They had no concept of what they were getting themselves into. Their dark sedans and vans were parked in plain view on the street. Less than fifteen minutes after they had entered the office building, they came out with Lawrence Lipton in handcuffs, pathetically trying to shield his face. What a scene. They wanted to make a show of this, didn’t they? Why do that? he wondered. To prove how tough they were? How smart? But they weren’t smart. I will show you how tough and smart you need to be. I will show you how lacking you are in every way.

He instructed his driver to start the car. The wheelman did not look around at his boss in the backseat. He said nothing. He knew not to question orders. The Wolf’s ways were strange and unorthodox, but they worked.

“Drive past them,” he ordered. “I want to say hello.”

The FBI agents were casting nervous looks around the street as they led Lawrence Lipton toward a waiting van. A black man walked beside Sterling. Tall and strangely confident. Pasha Sorokin knew from his informant in the Bureau that this was Alex Cross, and that he was held in high regard.

How was it possible that a black man was given command of the raid? he wondered. In Russia, the American Negro was looked down upon. Sorokin had never gotten past his own prejudice; there was no reason to in the U.S.

“Get me close!” he told the driver. He lowered the rear passenger-side window. The second Cross and Lipton had passed his car, Sorokin thrust out an automatic weapon and aimed it at the back of Sterling’s head. Then an amazing thing—something he hadn’t anticipated—happened.

Alex Cross threw Lipton down onto the pavement, and they both rolled behind a parked car. How had Cross known? What had he seen to alert him?

Sorokin fired anyway, but he didn’t really have a clear shot. Still, the gunshot rang out loudly. He had delivered a message. Sterling wasn’t safe. Sterling was a dead man.

Chapter 97

Chapter 97

WE TRANSPORTED LAWRENCE LIPTON to the Dallas field office and held him there. I threatened to transfer him to Washington if there was any interference from the local police or even the press. I struck a deal with them. I promised Dallas detectives they’d have their turn with Lipton. As soon as I was done.

At eleven o’clock that night I slumped into a windowless interview room. It was sterile and claustrophobic, and I felt as if I’d been there a couple hundred times before. I nodded to Lawrence Lipton. He didn’t respond; he looked just awful. Probably I did too.

“We can help you, your family. We’ll keep them safe. Nobody else can help you now,” I said. “That’s the truth.”