by Andrew Huff
Rough, dark hands pressed against her and pushed her out of the hallway and back into the stairwell. She looked up, eyes wide, into the face of a man she didn’t recognize. His mustache was darker than his skin, his eyes invisible beneath the shadow of a short bill cap.
“Sorry, Ms. Lewis,” he said in a thick accent.
A glint caught Christine’s eye, and she spotted the shiny black weapon held at his side. “No …” she said as he raised his hand.
What?
She fixated on the thin, rectangular shape of the barrel of the gun. A faint blue glow sliced the darkness inside.
The man pulled the trigger. An electric pop announced the expulsion of a black disc from the barrel.
The disc struck Christine in the chest. Blue electricity snaked its way across her skin, her muscles froze, and she collapsed to the floor. Her eyelids refused to shut, and she watched in terror as the man stepped toward her.
Christine clenched her jaw, her mind screaming signals at every immobile appendage to no avail. Just when she thought her body was going to tear itself apart, the disc released its death grip. Every muscle relaxed, her head slumped, and her eyelids drooped.
Darkness filled her mind and swept her away to unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CROSS PERCHED ON the edge of the fuselage, his feet dangling out of the open cabin door as the Black Hawk skimmed the tree line toward Williamsburg. A second Black Hawk followed in close proximity, his friends from the van guarded by a Ranger unit inside. Black plumes of cloud covered the distant horizon, a few near imperceptible flashes of lightning promising the arrival of a thunderstorm.
The two specially designed stealth aircraft flew at a whisper, at least the kind of whisper a tactical transport helicopter might utter. Cross shifted his weight backward as he felt the Black Hawk maneuver right. He was tethered to the interior, but he preferred not to spend the rest of the ride dangling against the chassis of the metal beast.
The Rangers in his bird offered no additional information when he questioned them. With the attack squad in custody, he only cared about confirming Christine’s safety, but he knew as soon as they landed in the Farm, the vultures would descend.
The Farm.
Memories from his training days at Camp Perry—the Farm, a more affectionate name bestowed on the place by recruits—distracted him from his present apprehensions. Almost all other officers inducted by Central Intelligence in the secluded base detested the Farm. The mock interrogations, subjection to torture techniques, and intentional contamination of meals were all designed to harden an officer into a machine of the state.
Where others bemoaned the treatment, in his youth Cross embraced it. On his first day of many in the uncomfortable conditions, he resolved that whether he died or survived, he favored either outcome over the meaningless existence he’d left behind.
No fear in death. That attitude made him a successful covert operative, and surprisingly, successful in ministry as well. A key difference being he now knew where he would go upon that death.
Just ahead of the Black Hawk, Cross saw the reflective surface of the York River. The copter slowed and descended in a precarious angle. For a second, Cross considered lifting his feet into the helicopter to keep from catching the top branch of a deciduous.
The forest canopy bent backward in a wide arc in obedience to the powerful thrust of the rotors. Right when it seemed they would break apart, the landscape parted into a flat dirt strip. Both helicopters hovered in the space above the strip, and landing gear released. Within seconds, wheels touched earth and the muffled drone of the engines quieted even more.
A Ranger behind him released the strap from around his abdomen. Cross slid off the fuselage and walked toward the two familiar faces at the edge of the runway.
Simpson extended a hand as Cross approached. “Looks like you took a few scratches but kept all the essentials,” he said with a smile.
Cross shook the open hand and offered his own grin in return. “I’ve had worse odds.”
Guin only nodded in his direction before pretending to be preoccupied with a tablet in her hand. Simpson pivoted on a heel and marched back to a waiting military jeep. Cross and Guin fell in step behind him.
“Good to see you too,” Cross whispered.
Guin didn’t look up from the tablet. “They could have killed you,” she replied.
“But they didn’t.”
“This time.” She didn’t sound amused.
Cross kept silent as he joined her in the back of the jeep. A stoic soldier drove them to a nondescript brick building capped by a green tin roof. They stepped out of the vehicle and made their way inside.
The Farm was intentionally sterile. Gray hallways led to gray doors behind which were gray rooms holding the barest of gray furniture. It wasn’t a question of affording luxury, rather squelching an appetite for comfort and leisure.
Guin took the lead, and they followed her into one of the bare rooms at the end of the hall. A single light hung loose over a metal table hosting only two chairs. Simpson grabbed the back of one chair and slid it free from underneath the tabletop. He motioned to Cross and added a gentle, “Please, have a seat.”
Cross obliged. Guin kept her nose in the tablet by a corner in the room while Simpson took the seat across the table.
“So this is what it feels like on the other side of an interrogation,” Cross said with a chuckle.
Simpson offered no jovial retorts. He picked a few strands of lint from his suit jacket and sighed. “We’ve got a bit of a mess on our hands, John.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I know how much of a pain the Virginia Department of Transportation can be. I just hope we didn’t tear up too much of the interstate.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Cross straightened in his chair. Simpson’s eye twitched too noticeably. He was stiff. Guin didn’t speak. The air thickened with tension.
Something was wrong.
“Can you explain to me what you were doing at Main Street Station?” Simpson’s eyes glistened like ice as he stared Cross down.
“You know what I was doing there. Trying to put eyes on our identity thief from Greece.”
“That lead ran cold.”
“Excuse me?”
Guin finally spoke. “A young Greek thug with fake credentials was picked up in DC an hour ago. It was an illegal joyride. He’s even confessed to robbing and murdering George Carson.”
“No, that’s a red herring. I spotted our guy in Richmond. His men are the ones you’ve taken into custody.”
Simpson waved Cross’s objections aside with his hand. “The men involved in the freeway altercation have been identified as a private security group out of DC. They claim you threatened a man at the station, a businessman they were hired to protect, and resisted arrest. They attempted to assist law enforcement in your capture, not something they really had the right to do but an understandable response, depending on what exactly occurred in the station.”
Cross clenched his loose jaw and balled his fists on the tabletop. “You’ve got to be messing with me.”
Guin moved from the corner and leaned across the table, holding the bright tablet up for him to see. “Their documents are valid.” Several photos displayed on the screen, all with the seal of a private Washington security firm and a green label with CONFIRMED stamped under each name.
Cross gathered all the anger swelling at his core into his fingertips and dug his nails deep into his palms. Whoever pulled the strings just executed a skillful maneuver. He had nothing to play in return. No evidence to the contrary, and any credit he held against his body of work with the Company was near empty.
He released the tension in his fists and spread his hands out on the table. “OK,” he said. “I don’t know what is going on here, but those men are not the same men that were at the station. I don’t know who they are. And all I can offer you is my word.”
“Don’t think y
our word isn’t worth something,” Simpson offered. “But you’re right. It’s all you’ve got.”
“So what happens now?”
“We’re in a holding pattern until we can sort this thing out.”
“What about Christine? Please tell me you’re sending someone to pick her up.”
“They should have her in hand any minute.”
Cross’s heart slowed its pace. The consolation of the nightmare unfolding before him in the cramped, bleak room was Christine’s security. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Can you let me know when they confirm?”
Simpson stood and tapped the desk with his fingertips. “You bet.” With that, both he and Guin left the room.
Cross knew what would happen next. Evidence would be gathered. Stories recorded. Then a timeline pieced together. He was confident nothing could be substantiated. Even if the questionable security force brought a trumped-up charge against him, the proof would be threadbare at best and dismissed in a reasonable amount of time.
It was going to be fine. This was better. The Farm was secure, and with the CIA bringing Christine in, no attempt on her life could be made. Even the tiny room that was now his temporary holding cell seemed like a posh suite in comparison to any number of holes he’d occupied in the field.
His brain processed the new information, and he found himself beguiled by the fake–George Carson ruse. The men from the train station perpetrated the gas station attack. But the black van involved in the chase revealed a new group of suspects. Was it a purposeful diversion to get to Christine? Or backup after the original attempt to detain Cross failed?
What was George Carson doing now? As yet, Cross assumed he was the critical link to Christine’s location. She’d left nothing of a trail, outside of him, in the area. Without him there was nowhere to start. Even tracking her to the hotel would lead to a dead end at the airport. Contrary to the reality portrayed on television, facial recognition software was still in its infancy. It would take them a lot of money and connections to find and track his car from the airport to the hospital.
A new batch of unanswerable questions entered his mind: What was the true identity of the man impersonating George Carson? What, if any, organized criminal group was he associated with? How deep did his resources run when it came to locating Christine? Cross had thought the answers would come easy after leading the black van straight into the arms of American intelligence.
Instead, he only faced another brick wall of uncertainty. Cross hated uncertainty. It only prompted his imagination to start building scenarios. And when his imagination got involved, absurd conclusions became too easy to jump on.
His problem wasn’t absurd conclusions. It was that those absurd conclusions often turned out to be accurate.
The one thing Cross could count on with any scenario was the more absurd, the more likely to be true. It wasn’t just one man who stole an identity and successfully made it onto American soil—it was an entire group of extremists. And entire groups with criminal backgrounds didn’t make it through security checkpoints that easy.
Half a dozen men with likely ties to terrorism walked around Virginia’s capital in broad daylight. Cash must’ve filled a lot of loose pockets between when they’d left their country of origin and now.
The most obvious answer to his questions seemed the most absurd: the men weren’t there for Christine. They were there for Cross. He closed his eyes and shook his head, hoping it’d shake loose a new theory. It couldn’t be him. He didn’t exist. He never had. How would they have—
Cross opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Whatever the reason, he knew there was more beneath the surface surrounding Christine and the mystery man from Main Street Station. An answer that included a rat hiding somewhere within the United States’ domestic security net.
He detected the barest vibrations of movement in the hallway. When the door did not open, he stood from the chair and pressed against it, straining his ear to pick up any useful sound. The metal door was thick, but not thick enough, thanks to the age of the Farm. He could just make out a pair of voices arguing at a raised volume.
“… finished sweeping the floors and still nothing,” Guin said.
Simpson cursed. “Well, we can’t tell him.”
“What other choice do you have? He’d know if it was a lie.”
“You tell me, Officer Sullivan. I make up a story about new protocols forcing us to process the extraction at a different location, or I inform the volatile, religious fanatic inside this room that we lost his new girlfriend?”
Cross balled his fist and swung at the door. He pulled the punch at the last second and gritted his teeth to keep from yelling. If he shouted through the locked door, it would only confirm Simpson’s assessment of his explosive behavior.
The voices faded from his ear as a new set of questions presented themselves to his bewildered mind. How did they found her? No one knew he’d visited the hospital except Gary. And there was no way Gary knew Christine was involved. That could only mean …
Oh no.
There were others who knew Christine was at the hospital. And at that very moment, they stood on the opposite side of the door. There was always the outside possibility a random dirty officer or analyst brought into the mix had betrayed Christine’s location. But the more absurd conclusion …
Cross pressed against the door again and picked the conversation back up.
“What do you care, Officer Sullivan?” Simpson pressed, his temper flaring.
“I don’t care,” Guin replied, trying to prove her indifference with an eye roll. “I’m just saying, this is a more complicated situation than Cross wanting to date the woman.”
Simpson grumbled under his breath. “Fine. The story to former officer Cross is that the journalist, not his girlfriend, was suspicious of our men and made an attempt to evade the extraction. We took forceful measures, and ultimately we’re taking her straight to Langley, where she’ll rendezvous with him once we finish up here.”
“Sounds fine as long as you can sell it.”
“Oh, I’m not going to be the salesman on this one.”
Guin leveled her eyes at her boss. “You’re joking. I can’t possibly—”
Simpson waved her off with a finger. “That’s an order. His guard will be down with you.”
Guin pursed her lips. He gave the order, which meant her options equaled a grand total of one. She pulled the keycard from her waist and passed it by the computerized lock against the doorframe. A beep and a green light assured her the door could now be opened.
She grabbed the door handle and glared at Simpson. “Consider my protest formal.”
“Already did.”
He was right though. Cross and his former superior had been close in days past. Simpson would not have been a convincing liar. She, on the other hand, possessed a handful of disarming characteristics to aid in convincing men of just about anything she wanted to. She’d told herself she would always use her powers for good.
She even believed her own lies on occasion.
Guin stepped through the threshold and closed the door behind her. Cross was still seated at the table. She took the other seat and placed her tablet facedown on her lap. “John, I have some unfortunate news.”
Cross’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward. “Is it about Christine?”
“She’s OK. It was just a little hard to convince her we’re the good guys. Girl’s got some spunk.”
He laughed. “Tell me about it. One of her many endearing qualities.”
She winced, then covered her hint of jealousy with a chuckle of her own. “Two of our officers have sore kneecaps, but they’ll live. Unfortunately, we had to use a moderate amount of force to get her to comply, and because of some new protocols …”
“Let me guess,” Cross interrupted. “They can’t bring her here.”
Guin nodded. “She’s on a Black Hawk headed to Langley as we speak.”
“Red tape, am I right?”
> Alarms sounded in Guin’s brain, and she nearly pressed her hands against her ears, as if that would keep him from hearing them. He was reacting well to the “news.”
Too well.
“John, I’m telling you the truth. Christine is going to be fine.”
Cross leaned back in his chair, his eyes soft and a pleasant smile adorning his lips. “I believe you, Guin.”
She thought he didn’t, but then she couldn’t read him. She could always read him. “Good.” She stood to leave.
“Hey,” he said, prompting her to pause. “Do you think I could have a soda while I wait?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Anything to keep you comfortable.”
She stole one more look at him as she shut the door to the room. He stared back, smiling, his eyes glistening, his physique shaped perfectly by the dusty polo shirt. Without a word, his demeanor communicated his trust in her, his contentment at the situation, and his willingness to cooperate however they needed him to in order to reach a satisfying resolution.
All of it lies.
An officer entered the room carrying a small red can of dark cola. The black suit and tie he wore seemed like it was regularly laundered with a hydraulic press. He stood six foot one or two by the look of him, and based on how he carried himself, Cross guessed they shared a similar range of numbers on a bathroom scale. The thin, coiled plastic wire tucked behind his ear disappeared down the back of his shirt. His free hand hung poised over the service weapon attached to his hip.
Cross didn’t move from his chair. “Well, that was fast. You guys aren’t very good at the whole sweatbox thing.” He grinned and held out a hand for the soda.
The officer didn’t acknowledge the attempts at humor. Silently, he stretched the can toward Cross from across the table. Cross let his fingers collapse against the can with a careless attitude. The other man’s grip released, and the can slipped from his palm, crashed against the table, and rolled off to the floor.