Cross

FBI agents, including key members from the Hostage Rescue Team. HRT was ready to roll if it came to that, and it looked like it might happen soon.
    Near the end of the briefing, Captain Tim Moran, the head of SWAT for the metro police, restated the facts as he knew them. He had to be in a highly emotional state, for obvious reasons, but he appeared calm and in control. I knew Moran from my years on the force and respected his courage. Even more, I respected his integrity, and never more than I did that afternoon when he might have to go against his own men.
    “To sum up the situation, the target is a four-story building where black-tar heroin was being turned into powder and a lot of cash. We have at least a dozen drug-lab workers inside, mostly women. We have the lab’s guards—well armed and on at least three floors. Looks like about a dozen of them, too. And we have six SWAT members who attempted a robbery and got trapped inside.
    “They apparently have a quantity of the heroin and cash in their possession. They’re pinned down between drug dealers and other personnel on the top floors, and about half a dozen more armed guards who showed up while the robbery was in progress. At this point we’re in a Mexican standoff. We’ve made initial contact with both sides. Nobody wants to give in. I guess they figure, what do they have to lose, or gain? So they’re just sitting tight.”
    Tim Moran continued in a calm voice. “Because there are members of SWAT inside, given the complications of it, the Hostage Rescue Team will take the lead here. Metro will give our full cooperation to the FBI.”
    Captain Moran’s summation was clear and concise, and it had taken some guts to hand the operation over to the FBI. But it was the right thing to do if somebody had to go inside and possibly fire on the SWAT guys. Even if they were bad cops, they were still cops. It didn’t sit well with any of us to have to shoot at our brothers.
    Ned Mahoney leaned in close to me. “Now what do we do, Einstein? HRT is caught in the middle of a shit sandwich. See why I wanted you here?”
    “Yeah, well, excuse me if I don’t fall all over myself thanking you.”
    “Ah, you’re welcome anyway,” said Mahoney, and he punched my arm in a bullshit gesture of camaraderie that made us both laugh.

Chapter 23
    IT WAS IN HIS BLOOD.
    The Butcher was in the habit of monitoring metro police communications whenever he was in DC, and it was hard to miss this baby. What a royal cluster-fuck, he couldn’t help thinking to himself. SWAT against Hostage Rescue. He loved it.
    For the last few years he’d been cutting back on the kinds of jobs he did, “working less, charging more.” Three or four major hits a year, plus a few favors for the bosses. That was more than enough to pay the bills. Besides, the new don, Maggione Jr., wasn’t exactly a fan of his. The only real problem was that he missed the thrills, the adrenaline punch, the constant action. So here he was at the Policeman’s Ball!
    He was laughing as he parked his Range Rover a dozen blocks from the potential firefight scene. Yes, indeedee, the neighborhood was sure jumping. Even on foot, he couldn’t get much closer than several blocks away on Kentucky Avenue. On his walk toward the crime scene, he’d already counted more than two dozen metro DC police department buses parked on the street. Plus dozens more squad cars.
    Then he saw blue FBI Windbreakers—probably the Hostage Rescue boys up here from Quantico. Damn! They were supposed to be hot shits, right up there with the best in the world. Just like him. This was good stuff, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything, even if it was a little dangerous for him to be here. He spotted several command-post vehicles next. And at the “frozen zone,” or inner perimeter, he thought he picked out the “incident commander.”
    Then Michael Sullivan saw something that gave him pause and made his heart race a little. A dude in street clothes talking to one of the FBI agents.
    Sullivan knew this guy, the one in civvies. His name was Alex Cross, and well, he and Sullivan had something of a history. And then he remembered something else—
Marianne, Marianne.
One of his favorite kills and photographs.
    This was getting better and better by the minute.

Chapter 24
    I COULD DEFINITELY SEE why Ned Mahoney wanted me here.
    A heroin factory estimated to have more than a hundred and fifty kilos of poison, street value at seven million. Cops