Kill Alex Cross

There were a few more mumbled “thank you, sir”s around the table before the screens went blank again, and the president was gone. He’d said all he needed to say.

I looked down at my watch. It seemed impossible, but it was only a few minutes past six a.m. Bree would be getting off work about now. The kids would be waking up and starting to get ready for school after their day off. It sounded like President and Mrs. Coyle would be headed back to the White House. And two murdered policemen’s families were going to have to start piecing their lives back together this morning.

It was another day in Washington, DC, and none of us — the ones who were supposed to protect the city — had any idea what it would bring.

HALA WOKE UP first, as she almost always did. But something was different, she sensed. No, she knew something had changed. For the better?

It was the sound of the adhan. The sound of home, ringing out from somewhere nearby. She raised her head to see where she was.

Tariq was still asleep on the metal cot across from hers. Shelves of paper towels and toilet paper, the most pedestrian materials imaginable, lined the corner space above his bed. Where were they?

Her clothes were the same as the night before, except for a slight stiffness where they’d been sweated through and dried again.

How many miles had they run? It had seemed as if the night would never be over. But now they were here. Safe for the moment, in a new hiding place.

“Tariq?” She swung her legs out of bed. It was stuffy in the room, and the cool cement felt good underfoot. “Wake up. Tariq. Tariq.”

His eyes fluttered open just before he sat up fast. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s happened? Are the police here?”

“No. Nothing like that,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

This wasn’t a place they were supposed to know about. A dear friend at the camp outside of Najran had given her the name of the mosque. Just in case, he’d said. And use the back door in the alleyway. Hala hadn’t even told Tariq about the location until last night.

It had been pitch-dark when they came in, and lights were prohibited. Now a single high window was letting in just enough gray dawn to show her details she hadn’t seen before. This was a storage room, wasn’t it? There were boxes of paper and other office supplies. Some canned goods. An enormous wooden lectern, listing a bit to the side, like an old person who needed to use a cane.

And what was this? She saw that their things had been brought from the hotel. Both suitcases, Tariq’s laptop, and the black weapons case were stacked neatly by the room’s only door.

“Is it safe to move around?” Tariq asked.

“I suppose it is. Let’s see.”

Hala stood up. They could at least change their clothes. She was halfway across the room when the door suddenly opened from the outside. Had someone been watching them all night?

A portly woman, somewhere between middle-aged and old, walked in on them.

“You’re awake,” the woman said in Arabic. “Good. We brought your suitcases here.”

She had a basin of water in both hands, still steaming hot. There were two hand towels on her shoulder and what looked like a blue silk hijab for Hala. Clothes from back home.

“As soon as you’re ready, you can come have breakfast with him,” she said. She set the basin and towels on a chair, then turned to go. “I’ll just be outside.”

“Excuse me. Breakfast with who?” Hala asked.

The woman stopped, but only to look them over again, assessing them in some way. “Don’t be too long,” she said. “He’s waiting.”

THEY WERE BROUGHT around through the darkened back of the mosque. Hala could hear the Fajr prayer coming through the walls as they moved quickly along, carrying their shoes.

The housekeeper, or whatever she was, stopped at a tall carved door and let them inside, but she didn’t follow. The breakfast was already set.

“Brother. Sister,” the man at the table greeted them, also in Arabic. “Come and sit. The coffee’s getting cold.”

He was squat, like a man crossed with a toad, but his face was open and seemed friendly. He watched them come into the room with the kind of amused curiosity one usually reserved for a visit by children.

It was only when they came closer that Hala noticed the wheelchair. The heavy table and his long shirt had obscured it until now.

“Thank you for having us, Sheikh,” Tariq said. “We’re very sorry for the imposition. We apologize.”

He waved their concern away. “You were right to come here,” he said. “And I’m not the imam of this mosque. Just a Family member like yourselves. You can call me Uncle. Now, please, don’t be so polite. I know you must be hungry.”

She was, but Hala still paused to take stock. The man — Uncle — had scrambled eggs, pita, and jam on his