Free Kill Alex Cross by James Patterson Page B

received as a student here.
    “Who builds a city on a swamp?” she said. “At least the desert cools down at night.”
    “Do you think something’s wrong?” Tariq hadn’t really been listening to her. He was pacing the sidewalk while Hala tried to keep as still as possible.
    “They’ll be here,” she said. “Don’t worry the details. You’re the one who always says The Family knows what they’re doing.”
    “The instructions clearly said one o’clock.”
    “They’ll be here. You’re like an old woman.”
    It wasn’t the hour that was bothering him, she knew. It was the sarin gas . They’d never worked with it before, but pointing that out now wasn’t going to do anything to calm his nerves.
    Fortunately, the light blue Toyota minivan pulled up to the curb just a few minutes later. The side door flashed open, and a tall, gangly woman motioned for them to get in. They climbed into the backseat beside her as the door closed again, and the van took off. The whole thing took about fifteen seconds.
    The feeling inside the vehicle was immediately tense. Besides the woman, Hala, and Tariq, there were three other men on the team. Actually, one man and two boys, Hala realized, each one as tall and thin as the other, with the same sharp, angular features as the adults. Two parents and their children.
    Interesting group. To do what, exactly?
    They all sat face front, not speaking, until Tariq broke the silence.
    “We were waiting quite a while back there,” he said.
    “Good for you,” the mother answered. “Here. Put these on.”
    She handed back two tactical headsets with transmitters small enough to fit invisibly in their pockets. “Channel twelve. Stay on that station throughout the action.”
    “Where’s my case?” Tariq asked. He turned around on the seat to look for it.
    “Leave it alone,” the mother said. “It’s fine where it is.”
    “I need to check it,” he said.
    “I’m not going to have you opening that in here. You can check it when we arrive. Don’t be so nervous.”
    Tariq ignored the woman’s suggestion as well as her insulting manner. He pulled a reinforced aluminum alloy briefcase from the back and set it on his lap.
    Her hand flew across the space between them in a way that showed some training. In a moment, her fingers were locked around Tariq’s throat, pressing him back into the seat.
    But Hala was having none of it. Her Sig was out and against the self-appointed queen’s temple almost as quickly.
    “Get your hand off of him,” she said.
    “I told you to leave it alone,” the woman said, speaking to Tariq, not Hala.
    “ Everyone calm down! ” The father shouted at them from the front, while the two boys looked on with wide eyes and closed mouths. Tariq stayed where he was, both hands still on the case’s spring clasps.
    “Now,” Hala said evenly. “If he says he needs to check the case, he’s going to check it. We’re all here for the same reason. Isn’t that right, sister?”
    She kept the Sig where it was, waiting for her answer. Finally, the mother bitch sat back, though not without a last, searing look at Hala.
    “That’s much better,” Hala said. “Use that murder in your eyes for the benefit of The Family. Our enemies are outside the minivan, not in it.”
    “Go to hell” was the answer she got.
    It was a shame, Hala thought. Here was a woman she could respect on any other night. She was exactly the kind of soldier the movement needed. In any case, this argument meant nothing to the larger picture. It was time to focus, time to kill as many Americans as they could, time to send an unforgettable message.
    Tariq worked slowly. He eased open the clasps on the case and gingerly lifted the lid. Nobody spoke as he began taking stock of the small metal canisters inside.
    When the van bounced over a pothole on First Street, Hala saw the woman reach across for her younger son’s hand in the dark.
    She’s just afraid for her children , thought Hala.