In this heart-pounding novel from the world’s #1 bestselling author, while reckoning with a devastating personal loss, Detective Michael Bennett takes on the most sinister challenge of his career: a kidnapping crisis that could destroy the most powerful people in America. The nation has fallen into mourning after the unexpected death of a beloved former First Lady, and the most powerful people in the world gather in New York for her funeral. Then the inconceivable occurs: Billionaires, politicians, and superstars of every kind are suddenly trapped within one man's brilliant and ruthless scenario. Bennett, father of ten, is pulled into the fray. As the danger escalates, Michael is hit with devastating news: After fighting for many years, his wife has succumbed to a terrible disease. As New York descends into chaos, Bennett has lost the great love of his life and faces raising his ten devastated children alone-and rescuing 34 hostages. Day after day, Bennett confronts the most ruthless man he has ever dealt with, a man who kills without hesitation and counters everything the NYPD and FBI throw at him with impunity. As the entire world watches and the tension boils to a searing heat, Bennett has to find a way out-or face responsibility for the greatest debacle in history. James Patterson has had more New York Times bestsellers than any other writer, ever, according to Guinness World Records . Since his first novel won the Edgar Award in 1977 James Patterson's books have sold more than 300 million copies. He is the author of the Alex Cross novels , the most popular detective series of the past twenty-five years, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider . He writes full-time and lives in Florida with his family. Step on a Crack By James Patterson, Michael Ledwidge Grand Central Publishing Copyright © 2013 James Patterson Michael Ledwidge All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4555-9976-9 CHAPTER 1 I'LL TELL YOU THIS—even on the so-called mean streets of New York, wherethe only thing harder to get than a taxi in the rain is attention, we weremanaging to turn heads that grim, gray December afternoon. If anything could tug at the coiled-steel heartstrings of the Big Apple'sresidents, I guess the sight of my mobilized Bennett clan—Chrissy, three;Shawna, four; Trent, five; twins Fiona and Bridget, seven; Eddie, eight; Ricky,nine; Jane, ten; Brian, eleven; and Juliana, twelve—all dressed in theirSunday best and walking in size order behind me, could do the trick. I suppose I should have felt some privilege in being granted the knowledge thatthe milk of human kindness hasn't completely dried up in our jaded metropolis. But at the time, the gentle nods and warm smiles we received from every McClarenstroller–pushing Yummie, construction worker, and hot dog vendor from thesubway exit next to Bloomingdale's all the way to First Avenue were completelylost on me. I had a lot on my mind. The only New Yorker who didn't seem like he wanted to go on a cheek-pinchingbender was the old man in the hospital gown who cupped his cigaretteand wheeled his IV cart out of the way to let us into our destination—themain entrance of the terminal wing of the New York Hospital Cancer Center. I guess he had a lot on his mind, too. I don't know where New York Hospital recruits its staff for the terminal cancerwing, but my guess is somebody in Human Resources hacks into St. Peter'smainframe and swipes the saint list. The constancy of their compassion and theabsolute decency with which they treated me and my family were truly awe-inspiring. But as I passed forever-smiling Kevin at reception and angelic Sally Hitchens,the head of the Nursing Department, it took everything I had to raise my headand manage a weak nod back at them. To say I wasn't feeling very social would have been putting it mildly. "Oh, look, Tom," a middle-aged woman, clearly a visitor , said to herhusband at the elevator. "A teacher brought some students in to sing Christmascarols. Isn't that so nice? Merry Christmas, children!" We get that a lot. I'm of Irish American extraction, but my kids—alladopted—run the gamut. Trent and Shawna are African American; Ricky andJulia, Hispanic; and Jane is Korean. My youngest's favorite show is TheMagic School Bus . When we brought home the DVD, she exclaimed, "Daddy, it'sa show about our family!" Give me a fuzzy red wig and I'm a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound Ms. Frizzle. Icertainly don't look like what I am—a senior detective with the NYPDHomicide Division, a troubleshooter, negotiator, whatever's needed by whoeverneeds it. "Do you boys and girls know 'It Came Upon a Midnight Clear'?" the woman who hadlatched on to us persisted. I was just about to sharply point out her ignorancewhen Brian, my oldest son, glanced at the smoke coming out of my ears and pipedup. "Oh, no, ma'am. I'm sorry. We don't. But we know 'Jingle Bells.'" All the way up to dreaded Five , my ten kids sang "Jingle Bells" withgusto