Triple Threat - James Patterson Page 0,28

union representative, a sharp attorney named Carrie Nan. I walked her through the events in the factory. Like Bree, she felt comfortable with me talking to Internal Affairs, which I did.

The two detectives, Alice Walker and Gary Pan, were polite, thorough, and, I thought, fair. They took me through the scenario six or seven times in an interrogation room I’d used often on the job.

I stuck with the facts, and not the swinging emotions of elation and rage that I’d felt during the entire event. I kept it clean and to the point.

The scene was an ambush. In all three shootings, I’d seen a pistol. I’d made a warning. When the pistol was turned on me, I shot to save my life.

Detective Pan scratched his head. “You sound kind of detached when you describe what happened.”

“Do I?” I said. “I’m just trying to talk about it objectively.”

“Always said you were the sharpest tack around, Dr. Cross,” Detective Walker said, and then paused. “After you shot the third Soneji, did you scream something like ‘I’ll kill every single Soneji before I’m through?’”

I remembered, and it sounded bad, and I knew it.

“They had me surrounded,” I said at last. “I was caught in an ambush, and had already engaged with three of them. Did I lose my cool at that point? I might have. But it was over by then. If there were others, they were long gone.”

Pan said, “Kimiko Binx was there.”

“Yes. What’s she saying?”

Walker said, “We’re not at liberty to say, Dr. Cross, you know that.”

“Sure,” I said. “Just being nosy.”

Pan said, “There were others there, by the way. In the factory.”

Before I could say anything, Pan’s cell buzzed. Then Walker’s.

“What others?” I asked. “I didn’t see anyone else.”

The detectives read their texts, and didn’t answer me.

“Sit tight,” Pan said, getting up.

“You need anything?” Walker asked. “Coffee? Coke?”

“Just water,” I said, and watched them leave.

There were others there, by the way. In the factory.

I hadn’t seen a soul. But was that true? Different spotlights had been aimed at me from different places and angles. There had to have been a fifth person at the least. There had to—

Two men in suits entered the room along with Chief Michaels and Bree. The first three were stone-faced. Bree looked like she was on the edge of a breakdown.

“I’m sorry, Alex, but…,” she said, barely getting the words out before she looked to Chief Michaels. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” I asked, feeling as if I were suddenly standing with my back to the rim of a deep canyon I hadn’t even realized was there.

“Alex,” Michaels said. “The third Soneji, the one you shot off the roof of the alcove, died two hours ago. And some very damning information has come forward that directly contradicts your account of the shooting.”

“What evidence?” I said. “Who are these guys?”

One of the suits said, “Mr. Cross, I am Special Agent Carlos Ramon with the US Justice Department.”

Coming around the table, the other suit said, “Special Agent Jon Christopher, Justice. You are under arrest for the premeditated murder of Virginia Winslow and John Doe. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and—”

I didn’t hear the rest. I didn’t need to. I’d recited the Miranda warnings a thousand times. As they handcuffed me, I kept looking at Bree, who was crushed, and wouldn’t return my gaze.

“You don’t believe them, do you?” I said, as Pan started to urge me toward the door and booking. “Bree?”

Bree looked my way finally with devastated, teary eyes. “Don’t say another word, Alex. Everything can and will be used against you now.”

Zoo II

James Patterson

With Max DiLallo

Chapter 1

I’m running for my life.

At least I’m trying to.

My clunky rubber boots keep getting stuck in the fresh snowfall. Fifty-mile-per-hour Arctic winds lash my body like a palm tree in a hurricane. The subzero-weather hooded jumpsuit I’m wearing is more cumbersome than a suit of armor.

Mini-icicles crust my goggles. Not that I could see much through them, anyway. All around me is a wall of white, a vortex of icy gusts and swirling snow. I can’t even make out my triple-gloved right hand in front of my face.

But that’s because it’s tucked into my front pocket, clutching a Glock 17 9mm pistol. My one and only hope of survival.

I keep moving—“stumbling” would be more accurate—as fast as I can. I don’t know where the hell I’m going. I just know I have to get there fast. I know I can’t stop.

If I do, the seven-hundred-pound