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Valerie nods.
“But why move someplace like your neighborhood?’
Valerie carefully places another box of macaroni and cheese on the shelf. “I bet with Alex recovering, they’re low on money. It’s expensive to take care of all those kids. And I bet the Balantics are letting them live there rent-free.”
Her friend says, “Isn’t that nice.”
The next day, Becky Zimmer is having lunch with three of her closest friends at the Capital Grille in Chevy Chase. She waits for a pause in the conversation—which covers topics ranging from the latest doctor’s visits to ungrateful grandchildren to husbands who still leave the toilet seat up—and says, “You’ll never guess who’s moved in next door to my friend Valerie Penny.”
After a chorus of “Who? Don’t hold back! Tell us!” Becky says, “Bree Stone and the whole Cross family, that’s who. She’s married to Alex Cross, that doctor and detective who’s written all those books. Can you believe that?”
Her three friends most definitely can’t believe that, and they discuss the puzzling news as their lunch is served: four Cobb salads with sliced tenderloin.
Hector Ramirez doesn’t consider himself a spy; he thinks of himself as an information courier. For the past year and a half, he’s worked for a number of folks who want to know about the gossip and bits of news he picks up from the diners he serves. Military personnel, government employees, and executives from certain corporations in and around the Beltway have all been at his tables.
His latest request is for anything involving Brianna Stone, Alex Cross, or John Sampson. It’s to be passed along via a call to a number in the burner phone he uses only for his part-time work.
When his shift is over—it was a rough day, with one tray dropped and two orders screwed up—he calls the supplied phone number from his burner and says, “This is Hector Ramirez. I have information on the location of Brianna Stone.”
“Go,” says a male voice.
He says, “She and her family are living in the household of the Balantics in a gated retirement community in Silver Spring.”
“Good,” the man says. “How much were you promised for this information?”
He’s tempted to lie but doesn’t. The man’s tone frightens him. Hector says, “Five hundred dollars.”
“You’ll get one thousand,” the man says.
Hector disconnects the call, smiles. What a great day this is turning out to be.
Two hours after Hector Ramirez’s phone call, a dark blue GMC van bearing the logo of Lorenzo’s Deli and Catering rolls slowly down Sunset Shore Drive, and the armed man sitting in the passenger seat says, “Okay, got it. That white Colonial.”
The driver, a former Homeland Security investigator, says, “The place has got good forest coverage at the rear yard, a few nearby oaks. Good staging point.”
“Yeah,” the other man says. “I mean, how hard could it be to snatch a seven-year-old girl?”
They drive past the target house. In the rear of the van are other operators for the task at hand. The driver says, “It is a snatch job, right? Not an elimination?”
“Well,” the other man says, “at least for the first day.”
Chapter
101
Even at supersonicspeeds, it’s a long damn trip back to the States. I drink bottled water and eat some energy bars and doze, and when I’m awake, all I think about is Elizabeth Deacon.
Ned Mahoney said,Don’t trust anyone.
But Elizabeth and I were both on the battlefield, and I slipped up.
When we’re about a half an hour out of Joint Base Andrews in Maryland, my burner cell phone comes to life. I log in to my regular phone account, and there’s a continuous beeping noise as e-mails, texts, and updates flow into my cell.
I give the list a quick, disheartened scroll, thinking of what I’m going to do when we finally land.
Lots of messages from the DC Metro Police, and those I’ll ignore.
Four messages from Ned Mahoney, all with the same subject line:CHECK IN PLEASE.
