by Andrew Huff
“You can count on it.” Maybe he would have to stay.
Lori’s eyes softened, and she felt his cheek with the palm of her hand. “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”
Cross grabbed her hand with his and squeezed. “Thank you. You don’t know what that means to me.”
Her face beamed, and she returned the squeeze. “We old ladies always need someone to mama.” She turned and left Cross standing alone at the altar. A handful of others made their way out of the sanctuary, until the room was empty.
Except for Christine.
She waited near the door in the back, her hands tucked into the pockets of her well-fitted jeans. The light of the stained glass surrounded her in a stunning glow, her blond hair sitting comfortably against her shoulders, a brown leather jacket complementing her figure.
They stood motionless for a moment. Neither spoke, eyes locked.
Cross took a deep breath and asked, “How did you find me?”
Christine laughed. “That’s it?” She walked toward him. “No, ‘Hi, Christine’ or ‘Good to see you’?”
Cross hid his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. “I think the way it works is, we’re never supposed to see each other again.”
Christine stopped just short of the front row of pews. “Well, that doesn’t sound like fun,” she said with a smile and a wink. “Besides, you never gave me a chance.”
“For what?”
Christine took a step closer, her eyes piercing his, her skin flushed. “Thank you. You saved my life.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes, actually, I do.”
Cross couldn’t think. The pews, stained glass, pulpit, all faded as they entered a dream he hadn’t prepared for. He wanted this moment, but it meant everything was going to change.
Again.
Still locked in her gaze, he swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled. “I’m glad you’re OK.”
“Fully recovered. I’m even back at work. I’ve been doing a lot of interviews this week, in fact.”
“I’ve seen them.”
“Oh, you have?” She bent her nose and smirked, a glint dancing off her eyes.
“All of them.”
Christine’s lips parted, but no words slipped through. Her eyes softened, and the smirk turned into a broad smile capped by flushed cheeks.
Cross rocked back and forth on his heels. “So you’re here now. And you got to thank me. Now what?”
She emitted a bewitching laugh. “Now I’ve got questions. A lot of questions.” Her hands came out of the pockets and gestured around the church.
Reality pulled Cross’s heels flat against the floor. He straightened, and his white dress shirt tightened against his chest. “Miss Lewis—”
“Oh, now it’s Miss Lewis?”
“This is serious. I don’t know what you thought would happen, but you’ve put me in a very compromising position.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What happened, it …” Her eyes stunned him. His confidence wavered.
Christine crossed her arms, and her neck stiffened. Despite an effort to frown, her complexion remained warm and inviting.
“It’s not something I talk about. With anyone. And I’d like to keep it that way.” He wanted nothing more than to tell her everything. “It’s not safe for you to be here.”
“Safe?” The frown deepened. Her eyes narrowed and sliced through his defenses. “What you did in Amman to rescue me was incredible. I get the whole secrecy thing, but all I want to do is talk. Just the two of us. I’m not here to sell you out.”
Cross’s heart leapt inside his chest cavity. Could he trust her? He wanted to trust her. What if he told her everything? Would she go public with his story?
He trusted her, but paused a bit longer to sell hesitation.
“OK, but it’s a long story. And I’m going to need some coffee.”
Christine realized she hadn’t stopped smiling the entire trip out of Mechanicsville to Richmond. John explained there would be less chance of a church member interrupting them if they went somewhere discreet. Fine by her. It meant more time getting to know him.
During the drive, he peppered her with questions about her recovery and her time spent with family. Christine wanted to interrupt with questions of her own, but let him carry the conversation so he would feel safe divulging all his secrets later.
John guided his humble sedan into a spot in the sparse parking garage. Exiting the vehicle, he led her out of the garage and around a corner to a quaint cobblestoned cul-de-sac lined by tall buildings on all its sides.
They approached a white building labeled with a large sign reading SHOCKOE ESPRESSO & ROASTERY. John grabbed the handle and held the glass door open for her to walk through. A gentleman. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been around one of those.
The scent of fresh roasted coffee beans saturated the interior. Everything from the floor, to the ceiling, to the walls, to the furniture seemed to be fashioned from old wood and brick. A handful of young college students sat engrossed in laptop computers, and one or two older men rubbed their hands in newspaper ink.
John picked a table near the back, and he excused himself to the counter. Christine settled into the chair, made of wood of course, and examined a painting by a local artist, hung on the wall. Still life of fruit. Not bad.
John returned with two paper cups in hand. “Mocha latte.” He slid hers onto the table.
“And yours?” Christine asked as she let the cup warm her palms.
“Black coffee.”
Christine stuck her tongue out and wrinkled her nose. “Are you trying to punish yourself?”
John only laughed, took a small sip, and smacked his lips. “All right, reporter, fire away.”
She took a sip from her own cup and waved her hand. “Look, this isn’t an off-the-record, on-the-record sort of thing. I truly am grateful for you saving my life, and I would never want to do anything to compromise you or those you love. I have this problem where I have to know everything about something I’m interested in.”
“So you’re interested in me?”
The temperature in her cheeks rose. “Well, who wouldn’t be after your heroics in Jordan?” She took another drink from her cup, intentionally lifting it higher to shield the blush on her face.
“I wouldn’t say heroics. In fact, that wasn’t how we’d planned it.”
Christine set the cup back on the table. “See,” she said. “That’s what I’m curious about. Who’s the ‘we’? The army denied any knowledge of your existence or role in the operation.”
“Well, of course they did. That’s usually how these things go when you’ve got an operative undercover in the field. Covert ops are never divulged to the public until after enough time has passed. Ever hear of Tony Mendez?”
“Yeah, the Canadian Caper.”
John smirked and saluted her with his coffee cup. “Good job. Most people only know the story by the name Argo.”
Christine grinned. “I saw the movie, but I wanted to research the real event. Ended up writing an essay on it for graduate school.”
His eyes locked on to hers, and she felt as if she’d won another piece of his admiration. She pulled her hands away from the latte, hoping to regulate the rising temperature in the room.
“Hollywood tends to mix up their facts. For one, CIA personnel are always referred to as agents and not officers, the correct term. With the Canadian Caper, it was two officers and not one like the movie portrays.” John paused to sip on the coffee. “Anyway, the operation was executed in 1980, but we didn’t make the details public until 1997. I guess that means you’ve got until, oh, 2033 to write your story.”
John Cross would have to work harder than that to corner her. She grunted and took a long swig of the latte. “Well, sounds like I’ve got my first answer.” She smirked and narrowed her eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“You w
ork for the CIA.” She leaned back in her chair to wait for him to pick his jaw up off the table. “You said ‘we.’ Mendez was Central Intelligence.”
“I could’ve meant anything.”
“Come on. Who else in the intelligence community is going to send an undercover operative on a rescue mission in the Middle East?”
John’s grin failed to distract the flash of embarrassment in his face. “I hear the State Department’s got some guys.”
His hands rested on the table. Christine slid hers closer and grabbed his in a soft embrace. “You can trust me. I’m not going to write this story now or in 2033. I don’t care. I just want to get to know the man who gave me a second chance at life.”
John sat still, his head bowed as he stared at her hands over his. His fingers pulsed in concert with her own. Then he straightened, drew his hands back, grabbed the cup of coffee, and looked up at her with a confident gaze. “I’m all yours.” The pigment in his cheeks darkened a shade. “I mean, ask away.”
Christine straightened in her chair. “What’s your real name?”
“I told you my name. It’s John. John Cross.”
“Really? It’s not a cover name?”
“Nope. Boring, I know. And yes, I work for Central Intelligence.”
Christine smiled.
“Well, I should say I worked for Central Intelligence. I don’t anymore.”
Christine shifted closer to the table in her seat. “What? Why?”
“I joined the army when I was eighteen. I had no family, really. I was in foster homes most of my teenage years, so I just worked hard at being the best soldier I could be. Turns out, I could be one of the best. I would volunteer for tours, take spots from guys who had wives or kids. I don’t think I really cared if I ever came back to the States. It didn’t take long for the brass at Langley to notice.”
“Foster kid who wanted to live on the battlefield sounds like a star recruit.”
“Exactly. And they pay really well.”
“Let me guess.” Christine grinned. “They fitted you for a tuxedo and a five-thousand-dollar watch.”
“More like Kevlar and cargo pants. The CIA was interested in fearless orphans, sure, but I piqued their interest for a different reason.”
“Which was?”
John drew a deep breath. “I earned expert marksmanship badges in just about every handheld weapon they let me fire. I’m especially good with a rifle.”
Christine’s imagination replayed the single impossible shot he’d made on the highway in Amman just a couple of short weeks ago. “You are good,” she said, then blushed again. Why did she find the conversation so awkward and enchanting at the same time?
“Trust me when I say I’ve gotten a little rusty in my time off.”
“You haven’t gotten to that part yet.”
John snuck a chug of his coffee. “Right. So they liked what they saw and wanted me to be part of a special unit.”
His shoulders drooped, and a faint trace of moisture outlined his eyes. Was he getting emotional? That wouldn’t do. Christine’s own emotions would crack if he wore his out in the open. She held her breath and waited for him to continue.
“I … they, um. I was asked to take on some … jobs. Jobs that were hard for others.”
“What kind of jobs?” Why did she just ask that question? Did she want him to start sobbing? She could only imagine what kind of jobs the CIA was involved in that no one ever knew about. But her journalistic instincts wouldn’t let her leave the question unasked.
John blinked a few times, then stood up. “I think for this next part, I’m gonna need some more coffee. And you?”
“Thank you.” She handed him her empty cup.
He turned and marched toward the smiling barista at the counter.
Christine stared at the back of his head. Too bad she couldn’t peer inside and see what he was hiding. While the goateed man refilled their cups, John leaned against the countertop and drew deep breaths. She drew her own, then read the spines of a collection of books resting on a shelf built into the window frame across the room. Anything to distract her mind from lingering on him.
He returned with fresh brew. “Sorry,” he started. “This is the first time I’ve ever told someone this.”
Well, if he didn’t cry, she might still have to. She found a chip in the tabletop to pick with her fingernail and considered guzzling her coffee to wash the lump in her throat down. It wouldn’t work anyway.
“The CIA recruited me to do wet work.”
She shot him a puzzled expression and hoped for a definition.
He averted his eyes. “Targeted killings.”
The admission shook Christine, and her grip on the coffee cup loosened. She squeezed her fingers together before it could fall out of her hand. “You … you were an assassin?”
John continued to avoid eye contact and cleared his throat. “Most of my ops were selective assassinations, yes.”
She stared at him. Nausea crawled up her throat. Her heart rate accelerated to a furious pace, but something else weighed it down. Invisible knots formed in her lungs and prevented their normal function.
He was a murderer. But it was just his job. It was for national security purposes. He wasn’t a murderer, just following orders.
Wait. Christine caught herself. Was she trying to justify his actions? He seemed so perfect.
John leaned across the table and caught her gaze in his. “It was wrong, Christine. I know that now. But I didn’t then. I followed orders. And I was good at it. It was the first time in my life I felt appreciated, needed, even loved. I know it sounds weird. I found my identity working for the CIA.”
“How many?”
“I’m sorry?”
Christine folded her arms across her chest. Expressing outrage would be justified. She could hold him accountable for his actions, help him understand the depth of his past decisions. Then call a cab and never see him again. Or stay. Try to understand his journey. Reconcile who he was with who he had been. She doubted the results. People never truly changed. “How many people did you kill?”
“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t keep count. We would complete a mission, then file it away and lie about the pain.”
She decided to stay.
He leaned back in his chair. “After a while, I just felt numb every time I would be in the field. Like I wasn’t a person anymore. Just an asset. Then one day I was tracking a target in Spain and by chance sat through a Catholic Mass at the Seville Cathedral.” John laughed through his nose. “I didn’t even understand the service. My Spanish is … barely conversational.” His eyes glassed over, as if focused on the memory. “I was just sitting there, staring at a crucifix. And then … I can’t explain it, but it just made sense.”
“What made sense?”
“I wasn’t sure at first. I just knew this man was drawing me to him. All I wanted was to know more about him. The one on the cross. Jesus Christ.”
Christine started laughing and put her hand to her mouth, certain she was being rude. “I’m so sorry. This is just … I can’t believe it. Well, I guess I should. After all, I did just find you in a church preaching a sermon about Jesus.”
John laughed with her. “True. It’s kind of obvious. I’d heard about the Bible and Jesus from attending church some as a kid, but whether I was too young or what I heard was too convoluted, it just never stuck. I left the church. I found an English Bible in a bookshop, took it back to my safe house, and read it.”
“Wait.” Christine held up a hand. “What about your target?”
“I let him go. His trail went cold, and the operation failed. Not the first time an op had ever failed, but the first time it was on my shoulders. I got pulled off for a few weeks and was sent to a counselor in case I was having a psychological break. I spent the time consuming the Bible, but I never told anyone. When I went back into the field, it was different. I couldn’t take a life anymore without unbearable guilt, no matter the circumstances.
I mean, my missions were always justifiable, but I knew it was wrong. I couldn’t do it anymore. So I quit.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“When did all this happen?”
“A little over a year ago.” He emptied his second cup of coffee.
Christine laid her palms flat against the table. “So how did you end up in Jordan the Saturday before last?”
“I wasn’t really doing much after I left. I held a few odd jobs here and there, but I didn’t need the money. I never spent anything anyway, so it gathered dust in a savings account. I tried out churches, read books, found some Internet forums to ask questions on. Then one day I get a call. Members of the National Liberation Army in Colombia abducted an American businessman. Assets were on the ground, but I spent some time there and knew it better. My former boss asked me to do him a favor and assist in the exfiltration.”
Christine nodded. “So you did.”
“Yes. I think I was at a point where I wasn’t sure if I could do anything else, and the idea of a rescue mission instead of, well, a wet job, seemed like just the retribution.”
“Did you save him? The businessman?”
“Clean grab. The op went off without a hitch, so I took a few more. A handful of rescues, some reconnaissance. You’re my sixth.”
“Rescue?”
John affirmed with a crooked grin.
“Wow.” She fell back into her seat and sighed. “Now I regret promising you I wouldn’t tell this story. It would make my career.”
He laughed. She liked hearing it.
“In a strange way,” he said. “I think I was seeking penance. Maybe if I saved as many people as I had killed, it would make a difference.”
Her heart leapt.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THEY LEFT THE coffee shop as the afternoon waned and the employees swept floors and shut down equipment. The sharp glow of the setting sun obscured the skyline of Richmond in the mirrors of the car as they traveled back to Mechanicsville. Cross dominated the conversation again. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to tell her everything.
For the full extent of the half-hour drive, he spoke about Rural Grove. She couldn’t stop smiling as he regaled her with the story of the business meeting where he’d been voted on as the new minister. The smile remained as they arrived at the parsonage and exited the car.