Triple Threat - James Patterson Page 0,34

and Eli. I want her to believe me when I promise I’ll be coming back to get them as soon as I possibly can.

But I don’t get a chance to say any of that. Our plane touches down on a private runway at Le Bourget, and before I know it, Chloe and I are walking down the retractable steps, Eli in my arms. A shiny black Citroën sedan and a handful of people are already waiting for us on the tarmac.

“Chloe, ma petite chérie!”

Marielle Tousignant, my wife’s bubbly seventy-year-old stepmother, wraps her in an emotional hug. Marielle married her widowed father when Chloe was still fairly young. She never adopted Chloe officially, but it didn’t matter. Marielle couldn’t have children of her own, and before long, the two became extremely close, as if biological relatives.

I stand in silence as they speak to each other in rapid-fire French. I can’t understand a word, but the gist of their conversation is pretty obvious.

“Salut, Oz,” Marielle says to me, kissing both my cheeks and blotting her eyes. “Thank you for returning to me my daughter.”

“Of course, Marielle,” I say. “Thanks for taking care of her while I’m gone.”

“And who is this handsome garçon?” she asks, gently stroking sleeping Eli’s hair.

Chloe furrows her brow. Is her stepmother making a joke? Or is it something else?

“Very funny, Maman,” she says. “That’s your grandson.”

After the slightest pause, an embarrassed smile blooms across Marielle’s face. “Oui, bien sûr! My, how big Eli is getting!”

A suited man standing by the car interrupts us: “Ma’am?”

He has an American accent, and I presume he’s one of the U.S. Embassy security escorts Dr. Freitas promised would pick Chloe and Eli up from the airport. “We should get going.”

Everyone agrees. Eli is still sleeping, and as Chloe takes him gently from me, I can tell from her expression she’s still upset. Is it because I didn’t tell her the plan? Because we’re going to be apart again? Or because the world has come to this?

Probably all three.

“Where’s Papa?” I hear her ask Marielle as we approach the sedan.

“Right here, my dear,” comes a scratchy old voice from inside the vehicle.

Jean-Luc Tousignant, my wife’s seventy-six-year-old father, is sitting in the backseat. A wooden cane is draped across his knees. As he reaches up to embrace his daughter, his hands tremble terribly.

“Forgive me for not getting out. I do not have the strength.”

Chloe can barely hide her shock. Neither can I. The last time we saw him, just a year ago, when he and Marielle visited us in New York, Jean-Luc, a former French Foreign Legion officer, was hale and hearty for his age. Tonight he looks frail and sick.

Wonderful, I think. I figured my wife and son would be safe in Paris with my in-laws. I had no idea that one of them had developed early-stage dementia and the other, Parkinson’s.

But at least this is safer than bringing Chloe and Eli with me to dangerous, far-flung lands…right?

I suddenly feel my wife pressing up against me, her arms around my neck, her lips on mine.

“I hate you so much, Oz,” she whispers between kisses. “But I love you more.”

I tell her I love her, too. I tell her to be safe. To watch over Eli. That I’ll be back for them.

“Just as soon as I save the world. I promise.”

With that, Chloe gets into the sedan and it speeds away into the night.

As I climb back up the steps of the plane, I swallow the growing lump in my throat. I knew saying good-bye to my family wasn’t going to be easy.

Now comes the even harder part.

Chapter 6

Dawn is breaking over London. It’s 2016, but squint, and you’d swear it was back during the Blitz.

Our three-SUV convoy is speeding east along Marylebone Road, one of the city’s central thoroughfares. My eyes are glued to the streetscape outside the window, and my jaw is stuck to the floor. I’m getting my first glimpse of just how much the world has changed since I’ve been gone.

By “changed,” I mean “gone to absolute shit.”

The sidewalks are splattered with dried blood and strewn with debris and broken glass. Gutters are filled with soggy garbage. Shops are boarded up. Most traffic lights are out. A few other cars and trucks are on the road—police and military vehicles, generally—but I don’t see a single pedestrian.

Instead, central London is overrun by animals—in particular, roving packs of rangy, rabid wolves.

Their fur is patchy, but their fangs glisten like icicles. They seem to