Page 41 of Cross Down
“All right, stay cool,” Maynard says. “Juarez, hand me that blanket. You and the others get ready. And for Christ’s sake, Cameron, look cheerful when the trooper asks for your license and registration.”
After pulling her silver and black Dodge Charger over behind the Explorer with Virginia plates, Belinda Gorman calls in the stop to dispatch, then steps out, puts on her dark gray campaign hat, and approaches the vehicle.
As she passes the tail end of the SUV, she gently presses her hand against the smooth black metal, a reminder from her training days that job number one is going home safe and sound after the shift is over, something she’s kept close to her heart for the past seven years. She has a lot to go home to: her husband, Raymond—who works from home for Atrium Health’s IT department—and their three-year-old twin boys, Peter and Paul. But if the worst happens, at least she’s left a handprint on the vehicle to prove she was here, despite what any future defense lawyers might say.
Belinda walks up to the driver’s side of the SUV as the window comes down. She’s pleased to see the driver has both hands on the steering wheel. Nice way to proceed with a traffic stop. Right hand on her holstered SIG Sauer .357 pistol, she notes that the vehicle has four occupants. “Afternoon, sir,” she says. “License and registration, please.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the driver says, and in that instant, Belinda notices something odd about the four men in the SUV. All are wearing orange earplugs, like the ones you use on a firing range.
She starts to move back as the front passenger drops a blanket from his lap and raises a sawed-off pump-action shotgun, and the orange-yellow light blossoming from the end of the barrel is the last thing she sees.
A few minutes later, as Cameron is back driving on I-95, Maynard holds out his hand for everyone’s orange foam earplugs. Once he has them all, he lowers his window and scatters them to the breeze that clears out the smell of the burned gunpowder.
He rolls up the window and says, “Cameron, take the next exit, let’s find a car wash.”
“I don’t think there’s any blood or brains on us,” he says.
“Don’t care,” Maynard says. “I care about the handprint that cop put on the back of our vehicle. Need to get that cleaned off. And since you’re responsible for this little dustup, you’re going to find new plates to replace the Virginia ones. Got it?”
Cameron’s face flushes but he instantly says, “Yes, sir.”
“And another thing,” Maynard says. “When I say to stick to the speed limit, stick to the fucking speed limit. You got that?”
Cameron says nothing but the two men in the rear laugh.
Chapter
48
We decide tostop at a fishing camp belonging to a friend of Mel’s. It’s a fifteen-minute drive from the interstate to a bumpy dirt access road for a few houses and cottages on an isolated lake.
It’s starting to get dark, and I keep the Cherokee’s headlights on as Mel goes up a set of worn wooden steps, picks up a corner board, and retrieves a key. Once he opens the door of the house, I drive the Cherokee down the dirt road a bit, find a vehicle-size opening in the trees, and back it in. Crickets chirp and a nearly full moon is rising in the east as I walk back to the cottage.
We store our gear and I check the place out. Single story, combination kitchen/living area, two large bedrooms, a bathroom, and an enclosed porch looking out onto the placid lake.
Each of us takes a brisk shower; I’m pleasantly surprised to find clean and fluffy towels, and when I mention that, Mel says, “What, you think we’re barbarians out here?” I see Bree has texted me the information about Elizabeth Deacon, our CIA escort when we crossed into Afghanistan two years ago.
I call Deacon, and her initial response is “How in the hell did you get this number?” But eventually I convince her to have a Zoom meeting with us and another member of the Afghanistan team.
Mel and I sit at the kitchen table on metal and plastic chairs likely bought at a yard sale about half a century ago. In front of us is Mel’s laptop, which a nephew set up with multiple VPNs and other goodies so it’s untraceable.
Our heads share one screen, Elizabeth Deacon joins us from Vermont on another screen, and a former Eighty-Second Airborne sergeant, Paco Ruiz, joins us from rural Pennsylvania on a third screen. Ruiz has a black goatee now and looks to have put on a few pounds since I last saw him. Deacon wears her blond hair in the same short style, and she stares out at us with cold blue eyes that tell you nothing other than that they’ve seen a lot of bad things.
Deacon wastes no time taking charge. “Just to remind you all, this call is not encrypted, so be careful what you say. And make it quick. I’ve got an appointment I can’t miss.”
Ruiz smiles. “Zoom call with the CIA director?”
“No,” she says, not smiling. “A town meeting. I chair the budget committee. John, you’ve called us together, now make your case.”
I review the basics, from the months of terrorist attacks that have plagued the country to Mel receiving the odd indication from one of his fellow soldiers that these attacks had something to do with our little trip two years back. Supposedly we witnessed something there that has to do with the current troubles.
Ruiz rubs his goatee and says, “That was a while ago. How about Ortiz and Powell? Have you talked to them?”
Mel says, “Both are dead. Officially suicides, but I’ve got a good CID source that says they were murdered and for some reason it’s being broomed. That leaves us and Bastinelli.”
Ruiz looks stunned. Then he says, “Where the hell is Bastinelli?”
There’s a pause before Deacon says, “He’s turned prepper and lives in New Hampshire, off the grid.”
