Cross Down

Book 0: Alex Cross

by James Patterson, Brendan DuBois

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Brought to you by Penguin.

With the country in chaos and corruption on all sides, there's only one person to turn to.

When a series of military-style attacks erupt across the United States, Detective John Sampson is called in to investigate. The attacks are untraceable, with patterns too random to decipher, leaving Sampson struggling to find a link amongst the carnage.

As Sampson discovers a lead through an ex-military contact, his partner Alex Cross is brutally side-lined, leaving him certain about one thing: he can trust no one.

With soldiers called on secret assignments and others mysteriously disappearing, Sampson must revisit his military past if he's to save his country's future.
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Praise for the Alex Cross series

'Alex Cross is a legend' Harlan Coben
'A character for the ages' Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
'Alex Cross. . . only gets better and better' Lisa Scottoline

©2023 James Patterson (P)2023 Penguin Audio

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 400

Sample

One

In front of President Kent and the historic Resolute Desk, General Wayne Grissom, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sits with his uniform hat in his lap and says, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. President.”

President Lucas Kent nods. The former Maine governor and senator is sixty, in good shape, with thick brown hair and half-frame reading glasses that he never allows the public to see him in. He’s dressed casually in gray slacks, a blue oxford button-down shirt, a red necktie.

He’s an old Yankee spirit, and he brought to the White House an insistence on saving money, which is why the Oval Office is only dimly lit, as if for a funeral, this mid-September afternoon. The heavy glass windows—bulletproof, of course—don’t allow much outside light in.

President Kent is the third president Grissom has served under since he rose to the rank of general. Grissom finds this one as smart and dedicated as the previous two. Kent pays attention to detail and has a strong bullshit detector; his personality, a mix of flattery and hardness, is typical for a political animal. This president also has the same weakness as his two predecessors: he wants to be liked by all the people he serves.

Which, Grissom thinks wryly, is a good attribute for a car salesman but not for the leader of the free world.

Earlier, when Grissom arrived at the White House—by himself, with no aides or staff—he’d noticed the change in the Secret Service detail. Outside, they were in full tactical gear, with Kevlar vests, jumpsuits, helmets, and automatic weapons, and even inside, agents in tactical gear roamed the corridors. Grissom has never seen this before.

At Grissom’s request, neither the president’s chief of staff, Helen Taft, nor any other presidential aides are at this Oval Office meeting. Grissom is sure Helen will raise hell about this with the president later, but that’s not his concern.

Preventing leaks is his concern.

It is just the two of them. A highly unusual step, but these are dangerous and unusual times.

“Go ahead, General, please tell me what you’ve got,” the president says.

Grissom says, “Ever since the attack on Fort Leavenworth, Army Intelligence has been aggressively working with other domestic intelligence and law enforcement agencies. We’ve operated within the bounds of the Posse Comitatus Act—the law barring the military from participating in civilian law—but I’ll admit we’ve pushed those bounds. I’m sure you’ve received complaints about how hard we’ve pushed, but we didn’t have much choice.”

The president makes a dismissive gesture. “I’ve heard the complaints and I don’t care. You’ve been doing a good job under difficult circumstances. Go on.”

“Sir, since April, more than three hundred Americans have been killed and thousands more injured in these attacks.”

The president sighs. “With not one demand, not one reliable or verifiable claim of responsibility. Nothing! One week it’s a shooting in a Seattle office building, the next week, a pipe bomb at a supermarket in Omaha, and the week after that, poisoned bottled water given away on the streets of Manhattan.”

Grissom nods. “Yes, sir, and those are just the attacks that we have concluded are originating from a terrorist organization.”

The president pauses, then says, “You mean we may be undercounting the casualties?”

Grissom says, “I think we are. That school-bus shooting in Compton earlier this month, the one where the bus was caught in the cross fire between two rival gangs? The LAPD’s counterterrorism division now believes that wasn’t what happened. They think it was a coordinated attack, that there were no local gangs involved.”

The president closes his eyes. “Children in a school bus stopped at a red light. Automatic gunfire swept back and forth…at least ten dead, am I right?”

Grissom says, “Two more later died. Official death toll from that attack now stands at twelve, sir.”

There is silence in the Oval Office. President Kent opens his eyes, clenches his right hand into a fist. “General, what the hell is going on? Who are these people?”

Grissom speaks without notes or a PowerPoint presentation, nothing that can be subpoenaed or leaked. “Sir, the random terrorist attacks aren’t random. It’s taken a lot of interagency work, but Army Intelligence and other agencies believe there’s one common thread connecting these terrorists. They’re all working to disrupt our economy and our sense of security. That’s why we’ve received no demands. They’re looking for disruption. That’s all.”

“Who’s behind the attacks?” the president asks. “Foreign terrorists or domestic?”

Grissom shakes his head. “Looks like both, sir. You’ve heard the saying ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”

“Of course.”

“That’s the situation we’re facing. Disparate nations around the world who are our sworn enemies—like China and Russia—are finding it convenient to support and fund these terror groups. We don’t have solid evidence because each attack comes from a separate cell that communicates with its paymasters via encrypted e-mail using the farthest corners of the dark web.”

“What can we do about it?”

Grissom stands up and points to the French doors leading out of the Oval Office. “Sir, we need to talk outside.”

Two

General Grissom lets the president lead the way.

A female Secret Service agent wearing a black pantsuit with a white blouse opens the French doors; she’s backed up by another agent wearing tactical gear and holding an automatic weapon. On the Oval Office patio, a closed-off area terraced with small trees and bushes, the president takes one wrought-iron chair and Grissom takes the other.

“This is what we’ve learned,” Grissom says, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him. A weathered pink scar runs across the top of his right hand, courtesy of militants in Somalia. “It’s like a swarm of wasps flying in random directions, seeking out targets, attacking, disappearing, then attacking again. Car bombs, one attempt at a dirty bomb, poisonings, shootings, attacks at malls and shopping centers. At first it was the randomness that confused law enforcement and intelligence agencies. What was the point? And the terrorists who were captured, they were a mix: Teenage boys. Honorably discharged veterans. Even a few goddamn grandmothers. Angry wasps out there, each attacking for a separate reason. They’re anti-government or anti-liberal or anti-conservative. No real thread connecting them.”

The president says, “So where’s the wasps’ nest? The source?”

“Good question, sir, and we’ve narrowed it down. We have located a few lines of financing and other support from Iran, China, Russia, and some Mexican cartels. Nothing that would stand up in a court of law. But this support is deep and widespread. The previous attacks, they were practice. Domestic terrorist cells are planning assaults, and, sir, they’re coming here. To the District.”

The president sags in his chair. “When?”

“Possibly within a week. The chatter—some open communications and some partially deciphered e-mails—is pointing to the attack coming soon.”

“Any chance it’s just random chatter? False flags?”

Grissom shakes his head. “With two or three threats, that’s possible. But no, these threats are too deep, too specific. There is a lot of anger and bitterness out there among Americans, sir, and someone is expertly tapping into that resentment, firing people up and pointing them at us. During the January sixth riots, most of the protesters were initially peaceful, crazed though they might have been. It took only a small number of hard men goading the demonstrators to turn that crowd into a violent mob that threatened our institutions.”

Grissom looks the president in the eye. “The American people are normally a peaceful lot. But in these troubled times…they can be molded, shaped, encouraged to commit violence. That’s what we’re up against, sir.”

The president says, “What do we do, then?”

“Sir, I’d like to have a principals’ meeting as soon as possible. Perhaps this evening, with you in attendance, and representatives from the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and the DC Metro Police. A task force to take the lead and try to prevent future attacks.”

“And you?”

“I’d be there, of course.”

The president smiles. “This task force will need a leader.”

“The head of the FBI or Homeland Security should take that role, sir. I’d be on hand with the military to supply any resources they need.”

The president shakes his head. “I’m thinking of someone else, General. Someone I can rely on and who won’t bullshit me.”

“The secretary of defense?”

The president says, “You.”

Grissom is startled into silence. He hasn’t been this surprised since that hot morning in Mogadishu when a brother-and-sister team who sold sweet tea outside the main gate delivered Russian-made F-1 hand grenades in the battered cups.

“Mr. President, the civilian leadership won’t like it,” he says. “Pushback and resistance won’t work in our favor.”

“The civilian leadership will do as I say or they’ll be replaced. But if I put you in charge, what has to be done?”

Grissom thinks for a moment. “We’ll need a presidential finding. And a confidential executive order temporarily suspending Posse Comitatus.”

“Remind me, how many military bases do we have domestically?”

“Nearly five hundred,” Grissom says.

With more confidence in his voice, the president says, “That’s an incredible resource that would allow the military—working with civilian law enforcement—to respond quickly to emerging threats if we find out that these attacks are coming from within our borders. Which you believe they are, based on the traffic analysis of the encrypted messages.”

Grissom hears sirens racing by beyond the grounds of the White House. “That’s a good point, sir,” he says.

“Then you’ll take the lead?”

He rubs his hands together for a moment. “I will, but reluctantly, sir. Mr. President, you have tough decisions ahead. Restriction of civilian movement, control and oversight of the internet to prevent the spread of misinformation and fake news. Your administration may have to consider a temporary declaration of martial law. I don’t envy you, Mr. President.”

The president says with a wry look on his face, “You ever see the side-by-side photos of presidents on the day they’re inaugurated and the day they leave office? It’s all there, all the burdens, all the decisions, in the lines on their faces and their white hair.” A faint smile. “That’s why we get the big bucks, right?”

Grissom says, “With your permission, sir.”

The president nods.

Grissom stands up and retrieves his uniform hat; the president remains seated. “But why did you ask to come out to this terrace?” he asks. “The Secret Service sweeps the Oval Office for listening devices at least three times a day.”

Grissom puts his hat on his head. “Sir, these are difficult times.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know if you can trust your Secret Service detail anymore.”

Chapter

The District of Columbia is a place of contradictions and secrets. Pockets of extreme poverty where troubled folks shoot up on street corners are only a brisk walk away from gourmet restaurants where the price of an evening meal would cover the cost of a month’s groceries for my daughter and me. And the residents of the District, the hub of American representative government, have no real congressional representation.

Those are the contradictions. But it’s the secrets—written and geographical—that are the coin of the realm here in DC, and I’m entering one of these secret places along with my best friend, a man I consider my brother, Dr. Alex Cross.

We’re near Arlington, Virginia, at a Homewood Suites by Hilton, a nice-looking small hotel in the midst of a score of other nice-looking small hotels in one of a score of anonymous strip malls in the area, but this place is different.

In the small lobby, there’s a coffee service and an unmanned check-in counter with a little bell. I say, “We got time for coffee?”

“Won’t make a very good impression if you walk in carrying a go-cup,” Alex says.

“It’s been a rough day and I could use a pick-me-up,” I say. “And when did I ever care about making a good impression?”

That causes Alex to smile. We go down a short hallway, passing a sign reading EMPLOYEES ONLY, to a metal door with a keypad lock. Alex punches in the combination, then holds the door open for me, and we walk three flights down to a subbasement. There, Alex punches in another series of numbers on a second keypad lock, and after the click, I open the heavy metal door and hold it for Alex. He goes in and I follow, and we both stop at a checkpoint.

Three unsmiling men wearing green tactical fatigues, body armor, and black knit caps stare at us. Two of them are holding automatic weapons; the third is standing behind a plain wooden lectern stacked with papers and folders. He consults a list, and a smile appears on his fierce face.

“Dr. Cross,” he says to my old friend. “My daughter is reading your latest book in her criminal justice course at Georgetown. Something about dark minds, dark desires. Is that it?”

Alex nods. “That’s right. Dark Minds, Dark Desires: Case Histories of the Criminally Insane. What does she think of it?”

 “She says it’s informative and well written, but twice it has given her nightmares. You go ahead, Dr. Cross.”

I’m next and the man’s frown returns. “Name?”

“Detective John Sampson,” I say. “Metro Police.”

He makes a check mark on the list. “ID, please, and place your hand on this biometric pad. And I’ll need you to sign this pad over here too, for signature comparison.”

  

All of this means I’m a couple of minutes behind Alex when I enter a low-ceilinged room in the center of which is a large polished wood conference table surrounded by comfortable chairs, each one filled by Someone Important. True to the way of DC, if a meeting is set for eight p.m.—like this one—certain folks will arrive at seven p.m. to ensure they get good places at the table.

Alex and I make do with two of the less comfortable chairs along the near wall. We both get looks from the important people as we settle in, Alex because he’s Alex, and me because I’m a Black man who stands six feet nine inches. That has its advantages when I’m working the streets of DC as a homicide detective, but it’s a royal pain in the ass on other occasions, like when I’m trying to get comfortable and keep a low profile in a crowded conference room.

This room is equipped with computers operated by uniformed army and air force personnel and three large, ceiling-mounted screens, each one displaying the seal of the president of the United States.

I’ve learned from my contacts in the Metro Police and from people I’ve worked with in my army and reserve service over the years that there are multiple White House situation rooms scattered around the Beltway. If all the top officials of the U.S. government are huddled together in a room under the White House, well-armed enemies can drop a single bunker-buster bomb or tactical nuke, and that’s it, the United States is leaderless.

A side door opens and we all stand up when President Lucas Kent enters and takes a seat at the table. He’s followed by General Wayne Grissom, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and a female army colonel. A couple of seconds later, the president’s chief of staff, Helen Taft, follows and takes a chair next to the president. Seeing the president isn’t all that exciting for me—I learned a long time ago that presidents are like most men and women, and as politicians, they will always break your heart—but I’m pleased to see General Grissom take a seat on the other side of the president.

Grissom and I served in the army at the same time, probably breathed the same air and dust while stationed in Afghanistan and Iraq, and he still carries himself with the bearing of a working-class guy who fought his way up through the ranks and who saw his first duty as protecting his troops in all branches. If there is a service ribbon for kissing political asses, it’s notably absent on General Grissom’s dress uniform. It’s good to see him here, especially considering what’s going on in the United States three stories above us.

The president says, “Folks, let’s get right to it. Random terrorist attacks against this country began this past April and continued throughout the summer. A while back, I directed General Grissom to start gathering and collating information from the agencies represented here.” The president glances at General Grissom, then continues. “To cut to the proverbial chase, ladies and gentlemen, these attacks are just the beginning. We have a week to stop them or our nation and its people will be crippled and might never recover.”

Chapter

I watch the general’s face. One of these terrorist attacks occurred this morning on F Street, right outside the General Services Administration Building. A red Toyota RAV4 stuffed with C-4 and roofing nails exploded, killing eight and injuring thirty-four. The bomb wasn’t designed to take down the building, although a number of its windows were blown out by the force of the explosion. No, it was designed to scythe down government workers streaming into the building’s lobby, none of whom knew that those would be the last steps they would ever take.

Like it had in two other recent car bombings in DC, the FBI bigfooted its way into the MPD’s investigation and took over. When the FBI arrives, that’s it. Protocol allows them to be the lead agency in terrorist attacks. As a homicide detective for the Metro Police, I should still be there at the car-bombing crime scene, but an urgent text took me away from F Street to this hidden bunker.

I fold my arms. There’s a slight murmur from the principals sitting close to the president, among them the secretaries of state, defense, and homeland security. Also at the table are representatives from the FBI, the NSA, and the CIA as well as assorted handlers and assistants. I’m pleased to see a familiar face among the bunch: FBI supervising special agent Ned Mahoney. Alex and I have gotten to know him well over the years.

The president says, “This is not a time for turf battles, withholding information, or nursing old grudges. General Grissom has my full support to take command of the situation, and I expect everyone in this room to give him his or her complete cooperation. If you feel you cannot work with General Grissom, I want your resignation within the hour. General?”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” he says. “First, I’d like to thank the intelligence and law enforcement agencies who have cooperated with me over these past few months. And as for those who haven’t returned my phone calls yet, an hour after this meeting will work just fine.” He turns to a female officer. “Colonel?”

The colonel’s name tag says KENDRICKS. From a soft black leather briefcase, she pulls out a sheaf of papers. She splits them into two stacks and sends a stack down each side of the table. Each person takes one, and there are none left for those of us sitting in the cheap seats.

Grissom says, “This is a single-sheet briefing on the terrorist attacks—the details, locations, and resulting casualties. You’ll see that each page is numbered. When this meeting is over, Colonel Kendricks will ensure that each sheet is returned.”

The two men in front of us are leaning into each other, talking in low tones, and I get up and put my hands on their shoulders and say, “I bet you fellows won’t mind sharing, right?” Before they can answer, I pluck the sheet from one man’s hands and return to sit next to Alex.

He whispers, “And that’s why we love having Big John around.”

I say, “You love having Big John around because when we go out, I pay your bar tab.” I hold the sheet of heavy white stock, which has only the insignia of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, no TOP SECRET or NOFORN or CLASSIFIED stamps or stickers. Just a list.

It starts this past April 15—Columbus, Georgia, a sniper attack downtown; six killed, fourteen wounded.

Alex and I look at the list of familiar and less familiar city names: San Francisco; Los Angeles; Leavenworth; Tulsa; Arapahoe, Nebraska; Manchester, Vermont; and on and on.

A woman’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Excuse me, General, a moment?”

The room falls silent as Secretary of Homeland Security Doris Landsdale speaks. “I’m curious why you’re keeping this briefing sheet so closely guarded. These attacks have been in the news all spring and summer.”

Grissom says, “Madam Secretary, agreed, but this is the first time we’ve identified all of these attacks as coming from a single source.”

Landsdale says, “You really think the terrorists are unaware that we know this?”

Next to the president, his chief of staff smiles slightly, like she’s in agreement with Secretary Landsdale.

The general’s voice is ice-cold calm when he says, “Some of these attacks are still considered one-offs by the public, industrial accidents or random crimes. Like the school-bus shooting in Los Angeles. The initial investigation and news reports said the school bus got caught in the cross fire between two feuding street gangs. We now know that is not true.”

Alex takes a breath and I know exactly what he’s envisioning: his younger son, Ali, in a similar school bus in the midst of gunfire.

And I know that’s on Alex’s mind because I’m thinking almost the same thing: My sweet seven-year-old, Willow, in a school-bus seat, feet not quite touching the floor, excitedly talking to a friend; a vehicle pulls up, its windows roll down, and black barrels of automatic weapons emerge…

Focus, I think, stop with the . . .