“No. I may be a source for you now. But it's only because of Bob and Barbara Bennett. I'm not Foot Soldier. I never contacted you. You came to see me. Remember?”
As convincing as he sounded, I didn't know whether to believe him, but I had to pursue the identity of Foot Soldier. I asked Handler for names, others who might be helpful in the investigation. He gave me a few, some Americans, even a couple of South Vietnamese who might be willing to help.
Handler spoke from the darkened backseat of the sedan. “I don't know who's been contacting you, but I'm not so sure that I'd trust whoever it is. Right about now, I'm not sure that I'd trust anyone.”
“Not even you, Colonel?”
“Especially not me,” he said, and laughed. “Hell, I'm a college professor.”
I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw a single pair of headlights approaching. I hadn't noticed much traffic so far and most of it had been speeding in the opposite direction, heading south.
Suddenly Sampson raised his voice and turned to Handler. “Why don't you tell us what's really going on, Colonel? How many more have to die? What do you know about these murders?”
That's when I heard a gunshot, then the sound of glass breaking. The car behind was already on us, and passing on the right shoulder.
My eyes darted and I saw a driver, then a gunman leaning out the window of the backseat.
“Get down!” I yelled at Handler and Sampson. “Cover up!”
More shots came from the pursuing car. I swerved the wheel violently to the left. We skidded hard across double-yellow lines, heading for the cliffs, and the Hudson River far below. Handler yelled, “Watch it, Jesus! Watch it!”
We hit a straight part of the highway, thank God. I stomped on the accelerator, picked up some speed. But I couldn't lose the other car.
He was in the right-hand lane now.
I was in the wrong lane, the one meant for oncoming traffic.
Sampson had gotten to his gun and returned fire. More shots struck our car.
The other sedan stayed right with us. I couldn't shake loose. I was doing over ninety on a twisty road built for fifty or sixty. On my right side was a shoulder and then the mountain wall; on my left, a sheer drop down toward the Hudson River and certain death.
I was going too fast to see faces in the other car. Who the hell was it?
Suddenly I stomped on the brakes and our car skidded badly. Then it fish tailed! We wound up facing in the opposite direction, south.
I took off that way. Back toward West Point.
I floored it again, got back up to ninety in an awful hurry.
I passed two cars heading north, both blaring their horns at me. I couldn't blame them. I was over the double line and racing at about forty miles an hour over the speed limit. They must have thought I was drunk, or mad, or both.
When I was sure no one was following, I slowed down.
“Handler? Colonel?” I called out.
He didn't answer. Sampson hung over the backseat to check on him. “He's been hit, Alex.”
I pulled to the side of the road and turned on the interior lights. “How bad? Is he alive?”
I saw that Handler had been shot twice. Once in the shoulder. And once in the side of the head.
“He's dead,”Sampson said. “He's gone.”
“You all right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I wasn't the target, and that boy in the car could shoot. He was after Handler. We just lost our first real lead.”
I wondered if we had lost Foot Soldier as well.
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Seventy
There's nothing like an attempt on your life to get you properly focused and to get the blood boiling.
It was an exercise in futility, but Sampson and I rushed Owen Handler to the ERat West Point Hospital. He was pronounced dead at around nine. I'm certain he was dead when we brought him in. The shooter in the other car was a chillingly good marksman, a professional killer. Had three men actually been in the pursuing car? I didn't think so.
We were questioned by the local police and also CID officers from West Point. Captain Conte even came to see us, spouting off his concern for our safety, but also playing twenty questions with us, almost as if we were suspects. Conte informed me that the commanding officer at West Point, General Mark Hutchinson, was personally supervising the investigation now. Whatever that was supposed to mean.
Then General Hutchinson actually showed up at the hospital. I saw him speaking to Captain Conte, then a few
