by Andrew Huff
The man fell into the back seat and aimed a pistol at Cross’s head. Cross put his foot on the brake and pressed it full to the floor. The car skidded to a halt as the black van raced by.
Cross’s seat belt performed an admirable job of keeping him in place, but the man was less fortunate. The force of the sudden stop propelled his body forward, the pistol in his hand extending past Cross’s head as the assailant pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the front windshield.
Cross grabbed the man’s arm, pulled his body across the center console, and slammed him against the dashboard. The man’s grip on the handgun loosened, and it fell onto the floorboard.
Car horns blared and brakes squealed as other cars careened out of control around them. Cross released the pressure on the brake and reapplied it in equal force to the gas pedal. The car thundered to life, and it took only four seconds for the 6.3-liter engine to reach sixty miles per hour.
His unwelcome passenger righted himself in the seat and fumbled for the gun. Cross grabbed him by his jacket collar and pulled his back flush against the leather. The man stared ahead with wide eyes as Cross navigated the busy highway with one hand.
He narrowly missed the rear end of a minivan before settling into an open lane with space ahead. Cross breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced over at the man in the passenger seat. He cocked an eyebrow as the hint of a smile stretched the ski mask across the man’s face.
It disappeared in an instant, and the man lunged for Cross, both hands descending like animal claws to devour his neck. Cross deflected the attack with his forearm, then chopped with his hand at the man’s throat.
He struck sure. The man’s claws retracted and grabbed at his own throat as he strained to breathe through his crushed trachea.
His car caught up to the black van, and Cross needed to take the lead as they inched ever closer to the exit for 295 on his GPS display.
Ski-mask man regained his composure. Cross grabbed him once more by the jacket collar and shoved his face into the dashboard. He repeated the move twice more, then let the man slump against the passenger door, unconscious, blood seeping from both nostrils.
A shiny green sign hanging overhead declared the exit for 295 a quarter mile away. Cross gunned the engine, desperate to beat the van to the ramp and lead it up and out into the open.
Four hundred and forty yards.
He came up behind the van and accelerated even more. The car responded with ease, its speed still well below the capability of the engine.
Three hundred and fifty-two yards.
His attacker in the passenger seat stirred.
Two hundred and sixty-four yards.
The car roared past the van.
One hundred and seventy-six yards.
Cross swung the car full to the right as it shot up the entrance ramp. He braked to keep the car from flipping on the corner and to bait the van into following him, but it was too late. He lost control of the car, and it skidded off the merge lane and onto 295 on its own.
As Cross predicted, no other vehicles greeted them save a tanker already past the entrance ramp and disappearing down the road. He coaxed the steering wheel to ease the car out of its drift and into a straight course down the highway.
The van peeled into the lane behind him, but struggling to catch up, thanks to his luxury sedan’s powerful engine. Cross looked out over the trees lining the interstate, hoping to see the hovering black form of a helicopter ready to end the pursuit.
He saw only stars as a blow to his ear disoriented him. Another hand wrapped around his own and yanked down on the steering wheel.
The car pivoted across two lanes of the highway, threatening to flip, but gravity forced the tires to stick like glue. He came to a stop in the middle of the highway, the driver’s side facing oncoming traffic.
Cross’s vision merged from double back to single as he looked up out his window and watched the black van aim itself like a missile right at him. It closed the gap within seconds as it picked up speed. He waited for his life to play out like a documentary on a movie screen, all the memories, feelings, regrets, and decisions presented as a prologue to his death.
But the only flash he saw belonged to the detonation of a seventy-millimeter Hydra 70 rocket against the pavement just under the left side of the van. The explosion lifted the van from the earth and tossed it like a piece of trash into the embankment of trees along the shoulder of the highway.
Cross sat still and listened to the beat of the Black Hawk rotors envelop the area around him. He breathed heavy, his heart racing.
A cold steel barrel pressed against the back of his head. The wheezing from ski-mask man’s narrow throat grew audible over the helicopter blades. He rasped in Cross’s ear, “I should kill you myself.”
“Drop the weapon!” came the reply from just outside the passenger-side door. “Drop it now!”
The pressure from the barrel disappeared, and Cross turned to see the man holding it over his head, his finger free from the trigger. The passenger door opened, and a soldier clad in tactical gear whisked the man away.
Cross’s own door opened, and another similarly dressed soldier greeted him. “Mr. Cross, I need you to come with me, sir. I have orders to deliver you to the Farm.”
Great. The Farm.
The one place he prayed he would never see again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHRISTINE STRUGGLED TO understand what happened. An hour passed after John left, and in that short amount of time she grew attached to the old woman nursing a broken arm in a hospital bed. Lori Johnson was the sweetest, wisest woman Christine had ever met. She wanted to learn as much as she could from this woman’s life.
They swapped stories of childhood, first loves, and neglected dreams. Christine told Lori things she had yet to confide in her mother about, and her transparency scared her.
She finished laughing about Lori’s habitual pranking of her younger brother as the older woman paused her yarns to chew some crushed ice between her teeth. “Lori,” Christine said, her lips affixed in a perpetual grin. “You have wonderful stories. Now I understand why John likes you so much.”
“Speaking of John,” Lori replied after swallowing the ice chips. “I’d like to know why he likes you so much.”
Christine averted her eyes and felt the warm flush of her skin spread from her cheeks to her arms. “How do you know he likes me?”
“Oh, I read him like a book when he walked through the door. You too.”
Christine hesitated and her smile shrunk. She didn’t want to talk about John. Why wasn’t he here yet?
Lori adjusted the sling on her arm. “Tell me again how you met? John saw your boyfriend attacking you and fought him off?”
“Well, that’s not quite …” What was she doing? Christine wanted to lie but found it an impossible task. Something about the woman told Christine it would be fruitless, as though Lori would be able to identify a falsehood from a truth. “I mean …” she stammered.
Lori cleared her throat. “It’s all right, Christine,” she said. “You can tell me. I already know all about John.”
Christine started. How much did Lori know? Was it a bluff? Her head spun as she thought of a response.
“Honey, trust me. I’m not as old and ignorant as you might think, and that man isn’t as closed and careful as he likes to pretend.” Lori’s hand rested over Christine’s and rubbed her knuckles. “Showing up out of the blue, no real reason to be living in Mechanicsville. Able to get by without a steady job. The most well-built man I’ve ever seen. Could remember the smallest details. But I see the pain he’s running from in his eyes. He’d disappear for days on end. Early on he had fits of anger.”
Christine’s heart felt like it was swimming laps.
Lori leaned in closer. “I’m also a news junkie, Ms. Lewis.”
The charade collapsed, and Christine felt a weight lift from her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Lori. I … I was just trying to protect John.”
“Like he’s protecting you now.”
Christine nodded.
“Well, I don’t have anywhere to be, and since there’s no point in you lying to me anymore, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“John saved me in Jordan. By himself.” The truth ripped shackles from her spirit. The room brightened.
“That’s not what you said in your interview.”
“The government denies John’s involvement. Lori, I wasn’t going to betray him.”
Lori smiled. “I believe you.”
“You don’t even know me,” Christine interjected. She averted her gaze in embarrassment at her compulsive impoliteness.
“We may have just met,” Lori replied. “But I’ve lived long enough to get to know someone very well in a short period of time. Besides, I can tell you trust him just by the look in your eyes.”
“Well then.” Christine looked back at Lori, the older woman’s demeanor soft and inviting, and couldn’t help but smile. “What else can you tell about me?”
Lori lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes to study Christine’s face. “You’re a very driven woman, so young and yet so far in your career. But I would think there’s uncertainty about your future. It’s as if you’re pursuing a goal someone else told you was out there but you’ve never really seen for yourself.”
Christine surprised herself with a swallow louder than she intended. She cleared her throat, but it did nothing to the lump forming inside. Words, images, emotions all flooded her mind. An outside force opened her mouth, and the content of her mind found its way to her tongue.
“Everything changed in Jordan. I believed I would die there. And nothing I had done since I left for college mattered. None of it. Years wasted in pursuit of what everyone else thought was success. But in all that time I missed it. Something. I still don’t know what it is.”
“It’s true purpose, Christine. Knowing that what you’re doing means more than just passing the time until you die.”
The familiar sensation of puffy tear ducts attracted Christine’s hand to her eye. Lori’s words drew her inner turmoil to the surface. “Do you think that’s why I came here to find John? Did I think he could give me purpose?”
Lori laughed. “Oh goodness, how am I to know something like that?”
Christine pulled her hand away and wrinkled her nose in mock resentment. “You’re the one who said you knew what I was thinking.”
“Dear, the questions you’re asking yourself are ones everybody has asked themselves at one time or another. We’re born asking why. God did that for a reason. It’s the first clue in this big mystery game.”
Something prodded Christine’s heart. She felt it as clear as the sun beating against the hospital window, but she couldn’t determine its source. Though afraid to discover what it was, she found herself compelled to press into the conversation. She took another try at swallowing the lump and asked, “It’s Jesus, isn’t it? John left the CIA because of Jesus. And now he believes what he does matters.”
“You are a good reporter. And yes, he believes, as do I, that the answer to all our questions can be found in the person of Jesus Christ.”
“I’ve read the Bible. Some. I don’t remember finding many answers.”
“There’s reading the Bible, then there’s reading the Bible. If you’re looking for answers to questions like ‘What job should I have?’ or ‘Can I get a tattoo?’ you won’t find them. What you will find is better than answers. It’s a story. A story about the answer, not answers.”
Christine recalled the stories she’d heard in Sunday school as a child, but what an old boat filled with animals had to do with a battle between a little boy and a giant was lost on her. “You’re going to have to give me the summary,” she admitted.
“God made human beings to live out a grand purpose on earth, but we rejected his plan in favor of our own. That’s what sin is, the rejection of God and the criminal pursuit of our own pleasure and glory. But there’s always a penalty for crime. And we face a penalty for ours: eternal death.” Lori grabbed Christine’s hand again. “God loves you, Christine. He loves you because he created you. And he never wanted you to face that penalty. So he spent thousands of years on a plan. A plan to become a man named Jesus and die on a cross for your sins. But it didn’t end there. Three days later he rose from the grave, and he promises to do the same thing for those who believe in him.”
Christine couldn’t think of a single time from her childhood where she heard a summary of the Jesus story quite like Lori’s. Earlier questions evacuated her mind in favor of brand new ones. Was it true? What about other stories in the Bible that seemed so farfetched? What if it was true? What then?
“Excuse me,” said a masculine voice from the door.
Christine and Lori both jumped at the unexpected interruption. A curly-haired man wearing a knee-length white coat and a stethoscope slung over his shoulder stood inside the room, holding the curtain back with one hand. He shifted his stare from Christine to the bed and asked, “Lori Johnson?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Lori stammered. “I’m sorry to be so flustered. We were talking, and I didn’t see you come in.” She offered a nervous chuckle.
“It’s quite all right,” the man said, smiling wide. “My name’s Dr. Bradshaw. I’m one of the resident orthopedic surgeons. How are you feeling?”
“I’m doing OK. They’re giving me some good medication.” Lori nudged Christine with her elbow and winked.
Bradshaw pointed at Christine and asked, “Would you be Ms. Johnson’s daughter?”
Before Christine could reply, Lori interjected, “I’m sorry, young man, but do I look old enough to have a daughter?”
“I … uh …” The physician backpedaled, his face reddening.
Lori tried to fold her arms, but the cast impeded her. She sat straighter and gripped Christine’s hand in her own. “I was a teenage mother.”
That is some good medication, Christine thought.
Bradshaw coughed and rubbed a finger under his nose. “Well, we’ve been studying your injury and trying to decide how we want to proceed with treatment. As you’ve been told, there were two breaks, and even though the joint did not suffer any damage, we’re still concerned about ensuring full mobility once it heals, your age being a factor.”
Lori huffed and rolled her eyes. Christine disguised her involuntary smile with a pair of fingers.
“If it’s all right with you, Miss Johnson, I’d like to discuss your options with your daughter, and then you can decide how you want to proceed after you’ve, uh, rested.”
Christine wanted to object but could tell Lori was having fun.
“I suppose Christine can handle the bad news for me.” Lori grinned. “Go ahead, dear.”
Bradshaw held open the curtain, and Christine obliged, rising out of the chair and heading into the hallway. The nurses’ station appeared vacant, and she detected the familiar sound of a heart monitor several rooms away.
“This way.” Bradshaw stood still, his open palm directing her down the hall.
Christine nodded and walked ahead. With each step, she felt less at ease. The air was stale, cold. Lori’s antics amused her, but now she questioned the exchange in her mind. Why did the doctor insist on speaking only to her? And why in another location?
Fingers wrapped tightly around her bicep and squeezed.
“Hey, watch it,” she protested.
Bradshaw forced her farther down the hallway. She opened her mouth to cry out for help, but he shoved her through a door and into an empty stairwell before she could utter a sound.
Bradshaw moved down the stairs, pulling her forcibly alongside him. She grabbed the rail with her other hand to steady her descent. She fought to control her breathing and calm the trepidation in her heart.
“Who are you? Let go of me!” she demanded.
Bradshaw, if that was even his real name, responded with a tighter grip and a quicker pace. At each landing, as they rounded the
corner to the next flight of stairs, Christine held her breath and waited for John to burst through a door.
He wouldn’t. She sensed it.
Kidnapped all over again. Most likely by men of the same persuasion as her captors in Jordan. Which meant a repeat of her previous ordeal. Memories of her imprisonment overwhelmed her. She felt the bruises, smelled the musty room, tasted the blood from a cut lip.
No. Not this time.
She didn’t need John to rescue her. He wouldn’t always be there. He couldn’t always be there. She had to fight for herself. Her lungs filled with oxygen. Blood coursed through her muscles. She kept pace with Bradshaw, pulling him forward instead of the other way around.
They stepped onto another landing and rounded the corner. Bradshaw lifted his foot to step down. Christine locked her grip on the railing and thrust her foot across his exposed ankle.
He cried out as he tripped over her leg. He released her arm and tumbled down the stairwell, spreading his hands out to break his fall. After a couple of somersaults, Bradshaw collapsed in a heap at the exit to the seventh floor.
Run!
The command from her mind broke through the fog of surprised relief. Christine swiveled and ran back up the stairs. She could hear Bradshaw saying something behind her, but she couldn’t tell if she misheard him or if he spoke a different language altogether.
She spotted the door to the ninth floor. She could run back to Lori’s room, where she would be safe. Or would she? Christine hesitated, then passed by the door and ascended the next set of steps. She couldn’t involve Lori. And someone else might be waiting. If they wanted her, they would have to work for it.
She picked up her speed as she passed the tenth-floor exit. Another flight, another landing, and she found eleventh. A metal bar blocked her path farther up, a sign latched to it reading NO ENTRY. Christine recalled the buttons in the elevator. Eleven was it. The final stop.
There was nowhere else to go. With no other option available, Christine lowered her shoulder and threw her body into the release bar. The door swung open, and she followed it through into the hallway only to collide with a man on the other side.