Die Run Hide

by P. M. Kavanaugh

  He had the best chance if she went on the run. It would mean a lifetime of running and hiding, even if she figured out how to permanently deactivate or remove her tracking chip. Not much of a life. But if it gave him the kind of life he wanted, it would be worth the price.

  Anika opened up the knapsack’s false bottom that hid black market cigarettes, loaded with real nicotine, and the drug known as Pink. She held up an ampoule of the candy-colored liquid. Originally marketed as a harmless cure for a variety of ailments, Pink had gained notoriety when early users accidentally streamlined it through their nasal passages and discovered its mind-altering effects. The FDHA had banned it, but that just forced the drug underground, enhancing its barter value. The ampoule slid neatly inside her jacket pocket.

  She hoisted herself up and stood at the sink to doctor her upper thigh. The Numb-It did its job anesthetizing the wound. The staples didn’t even sting as she punched them into place. She’d probably have a scar, but at least the wound didn’t appear to need professional attention.

  After a hit of wide spectrum antibiotics, she started on her makeover. Out came a light brown wig, brown-colored lenses, transparent facial tape, fake teeth and semi-permanent bronzer. Minutes later, she surveyed the results in the mirror. The disguise wouldn’t pass the facial recognition systems used by air and high-speed train transport, but it would fool the older equipment still in use on most roads and freeways.

  She removed the 9mm Glock from inside one of the socks. Gianni had been smart to provide her with a gun. Ammunition for the old-style weapon was cheaper and more plentiful and, at close range, just as deadly as a laser.

  She ran through the standard checks as best she could with her one good hand — confirmed the safety catch was on, removed the magazine, cleared the chamber, set the safety catch to “fire,” and squeezed the trigger. A satisfying snap told her the gun was in good working order. She thumbed the safety catch back on and re-loaded the magazine. The gun tucked neatly inside a swath of stretchy material that she wrapped around her waist.

  She finished dressing, adjusted the wig and cap, and made a final visual inspection. The blocker had relaxed the lines of pain around her eyes and between her brows. Her limbs had mellowed, too, with her thigh mumbling a grumpy protest and her wrist, a mild complaint.

  Only one task was left. She pulled out a locator. Gianni had tried giving it to her at the solo briefing. Or what she had thought would be the solo. When she had refused to take it, he had seemed to accept her decision.

  Now she gripped the blue rectangle no longer than her little finger until its edges dug into her flesh. She should have known he wouldn’t acquiesce so easily. But finding her wasn’t part of the plan. As far as he was concerned, she was dead. What they had or might have had was dead, too. She smashed the device with a stomp of her boot and tossed the pieces down the waste chute.

  Inside the diner, the harsh light seemed to drain the interior of most of its color. Anika scanned the patrons, room layout, and egress points. A dozen civilians. Plus the service droid, now behind the bar. Two dozen tables. No egress other than the door she had just entered.

  She walked over to the food and drink dispensers that stood against the wall. Most of the selections were out, except for the day’s special of beef-substitute in congealed gravy and a side order of mysteriously named “carbo medley.”

  So much for real food. She punched in her order, set it on the tray, and grabbed a pouch of water.

  Two men, in baseball caps, wool plaid shirts, jeans, and work boots watched an aeroball game on the wall monitor. The backs of their jackets were stamped with the Globe Transport logo. The trucker on the left refilled his friend’s glass from the pitcher of beer on the counter, then topped off his own. The droid removed an already empty pitcher and set down a bottle of Dry Out.

  The bearded one on the right gave Anika an appraising look as she passed by. His friend shouted a profanity at the screen. A few heads turned, then reverted to their own business.

  The all-news monitor farther down the bar flashed images of charred rubble, a ’bot clean-up crew, and a pretty brunette newscaster.

  Anika quick stepped to a corner table, set down her tray and slipped into the bench seat. She plugged in earphones just as Jackson Palmer, the pseudo-legitimate businessman, came on screen.

  “It’s outrageous,” Palmer said. “Clearly the work of disturbed minds. Probably terrorists.”

  Lying nukebag. Anika’s lips twisted into a grimace.

  Over the shoulder of the on-site reporter, a dozen autobots swept through the rubble while their human handlers directed them from the perimeter of the cordoned-off area.

  Anika’s fingers tightened around the edges of the tray.

  Would her image come up next alongside false information about her past? Like what had happened with Olszewski when he had gone rogue after a mission, prompting U.N.I.T. to deliver a trumped-up history of terrorist activity to the local and national authorities? That was six months ago. No operative had tried running since.

  The news switched to the latest tensions in Sudan.

  Anika released a slow breath and stretched out her fingers. So U.N.I.T. wasn’t treating her escape as unauthorized. Either that, or Gianni had taken care of her tracking chip and the agency thought her dead.

  She took a bite of the lukewarm food and scouted the room for a ride.

  The two truckers ordered another pitcher from the droid. Their voices had grown louder. She ruled them out.

  Another group of truckers, with different logos on their jackets than the pair at the bar, sat in the far corner. Full trays of food lay in front of them. They were just getting started. The young couple watching the news was a possibility, but they didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, either.

  The man at the table two over from hers had pushed his plate to one side and was finishing off a bottle of sparkling water. Anika examined his squat frame and broad features. Eastern European descent, most likely.

  He pulled out his handheld and began speaking into it. She leaned forward. Ukrainian. Not her best language, but she could make out that the man was speaking with his wife or maybe girlfriend, asking about the kids, the leaky sink, the estimate from the contractor.

  Family man. Good.

  His voice softened to a sing-song stream of questions and answers, with liberal sprinklings of pryntsesa, or princess. A tender smile tugged at his lips as he promised that Papa would be home soon. His daughter. Even better.

  The trucker who had shouted obscenities at the monitor swiveled around on his chair and pumped his fists in the air. “Go Trojans!” he cried.

  As post-game images streaked across the large screen, the man drained his mug, stood, and glanced around the room, a lopsided grin on his face. He caught Anika’s eye and his grin widened.

  Don’t even think about it.

  She switched her gaze back to the parking lot. The red-haired woman who had been wandering the grounds earlier rested in a squat against the side of the building. A black all-terrain with privacy windows pulled in between two mammoth rigs. The driver door retracted and a man in civilian clothes stepped out.

  Anika froze. Even from this distance, she could make out the scar that ran across his cheek.

  Chapter 9

  Anika slid the Glock from under her shirt and tucked it between her legs.

  Salazar moved to the back of his vehicle and paused, scanning the perimeter. No one got out from the passenger side.

  Had he been sent to retrieve her? A one-man team? Not likely.

  She started to stand. And was stopped by a husky frame and beer breath.

  “What’s your hurry, sweetheart?” The trucker leaned in close. One hairy-knuckled hand rested on the table, the other on the back of her seat.

  His bearded friend stood behind him, shifting from one foot to the other, eyes fixed on the floor.

  “You’re in my way.” Anika kept her voice low.

  “Aw, come on, me and my frie
nd just wanna buy you a beer.” The words slurred out of him.

  She darted a look outside.

  Salazar was striding toward the diner.

  “Move,” she hissed.

  The trucker’s eyes widened and he pulled back a little.

  She changed her grip on the Glock so that her fingers curled around the barrel. The bridge of his nose hovered within striking distance.

  “Excuse me, lady.” The Ukrainian had left his table. “You okay?”

  The trucker turned his head and snarled, “Private party, pal. Back off.”

  “No trouble.” The Ukrainian lifted his shoulders and spread his hands, but he stayed in place.

  Anika looked outside again. The vagrant woman stepped in Salazar’s path, hand extended, a pleading expression on her face. He shoved her aside and she fell to the ground.

  “Did you see that?” Anika raised her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. The diner grew silent. She jerked her head at the scene outside. “The guy just knocked that woman over.”

  The woman rocked back and forth, her hands clutching her knee. Salazar walked away without a backward glance.

  “Son of a bitch!” the trucker roared. “Let’s get him.”

  All of the truckers stood and started moving toward the door, like a herd of autobots cut loose from their handlers. They surged through the entrance and charged Salazar. The trucker who had called out the command raised an angry fist.

  Two men clamped Salazar’s arms behind his back and the trucker rammed him in the gut.

  Dumb. Go for his eyes or throat or kneecaps. Something that will do some damage.

  Anika ducked low and sprinted outside.

  The Ukrainian bent over the woman and helped her up. She seemed to forget about her injuries and started cheering on her defenders.

  Salazar straightened, raised his knees to his chest and kicked out. His attacker took one boot in the face and another in the groin. He doubled over and blood gushed from his nose.

  Anika watched from the shadows. Too bad. Salazar was an asshole, but he was a highly trained one. The truckers were no match for him.

  The Ukrainian shook his head and walked away.

  Anika followed him until they were both hidden from the others by a row of gleaming metal containers atop enormous tires. Then she stepped forward into the light.

  “Um, excuse me, sir.” She pitched her voice higher than normal, trying to sound young.

  “Da?” The man turned. “Yes?” He switched to English. “Ah, lady, you okay?”

  “Thanks for helping me. In there.” She angled her head toward the diner.

  “That’s okay.”

  “Are you heading south?”

  “Yes. Why you ask?”

  “Can I get a ride?”

  “Sorry.” The man shook his head. “I like to help, but giving ride in truck not legal.” He turned to walk away.

  “Please, I’m trying to get home. My father … he’s sick and I can’t afford to fly or go by rail.” She didn’t add that she also couldn’t afford to have her retinas scanned by airline, monorail, and rental transport companies. “Please?” She didn’t have to fake the anxious look on her face.

  “No trouble.” The man hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands into his pockets, but he didn’t move away.

  “I understand. But let me give you something.”

  She reached inside her jacket and pulled out one of the cigarettes. The man’s eyes zeroed in on the plump roll of tobacco.

  “For your trouble.” Anika held it out to him. “With those two truckers in the diner.”

  Still the man hesitated.

  “It’s the real thing.” She lifted the cigarette to her nose and inhaled. “Come on. It’s okay. Besides, I promised my dad I’d give them up.” The driver took the rolled stick of tobacco. “I’m Cece.”

  “Boris.” The man stuck the cigarette behind his ear.

  “Sure wish you could help me out, Boris.” She reached inside her jacket again and pulled out two more cigarettes along with five world currency notes. “Please? I don’t want to go back into the diner and ask someone else.”

  A scrabbling noise came from behind. What was that? She glanced over her shoulder. Something rippled in the shadow two rigs back.

  A rat shot out from between the wheels, followed by a white streak of fur. Cat. Both animals raced across the aisle and vanished behind another set of wheels.

  She hated rats. They brought up bad memories from the orphanage. Still, she hoped the smaller prey would outrun or outwit its pursuer.

  She turned back to Boris and forced a smile. “What do you say? You’d really be a lifesaver.”

  His face split into a wide grin, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “Okay, pretty lady, I take you.” He pocketed the notes and the tobacco.

  On the way to Boris’s truck, Anika scanned the reflective surfaces of the nearby containers, strained her ears for a third set of footsteps, stooped to fiddle with the straps on her boots. No more noises or ripples. Yet her nerves and muscles ratcheted up to alert mode. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being tracked.

  They reached the back of the truck and separated, Boris to the driver’s side and Anika to the passenger’s. She stepped onto the rig’s auto-lift and rode two meters off the ground to seat level. Once inside the roomy cab, she scanned back and forth between the exterior mirrors. No movement. The truck’s engine chug-chugged in idle mode.

  “Ready when you are,” she said. Let’s get the hell out of here.

  “In a minute. Engine warming.” Boris checked the controls, adjusted his seat, consulted his handheld, chuckled at something he read there.

  Anika clenched and unclenched her fist, counted out three slow breaths.

  Finally, Boris gave the voice command for drive and they pulled out.

  Only when the darkness swallowed up the buildings and parking lot did the muscles in Anika’s neck unwind. She settled back into her seat and closed her eyes, hoping to avoid conversation. The fewer lies told, the fewer to remember.

  “What’s wrong with your papa?” Boris asked.

  “Heart.” Anika yawned and kept her eyes shut.

  “What happened?”

  She opened her eyes. Clearly, Boris wanted to talk. “He’ll be okay. He’s strong. Like you.” Boris smiled. “How long have you been driving a truck?”

  “All my life. First in Ukraine. Now here.”

  “You like it?”

  As long as she controlled the questions, she controlled the conversation.

  “It pays the bills.” Boris shrugged one shoulder. “We’re getting a new kitchen. My wife wants everything new, everything modern. My daughter, too.”

  Anika watched the stream of headlights from the trucks behind them. No sudden swerves. No one racing up on either side, then slowing down to box them in.

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Eight next week. Her birthday is Wednesday. I promised I am home by then.”

  “I hope you can make it. Promises matter, especially between fathers and daughters.”

  Not that Anika knew that from experience. As a federal, she hadn’t been given any information about where she came from, who she came from. She had never been given a promise by her father. But she could imagine what it would be like, how much it would matter.

  “She wants an airboard. My Katerina.” He rolled his eyes. “She wants latest model. Triple speed, built-in glow lights, colored exhaust. ‘In purple, Papa!’ she told me.”

  “She sounds sweet,” Anika said.

  “Da.” Boris nodded and his lips curved in a smile. “I mean, yes. She’s a good girl. Listens to her momma. Loves her papa. My little princess.”

  Yeah, a good family man. Just like Gianni would be.

  Her heart stuttered and she caught her breath. If U.N.I.T. ever discovered Gianni had helped her, he would lose his promotion, his chance to have a family. For now. Maybe forever.

  Boris told another story about
his daughter and a school contest she had won.

  I was good in school. Especially good at the games reserved for federal orphans. The ones that revealed operative potential.

  Anika rested her head back. The cab had grown warm and lavender auto-scent infused the air. Boris’s words started to run together. She tried to stay awake, but soon her eyelids drooped.

  • • •

  She awoke with a start. The truck was parked on a narrow road that paralleled the freeway. Boris was nowhere to be seen. She checked the time on the truck’s navigation monitor and did a quick calculation. She had been asleep two hours. That meant they were probably just past Indianapolis.

  She placed her hand against her side, feeling for the reassuring edges of the gun.

  A tuneless whistle broke the silence. A broad squat figure, holding a fluorescent glow stick, tramped through the growth of scrubby bushes toward the truck. The other hand held something white, with a bright orange tip. Smoke streamed from the man’s mouth.

  Anika eased out a breath.

  “Ah, you’re awake now.” Boris settled back in his seat. “Good. I have other funny story to tell.”

  “Where did you go?” Anika checked the side and rear mirrors. The night was still, quiet. “I thought something had happened.”

  “Forgot to use bathroom at diner. Too much excitement.” Boris took a drag from the cigarette and blew rings out through his open window. The hazy circles were almost as good as the ones she used to make during her smoking years at the orphanage.

  “I know what you mean. Do you mind if I … .” She nodded her head in the direction he had come.

  “You go. I finish cigarette.” Boris took a long slow inhale and a luxurious exhale. “When you get back, I tell story.”

  “Great.” Anika stretched her lips into a thin smile.

  “Here. Take this.” He handed her the glow stick.

  She swung the knapsack over her shoulder and rode the auto-lift down. On the ground, the only sound was the faint swish from the freeway traffic.

  Once out of Boris’s sight, she dimmed the glow stick and checked again for suspicious sounds or movements. Nothing. Maybe he had just needed a bio-break. It wasn’t a bad idea. The next stop could be hours from now.