“Not us,” says Larry with a sneer. “We don’t hang with young Black men.”
“Somebody saw you. Described you. Right down to the beards. Heard you call each other by name.”
Alex is bluffing. He can’t reveal what the FBI has on tape, but he’s hoping that his lie will flush out the truth.
“You think we’re the only Larry and Brett with beards in this country?”
“The young man was riding a bike. Does that refresh your memory?”
Larry spits on the floor. “I got nothing to say to you.”
Alex turns to Brett. “So, what happened? You and your buddy see a Black kid on a nice bike. You stop, tune him up a little?”
“If it was a nice bike,” says Brett, “the kid probably stole it. But we’re not supposed to say that stuff anymore, right? That would be profiling.”
Larry stares up at Alex. “Who are you, anyway?” he asks defiantly. “The kid’s parole officer?”
Alex moves closer. The barrel of the Glock is millimeters away from Larry’s forehead. “No, you mouth-breathing bigot. I’m his father.”
Alex hears a sound behind him. Starts to turn.
Too late.
“Freeze right there, boy, or I’ll take your damn head off!”
CHAPTER 73
ALEX DOESN’T MOVE. He sees the men on the bed grinning.
“’Bout time, Danny,” says Brett.
Behind him, Alex hears a man with a syrupy Southern accent say, “I got a call from my front-office lady. Told me she saw a suspicious-looking Black sneakin’ around my motel. I ride on over here and see a door busted in and find this man of color threatening y’all.”
Alex lowers his gun. “I’m with the FBI.”
“Drop your gun.”
Alex stoops and lays his Glock on the floor.
“He’s got two of ours, Danny!” Brett calls.
“Put those down too.”
Alex feels his neck tingling. He reaches into his waistband and puts down the other two pistols. Larry and Brett scramble to pick them up along with Alex’s Glock.
“Now turn around,” says the voice from behind. “Do it slow.”
Alex carefully rotates one foot, then the other.
A thickset man in a white tank top is aiming a .45 at his midsection. The man’s face is flushed and sweaty, covered with white beard stubble.
“Mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here, boy? Threatening these fine citizens and damaging my place of business?”
“I’m Dr. Alex Cross. I’m a contract employee with the FBI.” His eyes narrow. “And I haven’t been a boy for a long time.”
Danny wiggles his gun. “You got any identification there, Doc?”
Alex fishes out his ID and holds it in front of Danny’s face.
