Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(11)

“Rear’s clear,” Butler murmured quietly, knowing the tiny Bluetooth mike taped to his throat would pick it up.

“Front clear,” he heard a woman say through the receiver taped to the upper edge of his jawbone.

“Left flank clear,” a man said.

“Right clear too,” a second male said.

“Target?”

“Hasn’t moved in four hours, Cap. Deep sleeper.”

Butler checked his watch: 2:47 a.m. “Sunrise in three hours,” he said. “It’s enough time.”

“I’m ready,” the woman said.

“Ready,” the men said.

“Launch,” said Butler, raising the monocular again. He scrambled over the side of the canyon onto a coyote trail he’d scouted and walked the day before, clipping any bramble or thorny vine that might trip him up.

In five minutes, he was up and over the lip of the far side of the canyon and crouched behind two fan palms about forty yards from the terrace doors.

“Go, Cort,” he said. “Go, JP.”

Figures appeared from the vegetation on both sides of the house, crouching and crab-walking toward the rear corners of the building, which were equipped with motion sensors and cameras. But these men—Dale Cortland and J. P. Vincente—carried thin rectangular shields coated with a mirror-like finish over their heads. The motion detectors might be triggered, but if they were, the cameras would pick up only a reflection of the lights, glares that shimmered and moved.

The pair reached junction boxes at the corners of the house and began disabling the cameras and overriding the security system.

“Clear,” Vincente said about ten minutes later.

“Same,” Cortland said.

Butler broke from behind the fan palms, said, “Go, Purdy. Go, Big DD.”

A small hooded figure ran in from the left—Alison Purdy, the burglar, was already working her magic on the door locks before Butler reached her side. A fourth figure, David “Big DD” Dawkins, came lumbering around the corner carrying a combat shotgun just as the door locks gave way. A huge African-American man who’d played defensive end for Baylor before joining the military, Dawkins was as skilled as any on Butler’s handpicked team, especially with a weapon in his hands. But his primary role in these situations was to use his sheer size, presence, and growl of a voice to intimidate the hell out of people.

Dawkins was also, after Purdy, the best creeper Butler had. Despite his six-foot-six frame and the two hundred and eighty pounds of muscle packed onto it, Big DD was surprisingly quiet when he moved.

Purdy pushed the door open and entered with Dawkins following, both of them peering through infrared monoculars. Butler put his to his right eye, drew his .45, held it in his left hand, and went inside, with Cortland and Vincente covering their six.

They crossed through a great room, kitchen on the right, and went down the hallway to a staircase. Purdy began climbing it, gun held before her, green tritium sight glowing. Dawkins was right on her heels, shotgun at port arms, with Butler bringing up the rear. Upstairs, they took positions flanking the doors to the master suite. Purdy lowered and stowed her monocular.

Butler kept his infrared optic up, along with the .45. He nodded at the burglar; she ever so slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Butler could see the target sleeping, glowing there on the king bed, not ten feet in front of him. He followed Purdy inside, and Big DD went to the main light switch.

Butler aimed at the center of the sleeping man’s mass. “Your show, Purds.”

“Go,” Purdy said.

Butler lowered the monocular, squinted. The lights came on.

The man on the bed stopped breathing, then erupted like a snake in full strike, hurling himself to his right and off the side of the bed, buck naked. He was Caucasian and almost as big as Dawkins.

“Going for his gun,” Butler said.

“Got him,” Purdy said, leaping onto the bed and aiming her gun at the naked guy on the floor frantically trying to open his pistol vault.

The vault opened. She fired.

The air gun drove a drug dart into the man’s upper back; Dawkins leaped over the bed and pinned the man’s arm to the carpet with one massive foot, his head to the floor with the shotgun muzzle.

“Don’t move, Special Agent White,” Big DD growled. “You’ll feel better in ten seconds or so.”

“Who sent you?” White said, the drug starting to hit him. “What do you want?”

“The truth, Agent White,” Butler said. “The truth will set you free.”





Chapter





13


Washington, DC



My youngest child, Ali, was toying with his breakfast at our kitchen counter. I’d gotten up to make pancakes and sausage links, special for him. He usually wolfed them down with maple syrup.

“Thinking about camp?” I asked.

Ali didn’t reply. I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. He startled and spun around, wide-eyed.

“Gosh, Dad!” he cried. “Why’d you do that? You scared me!”

“Sorry,” I said, holding up my palms. “I asked if you were thinking about camp. And you didn’t answer me.”

“Oh,” he said. “I…I was just thinking about stuff.”