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One of the saddest days of my life.
Indescribable.
Unthinkable.
Christine was there with her lawyer and Alex Junior’s law guardian and a case manager from Children’s Protective Services. The case manager wore a plastic ID around her neck, and it was probably her presence that bothered me the most. My children had been raised with so much love and attention, never with abuse or neglect. There was no need for Children’s Services. Gilda Haranzo had gone to court and been granted a declaration of order giving Christine temporary guardianship of Little Alex. She had won custody based on the claim that I was “a lightning rod for danger,” putting the child in harm’s way.
The irony of what was happening was so deep that I almost couldn’t stand it. I was trying to be the kind of policeman that most people wanted, and this was what I got? A lightning rod for danger? Is that what I was now?
And yet, I knew exactly how I had to act this morning on Fifth Street. For Little Alex’s sake. I would abandon all my anger and focus on what was best for him. I would be supportive during the handover. If it was possible, I wouldn’t let anything frighten the Boy or upset him. I even had a long printed list of Alex’s likes and dislikes ready for Christine.
Unfortunately, Alex wasn’t buying any of this. He ran behind my legs and hid from Christine and the lawyer. I reached around and gently stroked his head. He was shaking all over, quivering with rage.
Gilda Haranzo said, “Maybe you should help Christine take Little Alex to the car. Would you please do that?”
I turned and tenderly wrapped my arms around the Big Boy. Then Nana, followed by Damon and Jannie, knelt beside him for a group hug. “We love you, Alex. We’ll visit you, Alex. You’ll come see us, Alex. Don’t be scared.”
Nana handed Alex his favorite book, which was Whistle for Willie. Jannie gave him his love-worn plush cow, Moo. Damon hugged his brother and tears started down his cheeks.
“I’ll be talking to you tonight. You and Moo,” I whispered, and kissed my son’s darling little face. I could feel his heart going fast. “Every night. Forever and a day, my sweet boy. Forever and a day.”
And Little Alex said, “Forever, Daddy.”
Then they took my son away.
Epilogue
WOLVES
PASHA SOROKIN WAS DUE at the courthouse in Miami at nine o’clock on Monday morning. The van he rode in was escorted from the federal prison by half a dozen cars; the route wasn’t known by any of the drivers until the last possible moment before departure.
The attack took place at a stoplight just before the cars would have gotten on the Florida Turnpike. They hit with automatic weapons and also rocket launchers, which took out most of the escort cars in under a minute. There were bodies and smoking metal everywhere.
The black van that Pasha Sorokin was riding in was quickly surrounded by six men in dark clothes, no masks. The car doors were yanked open and the police guards were beaten and then shot dead.
A tall, powerful-looking man strode up to the open door and peered inside. He smiled playfully, as if a small child were in the prison van.
“Pasha,” the Wolf said, “I understand that you were going to turn me in. That’s what my sources say, my very good sources, my incredibly well-paid sources. Talk to me about this.”
“It’s not true,” said Pasha, who meanwhile was cowering in the middle seat of the van. He wore an orange jumpsuit, and his wrists and ankles were bound by chains. He no longer had his Florida tan.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said the Wolf.
Then he fired one of the rocket launchers point-blank at Pasha. He didn’t miss.
“Zamochit,” he said, and laughed. “One can’t be too careful these days.”
Alex Cross is back. And so is the wolf. And so is the weasel. Now are you scared?
For an excerpt from the next Alex Cross novel,
turn the page.
COLONEL GEOFFREY SHAFER loved his new life in Salvador, Brazil’s third-largest city and some would say its most intriguing. It was definitely the most fun.
He had rented a plush six-bedroom villa directly across from Guarajuba Beach, where he spent his days drinking sweet caipirinhas and ice-cold Brahma beers, or sometimes playing tennis at the club. At night, Colonel Shafer—the psychopathic killer better known as the Weasel—was up to his old tricks, hunting on the dark, narrow, winding streets of the Old City. He had lost count of his kills in Brazil, and nobody in Salvador seemed to care, or even keep count. There hadn’t been a single newspaper story about the disappearance of young prostitutes. Not one. Maybe it was true what they said of the people here—when they weren’t actually partying, they were already rehearsing for the next one.
At a few ticks past two in the morning, Shafer returned to the villa with a young and beautiful streetwalker who called herself Maria. What a gorgeous face the girl had, and a stunning brown body, especially for someone so young. Maria said she was only thirteen.
