Page 33 of Cross Down
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In the traumaICU, the fake nurse walks past Alex’s room, remembering her training back when she worked security for the CDC.
He or she who hesitates is lost. No matter where you are or what you’re doing, act like you belong there. The moment you fail to show confidence, you’re dead.
She goes to the MPD cop sitting outside Alex’s door, a young guy in his mid-twenties. His short legs are spread out, and—to her relief—he seems to be playing solitaire on his cell.
He looks up and she says, “How many more hours stuck here?”
The cop smiles. He has a pleasant, soft face. “Too many.”
“Well, I’m working a double, so pray for me, okay?”
He laughs and goes back to his game.
She takes her key card and flashes it against a rectangular black reader. A tiny red light flashes green, and the door slides open.
Here we go.
The door slides closed behind her. The room is empty of other staff, thank God. There’s the usual apparatus of monitors and IV stands, and she hears the hiss/hum of the ventilator as it sends air in and out of the target’s lungs. Said target is lying in the hospital bed, nearly invisible under the blanket. IVs are in his arms, and there’s a tube running out of his mouth.
She steps forward, takes the syringe out of her right pocket, pops off the plastic safety cap, and goes to the nearest IV line. Simplest thing in the world: Just slide the needle into the plastic tubing, depress the plunger, and, by the time she hits the parking lot, so long, Alex Cross.
She grabs the IV tubing with her left hand and brings up the syringe with her right just as a tired and angry-looking woman rises up from the other side of the bed and says, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing?”
Ignore her and do your job,she thinks, but now the woman is pointing a pistol at her, and the simplest thing in the world just got a hell of a lot more complicated.
Chapter
38
My hand dropsto the Glock 17 at my side, and both women now have open wallets in their non-gun-holding hands. The one on the right says, “I’m Agent Lily Wagner, Army CID, and this is my partner, Agent Camille DeGrasse. I’ll ask you both to show me your hands. Now, Sergeant Carr. Now, Detective Sampson.”
When you have weapons pointed at you like this, your options drastically narrow. I could kick up the table and cause a distraction, but the place is full of civilians.
Mel eyes me warily and gives me a look that says:Please, John. Don’t.
I’ve been known to take good advice occasionally. My hands go up and so do Mel’s, and I say, “Always happy to work with the CID.”
“Nice lie, Detective Sampson,” Agent Wagner says, pistol covering both of us as her partner comes toward us with handcuffs in her hands. “But if and when charges are drawn up, I’ll be a nice cop and not mention it.”
Mel and I are separated, and I’m placed in the rear seat of an old black Chevrolet Impala, although it takes a lot of maneuvering and cursing before I can get my six-foot-nine-inch frame into the unmarked CID cruiser.
Mel goes into another Impala, and I keep my mouth shut as Agent Wagner drives out on Route 24 and, in another surprise of the day, away from Fort Bragg. Several minutes pass and she turns into an office park and drives to the rear of one of the two-story brick buildings. She parks next to a green dumpster, helps me out of the Impala, and brings me into the building.
About sixty seconds later, we are in an austere, windowless office with bare walls and a metal desk. No phone, no computer. Only a yellow legal pad and a pen.
There’s a chair for her and a chair for me. The cuffs come off and Agent Wagner says, “Thanks for not putting up any resistance, Detective Sampson.”
“No problem,” I say. “I left my service weapon back at the diner. Where is it?”
“In my briefcase under this desk.” She picks up the pen, fiddles with it for a moment.
I say, “Pretty spartan office.”
“It serves its purpose.”
“Like helping you avoid going onto the post and having my visit officially recorded?”
