Cross the Line

by James Patterson

  Both men had contracted with international security firms operating in Afghanistan early on in Condon’s time there. They hadn’t worked directly with the sniper, but they all knew one another well enough to have a drink or two occasionally. Both Fender and Hobbes were hard-liners who thought the U.S. was bungling foreign policy in the Middle East and going to hell in a handbasket back home.

  “Condon says he didn’t see Hobbes or Fender for years,” I said. “Then, after the death of his fiancée, the investigation in Afghanistan, and his exile on the Eastern Shore, Condon gets a call one day from Lester Hobbes.”

  Hobbes told Condon he thought he’d gotten a raw deal and offered his condolences. He asked the sniper if he’d be interested in having lunch sometime. Condon agreed. They met one day at a restaurant in Annapolis.

  Charles Fender was there too. They all had a few too many beers as they recalled old times, and the talk turned to what was wrong with the U.S.A. Hobbes and Fender had said that people’s lack of conviction and action had allowed new forms of slavery to take hold in the country.

  “Slavery?” Bree said.

  “‘People harnessed by other people in a criminal manner’ was how they put it, evidently,” Sampson said. “As in a drug user is enslaved by the drug cartels or a prostitute enslaved by her handlers. Or ordinary U.S. citizens enslaved by corrupt politicians.”

  I said, “Hobbes and Fender told Condon they were part of a growing group of people who thought this way. They compared themselves to John Brown and the men he led in an armed uprising against slavery.”

  “Violent abolitionists,” Sampson said. “Willing to kill and die to free others.”

  “Jesus,” Bree said.

  “Right?” I said. “They’re calling themselves the Regulators, and they asked Condon to join them. Condon declined, said he was looking to lead a quieter life, and they left it at that.”

  “Why didn’t he tell you this the first time you talked to him?” Bree asked.

  “He claims he didn’t put it together until after the second attack. Even then, he couldn’t see the harm in having fewer drug cartels and human traffickers in the world.”

  “Until Fender and Hobbes decided to frame and kill him,” Bree said.

  “Correct,” Sampson said.

  Bree sat there a few moments, absorbing it, before she leaned forward and said, “They’ve killed drug dealers and human traffickers, but no corrupt politicians.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Which is why we need to find Lester Hobbes and Charles Fender sooner rather than later.”

  Chapter

  68

  John Brown sat with several others at his home, his arm throbbing from the dog bite. He tried to ignore the pain as he watched the footage on the local evening news of the medical examiner’s wagon rolling through the gate of Nicholas Condon’s place in Denton.

  A young female reporter came on in standup and gushed, “WBAL-TV Channel Eleven brings you this exclusive report. FBI and local law enforcement officials are telling us that evidence gathered at the scene of the gangland-style murder indicates a connection between the victim, former SEAL Team 6 sniper Nicholas Condon, and the massacres of drug dealers and human traffickers in the past month.

  “The FBI also says the evidence has pushed the multistate investigation in a new direction, and all of Condon’s known and former associates will be coming under increased scrutiny in the days ahead,” the reporter said.

  “It worked,” Cass said, shutting off the TV with a remote. “I have to admit, I had my doubts.”

  “Not me,” Hobbes said. “Well played.”

  Fender and the rest of the eleven people gathered in Brown’s living room applauded.

  “We do have some breathing room now,” Brown said. “Which will help us with our next target.”

  The group focused on Brown as he laid it all out. One by one, their faces turned somber and then skeptical.

  “I don’t know,” Fender said when Brown finished. “Looks like a fortress.”

  Hobbes said, “There won’t be small-timers guarding the place. We’ll be facing pros with talent.”

  “Likely,” Brown said. “But if you want to chop off a snake’s head, you have to get close to the fangs.”

  Fender said, “How is our friend so sure this is the snake’s head?”

  “He says it’s the snake’s head for the East Coast, anyway. We chop it off, we leave their organization in total destruction. We chop it off, we’ll be clear to move to the next phase of the cleanup.”

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Cass said. “Our friend’s intel on the compound is solid?”

  “World-class,” Brown replied. “The place has been under satellite and drone surveillance for the past ten days.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Hobbes asked. “You’re the strategist.”

  Brown showed satellite photographs and diagrams of the next target. His followers listened intently. They had to. Their lives and cause depended on it.

  When he was done, he opened the floor to questions, comments, and suggestions. They talked for hours, until long past midnight, altering and tweaking the plan until all of them agreed it could work despite the fact there would likely be casualties on their side for the first time. It seemed unavoidable, but no one backed out.

  “When do we go?” Cass asked.

  “The meeting’s in three days,” Brown said.

  “That helps us,” Fender said. “It will be the dark of the moon.”

  Chapter

  69

  Tracking potential mass murderers can be a delicate job in this day and age of instant information and programs that alert someone when certain kinds of data are accessed. This is especially true when the suspects are former employees of the Central Intelligence Agency and the U.S. Special Forces.

  Everything about this particular part of the investigation, Mahoney told us, had to operate under the radar. The rest of that day and on into the next, Sampson and I focused on public records. Hobbes and Fender both had Virginia driver’s licenses with addresses that turned out to be mail-drop boxes in Fairfax County. Both paid income taxes from those addresses, and each listed his job as security consultant. Beyond that, they didn’t exist.

  “These guys are pros,” Sampson said. “They leave no trace.”

  “They’re probably using documented aliases and leading secret lives.”

  “Paranoid way to live.”

  “Unless you have someone hunting you.”

  “Point taken, but I’m feeling like we’re dead in the water until Mahoney comes up with something.”

  My cell phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize.

  “Alex Cross,” I said.

  On the other end of the line, a woman blubbered, “Who killed Nick? Were you there?”

  For a moment I was confused, and then I remembered. “Dolores?”

  She stopped crying and sniffed. “I loved him. I can’t…I can’t believe he’s gone. Were you there, Dr. Cross? Did he suffer? What do you think happened? Was he really part of this vigilante group?”

  I was feeling pinched and unsure how to respond, but then I said, “What’s your security clearance, Dolores?”

  There was a strong tremor in her voice as she said, “I helped you, Dr. Cross. Now you help me. That’s how it works in this town. I need to know.”

  I thought about Mahoney’s investigative strategy and the need to limit the number of people who knew the truth and weighed that against the obvious grief and pain Dolores was suffering.

  “He’s not dead.”

  There was a long moment before she said in a whisper, “What?”

  “You heard me. Take heart. Wait it out. There are reasons for this.”

  Dolores choked, and then laughed, sniffed, and laughed again, and I imagined her wiping her tears away with her sleeve.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “Oh God, you don’t know how…I was up all night after I heard. I have never felt such regret, Dr. Cross. For w
hat could have been.”

  “I think you’ll get the chance to tell him that yourself before long,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding stuffy but ecstatic. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you. And if there’s anything else I can do for you, just ask.”

  “There is, actually. Tell me what you know about Lester Hobbes and Charles Fender.”

  Chapter

  70

  The line was quiet for several moments before Dolores said, “Interesting pair. Can I ask where this is going?”

  “Not today,” I said. “And please don’t start poking around in any files with security clearances attached to those two. Just give me what you know.”

  “Fair enough,” Dolores said. “I’ll give you only what’s in my files.”

  “You’ve got files on Hobbes and Fender?”

  “I’ve got files on almost everyone in this business.”

  “Can I ask how?”

  “Only if you wish to pay me for my services.”

  I smiled. “So, what, you’re like an agent for mercenaries?”

  “A broker is closer to it,” Dolores said, all business now. “I’m the person you go to when you want to recruit a talented warrior, like Fender, or an assassin, like Hobbes.”

  “That’s what Hobbes does?”

  “Quite well. Very clean operator. Only takes out targets who deserve it.”

  I wondered at Dolores’s sense of morality and justice for a moment but then pushed those concerns aside.

  “Can you tell me where to find Hobbes and Fender?”

  She laughed. “You want to talk to them?”

  “Interrogate them is more like it.”

  She laughed again. “Good luck with that.”

  “You won’t help me find them?”

  “I don’t know how to find them. The only time we communicate is when I have an offer for their services, and that’s done by secure e-mail. Honestly, we’ve never even met in person.”

  I thought about that. “Could you make them an offer on our behalf?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “There are certain ethical standards in my line of work.”

  “Your work representing mercenaries.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Next thing you’ll tell me is there’s an association of mercenary agents here in town.”

  “There’s talk.”

  “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.

  My cell phone beeped with a message from Judith Noble just as I walked up the steps to our home and heard symphonic music blaring.

  “Turn the TV down!” Nana Mama shouted.

  Stuffing my phone back in my pocket, I went in, cringing at how loud the music was and sticking my fingers in my ears. Ali sat on the couch staring at images of outer space on the screen and holding the remote away
from my grandmother.

  “Give it,” I said, putting out my hand.

  Ali grimaced but handed it to me. I hit the mute button.

  The house mercifully went silent. Nana Mama was trembling, she was so angry. “He would not listen to me. He flat-out defied me.”

  “I didn’t want to listen to Jannie crying anymore,” Ali said. “Is that so hard to understand?”

  “Jannie’s crying?” I said.

  “You better go up and talk to her,” my grandmother said. “She thinks the world’s come to an end.”

  I pointed my finger at Ali, said, “You and I are going to have a talk later about respecting your elders. In the meantime, get in the kitchen and do whatever Nana Mama tells you to do, and do it with your lips buttoned tight and your head on straight. Understand, young man?”

  Ali’s lower lip began to tremble, but he nodded and got up. “Sorry, Nana Mama,” he mumbled as he walked past her. “I just don’t like hearing her cry.”

  “Doesn’t give you the right to be sassing me,” Nana Mama said.

  I went upstairs and knocked at Jannie’s door.

  “Go away,” Jannie said.

  “It’s Dad.”

  A few moments later the door opened. Jannie hobbled backward on her crutches, sat down hard on her bed, and burst into tears.

  “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” I said, going in and putting my arm around her.

  “Look at my foot,” she said, sobbing. “Look at how swollen it got just from, like, a half an hour on a stationary bike with practically no pressure.”

  I leaned down and saw the swelling across her midfoot.

  “That’s not good,” I said.

  “What am I going to do?” Jannie said. “My physical therapist thinks there’s something else wrong in there. She said what we did should not have caused this kind of reaction.”

  “Okay,” I said after several moments of thought. “I understand you’re upset. I would be too if I were you.”