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Right Cross

By Andrew Huff

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Chapter One

Millions of people witnessed the arrest of John Cross, and not one of them stepped in to stop it. The video had been captured live during a campaign event in Pontefract, England, for popular but beleaguered Member of Parliament Spencer Lakeman. It played on repeat in Christine Lewis’s mind over the twenty-four-hour period from John’s incarceration to her arrival at Her Majesty’s Prison Wakefield.
Apparent in the video, and confirmed by news outlets not long after his arrest, was John’s intoxicated state as he attacked Lakeman from behind. The hammer he swung at the MP’s head missed by a wide margin, uncharacteristic of the man who held all his country’s highest marksman badges, and he wasn’t given the chance to make up for it, as Lakeman’s security detail wrestled him to the ground.
The second half of the crowdsourced video evidence of John’s attempted murder was the most disturbing to Christine. His words echoed in her ears, a slurred monologue of dissidence and conspiracy theory mixed with prophetic buzzwords. To Christine he sounded hurt and confused, but to the rest of the world like a demented theocrat. How had he fallen so far so fast? Had his short stint as a devoted Baptist pastor been a ruse all along?
“New information today regarding the attack on a member of Parliament by an American extremist,” announced every news program in the late hours following John’s imprisonment. Christine’s team received the same bits of information to report, though she was the only one who knew the truth. John Jones was not his real name, auditor not his real profession, and Rochester, Minnesota, not his hometown. Even in a descent into madness, John still exhibited skill in hiding his identity under layers of verifiable lies.
By divine providence, Christine was already on a scheduled leave from manning the desk of her UNN weeknight newscast, The Briefing, her colleague Keaton Clark filling in as host. Her intention of a staycation focused on physical rest and spiritual rejuvenation was waylaid before it even began as the word came over the wire. Instead of a scheduled dinner with Park Han, the women’s Bible study leader at her church, Christine arranged transportation to JFK and caught the first available flight crossing the Atlantic. It took long enough to arrange the visit through a contact of hers with Scotland Yard that she set a record for consecutive hours awake.
She hardly believed the video was the first time she’d seen John in the months following their separation in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport. Their agreement to pursue new paths alone, her in cable news and him away from ministry, was mutual, though looking back, Christine had assumed temporary. They’d traded a few phone calls, texted near daily, but never had a chance to reconnect in person. And weeks ago, John’s texts had become sparse and bordered on bizarre. His last text, sent a month earlier, was a cryptic mixture of apology and apocalypse. Looking back, she wondered if the message had been a cry for help.
The quaint buildings of Wakefield disappeared, replaced by a stark yellow brick wall blocking the prison from view. Christine stared out the window of the taxi, though she cared little for the scenery. She had no attention to spare as she thought of John, Rural Grove Baptist Church, the attempted attack in Washington, the clearing her stepbrother of murder in Texas, and how, in the midst of it all, she’d missed any signals of John’s descent into madness.
Recalling every past moment caused each subsequent step from the prison entrance to the visiting room to pass by in a blur. A loud buzz from beyond the door finally shook her from her trance, and for the first time she noticed both doors in the room were painted bright green. The sandy walls and navy carpet did little to distract from the bold choice.
The eccentric design of the room’s interior lost any meaning as the opposite door opened and John stepped through. If there was a guard escort, Christine didn’t notice. Her eyes were transfixed on his visage.
His hair threatened to fall back into his eyes without constant attention, and the hair on his chin could officially be referred to as a beard. His skin was in dire need of care. Sorrow was etched in wrinkles under his eyes.
Or was it anger?
John sat down in the only other chair and placed his hands, bound at the wrist, on the table between them. The orange jumpsuit tightened against his chest as he took controlled breaths. He stared at her, or at least in her direction, his face devoid of any tells.
A full minute passed without a word between them. Christine assumed they were being recorded, so she’d come with prepared remarks. But now that she was in the room, she didn’t know what to say.
“John, I—”
“Save it.”
The coldness in his voice startled her. He wasn’t angry, but worse: indifferent. She swallowed the anguish rising in her throat. “So you’re not going to tell me what happened?”
“You work in news, so you already know.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
John finally glanced away from her, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Oh, so now you care?”
His remark cut through her defenses, and she let out a surprised gasp as she dropped her gaze. Where was this coming from? She tried to recall a conversation or text that would help explain his animosity toward her, but none sprang to mind. As far as she was aware, their separation had been amicable.
“I don’t understand,” she said before regaining his eye contact. “What about everyone back home? I mean, I know you stepped down, but I thought you would stay.” She kept her references to Lori Johnson and the other congregants at Rural Grove Baptist Church vague for the sake of anyone listening in.
“With those freaks?” He guffawed. “Get a grip, Christine. It was all a sham. And you know it.”
All of it? What was he saying? The reality of John Cross’s descent into apostasy was dawning. She frowned as she folded her arms. “No, John, I don’t know it. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
Scowling, he leaned over his cuffed hands. “The man you met two years ago was a fraud. You knew that. I used the opportunity to lay low, convince the Agency I wasn’t a threat. This is the real me. The man who doesn’t buy into any of that Jesus Christ bull—”
Christine refused to succumb to her emotions as John, filling his words with expletives, ridiculed the ideas of true life change, meaning and purpose, and love.
She interrupted before he could add another colorful adjective to the list. “So it meant nothing? The last two years. Everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve done. And us. It was all a lie?”
His eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that what I do best?”
Christine flinched at the reminder of the accusations she’d flung at him. A loud buzz behind him prevented Christine from diving into the deep well of questions rising in her mind. A guard entered the room and hoisted John from the chair. Christine jumped to her feet and held out her hand. “John, I’m praying for you.”
The guard paused long enough for John to roll his eyes, then they both disappeared into the hallway.
###
“Cappuccino for Beth!”
A short woman wearing a knit cap respond to the barista’s call. Christine’s eyes bounced around the large café, noting other patrons and décor, but her mind retained none of the information as she replayed her conversation with John over and over in her mind.
None of it made sense. John had been so convinced of his newfound faith in Jesus Christ that he’d left the CIA and eventually found himself as the pastor of a small community of believers in Mechanicsville, Virginia. He’d stepped down as the pastor of Rural Grove only after realizing he’d accepted the position too early in his new life, slowing down to focus on his own spiritual and personal growth. How had he put it?
“I need time to get to know the new John Cross.”
It seemed the time spent only let the old John Cross back into his life. And yet . . .
Christine couldn’t help but ask questions. And not just “Why?” but the entire spectrum of information-gathering questions at her disposal. None of the answers she sought regarded John’s attack on Lakeman, but rather his denunciation of his transformed life.
There it was. The nagging question in the back of her mind. The one she wouldn’t be able to shake until she tracked down the answer. The one she’d chased in the car ride from the prison to the café where she was refueling for her trip back to the States.
Was he completely gone?
John’s malevolent outburst lacked two important details. He neither directed his vitriol at her personally nor made any specific denials of the Christian faith. Her mind burned under the weight of those two specifics.
Maybe the answer was no, he wasn’t completely lost. This was only a valley, and perhaps the end result of this experience would be John’s ascent back to where he was when they’d parted in Texas. She would certainly pray for it.
But then again . . .
Christine closed her eyes from wandering about as the left side of her brain took over. Speculating about a revival in John’s heart was fruitless. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t pray, but despite the lingering questions, she expected the truth to ultimately be found standing right in front of her.
The John she knew was gone. The one she’d never know was back. And as of right now, nothing could change that.
“Flat White at the bar for Christine,” announced a British voice.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she raised her foot to take a step toward the counter. Her body suddenly froze. All the questions concerning John faded into oblivion, leaving only a single thought behind.
I know her.
The woman in the knit cap? No, not her. Christine dismissed each person in the café through process of elimination. None were familiar. It was someone else. Someone who just walked out the door.
Ignoring the barista’s second proclamation of her readied order, she headed for the exit. The coffee shop occupied the corner of a cute brick building, matching another on the opposite side of patterned brick walkway. Pedestrians milled about freestanding vendor shops in front of her. To her right, the sun glistened off the glorious tip of Wakefield Cathedral’s steeple. To her left, the walkway carried on past the pair of buildings leading the way to a beautifully designed splash pad just off the major intersection of some of Wakefield’s busiest roadways.
There. Walking away from her toward the recreational water feature was a woman, every feature of her covered by a long black coat. Every feature but her brunette hair. It flowed over the coat, bouncing ever so gently in the light afternoon breeze.
Christine could recognize those locks anywhere. All her questions became moot. She narrowed her eyes and, with command of the entire sidewalk, called out, “Guin!”
The name arrested the woman’s gait. With caution, she turned until Christine’s suspicion was confirmed. Twenty yards away, with her hands buried in her pockets and resignation on her face, was CIA officer Guin Sullivan.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, the surrounding public indifferent to their sidewalk showdown, until Christine finally dug her hands into her hips and said, “He’s back in, isn’t he?”
Guin’s sly smirk was the only answer she needed.

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