I lean in closer. “I bet the son of a bitch came up the Twelfth Street Expressway—a quick way to downtown.”
“I bet you’re right,” says Rizzo.
“And there he is,” says Chan, pointing to the reverse action on the screen. “On I-395 and making good time. Crossing the Potomac on the Williams Memorial Bridge … and now we’re in Virginia … and now we’re on the George Washington Parkway.”
I snap my fingers. “The airport! Reagan! That’s where he came from!”
Watching as the van continues backward, I wish that the driver had been pulled over for a broken taillight or an improper lane crossing—anything to disrupt the plan.
“You’re right,” says Chan. “Reagan National indeed. Parking garage one. That’s where he started.” He looks up. “The cat has been walked back.”
Mahoney picks up Chan’s desk phone. “Okay, in about five minutes, that garage is going to be swarming with agents. We’re locking it down. And then I’m heading out there.” He looks at me. “John, you coming?”
“Absolutely.” I turn to Rizzo. “How about you, Anna?”
She shakes her head. “Waste of time for me. I’m off to our ATF lab in Beltsville. While you two work the garage, I’ll be sifting through the physical evidence. Maybe we can pull out something useful.”
Mahoney nods.
I rub my eyes. “Long day ahead for all of us.”
Rizzo claps her hands together like a cheerleader. “Let’s get our asses in gear! I want this bastard. I want him bad.”
I can’t help but smile, just for a second. It’s not often that I run across an investigator as gung ho as I am.
I like Anna Rizzo. I like her a lot.
CHAPTER 14
Cross
ALEX CROSS MOVES FORWARD across the living room. “Hands! Get those hands up in the air!” Bree hangs back in the doorway in a shooting stance.
The intruder stops in his tracks and raises his arms. “Wait! Dr. Cross, Chief Stone. Hold on! Everything’s fine here.”
Alex tightens the grip on his gun. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Drake Cannon from the FBI field office in Charlotte. Ned Mahoney told me to connect with you and provide any assistance I can, official or not.”
That sounds like Mahoney, all right,Alex thinks. He’d called his friend before hearing about the events in DC. But even with a bombing in his own backyard, Mahoney’s the kind of friend who will reach out to help them find Damon.
But Alex needs to be sure. “Mr. Cannon, are you right-handed or left-handed?”
“Right,” he says.
“Don’t be insulted, but the older I get, the more suspicious I am. I need you to take out your identification with your left hand and drop it on the floor. Don’t toss it, just take it out and let it drop.”
Cannon reaches into his coat, removes a leather wallet, and drops it to the floor.
“Now,” says Alex, “put your hands up again and step back about six feet.” He glances at Bree. She lowers her pistol and picks up the wallet. She flips it open, revealing a photo ID and a gold badge. She holds the open wallet up so Alex can see it.
Alex matches the photo with the agent in front of him and nods. Cannon lowers his hands. Bree tosses him his wallet.
“Thanks, Mr. Cannon,” says Alex, sliding his pistol back into its holster. “Sorry it had to start like this.”
Bree tucks her pistol into her waistband, and the tension in the air dissolves.
“How did you know we’d be here?” asks Alex.
