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  Then, as he’d told the others on board the cargo plane, “You fly over the target. You push the bomb out the payload door. You run like your pants are on fire and there’s an ocean up ahead. Trust me, the Daisy Cutter will leave nothing but scorched earth below. Sunrise Valley will be a burn mark in the desert. A memory. Just you watch.”

  Chapter 5

  “EASY DOES IT, gentlemen. No one is to be hurt. Not this time.”

  Nearly eight hundred miles away, the Wolf was watching in live time what was happening in the desert. What a flick! There were four cameras on the ground at Sunrise Valley that were pumping video footage to four monitors in the house in the Bel Air section of Los Angeles, where he was staying. For the moment, anyway.

  He watched closely as the inhabitants of the mobile-home park were escorted by army personnel into waiting transport trucks. The clarity of the footage was very good. He could see the patches on the soldiers’ arms: NEVADA ARMY GUARD UNIT 72ND.

  Suddenly he spoke out loud, “Shit! Don’t do that!” He started to squeeze the black handball rapidly in his fist, a habit when he was anxious or angry, or both.

  One of the male civilians had pulled a gun and had it pointed at a soldier. Incredibly dumb mistake!

  “You imbecile!” the Wolf shouted at the screen.

  An instant later the man with the handgun was dead, facedown in the desert dust, which actually made it easier to get the other retards from Sunrise Valley into the transport trucks. Should have been part of the plan in the first place, the Wolf thought. But it hadn’t been, so now it was a small problem.

  Then one of the handheld cameras focused on a small cargo plane as it approached the town and circled overhead. This was just gorgeous to behold. The handheld was obviously on board one of the army trucks, which were, he hoped, speeding out of range.

  It was amazing footage—black and white, which somehow made it even more powerful. Black and white was more realistic, no? Yes—absolutely.

  The handheld was steady on the plane as it glided in over the town.

  “Angels of death,” he whispered. “Beautiful image. I’m such an artist.”

  It took two of them to push the bladder of gas out the payload door. Then the pilot banked a hard left, fire walled the engines, and climbed out of there as fast as he could. That was his job, his piece of the puzzle, and he’d done it very well. “You get to live,” the Wolf spoke to the video again.

  The camera was on a wide angle now and captured the bomb as it slowly plummeted toward the town. Stunning footage. Scary as hell, too, even for him to see. At approximately a hundred feet from the ground, the bomb detonated. “Ka-fucking-boom!” said the Wolf. It just came out of his mouth. Usually he wasn’t this emotional about anything.

  As he watched—couldn’t take his eyes away—the Daisy Cutter leveled everything within five hundred yards of the drop site. It also had the capacity to kill everything within an area that large, which it did. This was utter devastation. Up to ten miles away windows blew out of buildings. The ground and buildings shook in Elko, Nevada, about thirty-five miles away. The explosion was heard in the next state.

  And actually, much farther away than that. Right there in Los Angeles, for instance. Because tiny Sunrise Valley, Nevada, was just a test run.

  “This is just a warm-up,” said the Wolf. “Just the beginning of something great. My masterpiece. My payback.”

  Chapter 6

  WHEN EVERYTHING STARTED, I was blessedly out of the loop, on a four-day vacation to the West Coast, my first in over a year. First stop: Seattle, Washington.

  Seattle is a beautiful, lively city that—in my opinion, anyway—nicely balances the funky old and the cyber new, with possibly a tip of a Microsoft cap to the future side of things. Under ordinary circumstances I would have looked forward to a visit there.

  These were kind of shaky times, though, and I had only to look down at the small boy tightly holding on to my hand as we crossed Wallingford Avenue North to remember why.

  I had only to listen to my heart.

  The boy was my son Alex, and I was seeing him for the first time in four months. He and his mother lived in Seattle now. I lived in Washington, D.C., where I was an FBI agent. Alex’s mom and I were involved in a “friendly” custody struggle over our son, at least it was evolving that way after a very stormy couple of encounters.

  “You having fun?” I asked little Alex, who still carried around Moo, a spotted black-and-white cow that had been his favorite toy when he lived with me in Washington. He was almost three, but already a smooth talker and even smoother operator. God, I loved this little guy. His mother believed that he was a gifted child—high intelligence, high creativity—and since Christine was an elementary-school teacher, and an excellent one, she would probably know.

  Christine’s place was in the Wallingford area of Seattle, and because it’s a pleasant walking neighborhood, Alex and I had decided to stay close to home. We started out playing in the backyard, which was bordered with Douglas firs and had plenty of room, not to mention a view of the Cascade Mountains.

  I took several pictures of the Boy, per my instructions from Nana Mama. Alex wanted me to see his mother’s vegetable garden, and as I expected, it was very well done, full of tomatoes, lettuce, and squash. The grass was neatly mown. Pots of rosemary and mint covered the kitchen windowsills. I took more pictures of Alex.

  After our tour of the yard, we walked over to the Wallingford Playfield and had a catch-and-batting session, then it was the zoo, and then another hand-holding walk along nearby Green Lake. Alex was pumped up about the upcoming Seafair Kiddies Parade and didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay for it. I knew what was coming next and I tried to brace myself for it.

  “Why do you always have to go away?” he asked, and I didn’t have a good answer. Just a sudden, terrible ache in my chest that was all too familiar. I want to be with you every minute of every day, buddy, I wanted to say.

  “I just do, buddy,” I said. “But I’ll be back soon. I promise. You know I keep my promises.”

  “Is it because you’re a policeman?” he asked. “Why you have to go away?”

  “Yes. Partly. That’s my job. I have to make money to buy VCRs and Pop-Tarts.”

  “Why don’t you get another job?” asked Alex.

  “I’ll think about it,” I told him. Not a lie. I would. I had been thinking about my police career a lot lately. I’d even talked to my doctor about it, my head doctor.

  Finally, about 2:30, we made our way back to his house, which is a restored Victorian, painted deep blue with white trim, in excellent condition. It’s cozy and light and, I must admit, a nice place to grow up in—as is Seattle.

  Little Alex even has a view of the Cascades from his room. What more could a boy ask for?

  Maybe a father who is around more than once every few months? How about that?

  Christine was waiting on the porch, and she welcomed us back warmly. This was such a switch from our last face-to-face in Washington. Could I trust Christine? I guess I had to.

  Alex and I had a final couple of hugs on the sidewalk. I took a few more snapshots for Nana and the kids.

  Then he and Christine disappeared inside, and I was on the outside, alone, walking back to my rental car with my hands stuffed deep in my pockets, wondering what it was all about, missing my small son already, missing him badly, wondering if it would always be as heartbreaking as this, knowing that it would be.

  Chapter 7

  AFTER THE VISIT with Alex in Seattle I took a flight down to San Francisco to spend some time with Homicide Inspector Jamilla Hughes. She and I had been seeing each other for about a year. I missed Jam and needed to be with her. She was good at making things all right.

  Most of the way I listened to the fine vocals of Erykah Badu, then Calvin Richardson. They were good at making things right, too. Better, anyway.

  As the plane got close to San Francisco we were treated to a surprisingly clear view of the Golden G
ate Bridge and the city’s skyline. I spotted the Embarcadero and the Transamerica Building, and then I just let the scene wash over me. I couldn’t wait to see Jam. We’d been close ever since we worked a murder investigation together. The only problem: the two of us lived on different coasts. We liked our respective cities, and our jobs, and hadn’t figured out where to go with that yet.

  On the other hand, we definitely enjoyed being together, and I could see the joy on Jamilla’s face as I spotted her near an exit at busy San Francisco International Airport. She was in front of a North Beach Deli, grinning, clapping her hands over her head, then jumping up and down. She has that kind of spirit and can get away with it.

  I smiled and felt better as soon as I saw her. She always has that effect on me. She was wearing a buttery soft leather car coat, light blue T, and black jeans and looked as though she’d come straight from work. But she looked good, really good.

  She’d put on lipstick—and perfume, I discovered as I took her into my arms. “Oh yes,” I said. “I missed you.”

  “Then hold me, hug me, kiss me,” she said. “How was your boy? How was Alex?”

  “He’s getting big, smarter, funnier. He’s pretty great. I love that little guy. I miss him already, Jamilla.”

  “I know you do. I know you do, baby. Give me that hug.”

  I picked Jam up off her feet and spun her around. She’s five-nine and solid, and I love holding her in my arms. I noticed a few people watching us, and most were smiling. How could they not?

  Then two of the spectators, a man and a woman in dark suits, walked up to us. Now what is this?

  The woman held up her badge for me to see: FBI.

  Oh no. No. Don’t do this to me.

  Chapter 8

  I GROANED and gently set down Jamilla, as if we had been doing something wrong instead of something very right. All the good feelings inside me evaporated in a hurry. Just like that. Wham, bam! I needed a break—and this wasn’t going to be it.

  “I’m Agent Jean Matthews; this is Agent John Thompson,” the woman said, gesturing to a thirty-something blond guy munching a Ghirardelli chocolate bar. “We hate to interrupt, to intrude, but we were sent out here to meet your plane. You’re Alex Cross, sir?” she said, finally thinking to check.

  “I’m Alex Cross. This is Inspector Hughes from the SFPD. You can talk in front of her,” I said.

  Agent Matthews shook her head. “No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t.”

  Jamilla patted my arm. “It’s okay.” She walked away, leaving me with the two agents, which was the opposite of what I wanted to happen. I wanted them to walk away—far, far away.

  “What’s this about?” I asked Agent Matthews. I already knew it was something bad, which was an ongoing problem with my current job. FBI Director Burns had my schedule and itinerary at all times, even when I was off duty, which effectively meant that I was never off duty.

  “As I said, sir, we were told to meet you. Then to put you right on a plane to Nevada. There’s an emergency out there. A small town was bombed. Well, the town was blown off the map. The director wants you on the scene, like, an hour ago. It’s a terrible disaster.”

  I was shaking my head, feeling incredible disappointment and frustration as I walked over to where Jamilla stood. I felt as if there was a hole in the center of my chest. “There’s been a bombing in Nevada. They say it’s on the news. I have to go out there,” I told her. “I’ll try to get back as soon as I can. I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

  The look on her face said it all. “I understand,” she said. “Of course I understand. You have to go. Come back if you can.”

  I tried to hug her, but Jamilla backed away, finally giving me a small, sad wave. Then she turned and left without saying another word, and I think I knew that I had just lost her, too.

  Chapter 9

  I WAS ON THE MOVE, but the whole scene felt more than frustrating—it was actually surreal. I flew by private jet from San Francisco to a small town in Nevada, and from there caught a ride in an FBI helicopter to what had once been Sunrise Valley.

  I was trying not to think about little Alex, trying not to think about Jamilla, but so far it wasn’t working. Maybe once I got to the bomb site? Once I was there in the action, in the middle of the shit.

  I could tell by the way the local agents deferred to, and fussed around, me that my reputation, or the fact that I worked out of Washington, was making them nervous and edgy. Director Burns had made it clear that I was one of the Bureau’s troubleshooters, that I was his troubleshooter. I wouldn’t carry tales back to Washington, but the agents in the field offices didn’t know that. How could they?

  The helicopter ride to the bombing site took only about ten minutes. From the air, I could see emergency lights all around Sunrise Valley, or what had been Sunrise Valley. The town was gone now. There was still smoke, but no fire was visible from the air, possibly because there was nothing left to burn.

  It was a little past eight o’clock. What the hell had happened out here? And why would somebody go to the trouble of destroying a hole-in-the-wall town like Sunrise Valley?

  I had been briefed as soon as I stepped inside the FBI helicopter. Unfortunately, there wasn’t too much information available. At four that afternoon, the residents—except for one male who’d been shot—had been “evacuated” by what appeared to be U.S. Army national guardsmen. The townspeople were then driven forty miles away to a point halfway to the nearest large town, Elko. Their location was called in to the Nevada State Police. By the time the troopers arrived to assist the badly frightened townies, the army trucks and jeeps were gone. And so was the town of Sunrise Valley. Blown off the map.

  I mean, there was nothing down there but sand, sage, and scrub.

  I could see fire trucks, vans, off-road vehicles, maybe half a dozen helicopters. As our copter began to settle down I spotted techies in chemical protective overgarments.

  Jesus, what happened here?

  Chemical warfare?

  War?

  Is that a possibility? In this day and age? Of course it is.

  Chapter 10

  IT WAS PROBABLY the scariest thing I’d ever seen in my years as a police officer—total desolation, without apparent rhyme or reason.

  As soon as we touched down and I climbed out of the helicopter, I was outfitted in chemical protective overgarments, CPOGs, including a gas mask and other gear. The rubber mask was state-of-the-art, with dual eyepieces and an internal drinking tube for replenishing fluids. I felt like a character in a scary Philip K. Dick story. But it didn’t last too long. I took the unwieldy mask off as soon as I saw a couple of army officers roaming around without theirs.

  We got a possible break soon after I arrived. A couple of rock climbers had spotted a man using a video camera to film the explosion. He looked suspicious, and one of the climbers had photographed the man with his digital camera. The climbers also had shots of the town’s evacuation.

  Two of our agents were interviewing the climbers, and I also wanted to talk to them as soon as the agents had finished. Unfortunately, the local police had gotten to the camera first and were holding it until their chief arrived at the scene. He was late, because he’d been away on a hunting trip.

  When the chief finally got there, in an old black Dodge Polaris, I was all over him. I started talking before he had even climbed out of his car.

  “Chief, your men are holding important evidence. We need to see it,” I said, not raising my voice at the sixtyish, potbellied man but making sure he got the point. “This is a federal investigation now. I’m here representing both the FBI and Homeland Security. We’ve lost valuable time because of your men.”

  To his credit, the police chief himself was exasperated. He began yelling at his officers. “Bring the evidence over here, you morons. What the hell are you two trying to pull? What were you thinking? Do you think? Bring the evidence.”

  His men came running, and the taller of the two, who I later lear
ned was the chief’s son-in-law, handed over the camera. It was a Canon PowerShot and I knew how to get at the pictures.

  So what do we have here? The first shots were well-composed nature photos. No people in any of them. Close-ups and wide-angle shots.

  Then came pictures of the actual evacuation. Unbelievable.

  Then I finally got my first look at the man who had filmed the explosion.

  His back was to the camera. At first he was standing, but in the next few shots he was down on one knee. Probably to get a better angle.

  I don’t know what had prompted the rock climber to take the initial few shots, but his instincts were pretty good. The mystery man was videotaping the deserted town—then suddenly it went up in flames that rose several hundred feet high. It seemed pretty clear that he had known about the attack before it happened.

  The next photograph showed the man turning in the direction of the climbers. He actually began to walk toward them, or so it appeared on film. I wondered if he’d spotted one of them taking his picture. He seemed to be looking their way.

  That was when I saw his face, and I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. I recognized him. And why not? I’d been chasing him for years. He was wanted for more than a dozen murders here and in Europe. He was a vicious psychopath, one of the worst of his kind still on the loose anywhere in the world.

  His name was Geoffrey Shafer, but I knew him better as the Weasel.

  What was he doing here?

  Chapter 11

  THERE WERE A COUPLE more crystal-clear shots as the hateful Weasel got closer to the photographer.

  Just the sight of him sent my brain reeling, and I felt a little sick. My mouth was dry, and I kept licking my lips. What is Shafer doing here? What connection does he have to the bomb that leveled this small town? It was crazy, felt like a dream, completely unreal.