Kill Alex Cross

The woman gagged, sobbing as she drank the milky liquid, but it went down. Enough of it, anyway. Right away, her lips went pink. Her breath started coming in sharp rasps. “I’m dying,” she whispered. “Why? Why must I die?”

The husband looked up at Hala with hatred in his eyes. “Assassin,” he said.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Hala told him, and gestured at the empty glass in his hand. “You’re no murder victim, you fool. You’re a suicide statistic.”

Tariq took the two duffels and carried them to the door. Hala stayed where she was. There was pleasure in watching these people die, but it was also her job to see it through.

The wife was the first to spasm, violently, bucking and kicking until she collapsed to the floor. The husband, maybe twice her size, hung in longer. He watched Hala with huge bug eyes — as she calmly watched him. His sense of taste and smell would be gone by now, no doubt. The eyesight would fade next. Then the hearing, just at the very end —

“Hala!” Tariq raised his voice. “It’s done. Let’s go. Please, let’s go!”

She picked up the weapons case and slowly backed toward the door, observing all the way. With one last spasm, the fat man lurched forward. He landed facedown on the carpet and was still beside his wife.

“Now it’s done,” Hala said, and turned to leave. “I thought that went rather well. We’re getting better at this, don’t you think?”

I WOKE UP in a bad mood that morning. Grumpy, cranky, in need of caffeine. Unusual for me, but there it was.

Most days, Nana and I spend breakfast talking about the day ahead, or debating some foolishness from the headlines. But it was the headlines that were making me angry now.

I hid behind my Post and steamed, reading about how the “authorities” weren’t getting anywhere with the four-day-old Coyle kidnapping.

Somewhere around my second cup of coffee, I heard a little tap on the other side of the paper.

“You learning anything new in there?” Nana said. “Or just stewing?”

“I’m stewing. I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“Talk about what?” said Jannie, coming in from the hall. I could hear her brother Ali bringing up the rear, thunk-thunking that backpack of his down the stairs. The kid had barely started elementary school. How much stuff did he need? Sounded like about fifty pounds of books.

“Ali, pick that thing up! Don’t scratch up my stairs!” I called out. “Please and thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he called back and kept thunk-thunking anyway.

My oldest, Damon, was away at boarding school — and I still hadn’t gotten used to having him gone. These mornings always felt just a little bit empty without all of our family.

“Talk about what?” Jannie asked again. She gave me a kiss good morning and pointed at a news photo of Ethan and Zoe. “That kidnapping?”

“Excuse me, but which part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ didn’t you understand?” I said. “And by the way, let’s make this a quick breakfast. The Alex bus leaves in fifteen minutes — sharp.”

Jannie made a face she probably thought I didn’t catch, then went to pour some juice for herself. I retreated back into my paper while Nana dished up cheddar eggs with whole wheat toast and cocoa for the kids.

For a minute or two, it was conspicuously quiet in the kitchen. I could feel them all staring at me through the paper, though.

Then Jannie piped up again. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yes?” I said, trying my best to be calm.

“The Seven Dwarfs called. They want their Grumpy back.”

What could I say? Ali roared with laughter and high-fived his sister across the table. I heard Nana snickering over by the sink. The FBI obviously had no respect for me, and now neither did my family. Damn it, though, I had a right to be out of sorts.

“Lord, let this man catch a bad guy today,” Nana said. “We could all use it.”

“No comment,” I said, and gave a little growl for good measure.

Then just as the mood was lightening up a little, Bree came charging down the stairs. Mussed hair, rumpled T, bare feet. Something was wrong.

“Alex! Turn on the news! Turn on the news right now!”

She never moves that fast before her first cup of coffee, so I knew this couldn’t be good. I hustled out to the living room, where she was standing in front of the TV. Channel 4 had a live report going.

“What is it?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Bree said. “Something bad happened at the McMillan Reservoir. There’s some kind of problem with the water supply.”

DISTRICT OFFICIALS CLOSED the DC schools. Bree stayed home with Ali and Jannie while I rushed to work. All the info I got from making a few