Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense by Carter Wilson Page A

knew exactly what had just happened.
    The sniper had just shot him in the chest.
    Jonas knew enough to roll away from his position and hurl himself through the open doorway of the bullet-pocked building next to him. He could still move, and that was a good sign. With luck, his Kevlar stopped the bullet, though a sharp pain when he tried to breathe told him he wasn’t unscathed.
    Before he assessed his own injury, Jonas grabbed his radio. “Two-five this is two-six. Two-five this is two-six. Over.” Painful seconds passed until a static-laced voice crackled through.
    “ Two-six this is two-five. Over.”
    “ Two-five I have sniper fire in the Huriwaa market. We are three blocks east of the Nafari Hotel. Two U.N. troops DOA, and
    I’ve been hit. Over.” He struggled to catch his breath.
    “ Roger that, two-six. Assessment of your condition. Over.” Jonas wondered the same thing. He ripped the Velcro straps of the flak jacket open, giving just enough space to run his hand inside and feel for blood. More sharp pain, but no liquid.
    “ Think the flak stopped the round. Maybe a broken rib. I’m fine. Over.”
    “ Roger that, two-six. Sending in additional response. Can you sit tight? Over.”
    Jonas took a deep breath, winced away the pain in his chest, and raised himself enough to peer through a dirty window. Except for the two dead Pakistanis, the crooked street was empty.
    “ Negative, two-five. PFC Sonman went after the sniper. Solo. I need to provide backup. Over.”
    “ Are you mobile-ready? Over. ”
    Jonas stood and leaned against the wall, the pain from his chest searing. But he could move.
    “ Roger that, two-six. Leaving my position now. Send support
    ASAP. Guessing one sniper but could be more. Two-five out. ”
    “ Copy two-five. Two-six out. ”
    No time to waste. He had to run across the street, hoping the sniper wasn’t waiting to take another shot. In all likelihood, the shooter was long gone, having secured three hits, two successful. Private Sonman would likely break into an empty room. Fucking regular Army piece of shit, Jonas thought. It would be a shame not to kill the sniper, but it was better than a green PFC trying to play Rambo and getting his skull separated from his body.
    Jonas moved to the open doorway and readied himself for the sprint, hoping he could still run in his condition. He began counting in his head, preparing to run on three.
    One.
    Squeezed his eyes shut.
    Calm yourself. You can do this.
    When he got to two he heard the screams.

11
    WEST VIRGINIA APRIL 17
    RUDIGER CHANGES clothes inside the van. Turns and takes one last look out the open back doors at the body. The boy is naked, nearly folded into a ball. Body wedged into a hole in the ground. Face staring up at pine needles and slices of sky.
    He is not the One.
    There is meaning, Rudiger thinks. All death has its purpose. I am learning.
    Preacherman speaks to him, and the voice makes Rudiger want to gag. You jes keep fucking up, don’t you, boy? Can’t do nothin’ right.
    Rudiger pushes the voice away, a skill he has improved upon but never perfected after all these years.
    He drives the van over brittle ground, leaving the woods. In the rearview mirror he sees the cross, erect in the dirt, its arms soiled with the evidence of its use. It’s not a symbol. It’s a tool.
    Won’t be long before he gets caught. He’s only as careful as he needs to be, and nothing more. Doesn’t matter. He has a purpose. What happens to him means nothing.
    He drives to a decaying suburban mall. Parking lot mostly empty. No exterior security cameras. He wipes down the interior of the van with his dirty clothes. No way he can fully erase all traces of his DNA. Not possible.
    Walks the parking lot, checking for unlocked vehicles. Only a matter of moments before he finds one. No keys. Not in the next one, either. On his third try, he finds a shit-colored Accord with the keys safely wedged in the passenger-side visor.
    Gone.
    Two miles on,