by Andrew Huff
He paused after opening the front door and turned to stare at the silhouette of the church against the burning gray sky.
Christine mimicked his posture.
“Sorry,” he said. “Habit. I always take a last look before I go inside. It helps ground me. Reminds me why I’m here.”
Christine looked away from the church, and he could feel her eyes studying his face. “You really love that church, don’t you?”
He grinned and caught her gaze with his own. “You could say that.” He waved her inside and followed. Contrary to habit, he flipped the wall switch, and warm incandescent light basked the interior.
“What do you mean?” she asked, though the contents of the living room seemed to captivate her.
“I love the church, but not the building. The church is really the people. Here, I’ll show you.” Cross headed for the kitchen, Christine on his heels. He flipped another switch, and the track light over the island countertop served as a spotlight for a tall, cylindrical plastic container. A sticky note on the container read in bold black letters, “The only medicine you need—Mrs. T.”
Christine read the note aloud, then rubbed her fingers against the lid.
“Go ahead,” Cross said with a laugh. “Open it.”
She popped the lid open and leaned forward to catch the first whiff of the homemade meal preserved inside. She chuckled. “Chicken noodle. It smells wonderful.”
“Delivered while we were gone. Mrs. T.—Templeton, that is—has diagnosed me with some kind of illness and wants to make sure I’m taken care of.”
“How sweet.”
The sentiment sounded genuine, though Cross felt everything sounded genuine from her lips. He motioned around the empty kitchen with open palms. “It’s all I have to offer you for dinner.”
Christine stuck her nose in the air and grinned. “Sounds wonderful. You’ll have to thank Mrs. T. for me.” Her eyes widened. “Please tell me she’s married to a Mr. T.”
Cross laughed as he opened a cabinet and retrieved a pair of bowls. “You mind if I ask you a question this time?”
“No.”
“Have you ever attended church before today?”
“Come on, now. Just because I work in network news doesn’t mean I’m a complete heathen.”
He snorted and searched a drawer for the ladle. Christine cleared her throat, and he popped up to see her balancing a large spoon on her index finger.
“Mrs. T. knows how to take care of you, all right.”
Cross sighed and grabbed the spoon from her hand. He filled both bowls with the soup, though in truth the chunks of chicken and thick noodles outweighed the broth. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Christine lifted her shoulders and pulled her arms tight against her body. “I used to attend when I was a child. With my parents. They’re Methodist.”
“But you’re not.”
“Same story as you. Not all of the army, CIA stuff. The church part. It just never stuck.” Christine took a bite from her bowl and closed her eyes. “This has to be the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever eaten.”
“Not many home-cooked meals growing up?”
Christine waved her spoon in Cross’s face. “Hey now, this is my interrogation. Let’s get back to you.” She dipped the spoon back into her soup. “You said back at the coffee shop that you don’t work for the CIA anymore.”
“That’s kind of a funny story. I quit again. That Saturday, when I got back.”
“Why?”
“The other ops I ran as a contract officer were simple, noncombat. The intel we got on your location made it seem like I could walk you out the front door. But we found a party instead.”
“I wouldn’t have called it a party.”
Cross balanced the spoon against his bowl and breathed deeply. “Christine, I wasn’t ready for what happened. I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, but I don’t think either of us would have made it out alive if it had come down to me taking a life.”
Christine placed her own spoon on the countertop and pressed her palm against his bicep. “There’s some of this I’m still trying to wrap my brain around, but there’s one thing I know for sure: whether you felt like you had to or not, you saved my life without killing a single person. That either makes you brilliant or lucky. And I’d take both.”
Cross smiled and resumed eating. “Well,” he said after a quiet moment. “There was the guy I threw out of the car. He might have broken a bone or two.”
They shared a laugh. Her eyes glistened, and he tried to think of something else he could say to keep her smiling.
A thought crossed his mind, and he blurted, “Sleep.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry.” Blood rushed to his face. “I meant to ask where you’re staying.”
“What makes you think I’m staying?”
Cross cleared his throat, though nothing blocked his airways. “I could get you to Richmond International in time for the last flight if we left now and I broke a few traffic laws on the way. And the 66 Northeast Regional left from Main Street Station …” Cross paused to check his watch. “Twenty minutes ago. Besides, you don’t seem like a train person.”
“Sounds like that’s your preferred mode of transportation.”
“I know how to get places when I need to. Old habit. And I definitely prefer the sky.”
Christine’s spoon clanked against her empty bowl. “You’re right. I’m staying the night. I’ve already booked a room at the Hilton near the airport. I was hoping it would be a long interview.”
Cross picked up her bowl and placed it on top of his in the sink. He turned back to find her stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room.
“I’ve noticed something,” she called out to him. “About you.”
“What’s that?” Cross slipped the lid back onto the soup container and placed it in the refrigerator next to the milk. He walked into the living room to find Christine standing in the middle studying his armchair.
She faced him as he entered the room. “This is one of the emptiest houses I’ve ever seen someone living in.”
“I don’t have a lot of time to shop for decorative souvenirs.”
“No, that’s not it.”
His comfort with her presence wavered.
She stepped closer to him, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. She spoke softer. “I think you still feel guilty about what you’ve done. The rescue missions. The church. You withhold from yourself and try to give everything you can to others.”
Cross’s pulse quickened, and a bead of sweat slid down the inside of his arm. Should he be embarrassed? Angry? Indecipherable emotions mixed together. His mind fogged over. What was he doing?
“You’re paying for your past. You take no pleasure in food, in convenience …” She took another step closer to him. Her hair smelled sweet. “… in others.”
Run.
Cross’s mind snapped back into focus, and he took a step back.
Christine’s lips turned down.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’m going to have to drive you to your hotel now.”
Cross dropped Christine off at her hotel and agreed to meet her for breakfast the next morning. She broke the news that she would be catching a midmorning flight back to New York City. The panic from her appearance in church that morning subsided. His heart rate and breathing pattern returned to normal. He fully expected to be continuing his sermons on the book of Philippians the following Sunday.
“See you later, exfiltrator,” she said with a smile as she exited the car.
He chuckled, remembering the corny line inserted into the Canadian Caper team’s final approval the night before flying into Iran to rescue six American diplomats.
With a polite wave goodbye, Christine disappeared through the front entrance of the hotel. He waited a long moment, thinking she might return, and then he decided it would be the worst thing she could do. He put the old sedan into gear an
d pulled out onto the roadway, noting the glow of the low-fuel light staring at him from underneath the steering wheel.
He recalled the handful of relationships he’d had before his conversion to Christianity, though the women only served as playful distractions more than serious pursuits. Since that day in Seville, the furthest thing from his mind was a relationship with a woman.
But a year spent practicing asceticism resulted in an abundance of pent-up desire. Cross said a prayer of thanks for the spiritual intervention that had ended the evening and allowed him to demonstrate respect toward Christine and the pastoral office he now held.
Maybe he was a changed man after all.
He replayed the night in his mind. The emotion, the desire he felt in the coffee shop. He rewound further to the moment he saw her in the church. He wanted to see her, talk to her, tell her everything. But he also saw the consequences. He thought about the congregation. He thought about Al. He could hear Guin’s voice in his ear: “You can’t hide forever.”
He couldn’t hide forever. He knew it. So why fight? Christine wasn’t going to tell anyone. Cross even considered letting her run with the story of what really happened in Amman. She didn’t have to mention the part about his new life as a minister, of course. She could just tell everyone about the heroics of the spy who brought her back from the edge of death. The story would be a sensation.
Her career would be made. They could continue to talk. Maybe he would visit her in New York. She was unique, funny, beautiful. He would visit. Stay for a few days. They could …
Stop it.
What was happening? Did he really think he could have some new secret life with Christine in New York? Cross gritted his teeth and swallowed the coarse language fighting its way to his lips. He was losing his grip.
Cross’s breathing accelerated, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Flashes of his old life reminded him of failed missions. The cause could always be traced to someone else’s meddling. In his later years with the CIA, he preferred going alone. Isolation was safe.
Safe.
No. It wasn’t right. The plan, his plan, lay crumbled at his feet. He wasn’t supposed to make contact. She shouldn’t be here. Assured she wouldn’t tell his story, the only scenario left was to cut his connection to her. It had been a nice evening, and that was all. He would go back to his new lie.
Life. New life.
He slammed his hand against the dash, warm blood coursing through his veins. He pressed his teeth harder together and held back a verbal tirade. Desire hadn’t been the only thing he had buried a year ago. He’d left an angry streak back with his old job at the CIA, and while there was always a flare-up every so often, his attitude was certainly more balanced.
Balance. The key to moving in the right direction. His life had been balanced just so until that beautiful blonde walked through the door.
Lord, help.
His spirit calmed, and the murkiness dissolved. There was only one thing to do. He had to say goodbye to Christine.
Cross focused on the road in time to catch a glimpse of a billboard for the next exit, advertising several gas station selections. He pointed the car toward the ramp and caught a green light at the intersection. Less than a mile down the road, he found a gas station with a reasonable price.
Four of the six pumps were open, and Cross chose the one closest to the exit. He paid with a bank card and propped his arm against the hood of his car as it guzzled fuel from the hose.
He didn’t want to say goodbye, but he had to. She was too intoxicating. Cross’s mind sprung to life, and he played out all the possible scenarios for the next morning. He would pick her up and take her to breakfast somewhere bland, like a chain restaurant specializing in breakfast foods. The conversation would be directed toward her, nothing too personal. Work related. The breakfast would last until she needed to depart for the airport. He’d say goodbye. She’d thank him again.
Then he would be fr—
A second look. Christine, breakfast, the church, all wayward thoughts were banished into the darkest corners of his brain as hardwired instinct consumed him. All motion around him froze, and he accounted for every detail at every angle.
At the adjacent pump, a younger bearded man gave a third specific glance in Cross’s direction, then nodded.
The dusty red SUV pulled into the lot. Cross had noticed it pass by on the highway sixty seconds earlier.
Two other men, both unshaven, pretended to have a conversation near a dark sedan at the opposite end.
The inside of the adjoining market was lit but devoid of life.
Cross replaced the nozzle of the gas hose in its proper home. In the computerized screen of the pump, he caught the reflection of a knife aimed at the square of his back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CROSS SPUN AND grabbed the bearded man’s wrist, the knife a half inch away from tearing a hole in his suit jacket. He used his attacker’s charging momentum and sent the man’s fist into the plastic screen cover of the pump. The panel cracked. Blood oozed through the fractures in the plastic.
The bearded man groaned, then attempted to pull his hand free from Cross’s grasp. Cross punched into the man’s nose with his opposite fist. The man tore his knife hand free and swung the blade at Cross’s ear.
Cross dodged. Blood dripped from the man’s nostril, and his face contorted. He shrieked and swung again. Cross parried with his left arm and kicked the man’s abdomen. The man doubled over, sucking in air.
Rushing footfalls sounded from behind. Cross vaulted the hood of his sedan. His feet barely touched asphalt when another scruffy man with olive skin tackled him from behind into the car. A sharp slice of pain cut through his pinned left shoulder blade. He pulled his right arm free and threw his elbow backward.
Thick bone connected with soft tissue and elicited a shout of distress. The man’s embrace relaxed. Cross planted his right foot and ducked his head. He twisted his attacker off his back and slammed him into the driver’s-side window. The tough glass held, and the man bounced off. He fell to the pavement.
A third assailant ran for him from behind the sedan. The man with the knife shook away the stars and charged. Cross needed space. He darted across the lot to another set of gas pumps. Movement entered his peripheral vision. Two more men exited the red SUV. Twenty yards to his right. And closing in fast.
Cross veered to his left around the back of knife man’s vehicle. A hand caught the neck of his jacket. He pivoted and twisted the jacket in a knot, freeing his arms.
The man paused with the empty jacket in his hands, his mouth agape. This one appeared older, his skin wrinkled. Too many days under a hot sun. The shape of his nose suggested West Asia pedigree. His mouth closed into a growl. He threw the jacket to the ground and charged.
Cross turned into the space between the car and the pump. A hose running into the vehicle blocked his path. He grabbed a squeegee in one hand and the nozzle at the end of the hose in the other. Squeezing the lever tight, he pointed the nozzle in the attacker’s direction.
Gasoline spewed. Cross used the squeegee to partially restrict the flow, turning the hose and spout into a makeshift water cannon. His pursuer lifted his hands to block the spray. The man slipped on the greasy pavement. His arm hit the ground with an audible crack.
Cross sensed someone behind him. He dropped the hose and ducked around the dispenser. A knife pierced the plastic sign advertising two-for-one hot dogs where Cross had been standing. Close call.
Three more men descended on him. A bony fist collided with Cross’s eye and sent him reeling backward. He swung the squeegee in front of him to buy a half second for the stars to disappear.
A second blade glinted in the stark light overhead. He blocked the strike with the squeegee, but it left him exposed, and another fist connected with the small of his back.
The three didn’t let up. He blocked where he needed to and took blows where he could ignore the sting. Escaping a knife-sized hole in his body
became his primary focus.
Where’s the gun? An attack of this type usually involved firearms. Did they want him alive?
One of them dropped his guard. Cross hooked the man’s leg with the squeegee and tugged. The man rotated in midair and crashed into one of his allies. Entangled in each other, they fell to the asphalt.
The man with the knife lunged, but Cross outmatched his speed. A blow with the squeegee sent the dagger sailing. Cross finished the man with a quick strike to the nose.
His first attacker, the one with the bloody nose, arrived with his own knife in hand.
Cross twirled the squeegee like a baton and grinned. “I’ve got all night.”
Behind his opponent, the passenger-side door to the red SUV opened. A hulking monster in a leather jacket stepped from the car, a Colt CM901 assault rifle propped against his hip.
The squeegee dropped from Cross’s hand and slid across the pavement. He sprinted as fast as he could in the opposite direction, a line of trees just across an empty grassy lot his only chance at escape.
He stole a quick look over his shoulder. The monster raised the gun and aligned it with Cross’s head. The thick fumes of the fuel spill warped the man’s silhouette in a grotesque fashion. Cross cut a path left, confident the marksman would lead his target.
The loud crack of gunfire cued the sonic boom of a gasoline explosion. Force lifted Cross’s body from the ground and tossed him forward. He slammed against the dirt and rolled to a stop. Pain throbbed from his shoulder to his feet.
Ringing filled his ears.
His head pounded.
Heat crawled across his clothes.
Cross forced his body a few more rolls across the grass to extinguish the flames. No longer on fire, he rested on his stomach and marveled at his good fortune. He’d never expected the blast of the weapon to actually ignite the fumes. It wasn’t impossible, but close to it.
Less good fortune, more divine providence the likely reason.