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  He let the bull’s-eye rest right on the driver’s head, and he lightly touched the trigger with his finger. This was going to be easy, not a problem for him.

  Then he shifted his aim to the head of the guy in the passenger seat. Whoever these two were, they were definitely DOA.

  As soon as it was over, he’d have to gather up the family and boogie on out of here. No contact again with their past. That was the mistake, wasn’t it? Somebody from ancient history they had kept in contact with? Maybe Caitlin’s family in New Jersey. Somebody had probably tracked a phone call. He’d bet anything that’s what had happened.

  Mistake, mistake, mistake.

  And Caitlin would keep making them, wouldn’t she? Which meant Caitlin had to go. He didn’t want to think too much about it, but Caitlin was a goner too. Unless he just took off by himself.

  Lots of decisions to make. Not much time to make them.

  He set the bull’s-eye back on the driver’s head. He was ready for two shots, and both men in the car were dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

  He slowly let out a breath until his body was calm and still and ready to do this.

  He had a sense of his own heartbeat—slow, steady, confident; slow, steady, confident.

  Then he pulled the trigger—and heard a sharp, satisfying crack in the night air.

  An instant later, he pulled the rifle’s trigger a second time.

  Then a third and a fourth time.

  That should do it.

  The killing was done, and he had to get the hell out of here, pronto. With or without Caitlin and the boys.

  But first he needed to know who he’d just killed and maybe take some pictures of the deceased.

  Chapter 114

  SAMPSON AND I WATCHED the Butcher approach the car. He was being stealthy all right, but maybe he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He moved in quickly, bent low in a shooting crouch, ready for resistance if it came.

  He was about to find out that he’d shot up a pile of propped-up clothes and throw pillows from the local Wal-Mart. Sampson and I were crouched in the woods less than thirty yards behind the car he’d just ambushed. So who was better at this game? The Butcher or us?

  “Your call, Alex, how it goes from here,” Sampson whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “Don’t kill him, John,” I said, and touched Sampson’s arm. “Unless we have to. Just take him down.”

  “Your call,” Sampson repeated.

  Then everything went a little crazy, to put it mildly.

  Suddenly the Butcher whirled around—but not in our direction! The opposite way!

  What the hell was this? What was happening now?

  Sullivan was facing the thick row of woods to the east—not where Sampson and I were coming from. He was paying no attention to us now.

  He fired off two quick shots—and I heard somebody grunt in the distance.

  A man dressed in black appeared for an instant; then he fell to the ground. Who was it? Then five more men came running out of the woods to the north. They had handguns, Bull Pups, one Uzi that I could make out.

  Who were these guys?

  As if to answer the question, one of them shouted, “FBI. Drop your weapon! FBI!”

  I didn’t buy it.

  “Mob!” I said to Sampson.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then everybody started blasting at everybody else, as if we were in the streets of Baghdad rather than somewhere in rural Massachusetts.

  Chapter 115

  THE MOB HITTERS, if that’s who they were, fired on us too. Sampson and I shot back at them. And so did the Butcher.

  I hit a guy in a leather trench coat—the one with the Uzi, my first target.

  The gunman spun around and dropped to the dirt, but then he raised the Uzi to fire again. He got hit square in the chest with a round, and the force knocked him flat. I wasn’t the one who shot him though. Maybe Sampson?

  Or was it Sullivan who’d shot him?

  The darkness was a serious hazard to everybody. Bullets were flying everywhere, slugs of lead slamming into trees, ricocheting off rocks. It was total chaos and bedlam, hair-raising, death-defying madness being played out in the dark.

  The Mafia thugs were fanning out, trying to create space between themselves, which would be even more trouble for us.

  Sullivan had run to his left and was using the trees and shadows for some cover.

  Sampson and I tried to hide ourselves as best we could behind skinny evergreens.

  I was afraid we would die here; it felt like it could happen. Too many shots were being fired in too tight an area. This was a kill zone. It was like being heavily armed but up against a firing squad.

  A Mafia hitter emptied his Bull Pup at the Butcher. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think he got his target.

  He didn’t, because Sullivan popped right up and shot the mob guy as he scurried back toward the safety of the woods. The shooter let out a scream, and then he was quiet. I thought that three of the mob soldiers had been shot so far. Sampson and I weren’t hit, but we hadn’t been primary targets.

  Now what? Who would make the next move? Sullivan? John or me?

  Then something strange—I heard a boy’s voice. A tiny voice called out, “Dad! Dad! Where are you, Dad?”

  Chapter 116

  I SWIVELED MY NECK HARD AND PEERED in the direction of the house on the hill. I saw two of the Sullivan boys running down the front steps. They were dressed in their pajamas and had bare feet.

  “Get back!” Sullivan screamed at them. “Get inside the house, you two! Get inside!”

  Then Caitlin Sullivan rushed out of the house in a bathrobe, trying to hold back her youngest son, then picking him up in her arms. She was screaming bloody murder at the two other boys to come back inside.

  Meanwhile, gunshots were happening everywhere, loud blasts that echoed in the night. Bursts of light illuminated trees, boulders, fallen bodies on the grass.

  Sullivan kept yelling—“Get back in the house! Get back! Caitlin, get them inside!”

  The boys didn’t listen; they just kept coming across the lawn toward their father.

  One of the hit men turned his gun on the running figures, and I shot him in the side of the neck. He spun around, fell, and stayed down. I thought, I just saved the lives of Sullivan’s boys. What did it mean? That we were even for the time he came to my house and didn’t kill anybody? Was I supposed to shoot Caitlin Sullivan now as payback for Maria?

  Nothing made much sense to me on this dark, bloodstained lawn.

  Another hit man zigzagged in a fast retreat until he reached the woods. Then he dove headfirst into the brush. One final hit man stood out in the open. He and Sullivan faced off and fired on each other. The soldier spun and went down, blood rushing from a gaping wound in his face. Sullivan was left standing.

  He turned to Sampson and me.

  Chapter 117

  STALEMATE—AT LEAST FOR THE MOMENT. A couple of seconds? And then what happens?

  I realized that Sampson’s car wasn’t a shield between Sullivan and me anymore. His sons had finally stopped running toward him. Caitlin Sullivan had the two smaller ones wrapped in her arms. The oldest boy stood beside her, looking protective, looking a lot like his father. I prayed the boy didn’t get into this now too.

  “I’m Alex Cross,” I told Sullivan. “You came to my house once. Then you killed my wife. A long time ago, Washington, DC.”

  “I know who you are,” Sullivan called back. “I didn’t kill your wife. I know who I killed.”

  Then the Butcher took off on a dead run for the woods. I aimed at the square of his back—this was it—but I didn’t pull the trigger. I couldn’t do it.

  Not in the back. Not with his wife and kids here, not under any circumstances.

  “Dad!” one of the boys screamed again as Sampson and I took off after his father. “Keep running! Keep running!”

  “He’s a killer, Alex,” Samp
son said as we ran over uneven ground covered with high grass, jutting rocks, tree roots. “We need to put him down. You know we do. Don’t show mercy to the devil.”

  I didn’t need a reminder; I wasn’t going to get careless.

  But I hadn’t taken the shot when I had it. I hadn’t brought down Michael Sullivan when I had the chance.

  The woods were dark, but there was enough moonlight to make out shapes and some finer detail. Maybe we’d be able to see Sullivan, but he’d see us too.

  The stalemate continued. But one of us was going to die tonight. I knew it and hoped it wouldn’t be me. But this had to be finished now. It had been building to this for so long.

  I wondered where he was running—if he had an escape plan or if an ambush was coming.

  We hadn’t seen Sullivan since he’d gotten to the tree line. Maybe he was fast, or maybe he’d taken a sharp turn in another direction. How well did he know the woods?

  Was he watching us right now? Getting ready to fire? To spring from behind a tree?

  Finally, I saw movement—someone running fast up ahead. It had to be Sullivan! Unless it was the remaining mob guy.

  Whoever it was, I didn’t have a shot. Too many tree trunks, branches, and limbs in the way.

  My breath was coming in short, harsh gasps. I wasn’t out of shape, so it had to be the stress of everything going on. I was chasing down the son of a bitch who had killed Maria. I’d hated him for more than ten years, and I’d wanted this day to come. I’d even prayed for it.

  But I hadn’t taken the shot when I had it.

  “Where is he?” Sampson was there at my side. Neither of us could see the Butcher. We couldn’t hear him running now, either.

  Then I heard an engine roar—in the woods! An engine? What kind of engine?

  Headlights shone suddenly—two blazing eyes aimed right at us.

  A car was coming fast, Sullivan or somebody else crouched at the wheel, down a track the driver knew well.

  “Take the shot!” Sampson yelled. “Alex, take the shot!”

  Chapter 118

  SULLIVAN HAD STASHED A CAR in the woods, probably for an emergency escape like this one. I held my ground, and put one, two, three shots into the driver’s side of the windshield.

  But the Butcher kept coming!

  The car was a dark-colored sedan. Suddenly it slowed. Had I hit him?

  I ran forward, stumbled over a rock, cursed loudly. I wasn’t thinking about what to do, what not to do, just that this had to end.

  Then I saw Sullivan sit up tall inside the car—and he saw me coming for him. I thought I could see his mouth curl into a sneer as he raised his handgun. I ducked just as he shot. He fired again, but I was out of his sight line by inches.

  The car started to move again, its engine revving loudly. I quickly holstered my gun and let him slide by me; then I dove onto the car’s trunk. I grabbed onto the sides and held tight, my face pressed against cold metal.

  “Alex!” I heard Sampson yell behind me. “Get off!”

  I wouldn’t—couldn’t do it.

  Sullivan accelerated, but there were too many trees and boulders for him to go very fast. The car hit a rock and bucked high; both front tires left the ground. I was almost thrown off the back, but I held on somehow.

  Then Sullivan braked. Hard! I looked up.

  He spun around in the front seat. For a fraction of a second we stared at each other, five feet apart, no more than that. I could see blood smeared on the side of his face. He’d been hit, maybe one of my shots through the windshield.

  Up came his gun again, and he fired as I jumped off the car’s rear end. I landed on the hard ground and kept rolling.

  I scrambled to my knees. Drew my gun and aimed it at the car.

  I shot twice through the side window. I was screaming at Sullivan—at the Butcher—whoever the hell he was. I wanted him dead, and I wanted to be the one to do it.

  This has to end.

  Right here, right now.

  Somebody dies.

  Somebody lives.

  Chapter 119

  I FIRED AGAIN AT THE MONSTER who had killed my wife and so many others, usually in unthinkable ways, with butcher hammers, saws, carving knives. Michael “the Butcher” Sullivan, die. Just die, you bastard. You deserve to die if anyone does on this earth.

  He was climbing out of the car now.

  What was happening? What was he doing?

  He started to hobble in the direction of his wife and three sons. Blood was running down his shirt, seeping through, dripping onto his pants and shoes. Then Sullivan plopped down on the lawn beside his family. He hugged them to his sides.

  Sampson and I moved forward at a slow run, puzzled by what was happening, unsure what to do next.

  I could see streaks of blood on the boys, and all over Caitlin Sullivan. It was their father’s blood, the Butcher’s. When I got closer, I saw that he looked dazed, as if he might pass out or even die. Then he spoke to me. “She’s a good person. She didn’t know what I do, still doesn’t. These are good boys. Get them away from here, from the Mafia.”

  I still wanted to kill him, and I was afraid he might live, but I lowered my gun. I couldn’t point it at his wife and his kids.

  Sullivan laughed, and he suddenly raised his gun to his wife’s head. He yanked her up from the ground. “Put down the guns or I’ll kill her, Cross. I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’ll kill her. Even the boys. It’s not a problem for me. That’s who I am.”

  The look on Caitlin Sullivan’s face wasn’t so much surprise or shock as terrible sadness and disappointment in this man whom she probably loved, or had loved at one time anyway. The youngest boy was screaming at his father, and it was heart-wrenching. “No, Daddy, no! Don’t hurt Mommy! Daddy, please!”

  “Put the guns down!” Sullivan yelled.

  What could I do? I had no choice. Not in my mind, not in my ethical universe. I dropped my Glock.

  And Sullivan took a bow.

  Then a shot exploded from his gun.

  I felt a hard punch in the chest, and I was lifted halfway off the ground. For a second maybe, I was standing on my tiptoes. Dancing? Levitating? Dying?

  I heard a second explosion—and then there wasn’t much of anything. I knew that I was going to die, that I would never see my family again, and that I had no one to blame but myself.

  I’d been warned enough times. I just didn’t listen.

  The Dragon Slayer no more.

  Chapter 120

  I WAS WRONG. I didn’t die that night outside the Butcher’s house, though I can’t exactly say that I dodged another bullet.

  I got shot up pretty bad, and I spent the next month at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. Michael Sullivan took his bow, but then Sampson shot him twice in the chest. He died right there at the house.

  I don’t regret it. I don’t have sympathy for the Butcher. And that probably means I haven’t changed as much as I wanted to, that I’m still the Dragon Slayer at least.

  Nearly every morning these days, after I see patients, I have a session with Adele Finaly. She handles me as well as anybody could. One day, I tell her about the final shootout at the Sullivan house, and how I wanted the satisfaction of revenge, and justice, but I didn’t get it. Adele says she understands, but she doesn’t have any sympathy, not for Sullivan and not for me, either. We both see the obvious connections between Sullivan and me. Then one of us dies in front of his family.

  “He told me that he didn’t kill Maria,” I tell Adele during the session.

  “So what, Alex? You know he was a liar. A psychopath. Killer. Sadist. Piece of dog shit.”

  “Yes, all of that and more. But I think I believe him. I do. I just don’t understand what it means yet. Another mystery to solve.”

  In another session, we talk about a road trip I made to Wake Forest, North Carolina, which is north of Raleigh. I took the new R350, the family car, the crossover vehicle. I went down there to visit Kayla Coles, to talk to her, to
stare into her eyes when she talked to me.

  Kayla was in great shape, mentally and physically, and said that she liked her life down there more than she’d expected. She told me that she was staying in Raleigh. “Lots of people to help down here in North Carolina, Alex,” she said. “And the quality of life, for me anyway, is better than in Washington. Stay around awhile and check it out.”

  “Was that an invitation Kayla was giving you?” Adele asks after a silence between us.

  “Could have been. An invitation she knew I wouldn’t accept.”

  “Because?”

  “Because? Because . . . I’m Alex Cross,” I say.

  “And that isn’t going to change, is it? I’m just asking. Not as a therapist, Alex, as your friend.”

  “I don’t know if it is. I want to change some things about my life. That’s why I’m here. Besides the fact that I kind of enjoy shooting the breeze with you. All right, the answer is no, I’m not going to change all that much.”

  “Because you’re Alex Cross?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” says Adele. “That’s a start. And Alex—”

  “Yeah?”

  “I enjoy shooting the breeze with you too. You’re one of a kind.”

  Chapter 121

  ONE MORE MYSTERY TO BE SOLVED.

  On a night in the spring, Sampson and I walked on Fifth Street, just hanging out together. Comfortable, like it’s always been between the two of us. We were brown-bagging it with a couple of beers. Sampson had on Wayfarer sunglasses and an old Kangol hat I hadn’t seen on his big head in years.

  We passed old clapboard houses that have been here since we were kids and didn’t look all that different now, though a lot of DC has changed tremendously, for good and bad, and something in between.

  “I was worried about you up there in that hospital,” he said.