Cross down, p.3
Cross Down, page 3
“That is correct, sir,” the general replies. “The National Guard in other states and territories can also be activated only by their respective governors.”
“Then I’ll make it happen when it’s necessary,” he says. “Got that, Helen?”
His chief of staff says, “Gotten, sir.”
He says, “As to the other suggestions, Doris, make those happen as well.”
The secretary of homeland security gives me a look with flamethrower eyes; if she could, she’d cut me down right now and leave a pile of ash. “Absolutely, Mr. President,” she says reluctantly.
He stands up, meaning the meeting is over. “General, tomorrow at nine a.m.?”
“Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll let the participants know the location.”
“Very well,” the president says, and suddenly he looks tired and overwhelmed. “Bless you all.”
Once the president leaves, the briefing papers get passed up to the front of the room, where they are carefully collected by Colonel Kendricks. Alex, at my side, says in a low voice, “Guess that’s what they mean about speaking truth to power, eh?”
“Somebody had to do it, Alex.”
He gently slaps me on the back. “Good job. You beat me by about sixty seconds. Let’s brief the chief and then go home and grab some dinner. It’s a little late, but everyone’s been waiting for us.”
I smile, though now I feel as tired as the president looks. “Nana Mama cooking?”
“Doesn’t she always?”
Chapter
5
Alex Cross’s home on Fifth Street in Southeast DC is its usual rolling chaos of laughing, good-natured insults, and more laughter. When we finish dinner, we crowd into the kitchen to help clean up after another one of Nana Mama’s memorable meals. Tonight’s roast pork loin was so tender it melted off the bone; it was served with potatoes and green beans and a dish of homemade applesauce at each table setting.
Alex, me, my daughter, Willow, and Alex’s two youngest kids—Ali and Jannie—wash and dry the dishes. Nana Mama slaps Ali’s hand as he tries to clean her big black cast-iron skillet.
“You leave that skillet alone, young man.”
“But it’s dirty and heavy,” he says. “I was just trying to help.”
She smiles and rubs his head. “That’s being a good boy, and thank you, but nobody cleans that skillet ’cept me. It took me months to season it right so it cooks perfect, and one good scrubbing with soap and a sponge will ruin it.”
After we wash the dishes, dry them, and put them all away, it’s time for dessert. I eat my homemade brownies with vanilla ice cream standing by the counter, remembering many, many years back when Nana Mama brought me to stay here after my mother went to prison the first time. My father had abandoned us long before that.
This old house with the well-kept rooms has always been my shelter, even with my home not far away. The Cross family is one that I proudly call my own.
When some form of calm returns to the kitchen, Ali goes upstairs to his room, allegedly to do homework, while Nana Mama, Willow, and Jannie move to the living room. The girls keep their eyes on the screens of their individual game consoles, and Nana Mama watches a reality-TV show about rich and pampered women who call themselves housewives. “If I had their money and jewels,” she once said, “no network would want to film me, ’cause I’d be so damn boring and happy.”
Alex and I slip out to the front porch, sit on old wicker chairs, and sip from the tumblers of bourbon in our hands. It’s reasonably quiet out here tonight, with only a few cars driving by and the occasional blare of a horn or a siren. I ask, “How’s Bree?”
“Working late,” he says. “Nana Mama saved a plate for her.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Busy,” Alex says.
I take another sip from my bourbon. “Busy with what? Government work?”
“She doesn’t say and I don’t ask.”
Alex’s wife, Bree, used to be with me at DC Metro, where she was the chief of detectives, and a good one at that. But politics and idiot bosses caused her to leave and now she’s working as an investigator at the Bluestone Group, an international private security firm.
“You okay with that?”
“No,” Alex says. “But we’re doing the best we can. She’s got a car service that takes her to and from work. I don’t have to worry about her safety.”
“What do you worry about, sugar?” I ask.
He ponders that for a moment. “Everything. How can I not?”
“What did you think about our high-level meeting earlier?”
“Impressive and detailed, except for that major absence that you pointed out. And it went about as well as our briefing with the chief. But something about that meeting bothered me.”
That’s my Alex. Always able to look ahead, peer around, and see patterns that others miss. “Go on.”
He shrugs. “It looks to be random, but to me it’s not. Why it’s not, I can’t see clearly right now, but I know the pattern’s there.”
“The general said someone or a group of people are orchestrating all the attacks. You don’t think they’re tossing the dice and saying, ‘Okay, we came up with eleven, it’s Kansas City’s turn’—you think the sequence is more deliberate?”
Alex says, “I do. The attacks seem random, unusual—everything from a shooting at a mall to car bombs here and in other major cities—but I think they’re driving toward a goal.”
“You think there’ll be a major strike here in DC in a week, like they said?”
He takes a sip of his bourbon. “Maybe.” He sighs. “I won’t be sleeping tonight. I’m trying to figure this out.”
“Think you’ll have something for the nine a.m. meeting?”
“That’s the goal, my friend.”
We sit in silence, each with our own thoughts, until I say, “I should get going. Let’s meet at Metro headquarters tomorrow morning before we head off to our next secret and secure location. Say, eight thirty?”
He clinks his tumbler against mine. “Works for me.”
The door opens and Nana Mama comes onto the porch. “What are you two wildcats up to?”
Alex says, “Just shop talk.”
I say, “We’re trying to save the world.”
“Huh,” she says. “You two fools ’bout twenty years too late for that.”
I laugh, put my tumbler down, pick her up, and give her a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. “Nana Mama, if we had ten more of you, we could take over the world, never mind save it.”
She struggles but not too much. “John Sampson, you put me down. And the world couldn’t handle ten more of me.”
Alex laughs. “Sure would love to find out, Nana Mama.”
Chapter
6
In unit 14 at the Planet Storage facility in Chevy Chase, Maryland, four men work slowly and methodically to get ready for tomorrow’s mission. Taking up most of the interior storage room is what appears to be a dark blue Amazon delivery van emblazoned with the company’s swooping insignia. A police check of the license plate on the Mercedes-Benz Sprinter, the typical vehicle for the behemoth corporation, would show that the van was registered to Amazon.
On one side of the van is a workbench with tools and paint, and on the opposite side there’s another workbench holding the items to be used and delivered tomorrow, including bullet-resistant vests and two HK MP5 submachine guns.
Tucked away in the rear of the storage room, in a blue plastic tarp tightly wrapped with gray duct tape, is the still cooling body of the facility’s night manager. He had heard the sounds of power tools and used a master key to enter through the side door.
A man named Franklin sips at a Red Bull and considers the situation. Except for the night manager’s interruption, things seem to be mostly on track.
“Hey, Pope,” he calls out to a squat man sitting in the front seat of the van.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I want another test of the sliding door.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Pope gets out of the van, and the two others, Clyde and Leon, walk around to join him. All the men are hard-looking with short hair, and they’re all wearing black jumpsuits.
Franklin says, “Another dry run.”
Clyde says, “That’s the fourth one tonight.”
“You have a problem?” Franklin asks. “Go file a complaint with HR. Get into positions, run it through, but first make sure your weapons are unloaded.”
Pope goes to the weapons counter and picks up a Glock 17 pistol. He empties and checks the magazine, works the action.
Clear.
He replaces the magazine and goes back to the front seat of the van. Clyde and Leon, having ensured their MP5s are unloaded and safe, take up positions behind the driver’s seat. The van’s door slides shut.
Pope looks at Franklin, and Franklin nods. He checks his digital watch.
A short beep of the van’s horn.
The sliding door rolls open, revealing Clyde and Leon, each on one knee, their MP5s up to their shoulders. Seven seconds pass according to Franklin’s watch before the sliding door is closed by Leon.
Pope yells, “Mark.”
“All right, come on out, guys,” Franklin says. The sliding door opens once more. Franklin shakes his head.
Clyde says, “The problem?”
“The problem is that it took three seconds longer to open the door than it did the last two times,” Franklin says. “Fix it.”
“Fix it how?” Clyde asks.
“Use your fucking imagination and training,” Franklin says. “Make sure the mechanism is working properly, isn’t fouled, make sure Leon’s hand doesn’t slip when he grabs the handle. Hell, spray WD-40 everywhere to give it a good lube.”
The driver, Pope, laughs. Franklin turns to him and says, “Nice to see you have a sense of humor.”
“I try.”
“Okay, jokester, how long from here to the target site?”
“Thirty to forty minutes, depending on the traffic.”
“Time to be on-site?”
“Eight thirty a.m. tomorrow.”
Franklin says, “Address of target site?”
Pope replies, “Three hundred Indiana Avenue Northwest, Washington, DC.”
From the van, Clyde says, “All right, genius, what’s waiting for us at Indiana Avenue Northwest?”
Pope grins. “Metro Police headquarters.”
Chapter
7
It’s a sunny September morning and there’s a hint of fall in the air. After parking my black Jeep Grand Cherokee, I walk my daughter, Willow, the few blocks to her school. Other students are walking along as well, and I see more parents than usual taking their children into the old one-story brick-and-concrete building.
I’m so tall that Willow has to reach up to take my hand, but she doesn’t seem to mind and I certainly don’t. I’m already dreading that future time when Willow won’t want to hold her daddy’s hand. For now, I relish every precious moment with my little girl, even the weird way she insists on eating her two eggs cooked sunny-side up—out of a bowl and with a spoon.
A Metro Police cruiser rolls by, followed by a National Guard Humvee, and I feel a bit less worried, knowing that at least some preparations are under way for the coming attack.
We stop at a corner, look both ways, and cross when it’s clear. We’re less than a block from school when Willow says, “Daddy?”
“Right here, sweetie.”
“Daddy, are we safe?”
I squeeze her hand. “Of course we are. Why are you asking?”
In a concerned voice, she says, “Mrs. Brewer looks scared, and so does Mrs. Lucianne. They talk a lot in whispers, and the teachers seem scared too.” Mrs. Brewer is the school principal, and Mrs. Lucianne is the assistant principal. Willow says, “We usually have a safety drill every month, but now we have them every few days. Like they’re scared. Like we’re not safe.”
The safety drill covers everything from a fire in the school to a gas leak, but its real purpose is to prepare for an active shooter in the building. The way of our troubled lives, I think.
We get to the school entrance. Usually when I walk Willow to school, I drop her off at the front door with a quick hug and kiss. But not today. Today I take her inside.
We pass through the doors, and there are four school security officers, double the usual complement. Willow drops her knapsack and it goes through the X-ray machine, and she goes through a metal detector. I display my detective shield and walk around the detectors, and some aides and teachers call out hello to Willow and me.
I feel better with Willow inside her school.
She picks up her knapsack from the X-ray machine and shrugs it over her tiny shoulders. “You’re getting a ride home from Mrs. Doolittle, remember?” I say.
Mrs. Doolittle is a reliable, helpful neighbor who works from home as an IT consultant and has a son, Tomas, a year younger than Willow.
Willow nods and says, “I know. But Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t like this new knapsack you got me. It feels heavy and stiff.”
“But I like the way it looks on you,” I say.
“I want something different,” she says. “Can we do that?”
I lean down and kiss the top of her head. “Give it a couple of weeks, all right? Maybe you just need some time to get used to it.”
Willow smiles, and although I always love that smile, there’s a sad ghost there, the spirit of her dead mother, Billie.
“Have a good day, Willow. Love you lots.”
“Bye, Daddy,” she says. “Love you lots too.”
With her safely in school, I walk outside and head to my Grand Cherokee. I’m ready to get back to work, confident in my ability to protect this city and its people, confident that I can protect my family.
Like that heavy and stiff knapsack Willow is carrying, a special gift to her that contains a secret only I know: the backpack has bullet-resistant panels sewn into the stiff fabric to give her protection if and when the shooting starts.
Chapter
8
Pope, wearing an Amazon driver’s uniform, quickly and efficiently navigates the van through the streets of the District of Columbia; they’re heading southeast along Connecticut Avenue NW, moving toward their target site, Motorola radios on their belts, earbuds in their ears, and small microphones attached to their shirt collars. Clyde and Leon, hidden behind a rigid pile of cardboard, are prepped.
Ever since they left the storage facility in Maryland, all have kept radio silence.
So far, so good.
At the intersection with Davenport SW, the traffic light turns yellow, and Pope slows and brings the van to a complete halt.
This is not the time to draw a cop’s attention.
He waits.
Waits.
A shadow appears to the left, and he swivels in his seat, right hand on his Glock 17. There’s a man out there in some sort of uniform.
He raps on the window and says, “Open up, please. Now.”
Chapter
9
I’m driving to Metro Police headquarters when my iPhone chimes with an incoming text.
I break the local regulation that prohibits driving while using an electronic device and check the screen. What I see makes me gasp in surprise.
A good guy from my complicated past, reaching out.
Big John, Mel Carr. Still at Ft. Bragg. Desperate to talk to you. Plz?
I look ahead at the heavy traffic. The only open space to pull over and park in is under a large NO PARKING sign. But if there ever comes a time when a traffic sign—or anything else—prevents me from returning a call from a fellow grunt, just find a way to put me out of my misery, because I’ll be too far gone to care.
I pull my black Jeep Grand Cherokee over and scroll through my contact list as the morning rush-hour traffic grinds by on the eastbound lane of Pennsylvania Avenue.
There. I push the button to call and put the iPhone up to my ear.
It rings and rings and eventually goes to voice mail: “This is Mel Carr,” the familiar voice says. “You know what to do.”
I say, “Hey, sport, got an urgent text from you about a minute ago. You drop your phone in a storm drain or something? Call me back.”
I hang up and I’m about to get back into traffic when my phone rings. The screen reads Unknown Caller.
Which usually means someone wanting to talk to me about my car’s extended warranty, but a call coming in so soon after I tried to reach Mel? I answer the phone with “Sampson,” and the voice I hear is filled with relief.
“John, thank God you picked up.”
“What’s up, Mel? What’s with the blocked number?”
He says, “I’m using a burner phone. Glad you still answered.”
“A burner? What’s up? You transfer over to Army Intelligence?”
“I wish,” he says. “That’d mean I could stop jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. No, I’m still with the Eighty-Second, but something big is going on. The base is on lockdown, and certain soldiers are being called up and sent out on secret TDYs. I didn’t know who to trust, so I went with you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, seeing a female parking enforcement officer coming down the sidewalk toward me. “What’s going on, Mel?”
“Remember when you got called back on active duty? And you and me and the others, we did that little classified visit into the ’Stan two years back, right after Kabul fell?”
“Still classified, far as I know,” I say, remembering how the Army Reserve had called up me and a couple of others with “special talents” to be part of a highly classified CIA operation. “Be careful here, Mel.”
“I will,” he says. “But I need to talk to you about it, John. Face to face. Not over the phone, not via e-mail. It’s very important.”
