Page 48 of Cross Down
I climb into my Cherokee, switch on the engine, and flip on the heat, and I’m hoping and praying that the spirit of Mel Carr agrees with my decision.
About an hour later I’m at the Southpark Mall in Colonial Heights, Virginia. I’ve driven here in silence, not wanting to hear the conspiracy theories and hate being spewed across the satellite-radio bandwidths. Jazz would be a good escape, but I don’t want to escape.
I want to think.
I find an empty spot at the south end of the large mall, which has all kinds of stores, from Dick’s Sporting Goods to Victoria’s Secret and everything in between.
I check my phone and see I have several voice-mail messages from a restricted number, which means it’s either someone high up in the Metro Police or Ned Mahoney from the FBI.
I ignore the messages for a moment, take out the surveillance sniffer I used after the attack at the motel, and switch it on. All five lights remain red.
Yet I’ve been followed, probably since I left DC.
But how? It takes at least five cars to shadow a target vehicle, and that’s a lot of work.
Drones?
Maybe, but I’ve been in some rural areas where the roads are canopied by trees.
How, then?
I get out of my Cherokee, flashlight in hand, and get as much of my large frame under the car as possible, eyeballing every inch of the undercarriage.
It doesn’t take long for me to find it: a little black box about the size of a matchbox. I tug it free. It’s magnetized. I wiggle my way out along the cold pavement, sit up against the rear wheel, give the little box a close look.
No opening, no seams, no antenna. Just a little black box.
I turn it around in my big hands and I’m reminded of something, a training drill a few years back with the Metro Police and technicians from the Nuclear Emergency Support Team, part of the Department of Energy. Their mission is to respond to any number of nuclear emergencies, including—and most important—threats from terrorists or criminals who claim to have dirty bombs or small nuclear devices. If such a threat is received, a team with a variety of detection equipment is sent to the target area to look for the telltale radioactive signatures. During drills, like the one I participated in, low-level radioactive sources were placed around the city. Nothing dangerous, but radioactive enough to be detected with the right equipment.
I turn the little shape over again. Radioactive sources that looked similar to this one.
That’s why I’ve been followed so well and so closely: overhead drones—hell, even satellites—are tracking this radioactive source firmly attached to my vehicle.
Meaning?
I take a closer look at the radioactive source.
Meaning that the people out there planning and executing these random terrorist attacks and planning for the big one aren’t members of an oddball militia group or a bunch of misfits who got their hands on weapons and explosives.
Oh, there are tracking drones that can be purchased on the open market, but nothing you can buy from Amazon has a highly sensitive radiation detector tacked on.
I rub the metal.
The people who are chasing me, who nearly killed Alex Cross, and who have murdered hundreds of innocent Americans over these past months are heavily funded and have government or military-level assets.
People like Harry Maynard. The man who’d said,Later, John.
Former New York Police officer. Former Army Special Forces.
Last I heard, he was a Treasury enforcement agent, chasing down financial criminals connected with drug cartels all over the world. Maynard was hard, tough, and smart, and I had gotten to know him over the years at training sessions involving security officers and agents from various federal agencies.
What made him cross over to whatever the hell is going on out there? Is it a foreign-sponsored group hiring former military? A rogue element in the U.S. government? A militia with deep-pocketed fellow travelers?
I don’t know, but if it has to do with Afghanistan and our mission, I won’t learn anything by sitting on my ass in a Virginia mall parking lot.
I get up and take in the buildings and nearby vehicles. I spot a familiar brown UPS delivery truck parked near the sidewalk, flashers blinking, and I casually stroll over and put the tracker under the bumper. In a few minutes, this tracker will be going places.
I need some supplies, and I need to move quickly, because I’m heading for Vermont and Elizabeth Deacon, the CIA officer who led us into Afghanistan and who has seemingly lit the fuse of one huge explosion.
