A Cross to Kill
Page 15
Cross’s car passed over Mayo Island, a privately owned landmass mostly home to vagrants, before finishing its journey across the river. In less than a mile, he could turn left and head south on Jefferson Davis Highway, though he questioned his next move given his original plan had ended so abruptly. Perhaps he could circle around and …
Mrs. Templeton asked a question he only half heard.
“I’m not sure,” Cross responded, not confident in his answer to half a question.
“Well, I certainly think so.”
He passed the Venus, an old theater converted to a furniture store, on his left. He considered pulling over, making a U-turn. He couldn’t decide, his mind pulled apart by two different worlds.
“Mrs. Templeton,” he said, “may I ask why you called?”
At that moment the black van filled his rearview mirror, and Cross launched forward in his seat as it collided with his bumper at forty miles per hour. His seat belt caught him and threw him back against the seat. Somehow the phone remained glued in position.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Mrs. Templeton responded, a tinge of irritation in her voice. “I wanted to ask yesterday morning, but of course I don’t have to tell you my mind was just distracted by the peculiar way you were acting.”
Cross slammed the gas pedal against the floorboard, and the car sprang itself from the clutches of the van’s front grill. He sped down the road, the van maintaining a close distance.
“Then I thought I’d call yesterday afternoon, but considered you might be resting and didn’t want to disturb you. I dropped by before sundown with homemade soup, my mother’s recipe. Did you get it?”
Cross pulled into the intersection of Hull Street and Jefferson Davis Highway at full speed, waiting until the last minute to turn sharp right and burn a black mark into the asphalt, cutting off a minivan in the process. The black van copied his maneuver, though it managed to shave the paint off a corner of the minivan.
Cross controlled his heavy breathing as he replied, “I did get it. It was delicious.”
“Just about every one of Mama’s recipes is delicious. But I guess anything’s delicious if you put enough salt and butter in the mix.” Mrs. Templeton chuckled at her own quip.
Both vehicles barreled down the highway at hazardous speeds, other motorists signaling their displeasure with horn blasts. Cross guided the car through one intersection after another, passing in and out of lanes as he avoided impacts.
“Well, I wasn’t going to bother you then either, if you’d been home. That’s why I’m calling today. Now that you’re feeling better, I have your full and undivided attention.”
Cross opened his mouth to remind her driving in a car while talking on a phone was not the place for an attentive conversation, but before he could utter a sound, another car pulled into his lane, forcing him to slam on the brakes.
His car skidded across the blacktop. Cross swerved for an open lane, but the black van caught up and cornered him between it and the other vehicle. He dropped the phone into a hand and pressed it into his chest as he braced for impact.
The van turned into him and collided with the front driver’s-side corner of the car. Cross turned the wheel to counteract the force, but to no avail. His car complied and slid sideways toward a hatchback in the next lane.
The passenger in the hatchback alerted the driver to the imminent accident. The hatchback braked, and its wheels rotated toward the shoulder of the road. The rear bumper of Cross’s vehicle nicked the other car as he passed by.
Cross brought the phone back up to his ear to hear Mrs. Templeton continuing to talk. “… ladies at my knitting group on Saturday night. Well, we’ve been doing that new Kimberly Hartford study. Have you heard about it? Well, of course you’ve heard of it. That lady is just something else, you know.”
The van pulled parallel to Cross two lanes to his left. He noticed a slower vehicle in the van’s path. Seizing the opportunity, Cross veered into the middle lane and connected with the side of the van.
With no room to maneuver, the van cut through a break in the median and careened into the oncoming traffic lanes. Vehicles diverted course and slammed into each other, light poles, and traffic signs as the van plowed its way down the street in the opposite direction.
“Well, the study is all about the Bible and the American dream, how it … well, let me just read it to you. She does such a fine job of explaining what she wants us to know, I don’t know why I would try to do any better.”
Cross pulled ahead of the van’s position in his own lane. He watched in the driver’s-side mirror as the van passed a sedan, then cut back across the median and ripped through a thin sapling.
“‘If you’re like me, you’ve often asked yourself if there’s more to life.’” Mrs. Templeton read from the back cover of the Bible study. “‘Congregations all over the country crave the latest trends and gimmicks to jump-start a revival of faith …’”
Cross dropped the phone from his ear and gripped the steering wheel with both hands as he banked around a delivery truck. The GPS on the LED display in the dash alerted him to the Virginia State Route 150 entrance ramp less than a mile ahead—150 led to Interstate 95, which would lead the men even farther away from Christine. If Mrs. Templeton would get off the phone, he might even be able to convince Simpson to send in reinforcements.
He put the phone back to his ear and said, “Mrs. Templeton, I …”
She paid him no attention as she continued to read. “‘Broken but honest,’ which I can vouch for, Pastor,” she interjected with a chuckle. “‘Kim will inspire you to get out of your comfort zone and acknowledge …’”
Her words didn’t register in his ear as the car passed under three large road signs signaling the entrance to SR 150, the middle lane the choice for northbound Interstate 95. The van gained. Traffic clogged.
“‘There’s more to Christianity …’”
He hit the accelerator and flew past a merging tractor-trailer.
“‘… than having your way …’”
The car skidded onto the entrance ramp nearing seventy miles per hour.
“‘… and keeping it that way.’”
Both tires on the left side of the car hovered an inch off the ground for a second as Cross hugged the turn and merged onto the highway.
“Here’s what it says at the very bottom,” Mrs. Templeton concluded. “‘Our generation is ready for a powerful movement of God. Don’t be left behind.’ I know I’m not in this woman’s generation, but it has been such a joy going through this book with the ladies.”
A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed Cross’s assumption. The black van struggled to repeat his high-speed entry and fell two cars behind. Road signs advertising SR 150’s pending fuse with Interstate 95 hovered over the pavement just ahead of him.
“Mrs. Templeton,” Cross interjected as she paused to breathe for the first time since the conversation began. “I’m sorry, but I am kind of occupied at the moment. What’s the specific question you want to ask?”
“Well, I’m getting to it. I was giving you context for the conversation we were having Saturday night.”
A familiar sound caught Cross by the ear. He crooked his neck to catch sight of flashing blue emergency lights atop gray state trooper vehicles speeding down the highway half a mile behind him. The black van on his tail accelerated around a slowing coupe.
“We were talking about the book. Then wouldn’t you know it, Mary started talking about something else she’d read about the Tribulation.”
Here it comes. He’d already scheduled online classes about eschatology, the study of the end times, for next semester. He wasn’t looking forward to it.
“What with all of the fighting going on in the Middle East, the conflict between the Palestinians and Israel, that Islamic group—I forget their name—beheading journalists on video.”
Cross cut off a minivan as he veered onto the entrance ramp for Interstate 95, the black van on his heels.
The state troopers narrowed the distance by half.
“She quoted a pastor—I can’t remember his name either—about how all of this fits into end times prophecy.”
The van and state police chased Cross up and over the long interchange.
“And he insisted everything we’re seeing in the news today is fulfillment of Second Timothy chapter three. Well, you know Mary. She just went on and on. And I have to tell you, at first I was skeptical, but the more she talked about it, the more I started to think she might be onto something.”
The procession of luxury sedan, black van, and three police vehicles jetted off the ramp onto the highway, other vehicles swerving from their path.
Cross expertly guided the car with one hand while he concentrated on Mrs. Templeton’s story. He couldn’t comprehend her question in light of the circuitous route she took to arrive at the main problem of her Saturday night study.
“Wait,” he said. “I thought this had to do with the Hartford book.”
“Well, it does. The book prompted the discussion.”
“So the study is about the end times?” Cross banked the car across two lanes, horns blaring behind him.
“Well, no, though with Mary in the room, any study might as well be.”
Frustration swelled inside him as Cross fought the urge to hang up on her. “Barb, will you please just ask your question?” He regretted the harsh tone. And the use of her first name. The other end of the call fell silent. He checked his phone to see if she had hung up on him.
Still connected.
“I’m sorry, Pastor Cross,” she said as he returned the phone to his ear. “You’re right. I’m intruding. Perhaps we can talk another time. Goodbye.” The line clicked dead.
Cross threw his phone onto the passenger-side floorboard and clenched his teeth to keep from swearing. He stared straight ahead and twisted his hands around the steering wheel. The old Cross fought to emerge from the depths, and he was tempted to let it happen.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black blur rush toward the passenger-side window. The black van slammed into the side of his car, forcing him onto the shoulder of the highway. Cross rocked back and forth in his seat as the van shoved his car into the concrete barrier dividing the highway.
Somehow, the two vehicles maintained speed as Cross fought against the strain on the steering wheel. The tinted window of the van slid open, and a gloved hand grasping a pistol extended through the opening.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CROSS BROUGHT HIS foot down hard on the brake, and the forward momentum of the sedan ceased. The car slipped from between the van and the barrier just as the driver’s index finger mashed on the trigger of the gun. Bullets sliced across the hood of Cross’s car and drove deep holes into the concrete. Bits of steel and sparks sprayed across the windshield.
Cross’s foot shifted from the brake to the gas, and his car skidded back onto the road directly behind the van. Blue flashing lights lit up his rearview mirror. A state trooper’s vehicle bore down from behind, its grill threatening to strike his bumper.
The rear doors to the van opened. Inside stood one of the men from the station cradling a tan-and-black Tavor automatic rifle. He trained the sleek but lethal weapon on Cross, and a rapid burst of flame erupted from the barrel.
Cross ducked behind the dash and jerked the wheel to the right. Gunfire bombarded the windshield for a brief moment as he swerved into the center lane. The popping ceased, and Cross sat upright to witness the gunman inadvertently unleash the fury of his weapon into the hood of the police car.
The gun crippled the engine of the trooper’s vehicle, and it rolled to a stop in the lane. Motorists bailed for either side of the road as the other two police cars diverged from their pursuits to evade the same fate as their colleague.
The gunman ceased fire and disappeared into the van. Cross pressed on the gas again, and his car lurched forward in the center lane parallel to the van.
The side door to the van slid open, and the gunman reappeared. Cross held his position to the last second, then pitched hard to the right and arranged a sluggish truck towing a cargo trailer between him and the van.
Bullets pinged off the large metal beams tied down to the trailer but couldn’t penetrate the thick metal to find their intended target. Cross pushed the car even harder forward and shot out from beside the tractor a full automobile length ahead of the van.
The gunman’s aim bent downward, and his shots shredded the truck’s tires. In his mirror, Cross watched the tractor-trailer careen out of control, smoke billowing from its tires. The van barely escaped a collision with the cab as it pivoted sideways across all three lanes.
The truck driver managed to keep the cab upright, but the forward momentum of the trailer caused it to tip over and skid to a stop against the highway. Straps snapped, and several metal beams tumbled off the bed and littered the road.
Cross kept an eye on the rearview mirror to see if the troopers made it around the trailer, but it didn’t appear so. Suddenly the tinted windshield of the van filled his view, the gunman leaning out from the open side door. Sharp bursts from the rifle thundered against the back of the car.
His goal of leading them away from Christine took a back seat to Cross’s own survival. Both cars glided from one far lane to the other, weaving in and out of the increasing mass of additional motorists. The gunman’s aim continued to be widespread, hitting not only Cross but other vehicles in addition to the roadway and traffic signs.
The thought We need air support flashed in Cross’s mind. He had to call Simpson. With the group of men shredding civilians with an automatic rifle, it didn’t make sense for Simpson not to get involved now.
Cross felt his front jean pocket for the phone before remembering he had hurled it onto the floorboard on the other side of the car. He searched for where it landed but couldn’t get a good look, the madness of navigating a bustling interstate demanding his near complete attention.
The skyline of Richmond loomed large as he passed back over the James River. He needed a plan, and fast. Preferably a plan that involved assistance from an armed helicopter.
He whipped the car in a wide circle around a grouping of delivery trucks, the gunfire on pause as he kept to the enclosed side of the van. The tilt in the motion of the car dislodged the phone from whatever cranny of the floorboard it had hidden in, and it rolled into the middle of the mat.
Cross let up the pressure on the gas pedal and dove the upper half of his body to the floorboard. He scooped the phone up and returned to his full upright position in time to see the taillights of an SUV glowing bright red.
A quick glance into his side mirror confirmed his worst fear. The black van bore down on him in the center lane, closing the gap he needed to escape an assured fatal wreck with the car in front of him. It cut him off as the SUV veered to its left.
Cross stepped on the accelerator and piloted the car between the SUV and the van, scraping the paint on both vehicles but eluding certain death without further damage.
Phone in hand, Cross keyed the special number to Simpson’s direct line and held it to his ear. It rang three times before Simpson picked up.
“I’ve got a bird en route, and she’s hot,” he said without so much as a hello. “It’ll be on your position in eight minutes if you keep north.”
Good old Al Simpson. Frustrating when you didn’t want him to be, dependable when you needed him to be.
“Oh good. I’m glad you’ve heard about all the excitement.”
“Police bands couldn’t be more thrilled. And we’re tracking your car.”
So CIA surveillance technicians had “serviced” the car. Simpson must’ve neglected to share that fact with him.
“I appreciate the help,” Cross yelled into the phone as gunfire pecked the roof of his car from behind. “But I’m going to need my hand back.”
“Stay alive. And get to high ground.”
Cross tossed the phone onto the passenger seat as he
banked left, then right to bypass a crawling cement truck. Stay alive. For eight minutes. Easy for the old man to say while watching a satellite feed. High ground. Simpson wanted him to lead the van to an open, less crowded area.
It would make his attackers better targets.
With the tap of his finger on the heads-up display, the map view of his GPS system widened to show a ten-mile radius. At the top edge of the map, he noticed an interchange between 95 and Interstate 295, a bypass less frequently traveled and a prime area for a Black Hawk hunt.
Something felt strange. Howling wind found ways into the cabin through fresh bullet holes. More pressure on the gas pedal fed the engine, and it bellowed back at him, its appetite satisfied. He cut off a minivan, and its driver let him know how much he didn’t appreciate the gesture. That was all. Cross heard only wind, engine, and road rage.
No gunfire.
No crunching of metal.
Oh no. They’ve given up. They’d grown tired from the chase and had retreated to try to track down Christine. He saw a marker for an upcoming exit ramp and decided to use it to U-turn and make his way back to the hospital.
The loud, deep growl of another more sinister engine blasted against his door window as the black van pulled alongside. It slammed into him and claimed his side mirror as a casualty.
He recoiled and waited for the shower of bullets to rain upon him from the barrel of the Tavor, but the weapon was silent. Instead, the thud of a body landing on the roof of his car echoed from the ceiling to the floorboard.
Cross turned into the attack from the van and pushed it into the farthest lane. He steered around one car after another while trying to maintain speed and spot his new, unwanted passenger.
He heard the man’s arms and legs bang against the roof of the sedan. Cross rocked the car in erratic movements to try to throw the man off, but no luck. A thud against the trunk directed his eyes to the rearview mirror. The man’s boots planted against the lid. A fist collided with the fractured rear window.
The fist punched clean through the glass. The man pulled back against the crippled section of window and opened a hole large enough to slide his legs through. His chest came next, followed by a face obscured beneath a black ski mask, and finally a pair of jacketed arms.