Cross Country

James Patterson

Prologue

HOME INVASION

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GEORGETOWN, WASINGTON, DC.

The surname of the family was Cox, the father a very Successful trail lawyer, but the target was trhe mother, Ellie Randall Cox. The timing was right now, tonight, just minutes away. The payday was excellent, couldn't be better.

The 6 foot 6, 250-pound killer known as "The Tiger" had given out guns to his team - also a gram of cocaine to share, and the only instruction they would need tonight: The mother is mine. Kill the rest.

His secondary mission was to scare the American Meddlers. He knew how they felt about home invasions and their precious families, and murders in cold blood. Thay had so many ruiles for how life ought to be conducted. The secret to beating them aws to break all their silly, sacred rules.

He settled down to watch the house from the street. Wood blinds in the first-floor windows drew horizontal lines across the family members as they moved around inside, unaware of the murderous forces gathered outside.

The boys waited restlessly at the Tiger's side, and waited for instinct to tell him it was time to move on the house.

"Now," he said, "we go!"

Then, with only the slightest bend and whack of the knees, he began to run, breaking out of the camouflaging shadows of an evergreen, his strides almost too fast to count.

A single, powerful leap and he was up on the stoop of the house. Next came 3 splintering blows to the front door. It seemed to explode open, and they were inside, the kill team, all 5 of them.

The boys, none older than 17, streamed in around him, firing Berettas into the living room ceiling, waving crude hunting knives, shouting orders that were hard to understand because their English was not at the level of the Tiger's.

The children of the house screamed life little piglets; their lawyer father leapt up and tried to shield them with his flabby, overfed body.

"you are pitiful!" the Tiger shouted at him. " You can't even protect your family in your own house."

Soon enough, 3 family members were corralled against the living room mantel, which was covered with birthday cards addressed to "Momma" and "My Darling Ellie" and "Sweetness and Light".

The leader nudged the youngest of the boys forward, the one who had chosen the name Nike and who had a contagious sense of humor. "Just do it," the Tiger said.

The boy was 11 years old and fearless as a crocodile in a muddy river. He raised a pistol much larger than his own hand and fired it into the shivering father's forehead.

The other boys howled their approval, shooting off rounds in all directions, overturning antique furniture, breaking mirrors and windows. The Cox children were weeping and holding one another.

One particularly scary, blank0faced boy in a Houston Rockets jersey emptied his magazine into the wide-screen tv, then reloaded. "Rock da house!" he shouted.

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