The Tracker

by Chad Zunker

  We searched the directory. There were three business suites listed for the fifth floor of the building. Jacklow & Smithson Attorneys at Law, Northwest Media Consultants, and Roots. Natalie wrote them all down in her notepad. We found the stairwell, thinking it might be safer than the elevator. We hustled up the stairs, Natalie again beating me to the top, where she slowly poked the door open on five. The hallway was quiet. I suspected most offices were officially closed on Sunday.

  Right in front of us were clear glass doors for the law firm. The lights were all out in the lobby inside. No movement. No signs of life. Down the hallway to our left was another set of glass doors for Northwest Media Consultants. Again, the lights were all out and no sign of anyone inside. But on the opposite end of the hallway, we found a final set of glass doors for the third office suite. Although the light was out in the main lobby, we spotted lights and shadows of movement down a hallway. We could hear the murmur of distant conversations. I looked at the name on the door again.

  Roots?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sunday, 5:41 p.m.

  Washington, DC

  1 day, 6 hours, 19 minutes to Election Day

  Natalie and I agreed to meet again in a few hours. She wanted to get back to her office at PowerPlay to dig deeper into Roots. At this point, it was still safer for us to be apart than to be together. Especially if the blonde banker had given up at the museum and headed back to wait for her outside her office building. I had a few places to go anyway.

  I took a cab to 35 E Street, home to my tiny studio apartment on the 4th floor of Capitol Plaza Apartments. I strolled in the light rain, hands in my pockets, hood over my head, eyes on the concrete in front of me. There was nothing fancy about my apartment building. It was a boring yellow building stuck in the middle of DC among other boring concrete and steel structures. It was a block from Georgetown Law School. I imagined the FBI had made a visit, and perhaps Square Jaw’s colleagues.

  It wouldn’t take them long to cover the 425 square feet.

  I watched from the opposite sidewalk for a few minutes, making sure nothing strange was going on around the front of my building. Then I waited until two guys in suits entered and followed them through the glass doors. They headed up the steps to the elevators. I skipped past them, found the stairwell, bounded up the steps two at a time. I cracked open the door on the 4th floor. I could peer all the way down my hallway. There was nothing going on right outside my doorway. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I eased into the hallway, not wanting to bump into a neighbor right now. There had no doubt been a lot of activity going on around my apartment the past thirty-six hours. I’m sure they’d all been questioned yesterday about their neighbor who had gone psycho down in Texas with a handgun. I could even imagine Mrs. Worley, the curious old lady with the beehive of red hair, down the hallway, standing at her door answering questions about me from the police.

  I hustled down the hallway, feeling exposed. When I got to the door of my apartment, sure enough, they’d been here. I found it sealed off with yellow tape that said Police Do Not Cross. I knelt down to the floor, reached around behind the edge of the doorframe. I found an apartment key I had hidden in a crack, wedged between the door frame and the wall. I stood, put the key in the door, turned the knob. There was no noise coming from inside the apartment. I scooted under the police tape, careful not to disturb it, shut the door behind me, took a moment to look around. The place was a mess, partly because I rarely cleaned it, but it was obvious other parties had been inside and had a very rough look around. I didn’t have much. The worn brown leather sofa made out into a bed that I slept on at night, when I found the energy to actually unfold it. Most nights I just slept right on the sofa cushions. A short cabinet held a small thirty-inch flat screen TV with rabbit ears. There was a cheap two-person kitchen table against the wall. The studio kitchen and living area were all together in one room — you could practically stand in the middle and touch everything.

  My law school books and notepads were spread out all over the sofa table. An old pizza box was still on the kitchen counter. My dirty dishes were in the sink. I had not done a great cleaning job before bolting town on my tracker assignment. Natalie had only been in my apartment one time, very early in our relationship, before she decided it was best for us to hang out at her place most nights. I couldn’t have agreed more. This place was for sleep and study and little else. The stack of white file boxes in the corner, mostly filled with undergrad books from CU, folders, notebooks, and law school materials, had all been dumped out and spread across the floor.

  I stood there for a moment. A few weeks ago, I was just a law student. My biggest challenge was juggling three odd jobs, a full load of classes, a broken heart, and a cancer-stricken mom who liked to steal from her neighbors and bite her nurses. It was a hustle and a hassle, and exhausting most days, but it was nothing compared to the past couple of days.

  At any rate, I wasn’t here to reminisce or whine. I didn’t need to linger. I had a purpose for being there. I moved to the closet. Several of the boxes had been pulled off of shelves, littering the floor, some clothes still on hangers, others strewn about and in wrinkled piles.

  In the back corner of the closet, I found the small white shoe box that my mom had given me, filled with my most cherished items. There was a stack of photos of us together when she was a teenager and I was a baby, a piece of paper on which she had written a song for me right before dropping me at St. Luke’s, some drawings she’d done, a few of her other childhood knickknacks and pieces of jewelry. I also found the silver cross necklace hanging on a simple leather string that she’d given me after our reunion in Houston. Although it was nothing fancy, I never wanted to lose it.

  I put on the necklace, tucked it inside my sweatshirt, dumped the contents of the shoe box inside my black backpack along with some extra clothes from the closet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever return to this place again.

  When I was back in the hallway, locking the door, I heard a familiar high-pitched whiney voice from the other end.

  “Sam? That you?”

  I took a peek over. Old Lady Worley was thirty feet away, squinting, adjusting her thick glasses.

  With a deep voice, I said, “Police, lady. Go back inside.”

  Then I turned away, backpack over my shoulder, and hit the stairwell, hoping I could somehow get out of the building before that old lady got back to her phone and called the front desk to tell them that Sam Callahan, the murderer, was in the building.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sunday, 6:37 p.m.

  Washington, DC

  1 day, 5 hours, 23 minutes to Election Day

  I met Tommy Kucher at Big Planet Comics in Georgetown. He was in the back corner of the comic book store, away from the street, away from the windows. It was a big deal for us to meet in person, especially when initiated by Tommy. He did not like to leave his private computer lair. Tommy wore his usual black skinny jeans, white T-shirt, and blue jean jacket with holes everywhere. His black hair was spiked up on top and shaved on the sides. It had two shades of purple streaks in it. He looked even skinnier than normal, like he was barely a pound over 120. He’d added a couple of rings to the left ear.

  “Dude, nice hair,” Tommy said, examining my bleached blonde look.

  “Just trying to keep up with you.”

  I could smell the cigarettes on his breath. Wrapped around his skinny neck was a blue and gray tattoo that said TOMMY COOL.

  “I’d say you’ve blown way past me,” Tommy said. “It’s not my face on CNN with the Feds after me.”

  “I’d rather it be you.”

  We both grinned. I peeked over my shoulder, toward the front. A clerk Tommy’s age, around twenty, sat behind the counter, reading. There was another pudgy young wanderer in the store looking at comics, but no one else.

  “What’s going on, Tommy? Why are we here?”

  He nodded. “I’ve been going hard at that server of yours in Sweden. Thought I was making
progress, but then the whole thing just got buzz-sawed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It got shut down, disabled. Completely jacked.”

  “Like a cyber-attack?”

  “Not just any attack, bro. This was the real deal. This was like the friggin’ nuclear war of attacks. They wanted to make sure no one got back inside. I’m not sure they’ll ever have it up and running again. It’s been obliterated.”

  “By who?”

  “I don’t know yet. But it’s not some kid on a desktop in Romania or something, I can tell you that. This was elite. Like a CIA or Chinese military operation. Not too many I know of in the world who are capable of it.”

  I felt my heart sink. Had the video of McCallister gone down with the attack?

  “That’s not all,” Tommy continued. “They started chasing after me.”

  “Chasing you?”

  “Yeah, online. They began to track me in reverse. These guys knew I was hunting for something, and they began to hunt me right back. So I got out of there. Texted you.”

  “Can they find you? I mean, in real life?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Nah, I was looped in through so many redirects from all over the world, it would be impossible. I’m not really too worried about me. But I am worried about you. Who did you piss off, Sam? Because this is not just the work of some IT guy working on a Congressman’s staff. You’ve messed with the wrong people.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Well, the pig server is dead.”

  “We think that Rick Jackson might have sent that message to his second cousin, a guy named Jeremy Lynch, who is a computer analyst for the CIA. He’s been missing since at least yesterday. We went by his place an hour ago and found it ransacked. Someone was there looking for something.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “I sure hope not.”

  “Jeremy Lynch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool.” Tommy nodded. “I’ll be on the lookout. If he drops in somewhere online, I’ll find him and let you know immediately.”

  “Watch your back, Maverick.”

  Tommy grinned again. “I ain’t scared. You watch yours.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sunday, 7:57 p.m.

  Washington, DC

  1 day, 4 hours, 3 minutes to Election Day

  We met at the Thomas Jefferson Memorial.

  The sun had set, and the memorial was aglow in brilliant bright lights. At nearly eight, the crowds had thinned. I hid behind a massive column. I knew Natalie was zigzagging the city, in and out of subways and cabs, making sure she wasn’t followed. She planned to do this for over an hour, just to take the highest measure of precaution. She had spotted the blonde banker guy one more time on the sidewalk outside of her office building. It made both of us very uneasy. Why was he targeting Natalie? Did they know we had connected and were now working together? I had also cleared my tracks after meeting with Tommy Kucher, making sure I could not be followed. Acting completely erratic, to make it near impossible to trail me. I mean, if I didn’t know where I was going from one step to the next, how could an assassin?

  It was exhausting. I couldn’t keep going much longer.

  I thought about the nature of the cyber-attack. Tommy called it the most sophisticated attack he’d ever seen. Was the military connected to this?

  My mind drifted to thoughts of my mom. Something I’d been trying to resist. Why had they taken her but left no sign of any demands? No ransom request? No her-life-for-my-life exchange? They just made her disappear for no apparent reason. It didn’t make any sense. I was sick about it. I’d touched base by phone with Cedric several times throughout the day. There was no sign of her return to the facility.

  I sighed, leaned against the column, stared at the massive statue of Thomas Jefferson in the middle of the memorial. I spotted a man in a black trench coat across the way. He gazed in my direction a moment too long. I slipped back behind the column, scooted down the outside steps, slowly circled the monument, and then entered from a different corridor. Again I peered inside, near the statue, from around a new column. The man was now huddled with a dark-haired woman of similar age and they had two teenage boys with them. If he was a killer or FBI, it was a great cover. The family walked out of the monument together a few minutes later. I exhaled.

  Natalie arrived right on time. She slowly circled the statue in the middle twice. Twice meant she was clean. Three times meant she was not clean and abort. She trotted down the outside steps, toward the shadows by the Tidal Basin. I watched for two minutes, then joined her. A chilly breeze was blowing in off the Potomac River. It was the first day of November. The election was barely a day away. I wondered if I’d live to watch Lucas McCallister claim victory. The thought of that was simply inconceivable and made me nauseous. Actually, at the moment, the thought of Congressman Mitchell winning wasn’t much better. I really didn’t know what to think. Both men could have innocent blood on their hands. The good citizens of Texas could unwittingly be electing a cold-blooded killer to Congress either way.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yes. You?”

  “Now that you’re here.”

  She didn’t roll her eyes at me this time.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Roots is a super PAC. Formed only six months ago.”

  “Political Action Committee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Formed by whom?"

  “The attorney on the paperwork is a partner for Hilman & Nesbit. So it could be for anyone, the firm represents hundreds of corporate and government clients.”

  “So a dead end?”

  She gave me that “don’t be a dumbass” look again.

  “Forgive me. What else?”

  “Roots has spent ten million dollars in the past three months on six different congressional races going on in the country right now.”

  “All backing the same party?”

  “No, different party candidates. Split down the middle.”

  “That’s confusing.”

  “I think it’s a smoke screen. Eight of the ten million was spent in Texas.”

  “District 21?”

  “Yes. On TV ads slamming Congressman Mitchell.”

  “Wait. Against Mitchell?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m not sure what the connecting thread is. We’ve got one assassin hunting you down that apparently works for Mitchell. And another possible assassin, or at least a guy with a gun, breaking into Jeremy Lynch’s apartment, and then heading back to the offices of a super PAC whose main goal seems to be winning the election for McCallister. There is a long list of names of individual givers, but most of the funding is coming from an obscure new lobbyist firm called Tolstoy & Peters. Nearly ninety percent of the money. I can’t seem to find much info on them, they are that brand new. The website is very generic. No real names or faces. The whole operation feels a little suspicious to me.”

  “They have a physical address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s pay them a visit.”

  “It’s eight o’clock on Sunday night. No one will be there.”

  “Exactly.”

  She tilted her head. “What did you have in mind?”

  I shrugged, smiled. “Maybe there is a key under the mat.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sunday, 8:19 p.m.

  Washington, DC

  1 day, 3 hours, 41 minutes to Election Day

  Tolstoy & Peters’ offices were listed on the fourth floor in Watergate 600. It was near the Potomac, adjacent to the Kennedy Center, the massive old complex made famous by the President Nixon debacle forty years ago, coining the term Watergate Scandal. Since this was likely another political scandal, it felt somewhat appropriate. The spacious round lobby had several people crossing through, and a security guard at a booth. We took the stairs up. No reason to step in and out of an elevator with anyone. The hallway was quiet. Most of t
he office suites were dark. We found a simple frosted glass door with the name Tolstoy & Peters engraved on the outside. There were no signs of an alarm system, but the door was no simple lock and key. It was accessed only through a security key card. No magical paperclip tricks with this one.

  “Now what?” she said, like it was a challenge. “Can’t pick that bad boy, can you?”

  “Wait here,” I instructed.

  “Where are you going, Sam?”

  “Just sit tight. I’ll be back in three minutes.”

  I found the stairwell again, bounded down the steps, re-entered the lobby. I paused, scanning the room for the security guard. Bingo. I noticed the white key card in a clear plastic holder clipped to a black belt. Right next to a black holster and revolver. I inhaled and let it out very slowly. It had been a few years, but there was no better time to shake off the dust. I waited as two men exited the elevator heading for the lobby doors, moved in behind them. We were walking in a small pack directly toward the guard. He stood behind the booth, studying a piece of paper in his hand. We were within ten feet. I veered to my right, toward the guard. His face was still planted in the paperwork. I held my phone in front of my eyes, still walking, like I was reading an email with my eyes down. I bumped the guard, just a soft, easy nudge into him, and then pulled the key card clip with my right hand. My fingers pushed it up under my shirt sleeve in one practiced motion. Like riding a bike.