Crossfire

By Devon Baker

Joe McDonald is an ordinary guy who teaches in a Phoenix, Arizona, high school. He and his wife, Kat, have three children: Chuck, Katie, and Derrick. But what happens to McDonald is not ordinary.

He inexplicably becomes involved in an international terrorism plot that involves a C-7 disk, a disk that details the government’s plans for the transport of nuclear waste, including the reprocessing of plutonium. McDonald’s innocent, little adventure turns into something with bizarre and deadly complications, and it threatens his life and the life of his family.

A religious fiction novel, Crossfire, tells the story of a family man who finds himself in a most unpredictable and precarious situation for which one cannot prepare. It’s a time where God feels distant, and no answer is in sight. Ultimately, Joe discovers that God delivers on his promises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664245082

Devon Baker

Devon Baker is a former pilot, sports fan, educator, husband, and father. He has a passion for justice and seeing others treated the way we all wish to be treated. His interests include mystery, suspense, and world events. Devon lives near Portland, Oregon with his wife, Karen, and energetic dog, Watson, his faithful sidekick.

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Copyright © 2021 Devon Baker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

All Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-4507-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-4508-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021918900

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/14/2021

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

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CHAPTER 1

Click … click … click … click.

In the game of Russian Roulette, the chamber of a revolver is loaded with a single bullet. The odds narrow with every click and pull of the trigger until a shot is fired.

Click … click … click … click.

When there are just two chambers left, the odds are fifty-fifty that the bullet is in one of them. The odds are fifty-fifty between life and death. The bullet either fires, or there is a deafening silence.

Click.

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A last-second roll just before hitting a hard floor kept Joe from breaking his ribs. He lay on the ground, breathing heavily and feeling his pulse bursting beneath his chest. Sweat beaded on his forehead and then ran down his face.

Somehow, he had survived.

His thoughts were hazy as he tried to push himself up from the floor. His captors had worked quickly. First, they dragged him up a series of steep stairs and then pulled him into an old library. His captors slid open a false door that opened into what looked like an old garbage chute and pushed him inside. He finally landed in a room that looked like a dungeon.

The chute had been a way of escape, interconnected through a maze of slides leading from the upper levels to a series of underground rooms. He took a deep breath and exhaled. The sweat ran down the side of his face and dropped in beads onto the floor.

Nice of you to join us, Mr. McDonald. There was someone else in the room with him. Joe could see the profile of a man a few feet away from him.

Joe exhaled, realizing his breathing had grown ragged. Not my first choice, he said to the shadowy figure. He could see two other men in the room behind the man.

Your lack of respect is appalling, the man said as he approached Joe and put handcuffs on him. This should hold you, he said as he attached the other end of the handcuff to a hook on the wall.

What are you doing? Joe yelled. What do you want from me?

Let’s stop playing games. Where is it, Mr. McDonald? the man said in a deep, raspy voice.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Joe mumbled as he tried to look away. Didn’t this kind of violence only happen in spy thrillers? The fall of several strongholds in Europe and the Middle East had led Joe to believe the era of international espionage had ended, including this kind of ruthless torture. The sheer terror of the moment made Joe’s heart race as if he had just run a marathon. His captors were cold, calculated, and businesslike. Why did they want him?

As quickly as his captors had arrived, they disappeared without warning. Joe was alone in the dungeon.

God! Joe screamed. If you’re there, please help me. Please rescue me from this!

Stand up like a man and stop your sniveling, you wimp. Your God won’t save you from giving something to criminals that will change the world for the worse, Joe said to himself. Still handcuffed to the wall, he slumped over and leaned against it for support before drifting into a semiconscious dream state.

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Joe’s life flashed not so briefly before him. First, as a football hero in high school and college, he had done all the right things and won success the hard way. After the early days on the farm as a young man, Joe had decided on a career in medicine. Through sheer mental energy, he had been accepted into medical school. Countless hours spent in the library after football practice had paid off.

To take a break from his studies, he read about the political turmoil in the world. As if by accident, he had discovered his true love. In a dingy, isolated corner of the library behind his favorite desk, Joe read—sometimes for hours—about a world filled with adventure and opportunity. He decided against medicine and pursued education instead. From that moment on, he spent his days sprawled out on the grass in front of the College Memorial Union, reading about grand ideas.

He thought of his wife, Kat, meeting her and falling in love during their first picnic together under the big maple tree at college. Their long walks together, the knowing glances, her smell … she would be furious with him for being so dumb, for agreeing to go to Europe in the first place. Did he really have no choice in the matter? How could he have been so naive as to let those guys steal the C-7 disk? Would he ever see his family again?

He thought of his kids … Chuck, Katie, and Derrick. Chuck and Katie had already been through so much in their short lives, and Derrick was just a baby. He felt a pang of heartache at the thought of the three of them, depending on him to be their leader in a world growing increasingly more complicated by the day.

And Kat … she would never know how much he loved her, how he loved his life with her. Joe closed his eyes, willing the tears to stay in his eyes.

He was sure no one would ever find his body.

Mr. McDonald, it is time to wake up. The shadowy figure was back. As Joe opened his eyes, he clung to consciousness, as if by a thread.

In the full light, Joe could see the shadowy figure for who he was. The man was tall, thin, and balding with dark, beady eyes that looked right through Joe like x-ray vision. He unzipped a brown leather coat, exposing a gun. He put his hands in his pockets, and a severe expression crossed his face.

Where is the disk, Mr. McDonald? The man’s voice was gravelly.

Joe’s voice quivered as he answered, The only disk I know about is the one that contains my latest writing.

He had written mostly about government and industry, about capitalism, and how money motivated all people. He believed liberal democracy would eventually sweep across the globe and that all people would subsequently choose this form of government. Though he had received offers to join the staff of a few syndicated magazines, he had always declined. But how could the written word be dangerous? He was about to find out the answer.

My patience is running thin, Mr. McDonald, the man spat while pulling an ancient sword out of an antique umbrella stand next to the wall. He held it next to Joe’s face, too close for comfort. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, but it didn’t matter. His conscious mind hoped to stall for time and use his secret as a bargaining chip. They would not kill him as long as they did not know the whereabouts of computer disk C-7.

Can’t we talk about this? Joe was surprised anything lucid came out of his mouth. I can’t be the person you want. I’m only a teacher.

Come now, Mr. McDonald. Your research is quite famous. Tell me of it. The man laughed heavily and finished a fit of coughing.

Joe found a shred of courage. Why don’t you read about it yourself—if you can read?

Out of the corner of the room, a large man emerged with a full head of dark hair, wearing a navy blue turtleneck and a large coat that barely covered his massive barrel chest. He drew his hand back as if he would strike him but stopped when the balding interrogator from the previous night pulled it away. Panettiere wants him alive. Remember?

He’s not worth it, the man in the turtleneck said hungrily.

The balding interrogator turned to Joe and smiled, exposing a small, chipped tooth. I can’t stop him forever, Mr. McDonald. But no one needs to get hurt over a computer disk. You can just tell us what’s on the disk and where it is. He ran his tongue over the chipped tooth.

Joe had nothing left with which to bargain. He didn’t care about his life, but he was proud of his work and the exhaustive research done. Still, he would gladly part with it all to get his son back. But these guys were after C-7, and no amount of game playing would convince them otherwise. Joe wondered, though, if he could convince them that the computer disks they were looking for contained his writing and not the top-secret stuff on the C-7 disk.

OK, OK, Joe said, thinking quickly. I’ll tell you everything. My project is about democracy.

Democracy! The balding man laughed. What has that got to do with it? The man in the turtleneck hit Joe across the face. The room spun, and so did Joe’s mind.

Joe’s latest project, Governmental Democracy, generated hardly a stir among American intellectuals. A man from Washington had met with him and was satisfied that Joe didn’t know anything important enough to be concerned. Specific organizations might be able to use the details, but none of the stuff was classified information. Even though his work had represented several years of research, Joe knew his writing wasn’t what they were after. He had only heard of the disk C-7 but had never seen it.

The interrogator slapped him across the face one more time. Then, just as quickly as before, they left the room. Joe was alone again. He was relieved but had to figure a way out of the chains that bound him to the wall. His interrogators came back a few minutes later and shoved a plate of what looked like porridge across the stone floor toward him.

We are not heartless. You must be hungry, Mr. McDonald, the bald man said.

Can you get me out of these chains so I can eat this stuff? Joe said.

The balding interrogator said nothing but unlocked the chains. They rattled as they dropped against the floor.

Joe eyed the balding interrogator. Now what?

The man’s lips curled into a thin smile. We’re done with you.

He turned to his partner in the turtleneck. Feed him to the wolves. The man in the turtleneck lunged at Joe.

Joe’s mind reeled. Wait! he yelled. He knew he had to do something. Wait!

Neither man made a move to stop, but Joe kept talking. Look, someone broke into my car and took the disk. I don’t know where it is now!

Kill him! The balding man snarled at the man in the turtleneck. Kill him!

The man in the turtleneck had his hand on the trigger of a revolver.

Wait! I’m working for the CIA! Joe yelled.

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CHAPTER 2

Fernando Panettiere could hear the loud yelling from the interrogation even from the quiet of his palatial office. When would this stop? The terror being inflicted on an innocent man’s life two doors down moved him to the depths of his soul. Fernando reached for the remote control for his room stereo and turned it up. Sighing deeply, he pounded his head repeatedly on the office wall. Lately, the long runs into the dark of night did not bring his lanky, ailing, six four frame any relief from the pain—especially after his injury.

Twenty years ago, Fernando had a reputation for doing the lowly grunt jobs that nobody else wanted, with clear-minded determination and unquestionable loyalty. But making people do things they didn’t want to do was not his life dream then, nor was it now. He wanted more. There had to be more. Lately, his headaches were becoming more frequent and severe. The only thing that helped was the pain medication his doctor had prescribed. But the pills lasted only a few hours. Hoping to renew the feeling, Fernando grasped the bottle of opiates in his inner coat pocket. The doctor had warned him to stop taking them.

He pulled it out, and a dollar bill fluttered to the floor. It floated first one way and then another before landing squarely at Fernando’s feet. He stared at it, and George Washington’s face stared right back. Fernando picked it up and turned it over. In God We Trust.

What does God have to do with this? Fernando wondered aloud. God had never been important to him. As long as he had the pills, he felt fine. Fernando fumbled with the childproof cap of the bottle. The lid popped off, and the pills spilled out onto the floor.

Oh no! Fernando said. While picking them up off the floor, he counted each of the precious pills to make sure they were all there. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.

In God we trust, he muttered softly. It was funny—why did they put those words on money? God is irrelevant, he thought. When was the last time he had been seen? Who did they think he was?

He grabbed his keys and made his way down the hall and past his bodyguards to the elevator. The elevator shaft had been cut into the old castle’s ancient stone to help Fernando deal with his disability. His cane had been his constant companion for many years, ever since the accident that had left his right leg mostly useless. Now he could not walk up and down the four floors of steps leading to his office, even with his cane. Fernando marveled at the whirring of the elevator motor as it moved effortlessly down to the basement garage. The elevator was the best investment he had ever made, making the need for exercise and physical therapy unnecessary. Those therapies were too much work.

Fernando opened his Jeep’s front door and sat down in the driver’s seat, his mind wandering back to the pills. They made him less sharp and very tired, but he did not know what to do without them.

He thought longingly of Sasha, his girlfriend. If only she were here. It would all be OK.

He remembered when it was not like this. It was a simpler time when he was truly happy. He was part of a family, and he had the love of his beautiful wife. He wondered if he could just leave now in his Jeep and disappear. But where would he go? Why could he no longer feel the pain his men were inflicting on those innocent people who had gotten caught in the middle?

Maybe they were not innocent, he rationalized. Perhaps they got what they deserved. The conflict within was his torture, the torture he was sure would never end. The screams haunted him when he tried to sleep at night. Knowing that he was responsible for all this left him feeling hollow inside, and he felt powerless to stop it. The fact that he did not stop the senseless interrogation bothered him. Maybe he still had a heart after all.

He thought about what was going on just two doors down in this ancient castle. Why was it still necessary?

This is just business, his father used to say. Fernando frowned and shook his head. The screams in his head grew louder.

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Fernando remembered a conversation with his beloved wife, Trina, many years ago.

I do not want to be a part of this anymore, Trina said. Don’t you see what you have become?

It’s just part of the job. I can’t stop it. I can’t go back, Fernando had told her. I don’t have any control over this. You must believe me.

He bit his lip as he remembered the conversation. Who was he, and who had he become? Innocence had been replaced by hostility, and fear replaced love. His secretary and new lover, Sasha, called him a coward. But even she feared him more than anything else. Others thought him to be a powerful and good man who went wrong. His life had been tough, but it had helped him develop an inner strength in a world that always seemed to be against him.

You don’t want to stop. The memory of Trina spoke again. He knew he loved her and wanted things to be different.

You are afraid, she said. It was the last thing she ever said to him.

Trina had become a liability. His business associates did not know her, and therefore she could not be trusted.

She won’t tell anyone, Fernando recalled pleading with them as tears rolled down his face.

How can we be so sure, Fernando? his boss, Larry, had asked him. How can we be so sure?

Shortly after, she had disappeared and was never seen again. Not even a trace. Fernando convinced himself that he didn’t care.

He thought about his life so long ago. He and his brother, Mansfield, had dreamed big dreams. They wanted to be admired, like real heroes. Though their father had left Italy a generation earlier, they tried to keep the family traditions alive. One of those traditions was fighting for something they believed in, something they held dear. The brothers enlisted to fight against Nazi Germany in World War II. Loyalty to the family was all that mattered. Fernando made promises to his family. He would look after his little brother. They would play cricket again, one day after the war. Their children would play hide-and-seek together. They would build the family business and make a fortune. They would be heroes!

Fernando’s memories flashed to his brother.

He had watched as Mansfield broke rank and disappeared during the battle for Normandy. Fernando followed, desperate to protect his brother, ignoring the fact that he, too, would have to break rank.

Fernando remembered discovering Mansfield’s body, which had been struck with gunfire from behind. His face was disfigured so severely that it was unrecognizable. Fernando had to check the identification tags to make sure it was him. He had carried his brother’s body back to the medics, sustaining a gunshot wound to the thigh as he meandered through enemy fire.

Unfortunately, the commander did not look on Fernando’s act as an act of brotherly love. Instead, he was dishonorably discharged after his leg wound was deemed too serious for the frontline medics.

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The letter from the front lines went home to Fernando and Mansfield’s father, Dominick. Dominick was haunted by the dishonorable discharge Fernando had received. The perfect family name had been slandered.

Fernando received the message a few days later. He was never to contact the family again.

He coped by drinking heavily. It dulled his senses and made him forget the pain. With money scarce and nowhere to go, he began working for others with questionable character. He received word a few years later that his father had been killed in South London, the result of a gambling deal gone bad.

Fernando was forced to make money without his family’s name or fortune. He made some shrewd deals here and there and invested in businesses that paid handsomely but were not entirely legal. He was known to be ruthless in his business deals, stopping at nothing to win.

His kind of success came at a tremendous personal cost. Strings were always attached. The victory came with a price. The price was too high for his new bride, Trina. She did not like the shady deals he made with anyone who would listen.

A tear ran down his face as he thought about what he had lost. However, it was not enough for him to change.

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Fernando snapped out of his daydream as he found a parking spot near the downtown area at a local breakfast spot. He stopped to buy a newspaper and give his leg a rest. Fernando knew what he was there for. It was great that he also knew the diner’s owner, of course, in case something went wrong.

Fernando saw George sitting in the café and strolled over to him. Hello, George. How have you been?

George looked around nervously before nodding at Fernando. Fernando folded the paper he was reading in half and put the envelope with the money inside. Working quickly, Fernando slid the paper across the table.

Great, George replied as he stood up. Even better now, he added.

He hugged Fernando while depositing the two bottles of opiates in Fernando’s pocket.

As Fernando got back in his car for the long drive home, his mind wandered back to God and the man screaming down the hall.

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Mansfield wasn’t dead, but he was as good as dead.

He had wandered down the riverbank back during the war; that much was true. When he reached the river, he wasn’t alone. The body of another soldier was lying peacefully near the water. As Mansfield got closer, he saw the man’s face. It was so badly disfigured that he couldn’t make out his features. He found the man’s dog tags to identify him. Peter Bartlett.

Peter Bartlett. Mansfield Panettiere.

He could get out of this horrible war. He would no longer have to compete with his brother for his father’s approval.

Peter Bartlett. Mansfield Panettiere.

Mansfield removed his own dog tags and placed them around Peter’s neck. He slipped Peter’s tags into a spare pocket.

Then he disappeared.

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Mansfield knew it would not be easy; he would have to start over. He hoped his commander would not find him—ever. At first, his family would be devastated at what they perceived to be the loss of their son. But they would survive, Mansfield thought. As always, they had bigger things to celebrate in their life. After all, Fernando was the real hero—filled with passion for business and having the leadership skills to accomplish anything the family wanted or needed. Mansfield had been an unwanted oddity, just an afterthought.

He sat down at the outdoor café, thinking about breakfast even though he had no money. Perhaps he could just rest there for a while. He began to daydream about an earlier time, a time when his family had once traveled and vacationed for a summer here in Paris. Walking to the bakery early in the morning to get a loaf of bread was an amazing way to start the day. The smell of the bread was so fresh, and the cheese was so good. It was as if they had to go to Paris to get good food. The sights and sounds of the marketplace were filled with the hustle and bustle of life. This cosmopolitan city was like no other, his father had said. The people who lived there really had an eye for art.

But I don’t like it, he had said. Although his father never understood that way of life, it was here that Mansfield fell in love with this place.

How do these people live? Mansfield’s father said. Who does the real work and business in this crowded marketplace?

It isn’t steady work, his mom replied. You boys should build a reliable future, based on real jobs, not as delivery men and butchers.

What’s wrong with this work, Mom? Mansfield said. Not everyone is a deliveryman or a butcher. What about the paintings we just passed?

You will need state assistance to survive as an artist. This is not the way of our family, his mom said. While she was not opposed to the way people laughed and seemed to enjoy their lives, she did not think it possible to enjoy life and find peace outside of work.

I will build a business and a big house for him. Fernando laughed reassuringly. Mansfield knew his brother, Fernando, would be better suited to the hustle and bustle of a successful business career, one their parents would be proud of. But Mansfield was different. He did not enjoy hustling to make an extra dollar or even the whole idea of business.

I want to experience the world here and now rather than buy and sell products to people who don’t need them.

You’re a dreamer, Mansfield, Fernando said as the boy’s parents smiled, looking on approvingly. Mansfield saw things of beauty and passion rather than utilitarian objects with a specific function and use. Through the arts, a whole different world of expression was the highest calling. He was a writer, a sculptor, and a painter, though his family never knew that about him; nor would they let him develop those talents.

Now, fifteen years later, Mansfield sat in the early morning, watching people moving past him, many not really awake and others trying to understand the challenges of the day. He felt the terror of the moment, realizing he had no place to stay, no job, and no money, but at the same time, he felt strangely relieved. He was done, guilty of so many