Ned and I and a dozen others were climbing the stairs to two penthouse floors, since the suspect’s apartment was on twenty-one and twenty-two. He was powerful and wealthy. He had a good reputation with Wall Street and the banks. Was he the Wolf? If so, why hadn’t his name ever come up before? Because the Wolf was so good, so careful?
“Be glad when this is over with,” Mahoney said without a huff or a puff as he mounted the stairs.
“How did it get out of hand like this?” I asked. “There are too many people here.”
“Always too much politics. Better get used to it. World we live in. Too many suits, not enough workers.”
We finally reached twenty-one. Ned and I and four other agents stopped there. The rest of the team continued to twenty-two. We waited for them to get into position. This was it. I hoped this was it. Was the real Wolf on one of these two floors?
I heard an urgent voice in my earpiece. “Suspect coming out of a window! Man in his underwear jumped from the tower! Jesus Christ! He’s down on the landing between the towers. He’s on the roof. Running.”
Mahoney and I understood what had happened. We rushed down to the twentieth floor. The Century had two towers that rose up from twenty. A large expanse of roof connected them.
We burst out onto the roof and immediately saw a barefoot man in his underwear. He was burly, balding, bearded. He turned and fired at us with a pistol. The Wolf? Balding? Burly? Could this be him?
He hit Mahoney!
He hit me!
We went down hard. Chest shots! Hurt like hell! Took my breath away. Fortunately, we were wearing Kevlar vests.
The man in his underwear wasn’t.
Mahoney’s return fire took out a kneecap; my first shot struck his thick stomach. He went down, spurting blood and howling.
We ran to the side of Andrei Prokopev. Mahoney kicked away his gun. “You’re under arrest!” Ned yelled into the face of the wounded Russian. “We know who you are.”
A helicopter appeared between the Century’s towers. A woman was screaming from one of the windows several stories above us. Now the helicopter was landing! What the hell was this?
A man came out of a window in the tower and dropped to the roof.
Then another man. Professional gunmen, it looked like. Bodyguards?
They were quick on the draw and began shooting the instant they hit the roof. HRT returned fire. Several shots were exchanged. Both gunmen were hit and went down. Neither got up again. HRT was that good.
The helicopter was setting down on the roof. It wasn’t media or police. It was there to get the Wolf and whisk him away, wasn’t it? There were shots from the helicopter. Mahoney and I fired into the cockpit. There was another rapid exchange of gunfire. Then the shooting from the helicopter stopped.
For several seconds the only sound on the roof was the loud, eerie whir of the helicopter’s rotor blades. “Clear!” one of our agents finally yelled. “They’re down in the copter!”
“You’re under arrest!” Mahoney screamed at the Russian in his underwear. “You’re the Wolf. You attacked the director’s house, his family!”
I had something else in mind, another kind of message. I leaned in close and said, “Kyle Craig did this to you.” I wanted him to know, and maybe pay Kyle back someday.
Maybe with zamochit.
Chapter 115
I HOPED TO GOD it was over now. We all did. Ned Mahoney flew back to Quantico that morning, but I spent the rest of the day at FBI headquarters in lower Manhattan. The Russian government had filed protests everywhere they could, but Andrei Prokopev was still in custody, and State Department people were all over the FBI offices. Even a few Wall Street firms had questioned the arrest.
So far, I hadn’t been allowed to talk to the Russian again. He was scheduled for surgery, but his life wasn’t in danger. He was being grilled by someone, just not by me.
Burns finally reached me at around four o’clock in the office I was using at FBI New York. “Alex, I want you to head back to Washington,” he said. “Flight arrangements have been made. We’ll be waiting for you here.” That was all he told me.
Burns signed off, so I didn’t get the chance to ask any questions. It was obvious that he didn’t want me to. Around seven-thirty I arrived at the Hoover Building and was told to go to the SIOC conference area on five. They were waiting for me there. Not exactly waiting, since a shirtsleeves meeting was already in progress. Ron Burns was at the table, which wasn’t a good sign. Everybody looked tense and exhausted.
“Let me bring Alex up to date,” Burns said when I entered the room. “Have a rest, kick back. There’s been a new wrinkle. None of us are very happy about it. You won’t be either.”
I shook my head and felt a little sick as I sat down. I didn’t need new wrinkles; I had more than enough already.
“The Russians are actually cooperating for a change,” Burns said. “It seems that they’re not denying Andrei Prokopev has Red Mafiya connections. He does. They’ve been monitoring him for some time themselves. They hoped to use him to penetrate the huge black market still coming out of Moscow.”
I cleared my throat. “But.”
Burns nodded. “Right. The Russians tell us—now—that Prokopev is not the man we’re looking for. They’re certain of it.”
I felt completely drained. “Because?”
It was Burns’s turn to shake his head. “They know what the Wolf looks like. He was KGB, after all. The real Wolf set us up to believe he was Prokopev. Andrei Prokopev was one of his rivals in the Red Mafiya.”
“To be the Russian godfather?”
“To be the godfather—Russian or otherwise.”
I pursed my lips, took a breath. “Do the Russians know who the Wolf really is?”
Burns’s eyes narrowed. “If they do, they won’t tell us. Not yet, anyway. Maybe they’re afraid of him too.”
Chapter 116
LATE THAT NIGHT I sat at the piano on the sunporch with one of Billy Collins’s poems running around my head. It was called “The Blues.” It inspired me so much that I sat at the piano and made up a melody to go with the poem. We had lost to the Wolf. It happened a lot in police work, though nobody wanted to admit it. Lives had been saved, though. Elizabeth Connolly and a couple of others had been found; Brendan Connolly was in jail. Andrei Prokopev had been caught. But we seemed to have lost the big one—for now, anyway. The Wolf was still out there. The godfather was free to do what he did, and that wasn’t good for anybody.
The next morning, I arrived early to meet Jamilla Hughes’s flight into Reagan National. I had the usual butterflies before her plane got in. But mostly I couldn’t wait to see Jam. Nana and the kids had insisted on coming to the airport with me. A little show of support—for Jamilla. And for me. For all of us, actually.
The airport was crowded but seemed relatively quiet and peaceful, probably on account of the high ceilings. My family and I stood at an exit from Terminal A, near the security check. I saw Jam, then so did the kids, who started poking me. She was wearing black from head to toe; she looked better than ever, and Jamilla always looked good to me.
“She’s beautiful and so cool,” Jannie said, and lightly touched the back of my hand. “You know that, don’t you, Daddy?”
“She is, isn’t she,” I agreed, looking at Jannie now, rather than at Jamilla. “She’s also smart. Except about men, it would seem.”
“We really like her,” Jannie continued. “Can you tell?”
“I can. I like her too.”
“But do you love her?” Jannie asked in her usual no-nonsense, get-to-the-heart-of-the-matter way. “Do you?”
I didn’t say anything. That part was between Jam and me.
“Well—do you?” Nana joined in.
I didn’t answer Nana either, so she shook her head, rolled her eyes.
“What do the boys think?” I turned to Damon and Little Alex. The Big Boy was clapping his hands and smiling, so I knew where he stood.
“Sh
e’s definitely all that,” said Damon, and he grinned. He always got a little goofy around Jamilla.
I moved toward her, and they let me go alone. I snuck a glance back at them, and they were grinning like a Cheshire cat family. I had a lump in my throat. Don’t know why. I felt a little spacey, and my knees were weak. Don’t know why either.
“I can’t believe everybody came,” Jamilla said as she slid into my arms. “That makes me happy. I can’t tell you how much, Alex. Wow. I think I’m going to cry. Even though I’m a tough-as-nails homicide detective. You all right? You aren’t all right. I can tell.”
“Oh, I’m fine now.” I held her tight, then I actually picked Jam up, set her back down.
We were quiet for a moment. “We’re going to fight for Little Alex,” she said.
“Of course,” I told her. Then I said something that I’d never told Jamilla before, though it had been on the tip of my tongue many times. “I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you too,” she said. “More than you can imagine. More than even I can imagine.”
A single tear ran down Jamilla’s cheek. I kissed it away.
Then I saw the photographer taking pictures of us.
The same one who was at the house the day we were evacuated for personal safety.
The one hired by Christine’s lawyer.
Had he gotten Jamilla’s tear on film?
Chapter 117
THEY CAME TO THE HOUSE on Fifth Street; they came about a week after Jamilla went back to California.
Them again.
One of the saddest days of my life.
Indescribable.
Unthinkable.
Christine was there with her lawyer and Alex Junior’s law guardian and a case manager from Children’s Protective Services. The case manager wore a plastic ID around her neck, and it was probably her presence that bothered me the most. My children had been raised with so much love and attention, never with abuse or neglect. There was no need for Children’s Services. Gilda Haranzo had gone to court and been granted a declaration of order giving Christine temporary guardianship of Little Alex. She had won custody based on the claim that I was “a lightning rod for danger,” putting the child in harm’s way.
The irony of what was happening was so deep that I almost couldn’t stand it. I was trying to be the kind of policeman that most people wanted, and this was what I got? A lightning rod for danger? Is that what I was now?
And yet, I knew exactly how I had to act this morning on Fifth Street. For Little Alex’s sake. I would abandon all my anger and focus on what was best for him. I would be supportive during the handover. If it was possible, I wouldn’t let anything frighten the Boy or upset him. I even had a long printed list of Alex’s likes and dislikes ready for Christine.
Unfortunately, Alex wasn’t buying any of this. He ran behind my legs and hid from Christine and the lawyer. I reached around and gently stroked his head. He was shaking all over, quivering with rage.
Gilda Haranzo said, “Maybe you should help Christine take Little Alex to the car. Would you please do that?”
I turned and tenderly wrapped my arms around the Big Boy. Then Nana, followed by Damon and Jannie, knelt beside him for a group hug. “We love you, Alex. We’ll visit you, Alex. You’ll come see us, Alex. Don’t be scared.”
Nana handed Alex his favorite book, which was Whistle for Willie. Jannie gave him his love-worn plush cow, Moo. Damon hugged his brother and tears started down his cheeks.
“I’ll be talking to you tonight. You and Moo,” I whispered, and kissed my son’s darling little face. I could feel his heart going fast. “Every night. Forever and a day, my sweet boy. Forever and a day.”
And Little Alex said, “Forever, Daddy.”
Then they took my son away.
Epilogue
WOLVES
PASHA SOROKIN WAS DUE at the courthouse in Miami at nine o’clock on Monday morning. The van he rode in was escorted from the federal prison by half a dozen cars; the route wasn’t known by any of the drivers until the last possible moment before departure.
The attack took place at a stoplight just before the cars would have gotten on the Florida Turnpike. They hit with automatic weapons and also rocket launchers, which took out most of the escort cars in under a minute. There were bodies and smoking metal everywhere.
The black van that Pasha Sorokin was riding in was quickly surrounded by six men in dark clothes, no masks. The car doors were yanked open and the police guards were beaten and then shot dead.
A tall, powerful-looking man strode up to the open door and peered inside. He smiled playfully, as if a small child were in the prison van.
“Pasha,” the Wolf said, “I understand that you were going to turn me in. That’s what my sources say, my very good sources, my incredibly well-paid sources. Talk to me about this.”
“It’s not true,” said Pasha, who meanwhile was cowering in the middle seat of the van. He wore an orange jumpsuit, and his wrists and ankles were bound by chains. He no longer had his Florida tan.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said the Wolf.
Then he fired one of the rocket launchers point-blank at Pasha. He didn’t miss.
“Zamochit,” he said, and laughed. “One can’t be too careful these days.”
Alex Cross is back. And so is the wolf. And so is the weasel. Now are you scared?
For an excerpt from the next Alex Cross novel,
turn the page.
COLONEL GEOFFREY SHAFER loved his new life in Salvador, Brazil’s third-largest city and some would say its most intriguing. It was definitely the most fun.
He had rented a plush six-bedroom villa directly across from Guarajuba Beach, where he spent his days drinking sweet caipirinhas and ice-cold Brahma beers, or sometimes playing tennis at the club. At night, Colonel Shafer—the psychopathic killer better known as the Weasel—was up to his old tricks, hunting on the dark, narrow, winding streets of the Old City. He had lost count of his kills in Brazil, and nobody in Salvador seemed to care, or even keep count. There hadn’t been a single newspaper story about the disappearance of young prostitutes. Not one. Maybe it was true what they said of the people here—when they weren’t actually partying, they were already rehearsing for the next one.
At a few ticks past two in the morning, Shafer returned to the villa with a young and beautiful streetwalker who called herself Maria. What a gorgeous face the girl had, and a stunning brown body, especially for someone so young. Maria said she was only thirteen.
The Weasel picked a fat banana from one of several plants in his yard. At this time of year he had his choice of coconut, guava, mango, and pinha, which was sugar apple. As he plucked the fresh fruit he had the thought that there was always something ripe for the taking in Salvador. It was paradise. Or maybe it’s hell and I’m the Devil, Shafer thought, and chuckled to himself.
“For you, Maria,” he said, handing her the banana. “We’ll put it to good use.”
The girl smiled knowingly, and the Weasel noticed her eyes—what perfect brown eyes. And all mine now—eyes, lips, breasts.
Just then, he spotted a small Brazilian monkey called a mico trying to work its way through a window screen and into his house. “Get out of here, you thieving little bastard!” he yelled. “G’wan! Beat it!”
There came a quick movement from out of the bushes, then three men jumped him. The police, he was certain, probably Americans. Alex Cross?
The cops were all over him, powerful arms and legs everywhere. He was struck down by a bat, or a lead pipe, yanked back up by his full head of hair, then beaten unconscious.
“We caught him. We caught the Weasel, first try. That wasn’t very hard,” said one of the men. “Bring him inside.”
Then he looked at the beautiful young girl, who was clearly afraid, rightly so. “You did a good job, Maria. You brought him to us.” He turned to one of his men. “Kill her.”
A single gunshot ruptured the silence in the front yard. No one see
med to notice or care in Salvador.
THE WEASEL JUST WANTED to die now. He was hanging upside down from the ceiling of his own master bedroom. The room had mirrors everywhere, and he could see himself in several of the reflections.
He looked like death. He was naked, bruised and bleeding all over. His hands were tightly cuffed behind his back, his ankles bound together, cutting off the circulation. Blood was rushing to his head.
Hanging beside him was the young girl, Maria, but she had been dead for several hours, maybe as much as a day, judging by the terrible smell. Her brown eyes were turned his way, but they stared right through him.
The leader of his captors, bearded, always squeezing a black ball in one hand, squatted down so that he was only a foot or so from Shafer’s face. He spoke softly, a whisper.
“What we did with some prisoners when I was active—we would sit them down, rather politely, peacefully, and then nail their fucking tongues to a table. That’s absolutely true, my weaselly friend. You know what else? Simply plucking hairs . . . from the nostrils . . . the chest . . . stomach . . . genitals . . . it’s more than a little bothersome, no? Ouch,” he said as he plucked hairs from Shafer’s naked body.
“But I’ll tell you the worst torture, in my opinion, anyway. Worse than what you would have done to poor Maria. You grab the prisoner by both shoulders and shake violently until he convulses. You literally rattle his brain, the sensitive organ itself. He feels as if his head will fly off. His body is on fire. I’m not exaggerating.
“Here, let me show you what I mean.”
The terrible, unimaginably violent shaking—while Geoffrey Shafer hung upside down—went on for nearly an hour.
Finally he was cut down. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” he screamed.
The head captor shrugged. “You’re a tough bastard, but always remember, I found you. And I’ll find you again if I need to. Do you understand?”
The Big Bad Wolf Page 23
