CHAPTER 24 Cross
Cross
YELLS AND SCREAMS ECHO inside the Grotto Tavern in the aftermath of the broken window.
Alex Cross jumps up so fast, his chair falls over.
He takes a quick look to make sure nobody at their table was hurt, then pushes through the mass of dazed bar patrons, some standing, others crouching in puddles of beer beneath tables.
He shoves his way through the wooden doors, steps out onto the sidewalk, and looks left and right.
He can’t believe what he sees.
Marching away on the other side of the street are a dozen men, identically dressed in short-sleeved black T-shirts, black pants, black sneakers—and black domino masks on their faces.
Their white faces. They’re trying to hide their identities, but not their race.
That’s the one thing they want people to know, Alex realizes.
Each marcher carries a small knapsack and holds a single flickering tiki torch. In sync with their steps, they’re loudly chanting, “Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!” Over and over. Gruff and aggressive.
A couple of young men burst out of the bar and rush the column, but they’re quickly pushed back. The marchers are muscular, determined, and methodical. The beer-buzzed bar patrons have no chance against them. They get thrown aside like rag dolls. And the marchers keep marching.
They’re about fifty feet away from the tavern now, approaching a park entrance.
In rapid succession, the men thrust their torches into a storm drain, strip off their face masks, throw them into large trash barrels, and pull baseball caps and bright-colored T-shirts out of their knapsacks.
The group members put them on and then scatter like droplets from a fallen bead of mercury.
Some go into the park, others trot across the street, and a few keep on walking, heads down, merging with college students out for a stroll.
Alex watches them go, breathing hard.
What just happened?
Whatever it was, it was quick and well rehearsed.
Bree comes up next to him. “I called 911.”
“Too late,” says Alex, looking across the street. “They’re gone. And well trained. That was a performance meant to intimidate. It wasn’t a bunch of ignorant rednecks out to break windows and pick a fight.”
“They just … disappeared?” asks Bree. “In front of all these people?”
“Right,” says Alex. “As soon as their message was delivered.”
Sirens sound in the distance, and they both head back to the bar, where patrons are murmuring and servers are sweeping up broken glass.
Alex and Bree walk back to the table where they left Melissa and her friends.
But nobody’s there.