Page 21 of Cross Down
Bree sobs and says, “What happened? Why? Who did it?”
I tell the story again, still holding Bree tight, and at the end of the story, I realize I don’t know the why or the who. “I don’t know, Bree,” I whisper in her ear. “But I promise I’ll find out. And kill every last one of them.”
Bree steps back, wipes at her eyes, then goes over and hugs Ali and Jannie. Their soft sobs cut right through me. Bree says, “Damon’s coming back from Davidson, catching a flight from Charlotte. He should be at Dulles in just over two hours. One of the people from Bluestone will pick him up and bring him here.” She wipes at her eyes again, face haunted, and I know what she’s thinking: Will Damon’s father still be alive when he gets here?
Nana Mama stands up, face set, her eyes blazing like an Old Testament prophetess, like Miriam, and she says, “Enough of this sobbing and crying. The only thing that makes sense now is to send prayers to guide the hands of those doctors and nurses workin’ to save Alex’s life.” She holds out her wrinkled and strong hands. “Prayer circle, now. I’ll lead.”
We stand in a circle. I hold Bree’s and Ali’s hands, and Nana Mama closes her eyes, dips her head, and starts reciting the old familiar prayer.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”
I think,I need to contact Mrs. Doolittle, have her take Willow to her house after school.
“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”
I’m missing the morning principals’ meeting regarding the terrorist attacks, and I don’t really give a shit.
“Give us this day our daily bread…”
I should go back to headquarters, make a statement, get involved in the investigation, but there’s no force on earth that’s taking me away from Alex and this family.
“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
When I get a free minute, I need to write down what I saw, what happened, and what I did when the gunfire erupted.
“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…”
Evil. That was evil right in front of me, riding up in a blue Amazon van, gunmen jumping out, firing without hesitation. No doubt the FBI will try to take the lead on this one, and I’ll pretend to stand back and let them do it, but by God, those who planned and took part in this attack are dead men walking.
Nana Mama’s once strong and firm voice starts to waver. “For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“Amen,” we all repeat, and without anyone saying anything else, we move in for another group hug, and we stand there holding one another, some praying under their breath, others sobbing, until we hear someone coming in, and we turn toward the doorway.
A tall, tired-looking man wearing scrubs and a scrub cap stands there. He says, “I’m Dr. Sarani Babak. I’m Alex Cross’s surgeon. Is there a family member here I can speak with in private?”
Bree straightens up, tall and proud. “I’m his wife. Anything you have to say, you can say to all of us.”
Chapter
23
It’s late inthe afternoon, and Maynard is not a happy insurrectionist. His bandaged left thumb throbs from a burn he received earlier while interrogating Stuart. Now his crew is down a man and that means reshuffling the remaining crew or bringing a new recruit up to speed—challenging indeed, considering how little time remains before strike day.
He’s standing in a remote and nearly inaccessible stretch of Virginia woods looking at top-quality training resources: tents, parked vans, and pickup trucks; long folding metal tables where meals are eaten, weapons cleaned, and training modules examined again and again. Overhead are stretched government-issue tarpaulins that hide the assembly from eyes-in-the-skies such as satellites and drones and that mask radio emissions and heat signatures.
Still, as he watches his highly trained team come back from their latest drill, Maynard feels they are falling short. They move in two lines—eight in one and seven in the other—and somebody laughs, and then there’s another burst of laughter, and that really pisses off Maynard.
One more burst of laughter.
Enough is enough. “All right,” Maynard says. “Huddle up, let’s go over a few things.”
Even though there is anger in his voice, there is also admiration for these men and women. They are not resting on their laurels, bitching to their neighbors about the state of the world, or spending evenings on the internet arguing with strangers around the globe. No, they are men and women of action, people he carefully evaluated and selected. Wearing various types of uniforms and tactical gear, they form a half-circle in front of him, their faces expectant and tired.
“That was a shitty run-through, and you know it,” Maynard says in a clipped voice. “Only three checkpoints were reached on time, the second squad left a way out for hostages, and you guys were laughing and joking as you came back here like the only thing facing you was the loss of weekend privileges.”
No one replies; nobody moves.
Maynard says, “This is a serious operation with serious consequences. I shouldn’t have to remind you just how vital this part of the action is to the success of our goal, but due to your sloppy behavior, I guess I have to. Ruffner!”
