Suddenly, I heard a loud noise off to the left of where we were crouched. Sampson and I swiveled around in a hurry. What the hell was this? A red sports car was coming fast up the dirt road. Too fast.

“Now who the hell is this?” Sampson asked in a whisper.

“More killers? Maybe the shooters from Washington?”

“Whoever it is, they're moving.”

We watched as the red car bounced up the badly rutted dirt road. It pulled in behind the Suburban, screeched to a stop.

The front door of the cabin opened. Starkey, then Harris stepped outside onto the porch.

The doors of the sports car were flung open simultaneously, almost as if the action was choreographed.

Two dark-haired women stepped out. Asian and very pretty. They were wearing skimpy tops and short skirts. Both had on outrageous shoes with high-heels. The driver held up a bottle in silver wrapping paper, smiled, and waved it at Starkey.

“Chao mung da den voi to am cua chung toi,” Starkey called from the front porch.

“Vietnamese,” Sampson said. “Starkey said something like, ”Welcome to our hootch." '

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Ninety-Three

We had been observing the rustic cabin for more than two hours, and now we watched the sun dip behind the mountains. It had gotten much colder and my body was feeling stiff and I was tired from the drive. The wind whistled through the forest, whistled and sometimes roared. It felt like it was blowing right through me.

“We're going to get them,” Sampson whispered hoarsely. I think he was trying to cheer me up. “Maybe tonight, maybe not. They're making mistakes, Alex.”

I agreed with that. “Yes, they are. They're not invincible. I'm not even sure if they have the whole story themselves. They're just a piece of this.”

We could hear them inside the cabin every word. Marc Sherman had apparently decided to stay for the party. Rock music echoed from the cabin. Janis Joplin was wailing, and one of the Asian women sang along. It sounded like bad karaoke, but nobody complained. Then the Doors came on. Memories of Vietnam, I suppose. “This is the end...”

Occasionally, someone would pass by a window. The Asian women had both taken off their tops. The taller of the two stepped outside for a few minutes. She smoked a joint, taking greedy puffs.

Harris came out and joined her. They spoke English on the porch.

“I used to know your mama-san,” he said, and giggled.

“You're kidding?” the girl laughed and blew out jets of smoke. “Of course you're joking. I get it. Sort of.” She looked to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties. Her breasts were large and too round, augmented. She wobbled slightly on the high-heels.

“No, I knew her. She was my hootch mama. I made it with her, and now I'm going to make it with you. See the irony?”

The girl laughed again. “I see that you're stoned.”