Page 54 of Cross Down
Humphrey says, “All right, enough of this fool. Let’s get the job done.”
“Works for me.”
“Since last April, our homeland has been under constant and deadly attack by terrorists unknown, funded by parties unknown, only united in their desire to kill our fellow citizens and wreak havoc in our daily lives…”
It’s night at a remote ranch near Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, when three men—Renaldo, Jesus, and Pharrell—take a break after carefully going through the forests surrounding the main farmhouse. All three men are in NVGs and heavily armed with automatic rifles that have flash and sound suppressors.
The building houses the largest neo-Nazi militia group in this part of the state, and these three men—who previously resided in Los Angeles, where many of their friends and family members were killed or wounded by this neo-Nazi militia—are getting ready to seriously cut down the group’s size.
It’s not their plan; an anonymous person who seems to know and support their cause provided the money, the weapons, and the strategy.
“How much more time, Renaldo?”
“Sixty seconds,jefe.”
“You sure you did a good job?”
Renaldo says, “Positive,jefe.”
The seconds slide by. For the past few weeks, Renaldo has frequently gone to this house, posing as a carpenter and gardener. He endured the taunts and insults from the tattooed residents as he prepped the place for what’s about to happen.
Pharrell sees blossoms of lights appear in the house. “Boom,” he whispers.
Preset explosive and incendiary devices go off, and those who are desperately trying to escape are learning the windows won’t open, and two of the home’s three doors are jammed shut.
Only the front door can be opened, and the figures tumbling out of it and running for safety are quickly cut down by the three men firing their automatic weapons.
“This nation has faced great challenges before, but this is the first time that we have suffered constant and nearly daily attacks across our homeland. Many of our fellow citizens have been brutally murdered, and many more grievously injured…”
In Boston, Massachusetts, a clinic offering reproductive services to poor women is blown up. In Lansing, Michigan, two leaders of a prominent anti-abortion organization who are sitting in their BMW at a traffic light are shot to death.
“I pledge to you tonight that your government will continue working diligently to prevent these attacks and to track down those responsible. The terrorists who are in our streets should know that they will face the full wrath and fury of the American people once they are identified…”
Random sniper fire breaks out in Seattle, Detroit, Austin, and El Paso. By the time dawn breaks in the continental United States, scores of American citizens are dead and nearly a hundred are wounded.
“Members of law enforcement, the military, and cybersecurity agencies have been working as one across the nation to meet this terrible challenge. Support them where you can, and report anything—anything at all—that seems suspicious…”
Justin Foote, national affairs reporter for theWashington Post,is in his small and overpriced condo in Georgetown, half listening to CNN’s broadcast of the president’s speech while working on a story that will appear in tomorrow’s paper and will blow this town and the nation apart.
His doorbell rings. He checks the time. His source—he hasn’t given her a funny name, like Deep Throat—is right on schedule. He gets up from his desk in the small second bedroom he’s converted into a home office, goes to the door, quickly looks through the peephole.
Yep, here she is, and apologies to General Wayne Grissom, but this source has been more forthcoming about what’s really going on in the shadows, and her leaks are the foundation of tomorrow’s story. “Come on in,” he says, and she nods and follows him back to his office, keeping her coat on. Justin says, “If you’ve got a moment, I’d like you to read the two paragraphs about how the funds for these attacks are obtained and laundered.”
“Certainly,” she says.
He sits down and says, “Here. Start on this paragraph.”
His source leans over his shoulder, and after a minute she says, “Justin, this is incredible. A grand story. Talk about a blockbuster.”
He can’t help himself; he smiles with pleasure at his source signing off on what he’s written. His laptop has a large screen, and the pages are sharp and clear.
Then he feels cold metal on the base of his neck, and the last words he hears are “Too bad nobody’s going to read it.”
There’s blood and brain spatter all over Foote’s laptop. She turns it off and shuts it. She sees he’s made her job easier by piling up his notebooks in one place, and she quickly packs them away.
Job done.
Time to leave.
