Page 8 of Cross Down
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.”
