by Andrew Huff
And then it stopped.
His vision returned, and Cross looked up into the black clouds threatening to reach down and pull him into the afterlife. A big raindrop splashed against his nose and washed into his eyes. He blinked, the spell interrupted.
He searched for Yunus as he pulled himself upright against the pile of lumber. The other man fished in the mud a few yards away. He found the object of his search and wiped it clean with the disheveled tail of his shirt.
Lightning flashed overhead, and the knife blade glistened. Yunus turned to face Cross and held it aloft. “I thought about just shooting you,” he proclaimed, pointing the knife tip to his temple. “In the head. Like you did to Ali. Then I imagined beating you to death with my hands, or wrapping my fingers around your throat and squeezing until you drew your last breath.”
Cross breathed in heavy bursts. His arms and legs hung limp like thick, lifeless tree trunks. Yunus stalked toward him as he tapped the knife against his pant leg.
“But I think this instrument will do fine. Just the right duration of pain before you pass on.” Yunus wrapped the fingers of his free hand around Cross’s throat, pressed his body against the beams, and aimed the knife at his stomach. “For Ali.”
Cross tensed his body and caught Yunus’s strike with both hands. Pulling the Turk closer, he kicked out with his shoe and struck Yunus’s abdominal aortic plexus.
With a grip on Yunus’s knife hand, Cross twisted and pulled against the hilt. The knife slipped free, and Cross grabbed it. Yunus staggered backward cradling his injured abdomen.
Cross charged. A few well-placed punches and kicks drove Yunus into the scaffolding. Yunus wrapped an arm around the frame to keep his body from fainting into the mud.
With a squeeze of the handle, Cross raised the knife and held it high in a triumphant stance.
“Do it,” Yunus cried. “Send me to my brother!”
His thoughts exactly. Killing Yunus was the only way to end the terror. He knew it. It was how the world worked. How it had always worked. Nothing ever changed.
Nothing.
“John!”
Christine’s voice echoed against the thick metal beams of the unfinished structure, punctuated by the rumble of thunder growing distant. “John, don’t do it! This isn’t you! Not who you really are.”
She was wrong. He had never changed. It was all a …
A …
He couldn’t think it. “A …” He tried to utter the word aloud. But it wasn’t. His new life had not been a futile exercise in meaningless penance. In the midst of the darkness shrouding his heart, Cross heard a whisper.
Truth.
What truth? The truth that before Christ, he was nothing. And since his decision, Cross had discovered true meaning, true purpose. It was true. All of it. His wrong, Yunus’s wrong, the world’s wrong, none of it meant truth couldn’t be found. It could. But only in one place. In one person.
The shroud lifted, and Cross lowered the knife. Yunus stared at him, his eyes narrow and his mouth open, yet not speaking. Cross backed away as he spoke. “You’re right. About me. I’ve done many, many terrible things. And I regret every single one of them. I can’t tell you why God still rescued me. All I can tell you is, he did.”
Cross stared at the knife in his hand. “I wish I could bring your brother back. I can’t. But if this is what you need …” Cross tossed the knife into the mud at Yunus’s feet.
“John, no …” Christine called out from above.
Standing firm, his arms by his side, Cross nodded to Yunus. “I wish you could find it in your heart to forgive me. But the least I can do is offer you my life in exchange for your brother’s. All I ask in return is that you investigate my claims. Find out for yourself if what I’ve told you is true.”
Yunus stood still, staring at Cross. His eyes narrowed, and his lips parted as he ground his teeth. Suddenly, he moved. Scooping up the knife, he slopped through the mud toward Cross.
Just behind the terrorist, Christine dropped from the edge of the foundation wall and onto the top plank of the scaffolding. She screamed in horror as Yunus raised the knife and targeted Cross’s heart.
“No!” she yelled. “Stop!”
Cross stared into Yunus’s eyes and said, “I forgive you.”
A deep, animalistic roar erupted from Yunus’s throat. He held the knife high, but it wavered. An unseen force prevented his arm from unleashing the fatal strike.
He roared again, but the knife held fixed. Yunus’s eyes softened, the corners of his lips dropped, and his arm lost its will to sustain the altitude of his hand. His fingers relaxed, and the knife slipped from his grasp to the floor.
Yunus dropped to his knees in the mud, sobbing. He muttered something under his breath as Cross took a step closer and fell to his own knees.
“I’ve failed you, brother. I’ve failed you,” he slurred, tears clinging to his chapped lips as he spoke.
“It’s OK,” Cross assured him.
“Why can’t I kill you?”
“Because we’re the same. We’re both killers who don’t want to kill.”
“I can’t forgive you … I won’t. You killed my brother. You have to pay …”
Yunus’s words trailed, and he continued to weep. Cross extended a hand in an offer to assist him up. Yunus blinked twice at the hand before raising his own and clutching Cross in a firm grip.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHRISTINE SHIVERED, LESS from the chill of the wet clothes pressed against her skin and more from the numbness of her heart as she stared at the terrorist sitting on the steps of the small church stage.
Yunus sat still on the middle step, his head hung low. John stood a few feet away from him in the aisle, his breathing still labored from exhaustion. She still couldn’t believe John pulled Yunus to his feet and out of the pit only minutes before.
Christine took a closer step in and whispered in John’s ear, “Are you sure about this?”
He only nodded in reply. She stepped back and grimaced at the patches of red seeping through the dress shirt John wore. It used to be pressed and white. Now nothing more than a collection of dirty rags draped over his shoulders. He slid closer to Yunus and spoke softly.
“Yunus, I believe God stopped you from killing me for a reason. He’s ready to forgive you, and he’s ready to help you forgive me.”
Yunus looked up into John’s eyes. “How could anyone forgive me, let alone God?”
John slid his hand behind the front pew and grabbed a worn Bible from the stiff pocket built into the back. He sat down next to Yunus and for the next ten minutes shared a similar story to what Lori shared with Christine in the hospital.
God’s eternal rescue plan. Jesus. A cross. Payment for sin. Words she had heard but never comprehended. Not like this. When Lori spoke before, and John now, it just seemed to make …
“… sense?”
Christine caught John’s last word before Yunus answered, “Never before. But now … now it seems so plain. As if my eyes are opening to something I have never seen before.”
“You know, we like to use that phrase a lot to describe what happens when God’s Spirit intervenes, but I can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone actually use it.”
Yunus’s eyes opened. He’d wanted to kill John, probably her too. What did he see that she couldn’t?
Yunus threw his strong hand onto John’s bicep, and Christine’s heart skipped. She was about to jump to his aid, when the older man spoke.
“Listen to me. There’s something you need to know. My being here tonight was no coincidence. It has been manufactured from the beginning.”
“Beginning? Beginning of what?” John asked.
“My arrangement with your government.”
The oxygen level of the space dipped. John looked back into Christine’s eyes, an expression of surprise a mirror of her own.
He turned back as Yunus continued. “My quest for revenge was used as leverage to get my men to commit to a great
er mission. Your government received the benefit of deniability while I could find closure for my loss. You were only the bait. The real objective …” Yunus paused and glanced at Christine for the first time. “Well, it’s worth much more news.”
John stood, and the tone of his voiced shifted to command mode. “Who were you working with? Who’s the mole?”
“He got us in. Set our team up. Delivered you to us.” Yunus shook his head. “There are others, but I only worked with him. I don’t know how far up it goes.”
“I need a name.”
Yunus swallowed. His eyes sank farther beneath his brow. “He worked for your Central Intelligence. I only knew his code name: Alamo.”
John breathed an unintelligible word from his mouth, one Christine guessed he would ask forgiveness for later. “Who is it? Do you know him?” she asked.
“That code name belongs to Al Simpson, my boss at the CIA. We were close. I thought I knew him. Obviously, I don’t.”
“There’s more.” Yunus stood. “Alamo’s primary goal is to reengage your country’s focus on terror. He feels both sides have grown complacent. He believes an aggressive act of violence would rouse the apathetic. I didn’t want to be involved, but then I was presented with the opportunity to kill you …” Yunus paused, his cheeks turned red, and his voice trailed.
“What was your target? What were you going to do?”
“Even though I managed the plan and the team, I was never going to do anything but kill you here tonight. My team is on their way now to complete the mission. I thought I might join them later in the escape to our country, but in all honesty, I think I wanted to die with you.”
“Where are they headed? Can you stop them?”
“There’s no way to reach them. They’re halfway there by now. To Washington.”
“There’s not much they can accomplish in DC. Security will be tight at all government facilities.”
“Not government. My men are headed to Union Station. They’re going to set off a chemical bomb in the center of the station at eight o’clock in the morning.”
Christine gasped, held a hand to her lips, and said, “Oh my—”
“God?” Yunus interrupted. “Yes, I believe this is a situation that calls for his intervention. I’m deeply sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
John waved his palm. “Informing us is enough. Thank you.”
Christine turned to him and asked, “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to have to call it in.”
“Is there anyone you can even trust?”
John didn’t respond. He glanced back at Yunus and extended an open hand. “I’m going to need your car keys.”
Yunus dug the keys from his pocket and handed them over. He nodded to the both of them. “Go. I will be here. There’s more I must do.” Without another word, he turned and knelt at the altar.
Christine hesitated as John motioned for her to follow him. She eyed him, then motioned back at Yunus. They couldn’t just leave him.
John looked back at the man crumpled against the stage, then back at Christine and leaned in close. “He’ll be here when the authorities arrive,” he said softly.
“Are you sure?”
John replied with an assuring nod, then led Christine down the center aisle toward the exit. “We’re going to have to make it to the station before rush hour. You and I are the only ones who can identify any of Yunus’s men.”
They left the building and splashed through the damp parking lot to the black SUV, the rain on its last breath. They buckled in unison, and John started the car’s engine. The clock on the dashboard read 11:42.
As he backed the car out of the space and headed for the main road, Christine asked, “How long is it going to take us to get there?”
“There’s no telling if we run into traffic on the interstate. I don’t think we’ll be late.” He drew a breath and looked her in the eyes. “We can’t be late.”
With one hand on the steering wheel, John pulled a phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He dialed in a number and held the receiver to his ear.
Christine stared at the dark road ahead. It would take them hours to reach Union Station. She didn’t care for the feeling of helplessness, so she chose to bury it deep.
“Guin, it’s John.”
Christine looked back at John while he drove and talked at the same time. She couldn’t hear the voice on the other end.
“I know, and I’m going to tell you everything. But right now, I need you to listen. Whatever you do, keep this between us. You’ve got to trust me.”
John paused for an interruption on the other end, the muffled tones of a female voice speaking at a raised volume barely audible.
“But you’re going to. Right now you’re going to help me stop a terrorist attack in DC.”
The voice on the other end went silent.
John continued. “I’ve got our terrorist in custody. Sort of. It’s a long story, but his name is Yunus Anar. I took out his brother a long time ago. He was gunning for me, but his team is headed to Union Station. They’re going to detonate a chemical bomb.”
The voice returned, the volume lower but the pace quickened.
“No, Guin, you can’t take this to anyone. The agency’s been compromised. Anar told us everything.”
John paused, and his eyes darted from the road to Christine.
“Yes, she’s with me.”
Christine raised an eyebrow as John backed the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. “She hung up.” With a flick of his wrist, he closed the phone and placed it on the dash.
They drove in silence for half a minute before he spoke up. “Don’t worry. She’ll call back.”
The phone buzzed against the dashboard. John smirked at Christine as he picked it up and answered the call.
“Guin, you’ve got to believe me. The intel is solid. We—” His eyebrows sank as he listened to the interruption. “It’s Al. He paid Anar off with a shot at me. He’s gone rouge, Guin. I know it sounds impossible, but it’s true. Anar gave him up. And the only reason I think you should believe what I’m telling you is that I’ve never lied to you before.”
Another pause. John listened, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up the phone. He shot a glance at Christine. “She’s in.”
“Great,” Christine replied. “A reporter, a CIA officer, and an ex-CIA officer turned evangelist team up to stop a terrorist attack on Union Station. Sounds like a terrible movie.”
John snorted. “Yeah, it does.” He stared out the windshield for a brief moment, then raised the phone and dialed another number. “Let’s see if we can even the odds.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HIS SECOND PHONE call was to a man named Eric Paulson, another officer with the Central Intelligence Agency. John assured Christine they could trust him. Apparently, Eric was Anglican.
The drive to Union Station proved difficult as the first rays of the sun sliced upward through the now clear and brightening sky. Within two hours, traffic clogged as emergency vehicles dealt with an overturned pickup. Time passed, and all they found on the opposite side of the delay was more traffic lined bumper to bumper into the city.
The dashboard clock read 7:19 as they pulled into what was likely the last available spot in the parking garage adjacent to the station. They exited the SUV and walked at a brisk pace in the direction a dull sign labeled ESCALATORS pointed them.
As they neared the end of the row of parked cars, Christine spotted a man and a woman standing near the down escalator watching them approach. Eric Paulson adjusted his black suit jacket to disguise a slight bulge beneath his arm. The woman, who must be Guin, dug both fists into the hips of her navy dress pants, a matching blazer perfectly framing a plain white oxford shirt.
“They don’t look suspicious at all,” Christine said with a snort.
“Less suspicious than you two grave robbers,” Guin responded as Christine and John came to a stop.
C
hristine looked down at her clothes and realized for the first time how filthy she was. The entire drive to the station, she’d focused on remembering each face of the men who’d held the church hostage. Dry mud streaks ran the length of her body. She imagined her face and hair bore a similar texture.
Guin picked up two bags sitting between her and Eric. “We don’t have much time,” she noted as she handed them each a large black paper bag. “And you’ll draw too much attention if you don’t get changed. Over there.” With the point of a finger, she directed them to a pair of restrooms.
Christine clutched the bag and sprinted into the bathroom. She chose the largest stall and lifted her shirt over her head before she even locked the door. Dumping the contents of the bag onto the floor, she was relieved to find a fashionable wardrobe of jeans, flannel shirt, and boots. No doubt Guin’s handiwork.
She was dressed and out of the stall in sixty seconds. She splashed water on her face and rubbed off as much of the mud as she could with a handful of paper towels. Using her hands, she combed her hair into a manageable shape. Confident she could blend in, Christine dumped the bag of her old clothes into the trash bin and walked out the door.
Eric and Guin paused a discreet conversation between them as she walked up to them. Eric inspected her wardrobe and said, “I hope you liked what I picked out.”
“Oh,” Christine uttered as she glanced away to hide her surprise. “It fits great. Thank you.”
Guin held out her open palm, a silver bracelet on it. “Here. This should make you feel a little more normal.”
Christine smiled as she took the bracelet and slipped it over her wrist. The design was simple, but she liked it.
John appeared next to Christine and tossed his own bag into a large trash receptacle near the escalator. He wore the dark jeans and T-shirt well, though Christine spotted a few patches of mud he’d missed on his skin while cleaning up.
Guin handed them both a small tan earbud. “We’ll split up and canvas the station in four quadrants. My guess is the bomber will target the concourse.”