Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(60)

“Remember how this conversation began?” I said.

After a pause, Dolores said, “I do, and I’m grateful for the peace of mind.”

“And I imagine you want to prevent further bloodshed?”

“That too.”

“Then you’ll help us find Hobbes and Fender?”

A longer silence followed before she said, “I’ll draft a proposal for you and see if they bite.”

“Make it a very lucrative offer,” I said. “Then they’ll definitely bite.”





CHAPTER


71


OUT IN THE mouth of Mobjack Bay, close to where it meets the greater Chesapeake, John Brown’s fishing boat bobbed at anchor a mile north of a fifty-acre gated and guarded compound on a point.

Cass was aboard. So were Hobbes and Fender, who were holding fishing poles, jigging for bottom fish, and studying the compound.

“If we do it right, this will be a total surprise,” Brown said, handing binoculars to Fender. “We’ll be in and out in twenty minutes, tops.”

“That’s the plan, anyway,” Hobbes said, raising and lowering his rod.

That annoyed Brown. “What does that mean?”

“It means shit happens,” Hobbes said. “And sometimes you have to ad-lib. I mean, who knows, a big goddamned storm comes up and we’re blowing off whitecaps on our way in, we might want to ad-lib and take a different approach. That’s all I’m saying.”

Brown felt on edge, and he didn’t know why. His arm throbbed less, but it was waking him up at night. And of course there had to be contingencies in place, but with a situation like this, he wanted specific actions to move like clockwork, the team going in and out like phantoms.

“Those are huge cigarette boats,” Cass said, glued to her binoculars.

Brown shielded his eyes to look toward the big lifts that held the three boats above the water. “It’s a perfect location to take advantage of the eastern shipping lanes. Less than eight miles from the Atlantic. Boats that fast can get twenty miles out in minutes, offload cargo in the middle of the night, and be back quick.”

“There’s another guard,” said Fender, who was also glued to the binoculars. “Three so far. Looks like they’re on constant patrol.”

“And they’ll beef up security for the meeting,” Brown said. “But we are a superior fighting force.”

“Damned straight on that,” Fender said. “If this goes down as planned, they’ll never know what hit them.”

Fender had no sooner said that than his cell phone pinged. Hobbes’s phone buzzed a moment later.

Fender set his binoculars down to check his phone. Hobbes held his fishing pole one-handed to look at his message.

Brown picked up Fender’s binoculars and peered through them at the compound. He’d studied the aerial view of it in the drone footage, but getting eyeballs on the target still had benefits, especially in an amphibious attack.

He lowered the glasses, saw Fender and Hobbes still at their phones.

“Heads up,” Brown said. “Eyes on where we’re going.”

Hobbes looked up. “Sorry—short-term high-dollar employment offer.”

“Same,” Fender said. “Says a team of six total needed.”

Brown grew angry. “You’re needed here. Don’t you believe in what we’re doing?”

“I believe in what we’re doing,” Hobbes said. “But sometimes a man’s gotta eat before he makes the world a better place, which means sometimes he’s got to earn before he makes the world a better place.”

The skin below Brown’s left eye twitched. “Where I come from, desertion in a time of war is a killing offense, Hobbes.”

“Who’s deserting?” Fender said. “If we get the gig, we won’t be gone a month. We’ll be back. Think of it as us going on extended furlough without pay.”

Brown didn’t like it, but he said, “Get us through this phase before you go anywhere. You owe us that.”

After much hesitation, Hobbes said, “Works for me.”

“Me too,” Fender said.

Brown glanced at Cass, who nodded.

“Let’s head home, then,” Brown said. “We’ve got thirty-two hours to—”

“Holy shit!” Hobbes cried, struggling against his bowed fishing pole. “I got a big one hooked! A monster!”





CHAPTER


72


AFTER TWO GRINDING and unsuccessful days trying to track Lester Hobbes and Charles Fender, I trudged down Fifth Street, wanting home and family and a break from the pressure that had been building relentlessly.

If Condon was right, politicians were the next targets. Corrupt politicians, but politicians nonetheless, which meant we were trying to stop an assassination.

But the assassination of whom? And how many? At what level?

Federal? Mahoney had alerted U.S. Capitol Hill Police to the increased threat, but without specifics, they couldn’t do much.

State? Municipal?

The truth was we could have been looking at any pol within a hundred and fifty miles of the nation’s capital. As far as limiting the pool to the dishonest, you could kick any azalea in Washington and a corrupt politician would scurry out. The number of potential targets felt overwhelming.