Page 2 of The House of Cross

This time he caught a glimpse of them exiting the upper part of the S, a half mile back.

The blue Tahoe,he thought, trying to breathe, trying to stay calm, trying to tell himself he could make it to the highway.

But with only a quarter of a tank? And what happens after I get there? Will I have cell service? Will anyone believe the story I have to tell?

Malcomb heard a thumping sound. He looked in the rearview and almost lost it.They’ve got the helicopter!

He looked at the cell phone screen again, saw one bar.

“Tor message, Siri,” he said. “Voice.”

“Tor activated,” Siri said. “Recipient?”

“Cross,” he said, glancing again in the rearview but not seeing the chopper. “Alex Cross.”

“Start message on the beep.”

“Dr. Cross,” Malcomb said as he reached the third and final series of S-curves. “There’s a good chance I will not survive. There are things I want to tell you so that you may bring to justice those responsible for my death. First, you know me as—”

The thumping came again, louder this time. Panicked, he accelerated into the first turn of the last S. He came around theapex of the turn, and to his shock the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter rose up out of the depths of the canyon to his left.

The blue and white chopper hovered in the falling snow. The man in the copilot’s seat wore headphones and sunglasses, but he was without a doubt Malcomb’s double.

Then the tail of the bird drifted. There was a man in a harness tethered to the interior roof hanging out the side, one foot on the strut, shouldering a military-style rifle.

Malcomb did the only thing he could think of and squeezed the gas control. The van went shooting out of the first curve in that final S and grazed the canyon wall with the passenger-side door, sending a shower of sparks into the falling snow.

He glanced at the sideview, saw the helicopter turning to follow him. He shouted, “They’re coming for me, Cross. You know my brother, but—”

The helicopter roared up behind him as he reached the last tight turn in the road. He ducked a little, looked in the sideview, and saw the bird coming fast, the gunman hanging out of it.

As he came out of the turn, he saw the road ahead was blocked by a big dump truck with a snowplow. Without thinking, he slammed on the brakes and tugged hard left on the wheel.

The van smashed into the guardrail going fifty-plus. The bumper caught the rail and hung up on it, causing the rear of the van to catapult up and over.

Malcomb screamed and caught an upside-down image of the bumper tearing free of the rail. The helicopter came into view as the van fell. It caromed off the side of the cliff, plunged another two hundred feet, and hit a pile of rocks.

The gas tank exploded. The wreckage began to burn.

Back up on the cliff, a woman wearing a tan sheriff’s uniform and a heavy coat came out from behind the snowplow; she wasfollowed by an older guy in coveralls. They went to the edge and looked down at the van burning, sending black smoke up through the snow.

“Didn’t expect that,” the plow driver said. “But it’ll work.”

The deputy nodded, picked up her radio, clicked the mic button, and looked up at the helicopter swinging away.

“That went easier than we thought, sir,” she said. “And the new snow won’t hurt our cause none.”

CHAPTER 2

Washington, DC

AT SIX P.M. ONa mid-December day, Emma Franklin hurried out of the elevator and down a long hall in the basement of the Prettyman U.S. Court House. The tall forty-six-year-old carried a purse and a leather briefcase and wore a long gray puffy coat over her navy-blue pantsuit.

Franklin pushed through the door into the annex garage and was relieved to see her ride waiting. The driver, a tall redhead in her late thirties, jumped out of the Cadillac town car.

“Good evening, Judge Franklin,” she said, coming around to open the rear passenger door.

Franklin smiled. “How are you, Agnes?”

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