A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

  A cargo container, just like ones she’d seen on large transport ships crossing the ocean. Recognition of her surroundings calmed her for only a second before the four legs of a metal chair scraped the floor and reminded her of her visitor.

  Christine looked up into the black silhouette of the figure taking the seat. The light was still bright to her eyes, and she adjusted her hand to spy identifying features. It looked like a man. Dark skin. Well dressed. She recognized the hat as a classic, short-billed driving cap.

  Under alternative circumstances, Christine would’ve assumed she was about to engage in conversation with a professor of ancient history, or perhaps a connoisseur of classic literature. She supposed either could still be a kidnapper.

  “Hello. I hope your rest was not too uncomfortable.” His voice tilted into higher ranges than one would expect, his accent unrestrained. It was similar yet different than her captors’ accents in Jordan. A seed of confusion sprang within her mind.

  “Where am I?” The question, one of many, surprised Christine with the sloppiness with which her voice had delivered it. The numbness in her tongue lingered.

  “Don’t worry,” the man replied. “The adverse effects of the chloroform will wear off soon. As to where you are, I can tell you we are still within the borders of Virginia.”

  So she wasn’t on a ship headed back across the Atlantic to a Middle Eastern destination. Good news.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Though I can only offer scant detail, I would like to assure you our motives do not involve harm.”

  That made the situation already a vast improvement over her last imprisonment. She took her time forming words in her mouth to keep from tripping over letters. “So you don’t want to hurt me, and you aren’t taking me out of the country. Would it do any good to ask why you’ve put me in this shipping container?”

  “Trust me when I say better accommodations were preferred. It just couldn’t be helped. This was, unfortunately, all we had at our disposal. Your stay won’t be prolonged. I promise.”

  “OK, hold on. I don’t understand. You’re being way too nice for having just electrocuted and abducted me. So even though I already did, I’m going to have to ask what you want with me.”

  The man chuckled. “I don’t want anything from you, Christine Lewis. I want John Cross. And you’re going to help me get him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  IT DIDN’T TAKE long for Cross to find civilization. And with civilization came the opportunity to procure transportation. He found an inconspicuous sedan and went to work on the window with a thin piece of metal scooped from the roadside. Unlocking the car proved to be less a chore than starting the ignition with the same piece of metal.

  When the engine finally turned, Cross put the car in gear and sped away from the scene of his crime. He would drop the car in Richmond at a safe location where it could be recovered and returned to its owner. Even so, stealing the car lashed sharply at his soul.

  Where to even start? Cross played various scenarios over in his mind, looking for the right approach to finding Christine. Doubt slithered about in the recesses of his brain. The CIA had near limitless resources. They would pick up Christine’s trail quicker than he could on his own. Why hadn’t he stayed?

  He couldn’t bear to be locked up in the room until then, that was why. Impulsive behavior was outside his normal operating mode, but something about the woman made him willing to take on any and all challengers to ensure her safety once again.

  Heavy pills of rain smacked the windshield of the car. With a flick of his index finger, Cross activated the wipers. He turned the sedan onto a busy highway and balanced his speed between urgency and legality.

  Even though it made navigation difficult, Cross welcomed the stream of traffic flowing both directions on the road. Groups made anonymity easy. The trick would be evading an encounter with local law enforcement. He didn’t doubt his face was plastered across laptop screens in every patrol car within a thirty-mile radius.

  Cross’s ear tingled with the announcement of a faint ringing sound. A ring just like … his phone? Cross overlooked taking inventory of his pockets since leaving Camp Perry, and he suddenly remembered the CIA neglected to confiscate his phone. He fished for it in his pocket and received the call and held it to his ear in one swift motion.

  “Hey, Al, took you long enough to call,” he said, confident Simpson intended to trace the phone to a narrow search radius. He planned to entertain his former employer with enough conversation to tease, but not enough to betray his location. His phone wasn’t GPS enabled, though that wouldn’t stop them from succeeding. Cross calculated ninety seconds to pinpoint. Long enough for a retort or two.

  “Good evening, Mr. Cross,” said an unfamiliar voice with a similar Turkish accent as Cross’s attacker on the train. “We finally have a chance to speak to one another unencumbered. It is a pleasure.”

  Cross didn’t have to ask for identification. “George Carson, I presume. Or at least that was your name on the train. Who did you murder this time to steal their ID? Let me guess: the overweight guy you walked in with.”

  “I have no further need for false credentials, I assure you, though I cannot reveal my true identity to you as of yet.”

  “Where’s Christine?”

  “You are right to assume I am in possession of Miss Lewis, and I have no intention of bringing her misfortune.”

  A shuffle occurred over the phone, followed by Christine’s voice. “John?”

  “Christine! Are you OK?”

  The accented-man replied, “Proof of her life, Mr. Cross. And now you will do exactly as I say.”

  Cross didn’t respond. His chest rose up and down in violent fashion with each inhale and exhale. He wrapped his fingers harder around the steering wheel, wrinkling its leather cover. His teeth hurt as they pressed into each other.

  “I want you to go to church tonight,” the man said.

  Church? Cross’s mind raced. What was the man doing?

  “I will bring Miss Lewis along, and we will discuss my terms of her safe return.”

  Cross struggled to explain his current situation. Most of the scenarios he formed involved Christine’s abductors fleeing the country with their prize. But they hadn’t. Which meant she wasn’t the prize. A knot formed in his stomach as the dread consumed him.

  “I’m twenty minutes away,” Cross said.

  “Everything has been prepared in advance. Twenty minutes.”

  Click. The call died along with any chance for Cross to have a rational thought about what he would face next.

  Cross drove to the church, languishing in disgust. The pendulum of his emotions swung to the opposite extreme in a wide arc as he pulled into the full parking lot.

  Fear mingled with the anger, and his mind clouded. He recognized each and every car in the lot as those of the tiny church congregation. What were they doing there? On a Monday night? During a rainstorm?

  The unrelenting downpour seemed eager to intensify and consume the area in a catastrophic flood. Cross stepped out of the car, and the rain soaked through his clothes before he could reach the front door of the church.

  He opened the door and entered the empty vestibule. A draft descended from the ceiling, and he shivered. Raising a hand to the opposite shoulder, he rubbed the damp jacket and remembered he’d stolen Officer Hardy’s black suit and tie.

  Cross considered a quick jog to the house to exchange clothes and search for a weapon, but apprehension beckoned him toward the sanctuary. Before he could think again, Cross found himself standing in the center aisle, water droplets from his suit pants staining the burnt-red carpet a darker shade in an uneven circle at his feet.

  Every single member of Rural Grove Baptist Church sat in his or her customary pew. The door creaked shut behind him, cuing each head to turn in unison and stare at him. Barbara Templeton covered her mouth with a hand to refrain from a verbal outburst. Gary Osborne stood at the front of
the sanctuary, his jaw hanging as limp as his arms.

  Cross contemplated the possibility he had morphed into an alien creature based on the looks he received as he walked down the aisle. No one spoke to him. Only their eyes followed his path.

  He kept his head low until he came to a stop in front of Gary. Without any sudden movement, he leaned in and whispered, “Gary, what’s going on?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  Cross looked up and quizzed Gary with his eyes.

  Gary motioned to the silent audience. “I got a call telling me it was an emergency and to get everyone together here tonight. So here we are.”

  “A call? From who?”

  “A woman named Christine. She said she knew you.” Gary leaned in and lowered his voice. “She knew Lori was in the hospital, John. So why don’t you tell me: What’s going on?”

  Both doors in the rear of the sanctuary opened suddenly. Cross and Gary turned in unison along with each church member. Several gasps emanated from the pews, and two of the strapping men in the group stood to shield children.

  “Christine,” Cross said involuntarily when he spotted her standing in the center of the doorway. He wanted to run to her, but automatic weapons in the hands of the group of men encircling her convinced him it wasn’t a prudent idea.

  From behind her stepped the man from Main Street Station, his lips pressed together and his brow wrinkled in solemn knots. He removed the short bill cap, grabbed Christine by the arm, and led the group down the center aisle. “Good evening, my friends,” he said as they walked. “Thank you for joining us on this special occasion.”

  Behind him marched the giant man from the train. He sneered at the hostages with a gleeful grin.

  Anger bubbled from deep within Cross’s gut. As the gap between them closed, he stared the leader of the group down. Cross’s eyebrows grew heavy and pinched together just above his nose. His ears burned, and he winced at the sensation of pain caused by his own fingernails digging into the palms of each hand as he tightened his balled fists.

  Gary said something incomprehensible. The men holding the rifles spread themselves through the congregation, forcing the overprotective fathers to sit. Christine caught Cross’s gaze and mouthed the words I’m OK.

  It didn’t matter. None of them would make it out alive.

  The leader assisted Christine into the front pew. He held a palm open to the seat beside her and said to Gary, “Please, sit.”

  Gary consented and sat next to Christine. He whispered something in her ear, and she nodded. Cross darted his eyes back and forth between the leader, his armed compatriots, and the grinning giant of a man stationed to the front of the center aisle.

  The leader circled Cross in a slow, methodical manner. “You,” he said from behind Cross’s ear, “look rather … oh, what is the idiom? … worse for wear, Mr. Cross.”

  “No more than you’re going to be after this.” The threat slipped out before Cross could catch it. Was he, an unarmed ex-CIA officer with a vow against killing, seriously going to threaten the men who held the entire church hostage?

  The leader chuckled through his nostrils as he rounded Cross’s left shoulder and stood facing him. “A bold statement. Not at all unexpected from a bold man such as yourself.” He took a few steps backward into the aisle, spread his arms apart, and raised his voice. “Not that these kind, innocent people know anything about that, do they?”

  Cross at once understood the purpose of the man’s actions. He’d called everyone to this one place and this one time for this one purpose: the unmasking of John Cross. Cross’s shoulders sank, and he shot a wavering glance at Christine.

  The leader returned to an uncomfortable distance and held a hand to his temple in a faux display of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I completely forgot to introduce myself. My name is Yunus Anar.”

  A mission report buried deep in Cross’s subconscious opened, and a myriad of images, words, and feelings stormed through his mind. In the midst of the chaos, the awful truth flashed behind his eyes like a giant neon sign. He’d rejected the obvious for too long. Now it forced its way into the open and he couldn’t look away. They’d never wanted Christine.

  It had always been him.

  Yunus’s eyes widened, and his lips formed a thin, crooked smile. “Good. I thought you might not remember.” The Turk turned and took a seat on the front pew across the aisle from Christine and Gary. Raising his voice again, he declared, “And now, Mr. Cross, please catch the rest of your friends up on our shared history. Help them see. Help them understand why they feel threatened in this moment.”

  The wet suit jacket seemed heavier on his shoulders. Cross attempted to breathe deep, but his lungs refused to cooperate with his practiced calming techniques. He opened his mouth to speak, but Yunus cut him off with a frantic waving of his hands.

  “No, no, no. Please, take the place of honor for your speech.”

  With no other choice, Cross stepped onto the stage and stood behind the cross-shaped wooden pulpit.

  Yunus crossed his arms and feet. “And now,” he said, “tell them who you really are.”

  Cross hung his head and closed his eyes. Lord, help was all he could muster for a prayer. Though his heart churned at no less of a pace, Cross felt a resolve form in his chest, and he opened his eyes and lifted his chin to the congregation.

  “I just want you all to know that everything is going to be OK, and I will be forever grateful for the love you have shown me over the past year. My name is John Cross, but I’m not who you think I am. When I first began attending the church, I claimed I lost a government job in Washington due to the recession. That was a lie.”

  A chorus of gasps rippled through the audience.

  “I didn’t lose my job. I quit. And while it was technically a government job, I wasn’t a paper pusher. I worked for the Central Intelligence Agency as a covert field operative.”

  Cross didn’t have to look in Gary’s direction to know the man was seething. He felt the heat emanating from the front pew. More than anything, he wanted to look to Christine for support, but he refrained, worried he would make eye contact with the head deacon and lose his composure.

  A raised hand caught Cross’s attention. Yunus wiggled a condemning finger at him. “Ah, ah, Mr. Cross. I don’t think ‘covert field operative’ is an appropriate description of the type of work you performed for your country.”

  Dry fingers of shame wrapped around Cross’s throat. He coughed to relax the pressure and continued. “As an operative for the CIA, I was asked to do things that I now regret. Terrible things. All of which I did before I accepted Jesus as my …”

  A bang echoed through the sanctuary. Cross looked over to see Yunus’s balled fist resting in a fresh depression in the wooden seatback of the pew. His eyes flamed, and his chest rose in rapid fashion. “Tell them,” he frothed through clenched teeth. “Tell them what you did.” Yunus closed his eyes, and his breathing relaxed.

  Cross looked back out over the congregation and took a deep breath. “My primary function at the CIA was to find and track hostile targets in order to terminate them for the sake of national security.”

  Yunus jumped from his seat and onto the stage. He positioned himself behind the pulpit next to Cross, reached behind his back, and produced a knife with a long, partially serrated blade. He propped his wrist against the front edge of the lectern and let the overhead lights glint against the cold steel. “I can see why you were misled,” he declared to the captive audience. “Mr. Cross certainly has a way with words.” Directing his voice at Cross, he added, “Explain to us in terms we can all understand. Tell us what you did. Confess your sins, John Cross.”

  No way out. He had to say it. “I was an assassin. I killed people. People who were considered threats to the welfare of our nation and citizens.”

  No gasps, no sounds, not a breath.

  “How many people did you kill?” Yunus’s voice dripped in hubris.

/>   “I don’t know.”

  Yunus’s fingers squeezed tighter around the handle of the knife. “I’ll ask again: How many people did you kill?”

  “I didn’t keep count. I only followed orders.”

  “How about a guess? Since it seems these people didn’t matter to you, how about you take a guess as to how many missions you completed. How many families you tore apart.” Yunus’s voice peaked in volume. “How many murders you accomplished by your own hands.”

  Cross paused as Yunus’s choice of the word “murder” worked its way through the crowd. A rise in murmuring drew his gaze to the right middle of the crowd, where a neighboring congregant fanned a faint Mrs. Templeton.

  Missions. Cross never bothered with documenting kills, but he could recall a mission total. Not all were targeted assassinations, but it would’ve certainly been a majority. He subtracted a plausible percentage and recalculated a potential total in his head.

  “Seventeen. I think.”

  Cross felt thankful for the presence of the armed men. Otherwise he was sure the church would have become the scene of an impromptu riot. Horror stories of rage-filled church business meetings he’d read about on the Internet would have paled in comparison to the display of outrage his confession would have elicited under different circumstances.

  He raised his eyes and looked at each and every congregant despite the animosity he felt in return. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, we’ve only just begun, Mr. Cross. If you don’t mind, I would like for you to recount just how you know me and the events that have resulted in our being here together this evening.”

  Cross lowered his head for a brief moment to fight back the wellspring of emotion trying to force its way out of his tear ducts. He spoke with his head down. “Back in 2014, I was sent on an operation into Turkey to investigate a potential arms deal to Syrian rebels. We tracked the sale to a corrupt government official. My orders were to terminate the official and disrupt the deal.”