A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

  The van cut across the bridge again and shot down the exit ramp. Christine lay on her horn as she intimidated a service truck onto the shoulder and rushed down after it. The asphalt disappeared beneath flat pressed dirt, and a dust cloud surrounded the Jeep.

  Dodging construction materials and equipment in her path, Christine aimed the Jeep toward the enormous half-finished structure in the middle. Most of it enclosed, the top quarter of the building remained a steel skeleton. Its highest section stood twelve stories tall, with various other annexes taking shape around it. A tall yellow tower crane sat on the bank of the Potomac, guarding the building.

  “What in the world is this?” Christine yelled.

  “They’re running out of space for all the corrupt bureaucrats.” John followed his quip with an index finger pointing through the windshield. “There!”

  The black van came to a stop in front of the tallest section of the building. Erkan leapt from the back and sprinted to the nearest open doorway. The flat-faced passenger with a submachine gun stepped from the van and lowered the weapon at them.

  “Brace yourself!” Christine ordered as she shoved the gas pedal underfoot. The speedometer climbed with a cheerful gait.

  The Jeep closed the distance much quicker than she expected, but Christine didn’t relent the pressure on the pedal. Flat-face’s eyes widened, and instead of firing, he jumped backward through the open back doors of the van.

  Christine screamed a carnal cry in the second before the Jeep harpooned the back of the van and drove it straight into the concrete block wall of the new construction.

  The sonic crunch of metal filled her ears.

  Blurred white obscured her vision.

  In a surreal passage of time, Christine’s head welcomed the soft cuddle of fabric enveloping her until it stiffened and pushed her violently backward. The Jeep jostled her back and forth before it settled in the dust and let her slump against the headrest.

  Brilliant colors and shapes formed a soup in her vision. And what was that? Bees? Convinced she’d entered the space between heaven and earth, Christine ordered her hands to reach out and to experience the touch of this new dimension.

  Tan muscular fingers slipped by her outstretched hand and caressed her cheek. The colors and shapes stopped moving, and reality returned. She saw the smoking wreckage of the van over the deflated airbag of the Jeep’s steering wheel.

  “Christine,” John said over the noise.

  She turned to face him, and the buzzing in her ears fell away.

  “Are you OK?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them to full clarity. “Yes,” she said. “You?”

  “I’d prefer never to do that again.”

  “No kidding.” Christine remembered the open doorway. “Erkan!”

  John unbuckled his safety belt and climbed over the warped passenger door. Christine’s door was unhinged, and it pushed free with little effort. They sprinted from the crash to the building.

  John paused at the doorway and grabbed Christine by the hand. “I’ll go after Erkan. You get these men out of here. If that bomb goes off, we need to minimize the causalities.”

  Causalities, meaning Erkan and him.

  Christine opened her mouth but paused mid-protest as John leaned into her. Just when she thought he would close the gap and kiss her, he stuck his hand behind his back and pulled the handgun from his waistband, his finger ticking the safety at the same time. She touched him on the arm before he could leave and said, “God will forgive you if you shoot him in the head.”

  John smirked, then turned and ran into the building.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CROSS FOUND A stairwell and took the steps two at a time. He knew Erkan’s only remaining option, if he could predict Simpson as well as he expected. And that meant going up. All the way to the top.

  Where the helicopter would meet him.

  The Smith & Wesson nine millimeter in his right hand felt less like a foreign object since he’d procured it from Guin. That did little to ease his mind at the thought of dispatching Erkan. Cross hadn’t yet created a scenario that didn’t require a bullet through some part of the terrorist’s body.

  He passed the gaping hole of a future window and stole a glance over the edge. Christine waved her arms at a group of builders jogging to the crash site. Concrete infrastructure obscured his view, and Cross turned back to the rising flights of the stairway.

  Her driving was an exemplary display of skill, he admitted. If the journalism thing ever got old, he would have to recommend her to a national intelligence job. That, or a stuntwoman in Hollywood.

  The crash of debris echoed down the stairwell, followed by shouts of curses.

  Cross picked up speed and held the nine millimeter at eye level. Forced to pause at every level to clear hallways, he fought the temptation to wipe the sweat dripping off his brow. Or was it blood? The likelihood of injury from the wreck was high, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins prevented him from being aware of any.

  On the eighth-floor landing, a construction worker lay on his backside, nursing a bruise forming on his temple. He sat up, startled at the sight of Cross’s gun.

  “Where?” Cross demanded.

  The worker pointed up the stairs. “That way.”

  “Get out of here, now!”

  The man didn’t hesitate. Cross kept climbing. The howling wind outside took on an unnatural cadence and morphed into the familiar thumping of rotor blades.

  On the ninth level, the walls disappeared and blue sky peeked through thick columns supporting the next three floors. The stairwell ended, replaced with a network of ladders running through open gaps in the ceiling.

  Cross paused on the last step and scanned the floor. The building ended a short distance to his right, the skyline of DC obscured by the yellow frame of the tower crane hugging the concrete wall. The vast future home of stuffy analysts and brownnosers spread far and wide on his left.

  A flash caught his eye, and he saw the messenger bag disappear through a hole in the ceiling to the tenth floor. Cross took off from the stair and scaled the first ladder he found.

  He copied Erkan’s route through the next level and onto the exposed infrastructure of the eventual twelfth-floor’s steel beams. Erkan wrapped an arm around a beam and waved at the helicopter hovering high in the air.

  Cross walked tight along the edge of the building, taking care not to peer down. His heart beat too fast to get a clean shot. The helicopter descended, and he spotted a thin wire dangling from a winch attached inside.

  Only a few feet from the terrorist, Cross gripped the nine millimeter and leveled it at the back of Erkan’s head. “Hey, buddy,” he shouted. “Where you headed?”

  Erkan turned and narrowed his eyes. A muffled guttural sound slipped between his clenched teeth. Then he laughed. “John Cross. The preacher. What are you going to do? Shoot me? Like all the others? I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”

  “I’m considering some exceptions.”

  Erkan spread his hands and walked toward Cross. “Make me your exception then. Pull the trigger and end my life.”

  Cross ordered his finger to press down on the trigger, but his muscles tensed and disobeyed the command. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “You won’t do it. You can’t do it.” Erkan’s eyes flamed, and his hands dropped to his side.

  Cross took a deep breath. “You’re right. I can’t kill you.” He shifted the gun’s sight from Erkan’s head to just over the man’s shoulder. “But I can’t let you leave.” Cross unleashed a barrage of bullets into the sky at the approaching helicopter. Sparks exploded off the cabin, and the copter veered away from its attacker.

  Erkan rushed him and collided with Cross. The two men fell together against the steel beam and rolled off. Cross released his grip on the gun and caught the edge of the beam with both hands. His plummet slowed, but his fingers slipped, and he dropped to the cement floor beneath him.


  Cross bent his knees just before impact. His feet hit, and he tucked into an ungraceful roll, tumbled over twice, and splayed across the rough surface. Shaking the stars from his eyes, he looked up to see Erkan crawling toward the gun, the messenger bag missing from his shoulder.

  The terrorist grabbed the nine millimeter and leapt to his feet before Cross could reach him. “Unlike you,” Erkan snarled, “I have a taste for blood.”

  Cross froze, waiting for the bullet to explode from the barrel and rip through his chest. Erkan’s muscles tensed, but before he could pull the trigger, a two-by-four swung in an arc behind him and connected with the back of his head. Erkan launched forward, the gun falling from his limp hand and sliding across the floor, away from both of them.

  Christine stood over the man’s dazed body, holding the two-by-four in both hands and panting. “Taste any blood now?” She looked up from Erkan and creased her nose at Cross. “Where’s the bag?”

  Where? The messenger bag was gone from Erkan’s shoulder. Cross scanned the floor, then lifted his eyes back up. The bag lay on its side on the beam above them. He pointed to it and exclaimed, “There!”

  Erkan stirred, pressed his palms flat on the floor, and pushed himself up. Cross nodded to Christine. “Get the bomb. Go!”

  She ran to the nearest ladder.

  Cross reached Erkan and swung for his chin as the man stood to his feet. Erkan took the hit like a brick wall, then shoved his own fist into Cross’s shoulder. They exchanged more blows until an uppercut threw Cross backward against a workbench piled high with metal tubing.

  Erkan took off for the nearest steel column and climbed it like a monkey up a tree. Christine ran toward the bag as he neared the top. Cross righted himself and raced for the ladder.

  The beating of helicopter rotors descended on them. The wire dangling from the winch flew past Christine as she took the last few steps to the messenger bag. Cross climbed the ladder and reached the beam as Erkan stormed toward her.

  Too late. Erkan beat him to her.

  Instead of fighting Erkan for the bag, Christine dropped to a knee, scooped up the bag’s strap, and slung it as hard as she could. The bag sailed through the air, and everyone froze in anticipation of the explosion sure to follow its impact with the floor below.

  Instead of consuming them in a fiery blaze, the bag struck harmlessly against a stack of concrete-mix bags, slid to the ground, and dropped through a hole in the floor to the lower level.

  Cross ran and hurdled Christine as Erkan gaped at the hole. At the same moment, the wire from the helicopter swung back over them. Cross grabbed it in midair before colliding with Erkan’s chest. He snagged Erkan’s belt with the hook at the end of the wire and pushed as hard as he could. Erkan swung out over the edge of the building, screaming.

  Cross helped Christine find her balance on the beam. “Are you OK?”

  “Come on!” she said as she grabbed his hand. “We’ve got to get the bomb!”

  Cross tightened his fingers around hers and kept her from running off. “Wait a minute. What’s that noise?” The faint sound of an electronic beeping pricked at his eardrum again.

  Christine’s eyes widened as she became aware of the noise. She lifted her arm, Cross’s hand in tow. The silver bracelet around her wrist blinked at them. “My wrist is ringing.”

  Cross slid a finger over the bracelet, and a screen appeared with the words, “THIRTY SECONDS -G.”

  “What does that mean—”

  Cross didn’t let her finish her question. “Run!” Pulling her along, he dashed over the beam toward the opposite end of the building.

  At the edge, he let go of Christine’s hand and jumped the short distance to the idling yellow tower crane. He turned and caught Christine as she followed his lead.

  “What are we doing?” she demanded.

  Cross ducked his head into the control booth of the crane and jammed the control stick down. The long arm of the crane swung at a crawl away from the building. He looked back at Christine and pointed up. “Go!”

  She hesitated, looked into his eyes, then climbed. Cross followed her up the grid work to the top of the jib. They ran down the length of the jib as it pointed out over the Potomac.

  Behind them, Cross heard the sound he didn’t want to hear. The sonic boom drew Christine’s eyes over her shoulder, and she gasped at what he already knew was coming. “Keep running!”

  She slid to a stop at the head and looked back again. Cross grabbed her around the waist and looked over his own shoulder. Sunlight glinted off an F-22 fighter jet as it threaded the sky toward the helicopter hovering above the unfinished building. A missile burst from its bay, and smoke trailed in a straight line toward the copter.

  “Point your feet down and hold your arms in!” Pulling her with him, Cross leapt from the head of the jib.

  Wind beat at them as they plunged toward the water and hung in the air for eternal seconds. As the Potomac filled Cross’s vision, he heard and felt the impact of the missile against the helicopter behind them.

  As a flame stretched its fingers for them, their toes sliced through the liquid floor and the river consumed their bodies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  AL SIMPSON DIDN’T bother flipping on his office light as he walked through the door. He crossed the dark carpet to his desk and unlocked a single drawer. He extracted a small thumb drive, then returned the drawer to its original state.

  Before Simpson moved again, Cross slipped from a dark corner and flicked the switch, flooding the office with a warm glow.

  Simpson’s head jerked up, and he huffed when he recognized Cross. “You look good for a man who just took a hundred-and-twenty-foot dive into the Potomac.”

  Cross didn’t feel good. Every bone in his body protested his refusal to lie down. He pushed the pain signals to a deep well in the back of his mind and took a few steps into the middle of Simpson’s office.

  “Why, Al?”

  Simpson smiled. He pulled the leather chair away from the desk and plopped down onto it. Raising one hand in a sign of surrender, he reached the other into his inside jacket pocket and removed a flask. Unscrewing the top, he took a swig and wiped his chin before responding. “How about a game? I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

  Cross stayed silent.

  “Who told you about the strike?”

  “Guin slipped a smart bracelet on Christine.”

  “That b—” Simpson paused before he could insult her, and sniggered. “Clever.”

  “Now mine. Why?”

  “What do you want me to say? I was bored? They offered me money? You of all people should realize by now, John—there’s no such thing as good people in the world. We’re all sick, stupid ants.” He took another sip from the flask. “My job is, it’s always been, about maintaining the established order of things. That goes both ways, pal. One side wins, and that puts us all out of business.” He balanced the flask on top of a pile of papers on his desk. “And yeah, they paid me. My turn. How did you convince Anar not to kill you?”

  “I don’t think I really had much to do with it.”

  Simpson howled. “Let me guess. An angel appeared in the night sky. Announced a peace accord between you two. To be honest, I figured you’d beat him. Idiot wanted to take you on man to man instead of putting a bullet through your skull from behind like I recommended.” His grin faded momentarily. “And take that as a compliment.”

  “I would’ve said the same thing.”

  “Anar never had it in him. I suppose he’ll offer up some juicy intel to DOJ in exchange for a return trip home.”

  “You and I both know he’ll be paraded around the Beltway as an anti-terror grand prize.”

  “I’ll bet that really ticks you off, doesn’t it?”

  Cross took a step forward as a smirk formed across his lips. “No, no, no. It’s my turn. And I’ve only got one more question.”

  “What’s that, preacher boy?”

  “Was Jordan a set
up?”

  Another laugh, followed by a vulgarity. “Son, sometimes things just go nuts.”

  Simpson pulled a gun from underneath the desk, pointed it at Cross’s chest, and pulled the trigger multiple times. The gun clacked with each pull, nothing to show for the effort. Simpson tossed it down on the desk and sighed. “I figured you got to it first, but I’m not going to say it didn’t make me feel better.”

  Cross took a few more steps to the desk and reached for the butt of the gun pressed against the small of his back. “Did I ever tell you how I got the drop on the AIM guys in Jordan? With the help of a handy little gadget the boys in R and D call a Smart Stunner.” He pulled the gun from his back and showed it off. “Shoots a small disc that releases an electric charge on impact.” Cross stopped at the edge of the desk and pointed the weapon at Simpson. “Want to see how it works?”

  Before Simpson answered the question, Cross fired the disc into his former director’s chest. The black circular cartridge latched on to his shirt and emitted blue sparks. Simpson’s body convulsed. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he slumped into the chair, unconscious.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHRISTINE BACKED THE rental car out of the parking space and headed for the airport exit. Few cars impeded her way onto the interstate. She hoped it wasn’t too late.

  She didn’t mind the early morning, though in the days since the thwarted attack on Washington, DC, she’d managed to evade a full night’s rest. The story of her miraculous rescue from Jordan took last place to the scoop of a planned terrorist attack on the nation’s capital combined with corruption in the ranks of the most famous intelligence agency on the planet.

  Jacobs had insisted she take the lead and offer a firsthand account on as many stations at as many hours as they could book. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing the footage that always shared the screen with her—Yunus being transferred to a maximum-security prison by the FBI. Every answer she gave at each interview replayed in her mind.

  “In the course of my investigation, I became an eyewitness to the identities of the members of the cell.”