Cross Fire

now, aren’t we?”

Chapter 71

    “THIS PHONE I’M CALLING ON is encrypted, so don’t bother trying anything,” Kyle went on. “Now, if I’ve timed this correctly, you’re right in the belly of the beast. Is that right? And don’t put me on speaker — or I’m hanging up.”
    I came into the conference room, gesticulating like crazy to let them know something was going on. Agents started scrambling, although there wasn’t much they could do. I had no doubt Kyle was telling the truth about the encrypted phone.
    Someone handed me a pad and pen, and Burns sat down with his ear close to the cell, until an assistant ran over with a laptop. He took the director’s place and started transcribing as much as he could hear.
    “You killed Anjali Patel and Nelson Tambour, didn’t you, Kyle?”
    “I’m afraid I did.”
    “And what about Bronson James?” I said. “Did you do that, too?”
    “Remarkable little boy, wasn’t he? Just vegetable soup, last I checked.”
    My big mistake the previous time with Kyle had been to lose my shit during the manhunt. I was determined not to let that happen again, but my heart was pounding with as much hate as I’ve ever felt for anyone in my life.
    “Do you see the swath of destruction
you’re
creating here?” he went on. “How much better off these people would be if you simply didn’t exist?”
    “What I see is a man with an obsession against me,” I told him.
    “Not true,” he said. “I think you’re fascinating, especially for a Negro. If you weren’t, you’d be dead by now, and Tambour, Patel, and little Bronson James would all be wondering what to have for breakfast tomorrow. It’s quite a compliment, really. Not many people are worthy of my time.”
    His voice sounded almost… playful? He appeared to be in an especially good mood. Killing seemed to do that for him. Kyle also loved to talk about himself.
    “Can I ask you something?” I said.
    “
Interesting.
You don’t usually ask permission. Go right ahead, Alex.”
    “I’m curious about the way you killed Tambour and Patel. It’s not like you to imitate anyone —”
    “No,” he said right away. “It’s usually the other way around, isn’t it?”
    “But that’s exactly what you did here. Twice.”
    “So what’s your question, Alex?”
    “Have you been in touch with them?” I asked. “The original killers. Are they
yours,
Kyle?”
    He thought for a second, maybe trying to slow this down a little. Or maybe concocting a lie?
    “I haven’t, and they aren’t,” he said then. “This Patriot character is a bit pedestrian for me. But that other one, with the numbers? Much more interesting. I’ll admit, I wouldn’t mind a little tête-à-tête with that chap.”
    “So you don’t know who either of them are,” I said.
    There was another long pause. Then he laughed, as heartily as I’d ever heard from Kyle.
    “Alex Cross,
are you asking me for advice?
”
    “You used to be a good agent,” I said. “Remember? You used to advise me.”
    “Of course. They were the second-worst years of my life. The first being my time in that so-called Supermax out in Florence — which I have you to thank for.” He stopped, and I heard another long, slow breath. “Which also brings us full circle, doesn’t it?”
    “Yes, it does,” I said. “Your whole life seems to revolve around paying me back for that.”
    “Something along those lines.”
    “So why all the running around, playing games, Kyle? What are you waiting for?”
    “The right inspiration, I suppose,” he said without a trace of irony. “That’s the beauty of creation and imagination. Remaining open to what comes. The more seasoned the artist, the more capable he is of responding in the moment.”
    “So you’re an artist now?”
    “I suppose that I always have been,” he told me. “I’m just getting better at it, that’s all. It would be foolish to quit while I’m in my prime. But I will tell you one thing, my friend.”
    “What’s that?” I said.
    “When the end comes — trust me — we’ll both know it.”

Book Four

FINAL TARGET, FINAL STRATEGIES

Chapter 72

    LEAVING DC in the old white Suburban that morning, Denny had seen in the side mirror vapor trails coming out of the exhaust, but he didn’t think too much about it. With a rig as old as this one, he couldn’t bother himself over every mechanical hiccup.
    Now, three and a half hours from home, the hiccup had turned into something more like a death