In Such a World: Cross Paths

By T.J. Hux

The upside of being a fugitive is the chance to reinvent oneself and start a new life. The downside is that, in such a world as ours, the road to that reparation is strewn with obstacles.

Matt Pierson, dishonorably discharged Navy SEAL, seeks redemption for his life of violence. His plan to clear his name is shattered when the admiral who betrayed him is brutally gunned down, and Pierson becomes the prime suspect for his murder. Realizing that the admiral was part of a much larger conspiracy, and desperate to protect his family, Pierson enrolls in a Lutheran seminary to disappear off the grid.

But there is no place to hide. He soon runs afoul of an FBI task force created to stop the international assassin known as Go-el Hadam, the Avenger of Blood. It will be a fight to the death when their paths cross. Thrust back into a world of violence and intrigue, Pierson risks all to save his family and the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781489745910

T.J. Hux

With over 30 plus years of pastoral ministry, T.J. Hux has had the privilege to befriend and care for members of the law enforcement and military communities. Having learned from them the challenges of living with the darkness they experience and at times deeds they have done, Hux has grown to understand the struggles they face with remorse and shame. He has also been told real life stories of off the record activities that have sparked his imagination. His books are written to not only tell an exciting tale, but to help remind his readers that there is grace, healing, and hope for all. website: insuchaworld.com

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PROLOGUE

May 10

Chevy Chase Pavilion, Washington, DC

F ORMER SECRETARY OF STATE EDITH Deen was seated comfortably in the burgundy leather chair in front of the desk of Representative Nathan Mitchel from Virginia, chair of the House Intelligence Committee. The two were alone in Mitchel’s private office. For the purpose of the meeting, the shades were drawn, and the room was dark. A desk lamp and a floor lamp in the corner provided the only light, creating a shadowy eeriness, perfectly appropriate for the conversation they were having.

The office was a luxury, a retreat from his official congressional office at the capitol. It was positioned in the northwest corner of the top floor of the Chevy Chase Pavilion, a popular upper-end shopping mall. The location allowed guests to visit anonymously, the plethora of stores providing a multitude of alibis for being at that location. Lobbyists and campaign donors who wanted to protect their anonymity, congressional interns or occasional high-class hookers were able to come and go discreetly.

Such were the rumors that the former secretary of state was privy to. Thus, Mitchel’s private office was uniquely suited for her current meeting with the congressman. At Deen’s insistence, Mitchel arranged for a countersurveillance unit to sweep the office only an hour before the current meeting.

What have you learned? Mitchel asked.

The FBI put together a five-person team from their own ranks and allowed a section chief from the CIA a place on the team in an advisory role. My source informed me that the CIA man brought in a couple of his own people working on the side, crossing lines the FBI wouldn’t allow. It is a small, closed team, Deen answered.

That’s it? Small group, the congressman said, nodding thoughtfully. What have they learned?

They spent their first efforts trying to identify suspects from a profile the CIA section chief put together. Not much has come of that. Recently, they’ve been focusing on finding the common link between the victims, she said, delivering the truth in small doses to lead her accomplice to the proper conclusions.

Mitchel leaned forward. That could lead them to us. How close are they?

They’ve learned enough to find Maier. No one knows what he told them; he’s still pretty much out of it. But they’re getting too close, Deen said, not wishing to explain further.

Who else knows what they’ve learned?

Frank Rucker from the Bureau, Russ Seabrook and Henry Morganson from the Farm. As far as we could learn, the group is that closed. Apparently, they feel that Go-el has some very high-level connections, and no doubt they’re right.

We’ve got to find out Go-el’s source, Mitchel blurted, visibly shaken by her disclosures.

Deen sat thoughtfully, weighing options, assessing consequences, reviewing again the plan she had formulated. "Go-el is not our primary concern at this moment.

No? Mitchel asked incredulously. Four of our colleagues are dead! I think that makes Go-el a very grave concern!

Ignoring him, Deen continued toward her point. It is clear Go-el has a very clear agenda for his attacks, as well as the information necessary to pursue them. The fact is, it is very likely Go-el already knows who we are. Until Go-el is stopped, we are all in danger.

For cryin’ out loud, Edith, you’re saying it yourself! We have to stop Go-el. That has to be our first priority. We can’t let anything distract us from that, or none of us will be left!

She held up both hands in protest. Nathan, we don’t disagree. But I’m not sure you’re appreciating the other threat to us. No one has been able to get close to finding out who or what Go-el is, but this task force … Now that they have linked Go-el’s victims to Colombia, it won’t be long before they put the pieces together that will lead them to us.

She stood and began a slow, methodical stroll around the congressman’s office, pausing to examine the various plaques and certificates that proclaimed the accomplishments of Mitchel’s life. After completing her survey, she continued her thoughts. You realize if this task force discovers us, all of this, she slowly swept her hand around the room, will be lost.

Nathan Mitchel sat motionless, watching as the former secretary of state walked around his desk and sat in his chair, placing her elbows on the desktop and knitting her fingers together. Your career, your reputation … not to mention your freedom. Go-el is hunting us in secret, outside the public eye. That is our greatest weapon against whoever is behind Go-el. But if the task force discovers us, it will be public, and every resource of this government will be turned against us.

Shaken, Mitchel shifted nervously in his seat. We’re facing two threats, but only one can kill us at any time. I still say Go-el is our biggest threat!

Deen let a long exhale escape, a sign of her frustration. Imagine the scene, Nathan. You’ve been exposed, indicted, disgraced in the public eye, and then, coming out of the courthouse after your arraignment, a sniper’s bullet tears through your chest. She emphasized her point by making fingers into the shape of a gun and mimed shooting him. You’re dead either way. Yes, you are right, we face two dangers. But we fight them as we have the opportunity. We are no closer to Go-el than this task force, but that task force is closing in on us. We know everything about the task force. We strike there first.

You have a plan?

Again, she paused, collecting her thoughts, reaching her conclusions. Mr. Seabrook has become an important ally to us. As for the rest, eliminate them. All of them, she declared with authority that made it clear her order would not be debated.

Mitchel’s jaw dropped. Are you saying …

You are the chair of the House Intelligence Committee. You’ve got contacts, I assume.

He sat silently. Leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands. Slowly, he nodded. Yeah.

Set it up well, and take them out—all of them. They’re too close. I want it completed within three weeks. Do not contact me again until it is finished. And even then, only to confirm that it has been completed. Do we understand each other?

1

May 12

Burnsville, North Carolina

A CLUSTER OF ROCK STOOD ON the left side of the trail about a hundred meters up ahead. I can make it to those rocks , Matthew Pierson told himself as he willed his burning legs to continue pumping. It was a skill he had developed in his basic underwater demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training. Don’t focus on the end, set smaller goals along the way, and keep moving through them. Never quit. He was running a trail that most would find challenging to simply hike.

Four days ago, he overcame one of the greatest challenges he had ever faced. Having to look into the eyes of a widow whose husband he had killed was hard. Confessing to her his role in her husband’s murder had taken every ounce of courage and integrity he had, and then some. She had been angry, tearful, yet surprisingly graceful to him. And facing the challenge had rewarded him with a newfound peace in his soul. Though still being hunted and unable to ever return to the life he had once known, for the first time since the horrible mission ten months ago, he had hope for the future.

After his conversation with Marie Claypool, Pierson knew he had to make some important decisions about that future. He also knew he needed exercise and a challenge. Three nights after leaving Savannah, he used his laptop in his hotel room to research trail runs in the area. The Black Mountain Crest Trail caught his attention. The website claimed it was the toughest trail run in the world. He accepted the challenge on the spot and the next morning drove to Burnsville, North Carolina.

Only four miles up the steep path leading to the peak of Mount Mitchel, he was already chastising himself. Two more miles of brutally steep trail lay ahead of him. He had started at too fast a pace, blowing by three groups of hikers. He had underestimated how strenuous the Black Mountain Crest Trail would be—an over 6,500-foot climb in six miles. Besides, he had let himself get out of shape. His weeks living off the grid and his cross-country road trip had taken their toll.

Legs rubbery, lungs burning, he reached the rock landmark he had chosen as his goal and slowed his pace, eventually stopping and clasping his hands behind his head, sucking in air through his nose and expelling it through his mouth, shaking out his legs in the process. As his pulse slowed and breath returned, he slipped off his backpack and retrieved his water bottle, sucking down a few gulps. He took a moment to look at the forest around him. He was nearing the tree line and already getting a glimpse of the views that awaited him. He stepped off the trail and began weaving his way through the trees, his training having taught him a distrust of trails. He breathed in deeply the rich smells of the forest. Safely out of sight from the trail, he allowed himself the luxury of taking a seat at the base of a large spruce tree.

His visits with Pastor Olafson and Marie Claypool had been his first steps toward reconciling with God and people. But his heart ached for those relationships beyond his control to reconcile. He could only imagine the fear and anger his family must have toward him. With changes to his appearance and a complete set of IDs—his new name, Matthew Craige, a couple credit cards, and the cash his friend had retrieved for him—he was free in a way few people experience. Yet a profound sadness suffocated whatever joy or excitement he might otherwise have felt. He was free to do everything but what he wanted most: to go home.

Perhaps fatigue allowed his mind to be haunted by a growing sense of déjà vu. Pierson knew that sights, sounds, and smells could be triggers for memories long forgotten, waking them from the shadows of the subconscious, evoking a spontaneous smile or a gut-twisting surge of grief, fear, guilt, or shame. In this case, it was the smell of moist soil and decaying foliage of the forest that triggered the first memory from Matthew Pierson’s past.

It was twelve years and a lifetime ago. Matt Pierson was a senior in high school and serving as an apprentice youth director of his congregation’s middle school youth group. Under the leadership and supervision of the congregation’s associate pastor, the young Pierson and his youth directing partner, Jon, had taken the middle schoolers on a weekend retreat to Mount Gilead Christian Camp located in California’s northern coastal hills, about fifteen miles west of Santa Rosa. Sharing the camp were middle school groups from two other area congregations. Each church was to run their own programming and activities in their own areas of the camp.

Given the nature of middle school youth, the hormonally charged students immediately began to check out the youth from the other congregations. Flirtations also began immediately. Leaders from all three congregations gathered to discuss the situation and make plans. The camp was divided into three sections. Boundaries were drawn and explained to every camper.

By midafternoon, members of all the youth groups had conducted reconnaissance missions into the areas of the camp occupied by the other church groups. Their efforts discovered that there were hot guys and equally hot girls in the varying youth groups. Plots for a late-night rendezvous were hatched, and the word began to spread among their fellow campers.

Thinking themselves ever so clever, the youth of Pierson’s congregation approached each other, in full hearing of their leaders and with all the subtlety they could muster given their level of experience with clandestine operations. With exaggerated winks and nods, they passed on the message, The game will be at one o’clock tomorrow.

By sundown, Pierson, Jon, and their fearless leader, Pastor Jim, had broken their code and knew all their plans. The boys from one of the other camps were going to meet up with the girls from their group at 1:00 a.m. by the camp’s firepit and amphitheater. As the commanding officer, Pastor Jim issued the proclamation, I don’t think we can let this happen. He then began laying out his plan for the ambush.

Pierson smiled as the memories of his first ambush replayed in his mind. So many years ago, he, Jon, and Pastor Jim had lain on their bellies in the woods along the dirt road that connected two sections of the camp, their faces inches from the moist ground, the smell of earth filling their nostrils. They waited in silence for the boys from the other group to cross the no-man’s-zone. In buckets beside them, each was armed with ten carefully prepared water balloons. The three leaders had snuck out of their own cabins after making sure their youth were sound asleep. By 12:45 a.m., they were in position, and the young Pierson experienced his first lesson about springing a successful ambush. Patience.

They waited till 1:00 a.m., checking their watches often, their adrenaline pumping, their hands gently squeezing the water balloons they held. The road below them was empty and silent. 1:05, 1:08, 1:12, 1:15. I don’t think they’re coming, Jon whispered from his position on Pierson’s right. Pastor Jim was stationed on his left. He would be the first to fire. The seconds rolled into minutes, and all three began wondering if the enemy would show. Was their intelligence wrong? Had the kids caught on to their plans? Had they been suckered? Were the kids right now gathering in another part of the camp? The three church leaders were just about to give up their planned ambush and return to their cabin when Pastor Jim whispered excitedly, They’re coming!

Seven youth from the other camp were approaching just as anticipated, only not on foot; they were on bicycles. They were in no hurry as they made their way toward their appointed meeting. Were they deliberately procrastinating, letting the girls wait? Pierson wondered. Silently, Pastor Jim let fly his first balloon. Matt and Jon followed suit. Then suddenly, out of the blackened forest, a silent barrage of water balloons began hailing down on the unsuspecting youth.

As the balloons began exploding on their bikes, their bodies, and the ground around them, one word rang out among the other exclamations of shock and surprise: Shit! They instantly wheeled their bikes around and pumped their pedals as fast as their middle school–aged legs could work them. They were defeated and escaped to the protection of their part of the camp! The ambush had been an amazing success.

Pierson smiled at the memory, for a moment relieved that his sense of déjà vu was satisfied. Yet the relief was short lived, as the fond memory was replaced by another, far more sinister event. He shut his eyes tightly, as if to squeeze back the dark recollections of his past, but it was too late. It was the night of his first kills.

Deep in the rain forests of northern Colombia, Pierson was deployed with his four-man fireteam from SEAL Team 3, Echo platoon. They were to provide rearguard support for the heavy hitters—an eight-man squad dispatched from Development Group, DEVGRU. They would perform the actual hostage rescue. As the newest member of the team and still a virgin in that he had no confirmed kills to his credit, it was decided without words that his unit would be placed where he could do the least amount of damage if stuff were to hit the fan.

In the teams, especially in the field, rank meant little compared to experience and reputation. Though a lieutenant, Pierson didn’t protest, but inside he hungered for the opportunity to prove himself. Not only green, in BUD/S he had been saddled with the nickname Preacher due to the bachelor’s degree in religious studies he earned before receiving his naval commission. For many in the teams, religion equaled ethics; ethics equaled hesitation. Pierson knew that all the veterans in his platoon were wondering about him. Would he pull the trigger when needed or have that split second of hesitation of ethical doubt? Though he admitted it to no one, he wondered the same thing about himself.

Their mission that night required a level of precision and expertise. Locals in nearby villages had been complaining of atrocities at the militia’s hands following recent regional votes in favor of anticartel candidates. Though normally such operations as tonight’s would be either turned over to or conducted with Colombian national forces, this particular band of militia had abducted several Western journalists, specifically CNN’s Colombian affiliate reporter, Camila Laureano, and her film crew. When the mutilated body of her videographer washed ashore on the west bank of the Cauca River, just north of Cali, the Joint Special Operations Command had decided to take matters into their own hands.

Another eight-man squad from SEAL Team 3 was positioned three klicks downriver to the east, prepared to provide a distraction and ambush to draw militia forces away from the compound and annihilate them while the DEVGRU boys did their dirty work. The plan was that by morning, Camila Laureano would be freed and every member of the militia dead.

Positioned approximately fifteen meters apart, Pierson and his unit were deployed in a square with a small trail running down its middle, one man on each side, one pair guarding the trail from the east, the other from the west. All four were hidden in the foliage, waiting for their mates to launch the distraction, each frustrated that, as on other missions, they would be on the sidelines while others got the action. They had been in position for two hours, and their muscles ached for motion.

Then Pierson heard voices coming from the forest to the west of him. He whispered into the microphone of his in-ear conduction headset. We’ve got company. No visual. At least two bogies, Pierson concluded, having detected at least two distinct voices. His eyes strained through his night vision binoculars, but he could see nothing through the dense jungle undergrowth.

Copy that, the man on his starboard side whispered first, followed in sequence by the two others to the east. Each man knew they could not let anyone pass their position. They had no idea the size of the force coming their way or even if they were militia or civilians. Whatever the case, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As trained, Pierson and his forward teammate let the first two pass by. They wore farmworker clothes and were whispering too loudly to each other as they passed. Each had an AK47 slung over his shoulders. Sloppy and undisciplined, definitely militia. Two more followed ten paces behind, also whispering to each other, completely unaware they were about to die.

There didn’t seem to be more coming. Pierson tensed his muscles like a snake coiling to strike. He listened for the sound behind him indicating his rear teammates were engaging their targets. Four harsh, rapid spits, two thuds as the bodies collapsed to the ground. Instantly, Pierson fired his SIG-Sauer P226, the weapon making a sharp spit as it sent the bullet through the attached sound suppressor. The militiaman’s head snapped back sharply as the bullet exploded through the opposite side of his skull. The SEAL to his right instantly fired, and the fourth militiaman was blown off his feet and thrown to the ground, the body landing just two meters from Pierson.

Each SEAL remained concealed, silent again, ready to engage if more militia appeared on the trail. A tension-filled five minutes passed before Pierson whispered into his microphone. Rat, hold position. Mouse, Hammy, get the bodies off the trail, he ordered, using the rodent-based call signs assigned to certain members of his fireteam. Somehow, when assigning call signs, the three of his team had been saddled with the rodent theme.

As ordered, operators Mouse and Hammy broke cover and dragged the first two bodies from the trail, concealing them beneath the undergrowth. They returned for the second pair.

Contact, Pierson whispered urgently. Four more militia suddenly appeared on the trail, bunched together, jogging as though trying to catch up to their comrades, AK47s cradled in their arms.

Rayes and Daw dropped the bodies and instantly sank to a squatting position, unable to shoulder their weapons for fear of being seen. But it was too late; they had already been spotted. The joggers almost collided with each other as the first militiaman saw them and froze in his tracks.

With his sound-suppressed Mk18 pressed firmly into his shoulder, Pierson fired twice, the bullets striking center mass, throwing the first militiaman back into the others. Shifting to his second target, Pierson fired again, two more quick shots, another tango down. His third target was starting to turn to run away, his face awash with panic. Again, Pierson fired twice. The man staggered back but did not fall, momentarily blocking Pierson’s view of his fourth target. The fourth militiaman, fully panicked, spun and began sprinting down the trail he had just moments ago traveled. Rounding the bend in the trail, he disappeared from Pierson’s view.

We’ve got a runner. I’m going after him, Pierson huffed into his com unit as he sprinted after his prey. Drawing his combat knife, closing the distance between them, he saw the man look back over his shoulder. Pierson saw the terror in his eyes. The gap between them closed, and Pierson tackled the militiaman, wrapping his leg around his victim’s legs, his left arm grabbing the man’s head and yanking it back violently, exposing the man’s neck. With his SOG SEAL Strike combat knife in his right hand, he plunged it into his tango’s throat. Withdrawing the blade, he rapidly stabbed twice more into his exposed ribs and side, lungs and liver, as trained. Blood erupted from the neck wound and sprayed Pierson’s face and soaked into his uniform. Clutching the dying man, he felt every tremor, heard every sound of his final gurgling breaths as his victim died in his arms.

Now, years later, the memory engulfed him to such a degree he could remember every detail—the smells of the rain forest, cordite, and blood. He remembered his consciousness protesting and the deliberate decision to shut it down and silence it. He remembered the next morning, when one of the DEVGRU operators approached him. Five confirmed kills, not one bullet wasted. Not bad for a preacher, he said with a devilish grin. It was the first time he met Chief Warren Pepper Adler, who would go on to recommend him for the selection process for DEVGRU.

Voices from the trail snapped his attention back to the present. Through the trees, he caught glimpses of one of the groups of hikers he had earlier passed. Three men, two women. Mid-thirties he estimated.

Perceiving no threat from them, he rose and began quietly weaving his way between the trees, working his way up the mountain and away from the trail, his pride not willing to let the hikers realize they had passed him. Ten minutes later, he returned to the trail, ahead and out of sight of the hikers. Rested now, he immediately resumed his run up the mountain. He paced himself better and made the summit without further stops. His mind was preoccupied, no longer with his past, but with his future.

By the time he made it back to the valley floor, one thing was clear: It was time to move on. The dual memories the day’s outing had stirred reminded him of the contrast between the two chapters of his life. When he had walked with God in his youth, he remembered having an underlying peace about his future. Having walked away from God, he now knew guilt and the uncertainty of whether he’d even live through each day.

Okay, Lord, if you’ll have me back, I’m going to put my trust in you, he whispered his simple prayer. He remembered the suggestion Pastor Olafson had made during their visit, encouraging him to take refuge at a seminary where he could be safe from suspicion and allow his infant faith to grow. Then it had seemed a mere fantasy, but now … Maybe, just maybe. He would have plenty of time to think about it as he made his way cross-country, back to the West Coast. If not home, at least closer to it.

May 14

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Waking was difficult this morning as it had been for days now. Since returning from her assignment in South America and her follow-up visit to the psychiatric hospital in Pennsylvania, where she had interviewed Richard Maier, sleep had been increasingly hard to come by for special agent Brenda LeToure. The phrase he had repeated over and over as she was leaving, Pretty lady’s gonna die, seemed now to be haunting her sleep. Though she identified herself as a Christian, she did not consider herself superstitious. Nor in her waking hours did she feel fearful or even to think much about the eerie conversation aspect as it pertained to the hunt of the terrorist cell known as Go-el.

Discipline propelled her from bed. She dressed in dark blue sweatpants and a Concordia University sweatshirt. After lacing her running shoes, she put herself through her stretching routine, and then skip stepped down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor of her apartment building. For her current assignment, the FBI was springing for a studio apartment on the fourth floor of the 4Marq building.

Exiting the building, she took in her surroundings, noting the pedestrians passing on the sidewalk, and the easy flow of traffic this early in the morning. A utility truck with two workers—one man, one woman—were working on a telecom panel on the building across the street. They noticed her notice them. Both were watching her as she came out of her building. Both hastily turned away.

LeToure felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She was now fully awake. She started her run at a faster pace than she preferred. At the end of the block, she stopped and waited for the walk sign to appear and an electronic voice to command, Walk. She leaned forward to stretch her hamstrings, taking the opportunity to look behind her. The workers were staring at her but again quickly turned their heads away.

The light changed, and the voice gave her permission to cross the street. She resumed her fast pace and allowed her mind to process. She was certain the pair of workers was a surveillance team. The nervous head turns revealed they weren’t very skilled, but the utility vehicle, uniforms, tools, and access to the telecom box meant they had resources. Not wanting to slow her pace, she opted for a shorter two-mile route that took her along the Mississippi River and to the back of the 4Marq building.

Winded, she arrived a block away and began walking, slowly approaching the corner where she could see the utility van before the crew could see her. It was gone. Rounding the corner to the front of her building, she scanned, taking in every detail. Four people were waiting at the bus stop a block north, three standing, one sitting. Three pedestrians were stopped, waiting to cross the same intersection she had crossed fifteen minutes ago. A homeless man was still in his sleeping bag, huddled in an alcove across the street. She had not seen him when she left the building. The utility vehicle must have blocked her view.

Passing through the 4Marq’s main entrance, she stole a glance back across the street at the homeless man. Now he was holding a cell phone. It struck her as odd. Then she noticed the phone was aimed at her. Is he taking my picture? Stepping back out onto the street, staring straight at the supposedly homeless man, she watched as he suddenly slipped the phone into a pocket. As he flipped the sleeping bag off himself, she realized he wasn’t inside