Page 32 of Cross Down
She pats her right pocket, feels the form of the syringe.
Inside the syringe is another bit of equipment supplied to her a few hours ago along with the fake ID and key card. It contains a nontraceable and unique drug cocktail that will stop Alex Cross’s heart and won’t show up on any drug screen.
She’s not sure where the syringe and its contents are from, but she guesses it has something to do with her former employer down in Atlanta, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
She goes around the corner and thinks,Get in, give the shot, get out.
But she halts.
There’s a uniformed DC Metro cop sitting in a chair right outside the door of Alex Cross’s ICU room.
Chapter
36
I say toMel, “Murdered?”
“Yeah,” he says.
The homicide detective part of me kicks in. “Any idea how? Methods? Witnesses?”
“No,” he says. “My CID contact was reluctant to say more. Not that I’m getting paranoid, John, but what are the chances that two of our cross-border teammates randomly get killed in the same week?”
I nod. “About the same as the chances of two completely different sets of gunmen coming after me. Shit, that shooting yesterday—they weren’t going for Alex Cross. They were after me.”
As I’m talking to Mel, I’m also watching the interior of the Drop Zone Café. Two women wearing gray business attire, slacks and jackets, come in. They sit two tables away from us. One woman says to her companion, laughing, “And I told the colonel that if he wants those air-intake covers before their next deployment, he’d better light a fire under his general. And then—”
Contractors,I think.Similar to the pawnshops, jewelry shops, and other stores around here that take advantage of the nearby post and boost their prices: Thank you for your service. All invoices are due within thirty days of receipt.
I tell Mel, “Alex and I are on a task force in DC that’s trying to find the people responsible for these terrorist attacks along with their supporters and financers. Everybody from the FBI to the NSA and CIA are represented on the task force. Lots of whispers and chatter, but no hard evidence.”
“Who’s running the show?”
“General Wayne Grissom.”
For the first time since I sat down with Mel, he looks relieved. “A good choice. He won’t put up with any bullshit. But there’s something else I need to tell you, John. Maybe something you can bring back to DC with you.”
“Go ahead.”
“There’s a first sergeant in Second Platoon who’s a real asshole. Name of Bravura. He was drunk the other night at a roadhouse up the street, and he told me and others that he was heading out on a TDY. Wouldn’t say for what or for how long. But two things he said to me stuck out. One was that, quote, ‘We screwed up big-time in Afghanistan, but now we’re gonna do it right.’ Unquote.”
“He explain that further?”
“Hell no.”
“And what was the other thing?”
“The prick said, ‘Hey, Mel, maybe you’ll be a suicide victim by the time I get back.’”
“Hell of a threat.”
“You got it,” Mel says. “Like he knew what happened to Powell and Ortiz.”
Before I can respond, our waitress comes through the kitchen’s swinging doors and drops the tray she’s carrying with a loud bang.
The two women I thought were contractors are up and away from their table, pistols in hand, walking straight toward us.
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