A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

  He thought over the moment in his mind and, as if triggered by some unseen force of coincidence, his phone rang. It could only be one of his, a report from their advance assignment, conducted while he prepared the final details for their ultimate goal.

  He padded to the table, his naked form in full view of the window, and answered the phone. “Hello?” It was the only word he could say that disguised his thick Turkish accent. The response on the other end of the call would determine whether he threw the phone out the window and disappeared from the hotel or carried out his business as planned.

  “Yunus.” It was Erkan. He did not sound well.

  Yunus took his hand off the window latch and paced the thin carpet in front of the lumpy bed. “I pray for good news, my friend,” he said in Turkish.

  “Your prayers have been unanswered, I’m afraid.”

  Yunus closed his eyes and meditated on the numbers one through ten, the wellspring of rage quieting in his heart. “Tell me.”

  “We could not capture the target. He proved to be … resourceful.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Burns and bruises, but we’ll live.”

  “You do not sound alive, Erkan.”

  “No worse injury than any we took in Kobanî.”

  Erkan’s will to live had been tested to an extreme during a recent siege against the capital of a Syrian governorate. Yunus preferred serving from behind, Erkan several yards in front.

  “Praise to God.”

  “You’re not angry, Yunus?”

  “Of course, but not a madman. This is only proving to be more difficult a diversion than I estimated. For that, your injuries are on my head.”

  Erkan was silent on the other end. Yunus expected a debate. The two friends long disagreed on the extent to which violence was necessary to achieve peace. Erkan believed in the power of indiscriminate bloodshed. Yunus often found himself on the other extreme. Reluctant soldier, reluctant leader. Case in point—Erkan demanded they …

  Yunus pushed past the turmoil brewing in his soul and cleared his throat. “I will be there later this afternoon, and we will coordinate our next approach.” He couldn’t change his plans now, his train ticket already in hand and the package delivery prescheduled for just after daybreak. “Where is he now?”

  “Not sure. We are watching his home, but he did not return after his escape.”

  Yunus nodded, though Erkan couldn’t see it. “Thank you, friend. Rest and heal from your injuries. We will regroup tomorrow.”

  Erkan offered a farewell, then the line went dead. Yunus grabbed hold of the top of the flip phone and pulled against the hinge. The phone snapped in two. He discarded it on the table and marched to the bathroom to take advantage of his last opportunity at a hot shower.

  The hot shower rejuvenated Cross’s spirit. Doubts about the man he had become were washed down the drain with the dirt and bark. During a period of self-analysis, as he breathed in the searing steam, he decided his snap decision to take a life on the top of the train hours before hadn’t been unwarranted. Christine’s life was threatened again. His volatile emotional state predicated the violent urge.

  Taking a mental step back, he saw the emotional slope he had tumbled down. A moment of weakness in a day of uncertainty. He didn’t like uncertainty, nor the new range of passions he experienced as a result of Christine’s intrusion in his life.

  His relationships in his past life were never a distraction, but a mere pastime. If it didn’t count, he could just leave. And he did. Often. One of the many reasons he’d decided against getting to know Guin on a personal level. She was attractive and funny, and Cross would be lying if he denied imagining a life with her on occasion. But it would only hurt.

  Now there was an added wrinkle to his life. A committed relationship he had no intention of leaving and that would have to be compatible with any other he would eventually form. His devotion to Jesus Christ was his priority. And whomever he met along the way would have to have the same priority for their paths to align.

  It made the decision with Guin simple and would make the decision with Christine simple. The fact he had yet to broach the subject of faith with either was negligence on his part. He chalked the lack of initiative up to still being green in his new ministry position.

  He thought through a variety of scenarios to start the conversation with Guin as he shut off the water and stepped from the fog of the shower into the fog of the bathroom. His clothing options were minimal, though he was thankful to have any. A pair of jeans and a gray polo shirt would suffice.

  Maybe he could just come right out and say it. Guin, he imagined saying, What have you heard about this Jesus guy? Cross shook his head as he stuck a leg into the pair of jeans.

  Jesus guy? Really?

  He’d have to reconsider the opener. He wanted it to feel natural, not forced. She was doing him a favor, a big one. Especially considering he’d asked her to keep quiet about her research. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel uncomfortable at his attempt to proselytize in return.

  Still, Cross couldn’t help but remember a wise analogy he once heard. If someone was about to get hit by a bus, would they mind being warned? And the prospect of being separated from God for eternity was certainly grimmer than being hit by a bus.

  Guin, if you were going to be hit by a bus, would you want me to tell you? That opening line wasn’t any better.

  Cross pulled the polo shirt over his head and wiped the mirror clean with the back of his hand. He prodded and poked each swollen spot on his face, souvenirs of his train ride to DC, and considered himself lucky to have escaped with such little to show for it.

  The door swung open, startling him. Guin flashed an amused smile. “Sorry to interrupt your primping, but I’ve got a lead.”

  Cross followed her from the bathroom, through the empty bedroom, and back out into the open living area. The sky over the capital skyline faded from gray to a lighter shade of gray as the sun made its way toward the break of dawn.

  Guin stopped at the open laptop and pointed with her index finger. “I started with possible influxes of monetary resources into Amman, then Jordan in general, but there’s been nothing warranting a second look in the last fourteen days. I also checked for any reports of fraudulent identity activity, though to be honest, even if they used fake IDs, it might still take weeks to determine.”

  Cross folded his arms. “A long shot, I know. Someone might not be aware a stranger used their identity to enter the country illegally.”

  “Or it could be the identity of someone recently deceased. I know you were thinking AIM, but you mentioned the Turk, and it got me thinking, so I shifted my focus to recent activity in Turkey and Syria. There’s been a lot of conflict between the Kurds and Islamists along the border of both countries since 2013.”

  “Still AIM, just a hit squad out of Syria and not Jordan.”

  “With an apparent Turk ally or two.”

  Cross ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I wouldn’t be surprised. The Turkish government is corrupt. I remember an op years ago when we were arming Syrian rebels. More than a few Turkish government officials sympathized with the militants.”

  “I don’t know if you heard, but we’re watching some rioting in Istanbul over this issue.”

  “It’s like the jihadists have tentacles in a lot of governments and infrastructure these days.”

  Guin nodded. “If they ever organize under a powerful governing authority, we’ll have our hands full.”

  “You said you had a lead?”

  “Right. No red flags until I found a missing persons report out of Greece from last Wednesday.”

  “Greece?”

  “Technically, yes. Local authorities filed the report when an American aboard a Mediterranean cruise line failed to board after a long excursion on Santorini. They haven’t located him yet.”

  “And that’s interesting, how?”

  A full-color photograph of a balding, pudgy Caucasi
an man filled the screen. “His name is George Carson. And two days ago he boarded a plane in London bound for New York City.”

  Christine sat comfortably in the back of the airport shuttle and stared out the window at various blurred lines of color speeding by. She checked her watch and calculated the time that it would take for the shuttle to traverse the short distance between her hotel and the terminal.

  It wasn’t short enough. She wanted nothing more than to leave the state of Virginia after being stood up by the man she thought she was beginning to know. The promise of a continued conversation over hot pancakes had been traded for a solitary engagement with a granola bar from a vending machine.

  In such a short span of time, her desire to find him, thank him, then just learn about him developed into a longing to be with John Cross. To listen to his voice, look into his eyes.

  She knew what it was. Exactly what it was. There was a name for it, sort of. The term Stockholm syndrome kept repeating in her mind, but she knew that had to do with a hostage and their captors. She was attached to the man who had rescued her.

  She decided it was infatuation, not love. The information she’d collected about him was scant. His name and that he used to work for the CIA. That was it.

  Oh, and that he was a killer. Well, not anymore. She wondered if it was really a religious conversion or if some chemical reaction in his brain resulted in the formation of a kind of conscience. Feigning religious conviction would be one way for him to distance himself from a job he had no passion for anymore.

  Was that it? Had he been lying? Christine shook her head. It would take a sociopath of the highest order to go from a long record of successful assassinations to lying about his religious beliefs in order to retreat from the scrutiny of the intelligence community and seduce a group of innocent church attendees.

  The thought of his lies to the kind people of Rural Grove made her the angriest. She might have fallen away from church involvement after leaving home, but Christine held no ill feelings toward the Christian community. She even assumed she would return to the church in the twilight of her demanding career.

  Was she that stupid? She imagined he’d left the city immediately after dropping her off the night before. Never to be seen again. Not by the good people of Rural Grove. Not her. John Cross would cease to exist, and she’d never be able to prove he ever did. She’d return to NABC empty handed.

  She wasn’t a liar. She never intended to share his side of the story, not without his permission of course. She planned to bring it up during breakfast and give him as much time as he needed to be comfortable with the idea. They could have worked together on an anonymous statement to corroborate her updated version of the events.

  Maybe she should run with the story anyway. Though, there was the danger of being branded a fraud. Journalism was a toxic brand at the moment. High-profile anchors and columnists fabricating news stories wouldn’t help restore any former glory.

  Christine kicked the empty seat in front of her as the shuttle slid into the Richmond International Airport departure lane. She hated Cross, Jacobs, the military, but most of all herself.

  The shuttle driver braked at the airport entrance, left his seat, and pulled her small duffel off the storage shelf near the front. She met him at the door and let him help her down the steps to the sidewalk.

  “Enjoy your flight, ma’am,” he said with a smile.

  “Thank you.” She wanted to muster a smile in return, to no avail. She slung the duffel over her shoulder, dug her hands into her jean pockets, and with her head hanging low walked toward the sliding double doors.

  The two panes of glass parted in the middle. She stepped across the threshold and nearly collided with a man standing just inside. “Excuse me,” she said as she lifted her head. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open as John Cross stared back her with his tempting coffee-colored eyes.

  “Christine, I can’t let you get on that plane.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHRISTINE SLAPPED HIM as hard as she could, then saw the dark-red bruising under his eye and over the bridge of his nose, as well as the split on his bottom lip. She covered her mouth with her hand and gasped. “I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “What happened?” She stepped closer to examine his injuries.

  “I’m fine,” John replied, his demeanor stern. “You can’t go back to New York. Not right now.”

  “Wait. I’m confused.” Christine’s concern melted away, revealing indignation accrued over the long morning. “You break your promise to meet for breakfast, don’t bother calling to explain, then show up right when I’m about to leave and ask me to stay? What do you think I’m going to say, hotshot? You think I’m going to swoon and let you regale me with stories of your glory days in the CIA? Well, if that’s the case, then, buddy, I’ve got news for you—”

  John held up both hands and waved off her tirade. “OK, stop. I know, and I’m sorry to leave you hanging. But I’m telling you not to get on that plane. Your life depends on staying here with me.”

  Christine laughed. John didn’t. She ended her laughter in an awkward sputter. “You’re serious.”

  “I’ll explain everything. But right now, we have to leave.” John grabbed her by the arm and led her back out the double doors to the terminal roadway.

  “Hey,” she protested, pulling her arm from his grasp. “I can walk on my own.” She flashed him her coldest stare, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he led the way at a brisk pace across the road and into the neighboring parking garage.

  He retrieved a set of keys from the pocket of a pair of tailored-fit jeans. Christine examined the way his muscles pulled the gray polo shirt tight against his back. Her concentration broke when he lifted his hand and pressed the electronic fob between his fingers.

  A silver luxury sedan two parking spaces away answered his call with two successive honks. John walked up to the driver’s-side door and bent to slide in. Christine stood numb in her tracks, her face scrunched together at her nose.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “My car. Get in.”

  His commanding voice sent an exhilarating chill over her skin. Christine forced her feet to move. She tossed her duffel over the head-rest onto the rear floorboard and slipped into the passenger seat.

  A reverent silence overtook her as Christine settled into the vehicle. She stroked the warm red leather of her seat, glided fingers across the smooth fine-grain wood inlay, and breathed in the perfume of extravagance. A display rising out of the center of the dash offered detailed information about the car, global positioning, even the news.

  She didn’t know whether to kiss him or curse him. She opted just to talk. “OK. Tell me what’s going on, starting with the bruises and ending with why you’re driving this outrageous car.”

  “I was attacked by a group of men last night. I think they’re here for you.”

  Christine decided to curse this time. “What do you mean, they’re here for me?”

  “The only detail I got from the attack last night was that he knew where you were. I’m a ghost, but you’re all over the news. I don’t know why, but it seems like they came here to find and kill you. So an old CIA friend did some digging, and we believe they’ll be waiting for you in New York.”

  Christine’s head spun out of control, her emotions swinging like a pendulum. “I don’t understand. Why … why are they coming after me?” Tears welled in her eyes, nausea spreading through her chest and into her throat.

  John grabbed her hand and pulled her close. They made eye contact, and he whispered, “I won’t let them get to you.”

  A single tear left a wet streak down her cheek, and the nausea eased. The prospect of falling back into her captors’ hands almost brought her spirit to its knees, but something about John assured the hope of escape. It wasn’t infatuation this time. She could read an inner strength in his eyes.

  He kept a firm grip on her hand and asked, “Can you think of any reason why they
wouldn’t want you alive? Did you see someone you recognized? A political figure maybe? Overhear plans of an attack?”

  Christine attemped to recall memories from her imprisonment, but it all blurred into a dark blob filled with despair and pain. She shook her head and averted her gaze. “What do we do?”

  “It’s OK. They might think you saw something you shouldn’t have, even if you didn’t comprehend it at the time.” Or it might be all his fault. He let go of her hand and pressed the ignition button near the steering wheel. “My friend is tracking down a lead. We sit tight for now and pray these guys are identified soon so the right people can step in and take care of the situation.” He gripped the gearshift. A loud ringing erupted from the back pocket of his jeans. John looked up, his eyes wide, and a grin spread across his face. “See, probably good news already.”

  He dug the phone out of his pocket and brought the receiver up to his ear. “Hello? Yes, this is he.” The grin faded.

  “John, what’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer, but rubbed his temple and hung his head while listening to the one-sided conversation. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and sighed.

  “Well?” Christine prodded.

  “We have to go to the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “One of the members of my church fell and sustained some injuries. She’s being treated at VCU Medical Center.”

  Any consideration of danger escaped her mind. “Yes, of course. Let’s go.”

  John shifted the car into reverse and backed out of the parking spot.

  In the nine miles between the airport and the medical center of Virginia Commonwealth University, Cross described in detail the attempt on his life the night before. He left out more than a few details about his rendezvous with Guin. They were all business, but maybe Christine wouldn’t see it that way.