A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

Christine snorted a skeptical laugh. “You were in Washington this morning? How did you even get here before I was able to board?”

  He smiled. “Fortunately, I drove against traffic flow. And this is a nice car.”

  “Speaking of this car,” she interjected. Her hand patted the clean leather of the seat and she raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “A relic from my previous life. I kept it and an apartment in Washington for emergency purposes. I like keeping my options open.”

  Christine’s eyes opened wide. “Your other car. The police will know you were at the gas station last night.”

  “It’s OK,” he assured her. “The car was clean, just like this one. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to own something in my own name. Again, out of habit.”

  Cross maneuvered the vehicle off the freeway and into the heart of Richmond. Construction forced them in a circle before they could enter the parking garage adjoining the hospital.

  They left the car parked on a lower level and rode an elevator to the eighth floor. Cross paused at the reception desk in the atrium and handed his parking ticket to the smiling woman seated on the opposite side. “Clergy,” he announced.

  She stamped the ticket and handed it back to him. “Have a nice day.”

  Cross pocketed the ticket and noticed Christine smirking at him. “I know,” he said with a sheepish grin. “It still sounds weird to me.”

  A flight of escalators and a long hallway led them by a well-stocked pharmacy to a set of elevators waiting to escort them to the Critical Care Unit on the ninth floor. They rode in silence, though alone in the car.

  The elevator doors opened, and they awkwardly excused themselves around a family waiting to board. Just beyond a small waiting room, wide doors stood guard over the CCU. Cross punched a call button attached to the wall, and after a pause, a voice on the other end asked, “Yes, can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Lori Johnson. I’m her pastor.”

  “Come on back.” A buzzing sound released the magnetic seal on the entrance, and the double doors swung open on their own. Cross took the lead to room 106. He stepped through the curtain, with Christine on his heels.

  Lori sat upright in the hospital bed, her arm in a sling and a deep-red bruise running from her ear to the base of her neck. “Oh Lord,” she exclaimed, noticing Cross but not acknowledging Christine. “Now I know it’s bad if they’re bringing the minister in.” She tried to use her better arm to push herself upright in the bed, but seemed to only sink farther into the mattress.

  Cross walked to the foot of the bed and placed a caring hand on her socked foot peeking out from underneath the bedsheet. “I’m here to keep you from giving the hospital staff any grief. Gary told me you got into a fight with a set of stairs.”

  Lori squinted as she examined Cross’s face. “Speak for yourself, kid.”

  “Oh.” Cross held up a hand to half mask the bruising, half remind himself he still bore the marks of his encounter at the gas station. “This. Yeah, I … uh …”

  “He had his own fight with another man.” Christine appeared suddenly next to Cross, and his mouth fell open as she exposed his double life.

  “I’m sorry,” Lori responded with a dubious expression. “Who are you?”

  “Christine.” She offered her hand to Lori, who mechanically shook it and gazed piercingly into her face. Christine continued, “Mr. Cross here is my guardian angel.” She offered a weak laugh and rolled her eyes. “Abusive boyfriend. It’s my fault, really, for having stuck with him so long. If John hadn’t stood up to him, I think he would’ve beat me right there in the Publix parking lot.”

  Cross swore he heard hints of a phony southern accent in her voice.

  Lori narrowed her eyes and stuck out her bottom lip in disapproval. “John Cross, did you hit back?”

  Cross stopped searching the room for potential escape routes and threw his hands in the air. “Lori, I promise you I acted in self-defense.” He stole a glance at Christine to think reprimanding thoughts at her.

  Lori exhaled loudly through her mouth and drew the attention back in her direction. “You know what the Bible says: ‘Offer your other cheek to the one who strikes you.’ Of course, it doesn’t say anything about what you do after that.” A wicked smile spread from cheek to cheek, and she winked at Christine.

  Christine wrapped both arms around Cross’s arm and beamed. “To show him my gratitude, I’ve offered John lunch. Of course, then he got the call about your fall, and, well, here we are.”

  Cross clenched his fist, and his bicep hardened. Christine got the message and slipped her hands from his arm, chuckling nervously again and glancing about the room. He didn’t want to lie to Lori, although technically he hadn’t said anything false. It was self-defense, and it was on account of Christine. So it was the truth. Sort of.

  The twisted logic did nothing to soothe the unpleasantness of his predicament.

  “Nice to meet you, Christine,” Lori said. “Although I would have preferred it be under better circumstances.”

  “It’s fine. You look great.” Christine stepped around the hospital bed and leaned against the short rail propped up against its side. “How did it happen?”

  “Oh, when you get to be my age, sometimes you forget how stairs work. To be honest, I don’t even remember what caused it—just the fear of lying at the bottom without a way to get myself up.”

  Cross didn’t move from his perch at her feet. He nodded toward the sling. “Have they given you the damage report?”

  “They said I’m lucky.” Lori smiled at Christine and raised her voice an extra octave. “I keep telling them the Lord looked out for me.”

  Christine laughed. It sounded genuine, and Cross liked hearing it. Lori specialized in tearing down relational walls. Another hour in the hospital room and Christine might ditch him to have lunch with the spunky old woman.

  “I have two breaks in my arm, one above the elbow and one below. I’m blessed there wasn’t any major damage to the joint. The good Lord knows I’ve already had too many of those replaced.”

  Cross checked his watch. He opened his mouth with the intention of wrapping up the conversation, when Lori spoke.

  “So, Christine, tell me a little bit about yourself, darling. Do you go to church?”

  He regretted bringing Christine along.

  “My parents raised me in the Methodist church, but I have to be honest, ma’am. I’m not a consistent attender.”

  “We’ll just have to fix that, now won’t we? Do you have a job?”

  “Yes, I’m a reporter.”

  “Oh, how nice. Newspaper or TV?”

  Cross’s phone rang and interrupted the banter. “I’m sorry,” he said as he pulled it from his pocket. One look at the incoming number and he knew he needed to answer. He held up his index finger. “I’m really sorry. I have to take this.”

  “You go,” Lori replied, her good hand waving him from the room. “This is girl time anyway.”

  Cross exited the room and walked down the hall out of earshot. He flipped open the phone and held it to his ear. “Hey, Guin,” he said in a hushed tone. “What do you have?”

  “Oh, I’ve got something for you,” came the aggressive response from a voice all too familiar. “How about a nice long vacation near the Indian Ocean? I hear there are some terrific black sites in Diego Garcia.”

  “She told you, didn’t she, Al?”

  Cross heard a thump and imagined Simpson throwing a heavy object across his desk. “Come on, John. Don’t tell me you didn’t think she would. That would just confirm you can’t play this game anymore, not to mention hurt my feelings.”

  Yes, Cross suspected Guin would tell her superior about their meeting. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hope she would be discreet about it. Even now, with Simpson huffing angrily into the phone, Cross breathed a sigh of relief, glad she did. He didn’t have a strong case to involve anyone from Langley. A stolen ID and an assault charge ranked low in priority
when it came to national security. If his old boss demonstrated any concern over Cross’s situation, perhaps protocol would be broken and they could achieve a resolution.

  “I thought Guin would tell you,” he replied. “It’s her job. And now I’m just some guy. A guy targeted by thugs who have crossed our borders and are running loose in our cities.”

  “Cut this ‘our’ bull—”

  Cross dropped the phone from his ear to mute the oath, then brought it back up as he stepped farther away from Lori’s room.

  Simpson continued to yell. “… long ago when you quit on us. I gave you a second chance, and you threw that back in my face. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to even let you live in relative peace? No one else thought you would stay quiet.”

  “I know. I know,” Cross interrupted. “I wouldn’t have called her if I thought it was nothing.”

  Silence. A calculated pause, if he knew Simpson at all. The man’s reputation of playing his most aggressive cards up front before offering his consent preceded him. True to form, he snorted and said, “Lucky for you, you’re right. It’s not nothing.”

  Cross smiled. Not that he had any doubts.

  “This George Carson thing smells pretty rotten. I mean really rotten. Especially after they fished the guy’s body out of the Aegean Sea wearing a garrote wire like a necktie.”

  Stolen ID. Assault. Now murder. His case for help grew stronger. “Any other hits on the ID?”

  “Two more. A hotel room in Queens booked last Saturday night, then a pair of train tickets yesterday morning.”

  “Train tickets?”

  “Yeah.” The sound of rustling papers created faux static on the line. “Here we go. Two train tickets for a departure this morning, Penn Station to Richmond Main Street.”

  Cross turned suddenly and locked his eyes on the entrance to Lori’s room. They were coming for Christine. And he had put her right where they could reach her. “What time is the train scheduled to arrive?”

  “Thirteen hundred and two hours.”

  Cross glanced at his watch.

  “That’s thirty minutes from now, John.”

  “Yeah, that’s no good, Al.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m in a hospital nine hundred yards from the station.”

  “I thought Guin patched you up?”

  Was there anything Guin hadn’t told him? Cross paused to assess all the possible scenarios and decide on his next course of action.

  Simpson must have telepathically witnessed Cross’s brain kick into gear. That or the two just knew each other well enough to catch nonverbal cues. Simpson’s raspy voice disturbed Cross’s train of thought. “Listen, son, don’t think about engaging this guy on your own. He’s clearly already got backup in the area.”

  “Have you gotten a visual on our fake George Carson?”

  “No,” replied a voice unlike Simpson’s. Guin’s voice sounded like an angel in comparison. “He’s been too aware of surveillance cameras for us to get a clean look at his face.”

  “Sullivan,” Simpson hissed. “Didn’t I say something about being seen and not heard?”

  “The Carson ID is done,” Guin continued, ignoring him. “The trail will end if he gets off that train.”

  “What about the girl, Cross?” Simpson badgered him. A stall tactic if Cross ever heard one.

  “They’d never think to look for her right under their noses. They’re going to wait for me to resurface and then use me to get to her. Unless I lead them to you first.”

  “Hold on, cowboy. I’ve only had the patience to track down this thing from the stolen ID angle. Even if you could attract their attention, I can’t pull any officers right now to bail you out if things go south.”

  Another muffled noise distracted Simpson from the conversation. It sounded like an argument. All Cross heard his former superior say was, “I don’t care.”

  Cross checked his watch again: 12:34. Twenty-eight more minutes. “Al,” he said. “I don’t have all day. Either I bait these guys and lead them to your cage, or I’ll identify the primary so I’ll at least have something to bribe you with.”

  “I’m going to give you a piece of advice,” Simpson replied.

  Cross imagined him waving his finger into the speakerphone.

  “Put that girl on the next plane to New York, and let the bureau put a security detail on her. Wash your hands of this. Step away.”

  Twelve thirty-five. Twenty-seven more minutes. Cross kept his eyes focused on the curtain to room 106. Simpson was right. Cross was no stranger to detachment. He could let someone else figure out this mess. He’d already decided he couldn’t be around Christine anyway. With the identity thief en route, New York might have just become the safer city for her to be in.

  But walking away from someone in need was the old John Cross. Not now. He would see this to the end. And with this one that meant figuring out who was leading the charge in the effort to kill Christine Lewis.

  “Sorry, Al. I can’t do that.”

  “John.” Guin’s voice sounded clear, comforting even. “Be careful.”

  Cross smiled, and a part of him wished she could see it. “I will. And thank you.” He ended the call before either one of them could say more, and he took his fourth look at what felt like a ticking time bomb on his wrist.

  Twelve thirty-seven. Twenty-five more minutes.

  He wouldn’t have much time to reconnoiter the station. He pictured the layout in his mind, a familiar image given previous examination as a possible exit strategy should he find himself the target of an enemy agent trying to prove his worth. Or apparently even the target of his own country anxious to ensure he didn’t talk.

  He kept a brisk pace back to Lori’s room and stepped through the curtain as the two women shared a laugh over some unknown anecdote from Lori’s week. He guessed chaos at the hair salon.

  Christine’s smile dissipated, and she stood from a chair when he entered. “Is everything OK?”

  “Yes,” he replied, a wide grin hiding the truth. “I just seem to be in high demand today. I’m afraid I’m going to have to step out for a little bit.”

  Lori lifted her chin and flared her nostrils, her eyes squinting in suspicion. Her signature look. “You don’t think you’re taking away my new friend Christine right when I was just getting to know her, now are you?”

  “Actually, I hoped you wouldn’t mind if Christine kept you company while I was away.”

  Christine shot him a frustrated glance. “John, I don’t know if Lori …”

  Lori patted Christine’s hand. “Nonsense. It’ll be fine. We don’t need him anyway—I don’t care how handsome he is. I tell you what. We’ll call up the kitchen and have them bring us the finest microwaved turkey they can unwrap. I promise I’ll be just as fun of a lunch date as the reverend over there.”

  Christine’s smile returned, and her eyes sparkled as she squeezed Lori’s good hand. The old woman’s spell worked on everyone. “I don’t doubt it,” Christine said. She looked back at Cross and added, “If that’s what you want.”

  He projected as much confidence in his eyes as he could and replied, “It won’t take long. I promise.” Cross wondered if she could read through his partial deception.

  If she could, she didn’t show it. Instead, Christine turned back to Lori and smiled. “Well, I for one would love to hear more about Kathleen and her Doberman.”

  Lori smirked at Cross. “She’s all mine, Johnny. Go about your business.”

  Cross leaned over the bed and gave Lori a hug around her neck. “Save me some of that microwave turkey, and you can fill me in on the Doberman when I get back.”

  Lori squeezed Cross’s shoulder with her unbound hand and kissed him on the side of his head. He bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out as the bullet wound burned in her grip.

  She picked up her story right where she left off before he crossed the threshold. Her voice trailed off as he marched down the hallway and out of the Crit
ical Care Unit. He caught an elevator primed for descent, divine providence on his side. He stepped inside the compartment and brought his wrist up to his chest as the doors slid shut.

  Twelve forty. Twenty-two more minutes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE PASSENGER TRAIN rocked back and forth as it barreled around a curve enclosed by tall, verdant trees on either side. Yunus spent the entire ride from New York City staring out the window, soaking in the exquisite landscape. The colors of his childhood home were more barren in nature. And given his truncated future, Yunus found enjoyment in even the tiniest measure of beauty in creation.

  He didn’t take his eyes off the sights just beyond the pane of glass. The train made each of its scheduled stops, and other passengers came and went. At times a stranger would choose the empty seat beside him only to vacate it at a later stop. Not once did he acknowledge their presence.

  His companion rode the train on a different car, and Yunus wasn’t even sure which one. They ignored each other at Penn Station, and his friend intended to exit the train six stops prior to Yunus’s final destination. They would meet again in less than forty-eight hours, assuming all went according to plan. Still, Yunus left specific instructions. Should there be any delay on his part, he was confident in the ability of his compatriots to succeed at their primary mission without him.

  At times he often wondered if they really even needed him. He contributed a strategic mind to the group, seemingly the primary reason for his assumption of leadership, and could certainly handle himself in combat. He even failed to trust their mission would have its intended effect. Accepting the offer served as a mere vehicle to his greater purpose. He yearned to make restitution and free Fem and the boys of their pain.

  “Next stop, Ashland,” shouted the mechanical voice overheard.

  The train slowed, then came to a full stop beside a sheltered platform. Faces and bodies of new passengers filled Yunus’s field of view, and he at last turned his head from the window to keep from contemplating the latent beauty of humanity.

  Yes, humanity was dirty. But that was never the intended design. Yunus remembered his own children, when alive, as examples of how humanity could be beautiful. But with all men, corruption seized control, with the vilest of acts conducted in the name of freedom as a result. The world lacked a just hand to guide it. Thus, men like Erkan resorted to base measures of generating balance between what was evil and what was good. Yunus understood it but rarely stomached it.