Crosscurrents

PROLOGUE New York City July, 2011 His Nikes rhythmically slapped the pavement. Perspiration trickled over his sodden sweatband, stinging his eyes. George wiped them with his t-shirt sleeves. His side ached as he neared the horseshoe-shaped blacktop that looped through the park, the six mile mark. It was tougher to run on muggy days. He stopped and sucked air into his lungs. Dripping wet, hands resting on his waist, George turned to check on his family. He spotted his eldest son, Steven, ten yards behind. His wife, Bridgett, followed another ten yards back and his youngest son, Donald, five yards behind her. This Sunday morning ritual pleased him. He swelled with affection and pride as he watched his wife approach. A purple headband hugged her shoulder-length, blonde hair. Dressed in purple shorts and a white t-shirt, she looked as fit and firm as when they first met fifteen years ago. A loud pow punctured his euphoria, probably an engine’s backfire. A late-model black Lexus, bulging with teenagers, jumped the curb onto the lawn. Then it swerved back onto the blacktop and hooked the road surrounding them. A gang following in a dark blue Lincoln opened fire. A volley of gunshots answered. He watched in horror as Steven’s face convulsed in terror. He thrust his arm into the air and spasmodically jerked forward, blood spurting from his head, and plunged to the ground. Seconds later he heard his wife’s horrifying scream. While bullets buzzed by his head, he saw her pivot. Then, her body arched backward, her head reaching her heels, before striking the ground. Simultaneously Donald hit the dirt. George felt abject terror and rage. The taste of bile tainted his throat. “You bastards! I’ll get you!” he screamed. Then, caught in the crossfire, a searing pain stabbed his right ankle and he collapsed.