James Patterson - Double Cross

Double Cross

Chapter 1

WASHINGTON, DC.The first story, a thriller, involved an Iraqi soldier and a crime writer. This soldier was observing a twelve-story luxury apartment building, and he was thinking, So this is how the rich and famous live. Stupidly at best, and very dangerously for sure.He began his checklist of possibilities for a break-in.The service entrance at the back of the superluxury River-walk apartment building was rarely, if ever, used by the residents, or even by their sullen lackeys. More secluded than the main entry or the underground parking garage, it was also more vulnerable.A single reinforced door showed off no external hardware. The frame was wired on all sides.Any attempt at forced entry would trigger simultaneous alarms at the Riverwalks main office and with dispatch at a private security firm based just a few blocks away.Static overhead cameras monitored all deliveries and other foot traffic during the day.Use of the entrance was forbidden after seven p.m., when motion detectors were also engaged.None of this was a serious problem, the soldier believed. Actually, it was an advantage for him.Yousef Qasim had been a captain for twelve years with the Mukhabarat under Saddam. He had a sixth sense about such things, anything to do with the illusion of security. Qasim could see what the Americans could notthat their love of technology made them complacent and blind to danger. His best way into the Riverwalk was also the easiest.Garbage was the answer. Qasim knew it was carried out every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon, without fail. American efficiency, so valued here, was another of the luxury buildings vulnerabilities.Efficiency was predictability.Predictability was weakness.

Chapter 2

SURE ENOUGH, at 4:34 p.m. the door to the service entrance opened from inside. A tall black lackey in stained green coveralls and a silver Afro latched a chain from inside the door to a hook on the outside wall. His flatbed dolly, loaded with bulging plastic garbage bags, was too wide to negotiate the opening.The man moved slowly, lazily carrying two bags at a time to a pair of commercial Dumpsters at the far end of a covered loading dock.This man is still a slave to the whites, Qasim thought to himself. And look at himthe pathetic shuffle, the downcast eyes. He knows it too. He hates his job and the terrible people in the Riverwalk building.Qasim watched closely, and he counted. Twelve paces away from the door, nine seconds to throw the garbage bags in, then back again.On the mans third trip, Qasim slipped by him unnoticed. And if his own cap and green coveralls werent enough to fool the camera, it was no crucial matter. Hed be long gone by the time anyone came to investigate the security breach.He found the poorly lit service stairs easily enough. Qasim took the first flight cautiously, then ran up the next three. Actually, the running released pent-up adrenaline, which was useful to get under control.On the fourth-floor landing was an unused utility closet, where he stashed the garment bag he had carried in, then continued up to twelve.Less than three and a half minutes after entering the luxury building, he stood at the front door to apartment 12F. He gauged his position relative to the peephole in the door. His finger hovered over the buzzer, a recessed white button in the painted brick.But he went no further than that. He didnt actually push the buzzer today.Without making a sound, he turned on his heels and left the way he had come. Minutes later, he was back out on the street, busy Connecticut Avenue.The drill, the rehearsal, had gone fairly well. There were no major issues, no surprises either. And now Qasim jostled along with the rush-hour pedestrian traffic. He was invisible here, just as unseen in this herd as he needed to be.He felt no impatience for the execution up on the twelfth floor. Patience and impatience were irrelevant to him. Preparation, timing, completion, success: those were the things that mattered.When the time came, Yousef Qasim would be ready to do his part.And he would.One American at a time.

Chapter 3

I WAS OUT OF POLICE WORK, and had been for a while now. So far, that was okay with me.I was standing with my back against the kitchen door, sipping a mug of Nanas coffee, thinking that maybe it was something in the water, but all I knew was this: my three kids were growing up too fast. Blink-of-an-eye stuff. And heres the thingeither you cant stand to even think of your kids leaving home or you cant wait, and I was definitely, firmly, in the former camp.My youngest, Alex Jr.Aliwas going to be a kindergartner now. He was a sharp little guy too, who rarely, if ever, shut up except when he knew you wanted to know something from him. His passions at the moment included Animal Planets Most Extreme, the Washington Nationals baseball team, the Michael Jordan biography Salt in His Shoes, and anything to do with outer space, including a very strange TV show called Gigantor, with even stranger theme music that I couldnt get out of my head.Preteen Jannie had begun trading in that twiggy body of hers for a set of starter curves. She was our resident artist and actress, and was taking painting classes through the Corcoran ArtReach Program.And Damon, who had just passed the six-foot-one mark, was looking forward to high school. So far, he didnt whoop and shout or trash-talk, and seemed more generally aware of his surroundings than his peers were. Damon was even being recruited by a couple of prep schools, including a persistent one in Massachusetts.Things were changing for me too. My private-therapy practice was going pretty well. For the first time in years, my life had nothing official to do with law enforcement. I was out of the loop.Well, almost, anyway. I did have a certain senior homicide detective in my life: Brianna Stone, also known as the Rock, if you asked some of the detectives who worked with her. Id met Bree at a retirement party for a cop we both knew. We spent the first half hour that night talking about the Job and the next few hours talking about ourselveskind of crazy things like her race-hand release as a paddler on the Dragon Boat Racing Team. By the end of the night, I barely had to ask her out. In fact, as I think about it now, she might have asked me. But then one thing led to another, and another, and I went home with Bree that night and we never looked back. And yes, I think Bree asked me to come home with her that night too.Bree was fully in control of herselfintense, in all the good ways and none of the bad. And it didnt hurt that she seemed to have a natural chemistry with the kids. They dug her. She was, in fact, right now chasing Ali at Olympic speed through the first floor of the house on Fifth Street, roaring like the child-eating alien she had apparently become, while Ali used a Star Wars lightsaber to keep her at bay. That sword cant hurt me! she shouted. Prepare to eat carpet!Bree and I didnt stick around on Fifth Street too long on that particular morning, though. To be honest, if we had stayed there, I probably would have been forced to sneak her upstairs to show her my nonexistent etchings, or maybe my lightsaber.For the first time since wed been going out, we had managed to synchronize our schedules for a few days away. I went out the front door loudly singing the end of Stevie Wonders very first hit, Fingertips Part 2: Good-bye, good-bye. Good-bye, good-bye. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. I knew the words by heart, one of my gifts.I winked at Bree and pecked her cheek. Always leave them laughing, I said.Or at least confused, she said, and winked back.Our destination, Catoctin Mountain Park in Maryland, was on the eastern rampart of the Appalachian Mountains, not too far from Washingtonand not too close either. The mountains were perhaps best known as the site of Camp David, but Bree knew about a campground open to mere mortals like us. I couldnt wait to get there and be alone with her.I could almost feel the thrum of DC move out of my head as we headed north. The windows of my R350 were down, and as always I was loving the ride of this marvelous vehicle. Best buy Id made in a long time. The late, great Jimmy Cliff wailed on the stereo. Life was pretty good right at the moment. Hard to beat.As we zipped along, Bree had a question: Why the Mercedes?Its comfortable, yes?Very comfortable.I touched the gas. Responsive, quick.Okay, I get the point.But most important, its safe. Ive had enough danger in my life. I dont need it on the road.At the park entrance, as we were paying for the site, Bree leaned across me to speak to the ranger on duty. Thanks a lot. Well be respectful to your park.What was that about? I asked Bree as we pulled away.What can I say, Im an environmentalist.The campsite was definitely spectacular, and worthy of our respect. It sat on its own little point of land, with shimmering blue water on three sides and nothing but dense forest greenness looming behind. In the far distance, I could see something called Chimney Rock, which we planned on hiking the next day. What I couldnt see was a single other person.Just the one that mattered, Bree, who happened to be the sexiest woman Id ever known. Just the sight of her got me going, especially out here on our own.She took hold of me around the waist. What could be more perfect than this?I couldnt think of anything that would spoil our weekend up here in the woods.Next page