By James Patterson

Alex move used to be a emerging celebrity within the Washington, DC, Police division whilst an unknown shooter gunned down his spouse, Maria, in entrance of him. Alex's desire for vengeance used to be put on carry as he confronted one other large challenge-raising his young ones with no their mother.

Years later Alex is creating a daring movement in his lifestyles. He has left the FBI and organize perform as a psychologist once more. His existence with Nana Mama, Damon, Jannie, and little Alex eventually sounds like it's so as. He even has an opportunity at a brand new love.

Then Cross's former associate, John Sampson, calls in a desire. Now pass needs to pass at the hunt for the main crafty, psychotic killer he has ever faced...and it pushes him dangerously on the subject of the verge of collapse.

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Additional resources for Cross (Alex Cross, Book 12) (UK Edition)

Example text

He paused, switched on the flashlight, and searched among the vertical posts, along the horizontal supports. On the catwalk, I ducked my head behind the storage chest. A moment later the probing light swept over me, east to west, back again, and then away. Although Boo had moved past me and stood with his head through a gap in the railing, watching the giant, he remained visible only to me. When the searcher had moved out of sight into the labyrinth of posts and purlins and struts, I rose to my feet.

I propped the flashlight on his chest. Because his head was raised on a mound of sand, the bright beam bathed him from chin to hairline. If something like Godzilla woke in a Pacific abyss and decided to come ashore to flatten our picturesque community, this guy’s face would dissuade it from a rampage, and the scaly beast would return meekly to the peace of the deeps. With the fog-diffused lights of town to guide me, I slogged across the wide beach. I did not proceed directly east. Perhaps Flashlight Guy had told the pier crew that he was on the shore due west of some landmark, by which they could find him.

Eye of newt. Wool-of-bat hair. Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips. A lolling tongue like a fillet of fenny snake. He was not exactly Odd Hours 51 ugly, but he looked peculiar, as if he’d been conjured in a cauldron by Macbeth’s coven of witches. When he had fallen, a slim cell phone had slid half out of his shirt pocket. If he was in league with the trio at the pier, he might have called them when he heard me swimming ashore. After rolling him onto his side, I took the wallet from his hip pocket. Supposing he had summoned help moments before I had come ashore, I needed to move on quickly and could not pore through his ID there on the beach.

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