Cross Country

by James Patterson

  I turned to the relevant manuscript page and read: “There are gang leaders for hire all through Nigeria and especially in Sudan. These brutal men and their groups—often made up of boys as young as ten—have an unlimited appetite for violence and sadism. A favorite target is entire families, since that spreads both news and fear the farthest. Families are massacred in their huts and shacks, and even boiled in oil, a trademark of a few of the worst gang leaders.”

  I decided to take the partial manuscript with me to get it copied. I wanted to read everything that Ellie had written.

  Was this what had gotten her killed—her book?

  Next, I stared for a long time at a striking, poignant picture of Ellie, her husband, and their three beautiful children.

  All dead now.

  Murdered right here in their home. At least they hadn’t been boiled in oil.

  I took one more look at the photo of the two of us on the National Mall. Young and in love, or whatever it was that we were feeling.

  “Ellie, I’ll do what I can for you and your family. I promise you that.”

  I left the house, thinking, What did you find in Africa?

  Did somebody follow you back?

  Chapter 11

  EVERYBODY THERE KNEW there was trouble, but no one knew what kind or how bad it was.

  A dark green panel van had screeched to a stop in front of a low-level mosque in Washington called Masjid Al-Shura. More than one hundred fifty peaceful congregants were crowding the sidewalk in front.

  Even so, the very moment Ghedi Ahmed saw the gunmen scrambling out of the van, saw their gray hoodies, their black face masks and jaunty sunglasses, he knew they had come for him. They were just boys—the Tiger’s boys.

  The first gunshots were aimed into the sky. Just warnings. Men and women screamed, and some scurried back into the mosque.

  Others flattened themselves on the sidewalk, shielding their children’s bodies as best they could.

  His hands held high, Ghedi Ahmed made his decision and moved away from his family. Better to die alone than to take them with me, he was thinking, shaking like a leaf now.

  He hadn’t gotten far when he heard his wife, Aziza, scream, and he realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. “Ghedi! Ghedi!” He turned as the wild boys carried, then threw, Aziza into the waiting van. And then—his children! They were taking the children, too! All four of them were hustled into the van.

  Ghedi reversed direction quickly, and now he was screaming, more loudly than anyone in the crowd, even more than Aziza.

  A courageous man from the congregation took a swing at one of the kidnappers. The boy yelled, “Dog!” and shot the man in the face. Then he fired again, where the man lay spread-eagled and already dying on the sidewalk.

  Another bullet took down an elderly woman just as Ghedi pushed past her.

  The next shot found his leg, and running became falling. Then two of the boys snatched him up off the ground and threw him into the van with his family.

  “The children! Not our children!” sobbed Aziza.

  “Where are you taking us?” Ghedi screamed at the kidnappers. “Where?”

  “To Allah,” came the answer from the driver, the Tiger himself.

  Chapter 12

  THE MYSTERY WAS deepening and getting worse each day, but much of Washington didn’t seem to care, probably because this one happened in Southeast, and only black people were killed.

  Lorton Landfill is the final destination for much of Washington’s garbage. It is two hundred and fifty acres of foul and disgusting refuse, so we were fortunate the bodies had been found at all. I drove the Mercedes in through valleys of trash that rose thirty feet high on either side. I continued on to where the response team was parked around an orange-and-white DC sanitation truck. The gauze masks they’d provided Bree and me at the gate didn’t do much against the nauseating smell.

  “A drive in the country, Alex. This is so romantic,” Bree said as we plunged forward through the muck. She was good at keeping things upbeat, no matter what the circumstances.

  “I’m always thinking of new things for us to do.”

  “You’ve outdone yourself this time. Trust me on that.”

  I finally spotted Sampson talking to the truck’s driver as we got out of the car. Behind the two of them and a ribbon of crime scene tape, I could see yellow sheets covering the six bodies where they had been found.

  Two parents and four more kids here. That made four adults and seven children in just the past few days.

  Sampson walked over to brief us. “Garbage truck started on the empty streets this morning and made stops all over midtown. Forty-one Dumpsters at eighteen locations, some of them as close as a few blocks from the mosque. That’s a shitload of follow-up work for us.”

  “Any other good news?” I asked him.

  “So far, only the bodies have been found. No word on the heads.” We hadn’t released that so far to the press: All six of the victims had been decapitated.

  “I love my job, I love my job,” Bree said quietly. “I can’t wait to get to work in the morning.”

  I asked Sampson where the father’s body was, and we started there. When I pulled back the sheet, the sight was horrific, but I didn’t need an ME to tell me that the cutting was much cleaner this time. There were no extraneous wounds: no bullet holes, no slashes, no punctures. Plus, the lower body had been burned badly.

  Senseless murders, but probably not random, I was thinking.

  But what did the Ahmed killings have to do with Ellie and her family?

  “We’ve got some similarities and some real differences here,” Sampson told us. “Two families taken out suddenly. Multiple perps. But one behind closed doors, the other outside a mosque. Heavy cutting in both cases.”

  “But different cutting,” Bree said. “And if the heads don’t turn up—”

  “Something tells me they won’t,” I said.

  “Then, maybe we’re talking about trophies, keepsakes.”

  “Or proof of purchase,” I said.

  They both looked at me. “Maybe this one was business, and the other was personal. Also, CNBC just broke a story that Ghedi Ahmed was the brother of Erasto Ahmed, who’s Al Qaeda, operating out of Somalia.”

  “Al Qaeda?” Bree whispered and looked momentarily stumped. “Al Qaeda, Alex?”

  We stood there, silent for a moment, trying to comprehend something as horrible as these murders. I thought of Ellie again. I couldn’t stop thinking of her the past few days. Did her trip to Africa have something to do with her murder?

  “So, what are we looking at?” Sampson finally spoke again. “Two sides of a war?”

  “Could be,” I said. “Or maybe two teams.”

  Or maybe one very smart killer, trying to keep us guessing.

  Chapter 13

  THERE WAS NO question there was federal interest in these cases. The cases were inflammatory and international in scope, and the CIA probably knew something. Two of their people had shown up at Ellie’s house the night of the murders. The question was, How much could I get them to tell me, if anything at all?

  I pulled in a few favors from my days with the bureau and got a meeting set up at Langley. The fact that they not only agreed to meet but also waived the first in what was normally a two-meeting protocol told me this was no back-burner issue for them. Usually, the CIA started you with somebody who couldn’t do anything for you before you even got close to anybody who could.

  I was given a whole team: Eric Dana from the National Clandestine Service; two spit-shined analysts in their mid- twenties who never spoke a word the whole time I was there; and one familiar face, Al Tunney, from the Office of Trans-national Issues.

  Tunney and I had worked together on a Russian mafia case a few years back. I hoped he would advocate for me here, but this was clearly Eric Dana’s meeting, his case. We sat at a gleaming wood table with a view of nothing but green forests and lawns as far as I could see. Peaceful, serene, very misle
ading.

  “Detective Cross, why don’t you tell us what you know so far?” Dana asked. “That would be helpful to get things going.”

  I didn’t hold back, saw no reason to. I walked them through all three crime scenes—the Cox house, the street outside Masjid Al-Shura, and, finally, the landfill out in Lorton.

  I also passed around a set of photos, keeping them chronological.

  Then I covered everything I’d learned or heard about gang leaders in Africa, including what I’d read in Ellie’s book. Only then did I mention the CIA officers who had shown up at the first murder scene.

  “We won’t comment on that,” said Dana. “Not at this point.”

  “I’m not looking for you to open your files to me,” I said to Dana. “But I’d like to know if you’re tracking a killer stateside. And if you are, do you have any idea where he is?”

  Dana listened to what I had to say, then shoved a stack of papers back into a file and stood up.

  “Okay. Thank you, Detective Cross. This has been most helpful. We’ll get back to you. Let us do our thing here for a few days.”

  It wasn’t the response I wanted. “Hold on, what are you talking about? Get back to me now.”

  It was a bad moment. Dana stared at his analysts with a look that said, Didn’t anyone brief this guy?

  Then he looked back at me, not impolitely. “I think I understand your urgency, Detect—”

  “I don’t think you do,” I cut in. I looked over at Al Tunney, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Al, is this a joint decision?”

  Tunney’s eyes played tennis between me and Dana. “No one’s decided anything, Alex. We just can’t turn over information that quickly,” he finally said. “That’s not how we work. You knew that when you came here.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?” I asked, looking at Tunney first, then at Dana.

  “We won’t,” Dana said. “And it’s my decision, no one else’s. You have no idea what kind of damage this man and his team are responsible for.”

  I leaned across the table. “All the more reason to drop any turf wars, don’t you think? We’re here for the same reason,” I said.

  Dana stood at the table. “We’ll get back to you.” Then he left the room. How very CIA of him.

  Chapter 14

  BUT I COULDN’T let it go like that, and I didn’t.

  In the wide, mostly empty corridor outside the conference room, I called to Al Tunney before he could get away. “Hey, Al! I meant to ask you how Trish and the kids are doing.” I held up a hand to my building escort. “I’ll just be a second.”

  Al was giving me a disgusted look as I walked over to him. I knew he had a wife, but unless I was psychic, her name probably wasn’t Trish.

  I started right in with him. “You know something, or you wouldn’t be at that meeting. Neither would Dana. Your guys were at the murder scene. Help me out here. Anything, something, Al.”

  “Alex, I can’t. This case is even hotter than you think it is. You heard my boss in there. It goes right to the top of our group. Steven Millard is involved. Trust me, there is an investigation going on. We’re taking it very seriously.”

  “Eric Dana doesn’t know me, and neither does Steven Millard, but you do. You know what I can get done. I don’t have to prove that to you, do I?” A large department seal loomed over us in the hall. I took a step to the side so Tunney wouldn’t be looking up at it.

  “Very funny,” he said.

  “Come on, Al. Two families have died already. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  Then Tunney said a really odd thing. “Not as much as you might think. There are other monsters.”

  My escort called over from the intersection in the corridor. “Detective Cross? This way?”

  “One second.” I turned back to Tunney again. “Ellie Cox was a dear friend. Nicole Cox was thirteen. Clara was six. James ten. The four Ahmed kids? All younger than twelve. They didn’t just die, Al. Their heads were cut off. Whoever did it is on a par with Hannibal Lecter. Only this is real.”

  “I know the case by heart,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

  “You have kids, right? I’ve got three. Damon, Jannie, and Ali. What about you?”

  “Jesus.” Tunney shook his head at me. “You got mean somewhere along the way.”

  “Not mean, Al. I’m trying to solve some horrific murders. Something tells me the trail might go to Africa. Is that true?”

  I could tell he was close to giving me something. I put a hand on his shoulder and ratcheted down my tone a little. “I’m not asking for any deep agency secrets. I’m talking about existing police business. In my own jurisdiction. At least for now.”

  Tunney looked down at the floor tile for a few seconds, then over at my escort, then back at the floor. Without looking up, he said, “There’s been some talk about a deal going down. We got this from the FBI. Service Plaza in Virginia. Chantilly, Virginia. Might be your guy. You’d be within your rights to intercept.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  Tunney didn’t answer. He put out his hand, with a smile broad enough for the escort to see. His voice rose just a notch. “It was good seeing you again, Alex. And say hello to Bree for me. Like I said, I know this case by heart. It is horrific. Boy shot your friend. And please remember this, we’re still the good guys, Alex. No matter what you might read or see in the movies.”

  Chapter 15

  BY EIGHT O’CLOCK that night, I had gathered together a half dozen handpicked officers from Major Case Squad, plus Bree, Sampson, and myself. We wore Kevlar vests under plain clothes and were heavily armed and wired, waiting at the service plaza in Chantilly, Virginia, where something might be going down involving my killer.

  We were scheduled for a twelve-hour shift, eight to eight if we needed it. The team was already spread out over five sectors: front car park, restaurant, gas station, and both sides of the big truck lot in back. Sampson had a hip problem, so he was on the roof observing for us. Bree and I traded off roaming and covering the communications van parked near the entrance, with another good view of the service plaza.

  There was no sign of the CIA. Had they not shown up yet?

  For the first five hours, there was nothing but radio silence and lots of bad coffee.

  Then just after one in the morning, the silence broke.

  “Twenty-two-oh-one. Over.”

  “Go ahead, twenty-two-oh-one.”

  I looked over from the communications van toward the far corner of the truck lot, where a detective named Jamal McDonald was stationed.

  “I got two Land Cruisers. Just pulled up to a tanker in the back. Northeast corner.”

  “How long has the tanker been there?” I asked McDonald.

  “Hard to say, Alex. At least half an hour. Most of these tankers been pulling in and out.”

  We hadn’t known what to expect tonight, but stolen gas or crude would make sense, especially if Nigerians were involved. I was already out of the van and walking quickly in Jamal’s direction. Two dozen or more semis, lined up in rows, were temporarily blocking my view of the corner.

  “Nicolo, Redman, pull in tighter. Bree, where are you right now?”

  “I’m behind the buildings. Headed east.”

  “Good. Everyone else hold position. What about you, John? See anything yet?”

  “Nothing from here,” Sampson radioed back. “Nobody’s moving around over there. Just you guys.”

  “Jamal, how close are you?”

  “Hang on. Just coming around a semi.” I caught sight of him briefly up near the last row of trucks as I crossed the parking lot. Bree fell in silently beside me.

  I had my Glock out, low at my side. So did she. Was the killer here with his team? Were they the same ones who had killed the Coxes and the Ahmeds?

  “Somebody’s getting out of the cab,” Jamal McDonald whispered. “No, two people. There’s four others I can see approaching from the Land Cruisers. Looks like a satchel of some kind. This must
be it. Hang on.” There was a brief silence and then, “Shit! I think they see me. Looks like little kids—teenagers!”

  Bree and I were running now. “Jamal, what’s going on? We’re on our way, almost there!”

  The next thing we heard were gunshots, lots of them.

  Chapter 16

  BREE AND I began to sprint at full speed in the direction of the first volley of shots. I could still hear Jamal McDonald—but he was making a wet, gasping sound, as though he might have been hit in the throat and was possibly suffocating.

  The other officers were shouting “twenties” over the wireless and also converging on the tanker. Sampson stayed put on the roof and radioed Fairfax County for more help.

  We were only halfway there when three or four fast-moving shadows ran across our path. Maybe fifty feet ahead. They looked like kids to me, just like Jamal had said.

  One of them fired from the hip as he went, not even trying to keep covered. Then they all opened up on us. It was like some kind of Old West shoot-out; they appeared to have no fear at all, no concept of dying.

  Bree and I dropped down and fired back from ground level. Bullets sparked off the asphalt and trucks in the dark, but we couldn’t see who we were shooting at now or where they were headed.

  “Kids,” Bree said.

  “Killers,” I corrected her.

  A second heavy exchange of fire came from the next row over of trucks. One of the team members, Art Sheiner, shouted out that he’d been hit too.

  Then everything was quiet again.

  “Sheiner?” I radioed.

  He didn’t respond.

  “McDonald?”

  No response either.

  “Sampson, we need medical with that backup.”

  “On its way. I’m coming down now.”

  “Stay up there, John. We need a spotter, more than ever. Stay where you are!”

  “Sir, it’s Connors.” He was the rookie of the group and his voice was tight. “I found Jamal. He’s down. There’s a lot of blood.”