A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

  “Open the glove box.”

  Christine obliged and snorted when a gun fell out of the glove box into her lap.

  “I need you to check and see if it’s loaded.”

  Before Cross could offer instruction, Christine ejected the magazine and counted the rounds. She snapped it back in, then grabbed the slide and examined the chamber.

  “You’ve got a full mag with one racked.” She handed the butt of the gun to him.

  Cross looked at her, dumbfounded. “All right. You’ve impressed me.”

  “I’m just ready to get out of here.”

  Cross hesitated, then took the gun from her. It felt familiar and foreign in his hand at the same time. He sensed the tremble of emotion building in his limbs. His fingers ached as he forced them to hold steady. He took three deep breaths and tightened his grip on the handle.

  If he wasn’t careful, what he would do next would change everything.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CROSS LET UP on the accelerator. Their pursuers gained speed.

  Christine braced herself on the dash. “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me.” Cross focused on the road ahead, taking only the occasional glance at a mirror to track the approach of the other vehicle. The nine-millimeter grip felt damp in his hand. This would be the first time he would pull a trigger. First time since …

  The reverberation of a hemi engine shook the frame of the car and the distant memory from his head. No mirror check needed. He knew they’d been caught. That meant only seconds before they’d be treated to a bullet shower.

  Christine rotated in the passenger chair and peeked around her seat. “Behind us!”

  Right on cue. Cross stepped onto the gas pedal. His hungry engine growled in response. The SUV behind stuck like glue. The breeze against his neck felt like the hot breath of the hazy-eyed man.

  “They’re going to shoot!”

  Cross ignored her, his eyes locked ahead.

  Christine smacked her seatback, cursed, and shouted, “Don’t just hold the gun—use it!”

  He heard the first pop from an automatic rifle, shifted his foot off the gas, and jerked the steering wheel hard left. The back end of the SUV took a few bullets but evaded the full brunt of the assault. The car behind them raced by, the big man slow on his reflexes.

  Cross hopped the median and crossed an oncoming lane of traffic, to the chagrin of several irate motorists. He sped the SUV up the exit lane for Al Istiklal, another major Amman highway.

  “John!” Christine’s hoarse voice barely registered over the wind whipping through the open windows and bullet holes. “I think you’re going the wrong way!”

  Yeah, on purpose, but he didn’t have time to explain. Instead, he shouted back, “When I tell you, hit the floorboard.”

  Christine nodded and braced herself against the doorframe.

  A merging sedan appeared ahead of them. Cross swerved around it. Sparks flew through his window as the SUV scraped the side of the concrete barrier. He corrected back on course and took deep breaths to calm his racing heart. The near-death experience with another vehicle or the instrument of death in his hand? He couldn’t determine the cause of his beating chest.

  The exit from the highway, now their entrance, lay beyond the next curve. What were the odds they would meet another car in a head-on collision at a fatal speed? Cross couldn’t recall studying Amman traffic patterns at this particular time of day. He maintained his speed and said a quick prayer. “God help us.”

  “What?”

  They both leaned into the curve. Christine grabbed at Cross’s arm to steady herself as the SUV skidded off the ramp and across two lanes heading the wrong way down Al Istiklal.

  “Down! Now!”

  Christine fell onto the floorboard and covered her head with her arms.

  Cars sped by them, horns blaring. A farm truck slammed into the guardrail. Just ahead, blocking their path down the highway, was the other SUV. Right where he wanted it.

  Men cradling automatic weapons occupied every open window. The big, hazy-eyed man crushed the steering wheel with his rage-charged hands. This one wasn’t about to back down. His scowl betrayed his simple, probable plan: drive straight through the path his men would carve into Cross and Christine’s car.

  The distance between them ticked by faster than the seconds. Cross slowed his breathing, counted to two, then shifted into second gear. He rotated the steering wheel against its will, and the car skidded sideways to the right.

  As they turned, Cross stuck his arm out his window. With a firm grip on the nine millimeter, he locked eyes with the big man.

  Uncompelled, his finger pulled the trigger.

  One shot.

  The big man disappeared from view as they turned 180 degrees to join the proper flow of traffic. Cross spotted the other SUV in his mirror. Its engine spewed black smoke from the fatal wound he’d inflicted with his precise shot.

  He slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a near stop. The sputtering SUV plowed into them from the rear. The sturdy frame of their own SUV refused to crumple. Cross peeled away, leaving only a section of the bumper in his wake. Weapons fire chased after them, but engine smoke obscured their escape.

  Christine pulled herself back into her seat. She massaged her temple.

  “You OK?” Cross asked.

  “I’ll be all right. That was …”

  “Impressive?”

  Christine rubbed her eyes. “I was going to say nauseating.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Cross kept his foot on the gas. “Hold on. We’re not out of the woods yet.” He took the next exit off Al Istiklal, followed by two roundabouts.

  “Wait a minute,” Christine said, her head halfway out the window. “I know where we are. This is the Al Hussein Youth City.”

  The Youth City was the center of the sports culture in Amman. They passed several well-groomed fields and a handful of athletic facilities. They rounded a corner, and the Amman National Stadium appeared over the treetops.

  Cross maintained his speed as they tore through the parking lot of the stadium. He tapped at his wireless earpiece. “Control, this is Shepherd. We are at the rendezvous. Sorry we’re late.”

  Static pricked his eardrum, and he heard a metallic female voice. “Copy, Shepherd. Rendezvous secure.”

  He destroyed a guardrail to get into the stadium tunnel. The car jumped out of the tunnel as they tore onto the stadium grounds.

  Christine gasped. A Black Hawk helicopter sat yards ahead of them in the middle of the field. Its spinning blades beat the grass into a perfect circle.

  The SUV left mud tracks in the turf as it slid to a stop. Cross tossed the handgun onto the floorboard and jumped out the door before Christine could grab her handle. He ran around the car and met her exiting. Putting an arm around her shoulder, he kept her low and guided her to the Black Hawk.

  A man decked in sandy camouflage jumped from the helicopter and ran to them. Cross motioned back to the SUV and yelled over the thump of the copter blades, “Torch it!”

  The man nodded and ran past them. A pair of additional soldiers stood ready to receive Christine into the helicopter. After helping her up and into their waiting arms, Cross turned back in time to see the SUV in flames and the first soldier coming up behind him.

  Cross allowed himself to be pulled into the Black Hawk, and he squatted next to Christine. A female Ranger with pleasant eyes strapped her in as he grinned and shouted above the whir of the engine, “I told you we were going home.”

  Christine’s eyes fluttered. “She says I’ve lost some blood.”

  For the first time, Cross noticed the bruises and cuts covering Christine’s neck and hands. The brutality of what she must have faced at the hands of the men who’d kidnapped her infuriated him. Giving her a second chance at life made the last half hour of mayhem seem like a small price to pay.

  “I bet they can take care of that.” Cross glanced over at the Ranger and watched her a
dminister a sedative to Christine with a syringe.

  “You’ll be all right, ma’am. This will help you during the ride back to base.” The Ranger stowed her medical supplies and strapped in to the adjacent seat.

  Christine propped her head against the Ranger’s shoulder.

  Cross turned to strap himself in, but Christine caught him by the elbow. He turned back to her and smiled as her eyes strained to stay open. “Hey,” she slurred. “Shepherd. What’s your real name?”

  “I told you. It’s John.”

  “No, your real name. What is it?” And with that, Christine slipped into a deep sleep.

  Cross smiled. He took his seat next to the chopper pilot. The Black Hawk lifted off the ground as he fixed his belt and slipped a radio over his ears. “Make it quick, Commander,” he said to the pilot. “I’ve got to be in church in the morning.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHE WAS DEAD. Or so Christine thought as the haze lifted from her subconscious and she became aware of a bright white light flooding her vision. The light flowed in a liquid form before her, varying shades of eggshell cascading through clouds of light dust.

  A dull noise surrounded her. It sounded like the purr of an auto-tuned kitten. Christine’s mind pushed its way through the fog. She searched for a memory, a feeling, anything that might give her a clue as to what had happened.

  A face.

  She pictured the faint outline of a face, the last thing she remembered seeing as she faded into an unconscious state on the helicopter. The face of the man who rescued her from death.

  That’s right, she thought. I’m not dead.

  The cobwebs cleared, and the strange apparition standing before her took shape. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling of a well-lit room. Several bright hanging lights shone back at her, making it difficult to judge the size or make of the room. It was made entirely of metal, or so she thought because of the glow emanating from the walls.

  The purring sound grew louder and less soothing. Christine shifted her head on the soft pillow and spotted the IV drip stationed close to her bedside. Her eyes followed the plastic tubing connected to the machine all the way to the needle taped into her forearm.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted movement, and her gaze darted up to catch a woman entering through a door across the room from her bed. A patch with the familiar caduceus symbol of a medical professional was sewn into the bicep of her uniform. This particular nurse or doctor had her sleeves rolled to her elbows. A stethoscope rested around her neck, and she studied a clipboard.

  The woman lifted her head from the clipboard and made eye contact with Christine. She flashed a smile and said, “You’re awake. My name is Beth. I’m your nurse.”

  “No kidding,” Christine responded, then bit her lip. Awake and in full control of her tongue. Not always a pleasant combination. “I’m sorry,” she added. “I just woke up before you walked in.”

  Beth laughed. “No problem, Ms. Lewis. You’ve been through a lot. And I’ve seen a lot worse.”

  Christine smiled, then took a cursory glance around the room as the focus in her eyes improved. Standard medical equipment, cabinets, and a couple of small chairs. Other than that, a rather bare room. “Where am I?” she asked.

  “Aviano Air Base in Italy.”

  “Italy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did I get here?”

  Beth laughed again. “A couple of Ranger hunks escorted your lifeless body on board a C-17 from Turkey oh three hundred hours ago.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “The hunks?” The nurse paused, confused. “Hunks, I guess. Honestly, I wasn’t even paying that close attention.”

  “Did one of them have dark hair? Dressed like a terrorist?”

  Beth slid into a chair near the bed and laid the clipboard in her lap. “Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve been through a lot, so some things might be a little fuzzy at the moment.”

  Christine shook her head and sat up. She did her best to ignore the sharp pricks of pain shooting everywhere in her body. “No, you don’t understand.” She took a breath, then added, “I need to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “A man rescued me. A man named John. Did he come too? Is he here somewhere?”

  “Ms. Lewis.” Beth placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder and leaned close. “A Ranger unit out of Saudi Arabia rescued you. One of them may have been named John, but I don’t know. They dropped you here, then left just as fast as they got here.”

  “I know.” A wave of nausea rose from her stomach. “But there was also a man. One of the men who pulled me out that wasn’t a Ranger. He must have been a spy or something.”

  Beth chuckled and cocked her head to one side. “A spy? Well, now I know you’re still a bit fuzzy. Maybe you should rest.”

  Christine wanted to argue, but the nausea forced her to sink back into the mattress. She closed her eyes, and as sleep overtook her, she mumbled, “They called him … Shepherd.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NOT MANY PEOPLE would find flying at just under Mach 2 relaxing, but the hard passenger cockpit seat of the F-16 jet might as well have been a thick mattress at a deluxe hotel for John Cross. It would be the best sleep he’d experience in months. After delivering Christine to the C-17 waiting to transport her to Italy, Cross hopped from Incirlik Air Base in Turkey to Morón Air Base in Spain in less than two hours, thanks to the F-16’s remarkable speed.

  It was a longer flight back to the States, with a midair refuel thrown in the middle, but no sightseeing. Nothing but blue ocean. The bumps and shifts of the aircraft only served to send him that much quicker to dreamland.

  It wasn’t until the jolt of wheels touching down in Washington that Cross’s eyes fluttered open. Through the visor in his helmet, he made out the familiar landscape of Andrews Field. The jet taxied down the runway to a small hangar.

  He sensed the stench of a CIA escort before a conspicuous black SUV appeared in his field of view. Cross checked his watch as the F-16 came to a stop. Still afternoon, thanks to the time zone difference. He was still on the clock. For now. It would be a forty-minute drive to Langley, then God only knew how many more hours for debriefing before he would be allowed to leave.

  He calculated a two-hour drive home in favorable traffic conditions, but it was wishful thinking. The twenty-one-mile stretch of I-95 between Old Keene Mill Road and Quantico would be hard to beat for the top spot as the busiest section of highway in the country. And it was Saturday. In the spring. Tourists, weekend warriors, and workaholics united.

  Cross groaned at the thought of bumper-to-bumper traffic extending his travel time well into the evening. He took solace in the power nap the F-16 had blessed him with. It was shaping up to be another sleepless night.

  He slipped off his flight helmet and climbed out of the cockpit, a small backpack slung around his shoulder. He stripped his G suit off, and an airman promptly gathered it and carried it away.

  Cross walked toward the SUV. The driver’s-side door opened, and a man hiding behind a dark pair of sunglasses stepped out. The man’s broad shoulders threatened to rip through his black suit. Cross noted the bulge of a service weapon just below his armpit.

  “Officer Cross,” the man said. The close crop on his head failed to hide the dirty-blond curls. “If you’ll accompany me please.”

  “What?” Cross replied, feigning the disappointment in his voice. “No flowers?”

  The driver cocked an eyebrow.

  “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t bring you anything either.” Cross patted the man’s shoulder on his way to the back seat.

  The SUV accelerated off the runway and into the midday hustle and bustle of the nation’s capital. The one request he’d made greeted him in the back seat. He picked up the large white paper cup from the cup holder and closed his eyes as he took a sip. The thick black coffee scorched his tongue and slid down the back of his throat.


  When he’d left the Central Intelligence Agency, he couldn’t stand the stuff without copious amounts of milk and sugar. But he’d embarked on what he thought of as a “cleanse.” The months passed, and he found the taste of black coffee growing on him. Now he couldn’t even imagine soiling the liquid with syrups, creams, or sweeteners.

  He shifted from sips to gulps as the beverage cooled, and he watched the countryside flash by his window as his driver ignored the speed limit. Soothing, sure, but not as hypnotic as the F-16 ride. The tree line ended abruptly, and the view opened to a panoramic of the sun falling to the horizon over the Potomac River. His chauffeur chose the Beltway to get them from Andrews to CIA headquarters in Langley. Not the most direct route, but they bypassed downtown DC.

  The car slowed as traffic merged ahead. Cross checked his watch. Rush hour was waning, but it did nothing to assure him he would be home at a reasonable hour. He needed proper time to prepare for Sunday service. He took another gulp of coffee and breathed deeply.

  No time like the present, I guess.

  He set the coffee cup back in the cup holder and opened his backpack. A notebook and brown leather Bible went in his lap, the backpack into the seat beside him. He flipped through the notebook to his notes, then thumbed through the tattered pages of the Bible to the book of Philippians. Tomorrow morning he’d be preaching on chapter 2, or at least beginning a series of sermons on chapter 2. He imagined he wouldn’t get very far, as thorough as he tended to be.

  The hair on the back of his neck alerted him to the discreet stare of a pair of eyes. He caught a glimpse of his driver in the rearview mirror before the man could avert his gaze back to the road. Here we go. The same conversation as always.

  “What’s your name, big guy?” Cross lifted the coffee cup back to his lips as he waited for the driver to respond.

  “Officer Paulson, sir.”

  “Well, Officer Paulson, I appreciate the lift.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” The cabin fell silent for a moment as the SUV passed a large tanker. Paulson relaxed his grip on the wheel and turned back to the mirror. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Officer Cross.”