Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(56)

Brown paused next to Hobbes, hearing the voices of announcers and seeing the flicker of a television through the partially open blinds of the room to the right of the front door.

“See anything in there?” he murmured.





CHAPTER


65


A FEW MOMENTS later, Fender said, “College football highlights playing on the big-screen, but I’m not seeing anyone in there watching. Dark, though. Lot of shadows. Hard to tell.”

“I’m going,” Brown said, and he moved slowly across the yard, heading past a Grady-White fishing boat toward a motorcycle. He crouched by the side of the bike and worked at a leather saddlebag strap with leather gloves.

When Brown had it open, he drew out from his jacket a plastic ziplock bag that held a kit wrapped in dark cloth. He got the kit free of the plastic and placed it behind a tool kit in the saddlebag.

Then he reached into a top pocket and fished out a film canister. He opened it and spilled the contents onto the gas tank.

“I’ve got him,” Fender whispered in Brown’s earbud. “He’s leaning forward in a chair. Just changed the channel.”

“Kill him if you can,” Brown said, buckling the saddlebag.

Fender’s ultralight rifle produced a sound similar to the air pistol’s. The bullet made a small tinkling noise as it passed through the screen, the blinds, and the window, and then there was the sound of lead hitting flesh and bone.

“Done,” Fender said.

“Done,” Brown said; he spun away from the Harley and took off in a low crouch across the yard.

Inside the house, a woman began to scream.

“Shit,” Hobbes said. “He wasn’t alone.”

“Too late,” Brown said. “Get to the car.”

They sprinted into the pines, through them, and across the clearing. When they entered the woodlot close to the road, Brown thought they were going to get away clean. The woman had stopped screaming. She was probably calling 911, but they were less than one hundred yards from the car. Nothing could—

A form hurtled out of the woods to Brown’s right and sprang at him with a guttural snarl. The second dog got hold of his upper right arm and bit down viciously.

“Ahhh!” Brown cried out, feeling his flesh rip as the dog shook its head and dragged him down. Brown sprawled on his side, but he still had his pistol in his right hand.

The dog released its hold and bit again, harder this time.

Before Hobbes or Fender could do a thing to help him, Brown let go of the pistol, grabbed it with his left hand, and, at point-blank range, fired a tranquilizer dart into the attack dog’s stomach.

It yelped and scratched the back of Brown’s head getting off him. It didn’t make it six more feet before flopping over and panting.





Part Four


THE REGULATORS





CHAPTER


66


AN HOUR AFTER sunrise, Ned Mahoney, John Sampson, and I were looking into an open saddlebag attached to Nicholas Condon’s Harley-Davidson. There was a rectangular package inside, wrapped in dark cloth.

“What’s in it?” Mahoney asked.

“Haven’t looked,” Condon said. “Soon as I saw it, I called Dr. Cross.”

“Before or after someone shot at you?” Mahoney said.

“You mean before or after someone head-shot my dummy,” Condon said. “That’s exactly why I’ve got a little winch on a timer in there. Makes the mannequin move every four or five minutes throughout the night. Handy gadget.”

I didn’t comment on the fact that the sniper had to have a decoy in order to sleep soundly; I just focused on the package.

“No indication of a bomb?” Sampson asked.

“No,” Condon said. “After Azore woke up, I had him sniff it.”

“Could the lingering effects of the drug throw off the dog’s sense of smell?” I asked.

“I’d be glad to take the package out for you if you’re not up to the job.”

“I’ll do it,” Mahoney said, and he stuck a gloved hand into the saddlebag and came out with the package. “Heavy.”

He set it down and started to work at the knot that held the fabric together.

“You said they were scared off by a woman screaming,” Sampson said.

“I said they were scared off by a woman’s scream,” Condon said. “An app on my iPhone. Goes to Bluetooth and my speakers. You’d swear she was right there, screaming her head off.”

“How’s the other dog?” I asked. “The one you said bit one of them?”

“Denni. She’s resting inside.”

“We didn’t find any blood out on the road yet,” Mahoney said, finally getting the knot undone.

“There’s blood there somewhere,” Condon said. “I could hear the guy yelling. She got into him good before he knocked her out.”

“You wash her?”

“No, but I caught Azore licking her muzzle, so I don’t know what you’ll get from her.”

“Okay,” Mahoney said, folding back the fabric, revealing something silkscreened on the other side and a cardboard box.

He lifted the box up. We could see now that the fabric was a piece of a T-shirt featuring artwork for Reggae Sunsplash, a Jamaican music festival.