And in that cold moonlight, it didn’t really seem like much of a question at all.

Moving as slowly as he could, he reached down and pulled the .38. With a badly shaking hand, he fitted the barrel in his mouth. The damn metal clacked hard against his teeth and tasted sour on his tongue. He was ashamed of the tears coming down his face, but that couldn’t be helped, and who would ever know but him anyway?

Jesus, was it really going down this way? Crying like a punk, all alone in the woods? What a crummy world this was.

He could just hear the boys now. Sure wouldn’t want to go out the way Johnny did. Johnny Twitchy. They’d put it on his gravestone—just for spite. Those heathen bastards!

The whole time, Johnny’s brain was saying pull, but his trigger finger wouldn’t do it. He tried again, both hands on the grip this time, but it was no go. He couldn’t even do this right.

He finally spit the gun barrel out, still crying like a little kid. Somehow, knowing he was going to live another day didn’t do a thing to stop the tears. He just lay there, biting his lips, feeling sorry for himself, until the cops got as far as the stream at the bottom of the ravine.

Then Johnny Twitchy crawled real fast back up the way he’d come, ran across the interstate, and dropped into the woods on the other side—wondering how in Christ he was going to make himself disappear off the face of the earth, knowing that it just wasn’t going to happen.

He’d looked. He’d seen what was in “the package.”

Part One

FIRESTORM

Chapter 1

I CELEBRATED MY birthday with a small, very exclusive, very festive and fun party on Fifth Street. It was just the way I wanted it.

Damon had come home from boarding school in Massachusetts as a special surprise. Nana was there, acting large and in charge of the festivities, along with my babies, Jannie and Ali. Sampson and his family were on hand; and of course Bree was there.

Only the people I loved most in the world were invited. Who else would you want to celebrate another year older and wiser with?

I even made a little speech that night, most of which I forgot immediately, but not the opening few words. “I, Alex Cross,” I began, “do solemnly promise—to all those present at this birthday party—to do my best to balance my life at home with my work life, and not to go over to the dark side ever again.”

Nana raised her coffee cup in salute, but then she said, “Too late for that,” which got a laugh.

Then, to a person, everybody did their best to make sure I was aging with a little humility but also a smile on my face.

“Remember the time at Redskin stadium?” Damon cackled. “When Dad locked the keys in the old car?”

I tried cutting in. “To be fair—”