Kill Alex Cross

abraded.
    “Goddamnit! Who would do something like this?” Bree said.
    “There’s no need for language. I’ll be fine,” Nana told her. “I’ll live.”
    “Sorry. Just … stay right there.”
    Bree raced to the bathroom for a first-aid kit and a couple of washcloths. She was silently fuming the whole time. Her head felt like it was burning up, and her chest, too.
    I’m going to kill someone. I swear to God, I’m going to commit murder today .
    Back out in the hall again, she put on a calm face. Then she knelt down and gently pushed Nana’s hair away to clean the wound.
    “What happened, Regina? Tell me.”
    “Well …” Nana took a deep breath. “I was walking back from the pharmacy up on Pennsylvania. It was across from United Methodist, right there in the middle of Seward Square. Maybe I should have gone around the long way, I don’t know —”
    Bree stopped with the washcloth in midair. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this! Since when is Seward Square dangerous in the middle of the day?”
    “Since about fifteen minutes ago,” Nana said, half joking, but also on the verge of tears. She looked down at the bloodstained handkerchief in her hand. “Seventy years in this city, and I’ve never been mugged. Good Lord, I’m getting old.”
    It made Bree want to cry herself. This damn neighborhood, this city, what was it doing to people? She quietly finished up the first aid and walked Nana over to the living room couch to rest.
    Then just as quietly, she slipped back upstairs and took the Glock 19 out of the lockbox in her closet.
    When she came down, Nana was sitting and staring out the front window toward Fifth Street. An issue of O, the Oprah Magazine sat unopened on her lap.
    “I’m going to run out for a minute,” Bree told her. “You need anything right now?”
    Nana eyed her suspiciously. “Why? Where are you going?”
    “Just up the street. Now tell me what this asshole — excuse me, this mugger — looked like.”

THE TEMPERATURE WAS high for September. In more ways than one. Sweat started dripping down Bree’s back before she’d gone a block. It was shades of running the 440 at UVA all over again — not quite a run, not quite a sprint. She wasn’t sure how much ground she’d have to cover.
    Or whose butt she was going to have to kick.
    At the south side of Seward Square, she stopped to catch a breath and look around. This was most likely a wild goose chase, but she was too pissed to just sit home and file a police report like somebody else might do. Somebody sane.
    And then —
    “Well, I’ll be damned.”
    There was the mugger, squatting in the shade of an old cherry tree in the middle of the square. Didn’t even have the sense to make herself scarce.
    This had to be her. Nana had been pretty specific — red Hollister hoodie, brown denim shorts to the knees, dirty white ball cap, and a pair of ridiculous-looking white plastic shades that were too big to be anything but stolen.
    Way to blend in, girlie .
    She looked all kinds of stupid, but the girl did know enough to leap up and bolt as soon as she saw Bree, who was clearly on a mission. She sprang away on a pair of long skinny legs, going straight up Pennsylvania in the direction of the Hill.
    She was quick, too. But she had probably never ran NCAA track, had she?
    Once Bree had her on a straightaway, it took less than half a block to close the gap to an arm’s reach. She nabbed the girl by the hood and practically yanked her off her feet as they came to a stop and near collision.
    The little thief didn’t weigh anything inside those baggy clothes. And her height was deceptive. Up close, she looked even younger than Jannie. She was maybe twelve years old, could be thirteen.
    “Get off me!” she screamed, scrambling to get away. “Help! Somebody call the damn po-lice!”
    Bree’s badge was already out and in the girl’s face. The Glock, she left in its holster.
    “I am the damn police, little girl. Now turn around! You knocked down the wrong grandmother.”
    She put the girl up against the wall of a corner Exxon and gave her the full treatment. There was nothing down her sides, nothing in the hoodie’s pouch when she squeezed it. But then she felt something in the front right pocket of the shorts.
    “Is that a credit card?”
    “Yeah,” the girl said over her shoulder. “My mama’s card, okay? We done here?”
    Bree stepped back, but not more than arm’s length. “Show me,” she said.
    “Bite