The Lighthouse Hotel: front entrance.
Alex Cross slid into the SUV with Anna and Becky. The car merged into traffic, passed stoplights, and headed down the avenue toward the airport. Word that Alex had left the hotel spread fast among factions watching the Lighthouse — chief among them, the Camorra family.
At the Antonio estate in Rome, Gianna sat in her study nursing a cup of tea. When Ares's body arrived four days ago, she immediately called her worthless younger brother, Santino, and confirmed from him that Ares had indeed gone to assassinate Alex. She'd been furious enough to fly to Mumbai herself and drag that idiot brother back to reality—if he hadn't been so useless she would have given him a real scolding.
But this was no time for anger. After their patriarch, D'Antonio, at the High Table learned of Ares's death, the pressure fell squarely on Gianna. There would be questions, blame, and then the demand for a solution. There was no room for hesitation. They could not coexist peacefully with the Lighthouse; the only thing she could consider now was how to eliminate Alex with the least cost and leave no trace.
So she watched, waited, and prepared. Then the latest update from New York hit her phone.
[Alex Cross left the Lighthouse Hotel and is en route to the airport. Accompanying him: Anna and several bodyguards.]
Attached were a few grainy photos. Gianna's face hardened. She ordered her people to tail Alex closely and to confirm: was he really heading to the airport?
Half an hour later the follow-up came: [Confirmed: Alex took a private jet. Entry paperwork shows destination: Czech Republic. Landing: Prague International Airport.] The new photos were clear — Alex boarding the private jet, Anna at his side, a woman and several bodyguards surrounding them.
Gianna felt the opportunity arrive like a blade.
She picked up the phone and began calling multiple contacts, each message the same: put our people on standby at the Continental in Prague. Then she hesitated at a single number in her contacts — Santino. She tapped it.
Santino answered in a slurred voice. "G—Gianna? What, you come here to laugh at me? Ares is dead, I'm stuck in Mumbai smelling piss—what do you want from me?" He sounded drunk and broken.
Gianna massaged her forehead and bit back a reply. Coldly: "Santino, Alex Cross is flying to Prague. I've placed ten of the family's best killers on standby at the Continental. If you want back in the family, you'd better clean up and recruit a team from the training camp in Mumbai. Fly to Prague immediately and do whatever it takes to kill Alex Cross."
A pause. Then Santino's tone shifted, suddenly sharper. "Okay." A bottle fell somewhere in the background with a clatter; the sound of a man trying to revive a shred of pride.
—
In the snowbound township of Hallstatt, Lena carried the same photos to the elder as he watched children train in the camp. He took the images and let out an audible breath, relaxing slightly.
"Honestly," he said, "I underestimated the Lighthouse killers. The teams we sent at the White Widow these past days all failed."
"Shall we proceed with the plan?" Lena asked.
The elder's answer was immediate. "Of course. No matter the cost, we must extract from Alex how he trains such soldiers. That's an order from above."
Lena opened her mouth to ask who "above" meant, then clamped it shut at the elder's look. She forced another question instead: "If the White Widow's protectors are strong, does that mean Alex has only Anna as a top fighter and the rest are ordinary?"
"Not necessarily," the elder mused. He was no fool. Still, he issued a command: "Monitor Alex's flight path closely. Once he lands, send thirty killers to probe — if you can take him, do it immediately."
"Understood," Lena replied and turned to leave. Before she walked off, the elder added: "Call the European clan killers. Tell them to return quickly. To deal with Alex, we need full preparation."
She nodded and left the training camp.
—
Back in New York, the road to Prague already moved like a chessboard. Alex in the lead SUV, the Camorra planning a strike, Hallstatt preparing, and Santino scrambling to assemble a team. The pieces were falling into place — and the hunt had begun.
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