The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross #25)(80)

Blurred or not, the picture made my stomach lurch.

Rawlins’s cursor moved to the scruffy, bearded guy. “This is Nash Edgars. The other one’s name is Mike Pratt. He’s Edgars’s bodyguard.”

I said, “Edgars was driving the pickup in Philadelphia the other night. Pratt was both the shooter and the Alden Lindel impersonator.”

Rawlins looked deflated to have some of his thunder stolen from him, but then he recovered and said, “Here’s the kicker from my corner. I hacked into Cal Poly’s system and found Edgars’s file. He was accused of sexually assaulting three coeds his freshman year. Every one of them was blond.”





CHAPTER


102


CLOUDS OF STEAM billowed from our lips at 4:10 the following morning.

It was bitter cold as we huddled in puffy jackets, wool caps, and gloves around a laptop computer bolted to a steel table inside an FBI special weapons and tactics van parked in the barnyard of a dairy farmer who lived two miles from Nash Edgars and who had nothing good to say about his reclusive neighbor.

“Give us the drone feed,” Mahoney said into a cell phone.

The screen changed from the sharpness of Google Earth to an opaque gray-green that revealed bare-limbed trees and then the road that led past Edgars’s gate. Thermal images appeared: two men were guarding the gate, carrying weapons. Flying on, the drone found the mansion, but the screen showed no thermal images of bodies—or much of anything, for that matter.

Mahoney said, “Drone pilot says the place appears heavily insulated so there might be people inside or not. We’ll have to go on the assumption the house is manned and heavily armed.”

“Smart,” I said.

Mahoney said into his cell, “Fly to that structure out in the woods.”

The drone found the building. A thermal sensor revealed four faint images of people inside, all lying flat or curled up, located in separate little rooms.

“Those could be some of our missing women,” Special Agent Batra said.

“Easily,” Bree said, and she sipped from a go-cup of steaming coffee.

“That changes things,” Mahoney said. “Show me the Google Earth image again.”

Rawlins switched it back to the satellite image.

Mahoney pointed to a rocky knoll on the estate’s far north boundary. “This is excellent high ground. We’ll put four agents there to cover the back door.”

I noticed something in the trees along a creek well to the east of the knoll, but before I could say anything, Rawlins switched back to the drone’s feed showing more gray-green forest but no other distinct thermal images.

“Thanks for the flyby,” Mahoney said into his cell, then he ordered four agents to enter the woods at the estate’s northeast corner. He also moved a six-man hostage-rescue team, or HRT, into position to get to and storm that building in the woods as soon as possible. Bree and Sampson would ride with Mahoney and follow a breach team of FBI agents onto the property to arrest Edgars and Pratt.

“Alex, you’ll be with Batra and Rawlins in a follow car, where you will remain until the clear is given,” Mahoney said.

Before I could protest, Bree said, “Be practical, Alex. With your ankle like that, you won’t be much help if things go south.”

“It’s not that bad, really,” I said. “I’m not even on crutches. But I hear you.”

“We’ll give you a radio,” Mahoney said. “For once you’ll have to just listen to the action.”





CHAPTER


103


AS I LIMPED into the backseat of Agent Batra’s black Chevy Tahoe, I had to admit I was feeling guilty for wanting to be part of the raiding party and hostage-rescue attempt.

The evening before, I’d been telling Bree that I wanted to get out of police work, away from dangerous moments like these when the adrenaline starts to drip and your senses get super-sharp and super-clear.

But as I shut the door and Batra started the engine, I knew a part of me could never leave the police game. Not entirely. Being a psychologist had its own deep and fruitful rewards, but it could never replace the rush of catching bad guys, ending their dark work, and seeing them get just punishment.

“Let’s roll,” Mahoney said.

I heard his voice over the radio and the light headset they’d given me.

“Isn’t this exciting, Dr. Cross?” Krazy Kat Rawlins said, looking over the front seat at me as Batra put on her headlights and followed Mahoney’s Tahoe onto a rural route heading east.

“The trick is not to get too excited,” I said. “You have to keep your head.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, slightly crestfallen. “I guess I’m just looking forward to seeing Nash Edgars in handcuffs and telling him that I beat him. Do you ever feel that way?”

“From time to time, sure,” I said.

“Right now?”

“Right now, I look forward to seeing those women safe and sound.”

Over my headset, Mahoney said, “Half a mile out. HRT, you are go. Breaching team, you are go.”

The acknowledgments came back fast, and in my mind I was seeing the rescue team flipping on their thermal-imaging goggles, surging into the woods, and angling through the forest toward the shed and four of the missing women.