Page 79 of Alex Cross Must Die

The laughter got louder. The screaming.

Not again. Not here!

Holmes squinted into the distance, down the boardwalk. He saw three young men huddled in the shadow of an abandoned building. He steadied himself and made a slow pass, checking the group in his peripheral vision. Haggard, pale faces. Money and small packets were changing hands.

The smell in his brain was getting worse. The smell of death. His breaths were coming hard and fast. Suddenly he flashed on a photo of Zozi Turner, smiling, in a pink bathing suit. The picture was lying in the sand as foamy waves washed over it, erasing it in an instant.

More screams in his head.

This was sharper and stronger than the panic attack in the office. There was only one way to stop it. Holmes reached into his pocket, felt for the wad of bills, and headed across the boardwalk.

Something told him that the strangers in the shadows might have just what he needed.

CHAPTER 88

POE MOVED SLOWLYthrough a silent parking garage three blocks from the ocean. Half of the overhead lights were broken. The rest cast ominous shadows.

As he crouched behind a row of parked cars, he spotted a black plastic weather cover draped over a motorcycle. He lifted it high enough to see underneath.

Dammit.

It was a heavy-duty Harley. Wrong make. Wrong color. Wrong everything.

“Hey, handsome. Got a minute?”

Poe froze, then turned around slowly. A young man was emerging from a dark stairwell that led down from the street. He had both hands in the pockets of his cheap nylon bomber jacket. Poe sized him up in a second. Skittish, reckless, and armed.

“If you need directions,” said Poe, “I’m not from around here.”

“That’s a nice suit, man.” The kid was an arm’s length away. He was short and thickset, with pecs bulging under his T-shirt. “Armani?”

“Brioni,” said Poe.

“Here on pleasure?”

Poe’s eyes darted around the lot. Nobody else in sight. “I wish,” said Poe. “All business.”

The kid pulled out a four-inch knife and jerked his head toward a dark corner. “In that case,” he said, “step into my office.”

“Wait!” said Poe, raising both hands. “Don’t hurt me. Here. I’ll give you my wallet.” He reached toward his back pocket and whipped out his 9mm Glock 45 pistol. Before the kid could blink, the barrel was pressed against his forehead.

“Fuck!” the kid muttered.

“I’m waiting,” said Poe, pressing harder.

The knife dropped to the concrete. Poe kicked it through the opening of a storm drain. “What else have you got that can hurt me?”

“Nothing. I swear,” said the kid. “You a cop?”

“Worse,” said Poe. He turned the kid around and shoved him forward onto the hood of an SUV. He held the gun against the kid’s back as he patted him down. “You local?”

“Seasonal,” the kid said, his bravado gone.

“You want to live to next season?” asked Poe.

The kid nodded. Poe yanked him around.

“I’m looking for a bike. I followed it off the parkway about a half hour ago. Kawasaki. Neon-green trim. Big fat duffel bag tied across the back.”

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