Page 30 of Cross Down
When the man is dead, I pick up my spent shell casings, go back to the bathroom, and wash my hands.
Chapter
33
I get intomy Cherokee, start it up with the lights off, and back out onto the state road. The poor woman holding down the desk overnight is probably calling the cops.
I feel sorry for the responding units in this small town. They’re going to come across a crime scene with more gunfire and killing than they’ve ever encountered; it’ll be like some upstate New York two-man police department investigating a Mafia-style hit at a local restaurant.
About fifty feet down the dark road, I turn the headlights on and keep driving.
A while later, I’m on the busy interstate, joining the early-morning commuters, most of them heading southwest to Fort Bragg and the city of Fayetteville, now just a few minutes away.
I play and replay in my mind the ambush back there at that small motel out in the proverbial middle of nowhere.
First things first: I was tracked. No question about that.
Question: Was I followed from DC or were the attackers somewhere local, ready to respond when I stopped to rest?
Answer: It doesn’t matter. Either way, it means a real depth and breadth of organizational skills.
And how was I tracked?
I pull off the road and take a black box about the size of a small brick out of my duffel bag. It was a gift from Ned Mahoney and the FBI a couple of years back, a sensing device that tells you if there’s a tracking device or wiretap nearby.
I switch it on. Five red lights comeon and remain red. My Cherokee and everything within twenty feet of it is clear.
I shut the unit off and get back on the road.
I consider the briefly surviving gunman. He didn’t want first aid, didn’t want to live, didn’t want to face an interrogation. Sheer dedication and a willingness to die for his mission. Not many people like that still around, and it chills me, knowing what we’re up against.
I should be tired with so little sleep, but I’m wired tight, the smell of burned gunpowder in my nose. I grab my cell to call Alex, and—
Damn.
What a fool.
What about Ned Mahoney of the FBI?
Tempting, but it’s still early in the morning. The poor guy is surviving on coffee and Red Bulls, trying to make sense of what’s going on.
The same applies to me. I pick up speed, heading to Fort Bragg, working my cell phone with my free hand.
Chapter
34
I’m in thecity of Fayetteville, Fort Bragg’s neighbor and, some would say, its largest parasite. The numerous pawnshops, bars, stores, strip clubs, and other similar businesses that ring the fort are designed to suck as much money as possible from the army personnel stationed there.
On the All American Freeway, I spot a lane of backed-up traffic leading into the access control point of Fort Bragg, where a brown sign announces in white lettering:
FT. BRAGG ACP
PREPARE TO STOP
By the grass medians, soldiers in full battle rattle are patrolling alongside two armored Humvees with roof-mounted machine guns.
As traffic crawls, I exchange a series of texts with Mel Carr and set a meeting point at the Drop Zone Café.
