problem?”

  “No, sir, no problem,” I say, giving him a sweet smile. “I’ve been driving for a while and just needed a moment to stretch my legs. Sorry if I shouldn’t have parked here.”

  He peers in, sees my duffel bag in the rear, maps in the seat next to me.

  “Are you traveling by yourself, ma’am?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  He steps back, and I think, All right, that seems to be it, and then he leans back in.

  “Could I see your license and registration, please?”

  Hancock sees the woman is in her midthirties, dark hair, tanned skin, and she’s smiling and being cooperative, but something just doesn’t seem right to him. He can’t put his finger on it, but something just seems…off.

  He had been ready to send her on her way, but now he wants to dig a bit.

  “License and registration?” she repeats. “Certainly. My registration is in my glove box, my license is in my purse.”

  “Very well, ma’am,” he says, stepping back and putting his hand on his holstered .357 Glock Model 31 with fifteen rounds. “Take your time.”

  Which is a very polite way of saying no fast movements, keep your hands visible, and if this Jeep had been filled with skinny tattooed meth heads, that’s exactly what he would have said.

  So why is he talking this way to this single woman?

  Because his gut tells him to do it.

  He keeps a close eye on her hands as she opens a large black leather carrying bag, and she takes out a small purse, snaps it open, and passes over her Virginia driver’s license and an Armed Forces identification card.

  He puts them aside and watches very, very carefully as she opens the glove box—always being ready in case something comes out besides a slip of paper—and yes, out comes a little green plastic folder, and from that, she pulls out the Jeep’s registration.

  Now it makes sense, as he examines the two IDs and the registration, all in the name of Amy Cornwall. There have been lots of vehicle stops where Hancock had to wait while the driver dug and dug through a pile of papers, napkins, and ketchup containers, looking for his or her registration, like some impatient and deranged archaeologist.

  At least this gal has her act together.

  He holds up the paperwork and says, “Just give me a couple of minutes, ma’am, check things out, and then I’ll get you on your way.”

  From my side-view mirror I watch him amble back into his cruiser, and right now, lots of options, plans, and arguments are bouncing around my increasingly overwhelmed mind.

  The biggest problem facing me is if I’m listed in the National Crime Information Center system as an Army deserter. That only happens after I’ve been AWOL for thirty days or more, but with that damn Afghanistan investigation hanging over my head like a hundred-pound sack of cement, that might have changed. I’ve also blown off a meeting with a CID investigator and pissed off my CO—Lieutenant Colonel Denton—so who knows if I’m in the system or not. Having angered the official Army police and my commanding officer might just have put me in the NCIC system last night.

  And if I am…that hunk of a highway patrolman is going to come back and arrest me after he runs my identification.

  I will not allow that to happen.

  CHAPTER 31

  I KEEP on staring back at the man who unwittingly now has my future and that of my kidnapped family in his hands.

  All right, I keep thinking, suppose I’m not in the NCIC system, but he’s a suspicious sort, and he may want me to consent to a search of the Jeep. If he does that—and unless I tell him first—he’s going to find my Ruger .357 revolver and my 9mm SIG Sauer pistol.

  That will certainly get his attention, and not in a good way.

  I keep my hands on the steering wheel.

  I didn’t have to give him my Armed Forces identification, but I wanted to appeal to his patriotic nature. Sometimes it works, and I�
�ve heard stories of off-duty guys and gals using their uniforms and ID to get free upgrades at hotels and airline counters. Considering what we get paid and how we’re treated, that’s a perk I can’t argue with.

  But it doesn’t look like I’m getting any perks today.

  I keep staring at the rearview mirror. It looks like the bulky highway patrolman is talking into a cell phone. Looking for guidance from a supervisor? Did a BOLO come up on me in the NCIC system already?

  A cold chunk of lead has just formed in my chest.

  I will not be detained today.

  I will not be arrested today.

  I will not be delayed.

  I keep my left hand on the steering wheel and slide my right hand into my open dispatch case, put my hand around the smooth metal of the Ruger revolver.

  A hateful decision, but one I’ve just made.

  I don’t know this cop, but I do know he won’t keep me from my mission.

  Hancock is running Amy Cornwall’s driver’s license through the NCIC system via the cruiser’s computer, and she comes up clean. No outstanding warrants or summonses.

  Fine.

  His personal cell phone rings, and he glances at the number, recognizes his home number.

  “Hey, hon,” he answers, “what’s up?”

  His wife, Lucille—whom everyone calls LuLu—says, “God, Clay, I’m sorry to bother you, but the pharmacy just called. The cough syrup for Kimmy’s ready to be picked up. You think you can swing by when your shift’s over?”

  “Sure, Lu, I can do that,” he says, keeping an eye on the black Wrangler and the driver.

  Something is wrong.

  He keeps his eyes on the Jeep and says, “How’s her cough?”

  “Pretty rough,” his wife says. “For a six-year-old, I can’t believe how loud she is. Maybe the three of us can get some sleep tonight if that syrup works.”