You Can Run

by Karen Cleveland

  The woman walks out a moment later, Glock and a box of ammo in hand. She sets them down on the table between us. “Want me to explain?”

  I pick up the Glock and turn it over in my hands, examining it. “I think I’ve got it.” It’s been years since I’ve held one of these, but it’s all coming back to me.

  I open the box of bullets, load them into the magazine. Slide in the magazine, lock it into place. It’s heavier now, more substantial.

  The woman hangs a paper target, uses the pulley system to send it back. She stops it a short distance away. “This good?”

  “All the way to the end, please.”

  She smirks and sends it all the way back. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  I step into position. Adopt the stance I remember, my legs shoulder width apart. I grip the gun with both hands.

  I raise my arms, straighten them. Focus on the target, through the sights. Press down on the trigger, slowly, just like I was taught…

  Pop. The gun recoils in my hand, the smallest bit. I’d forgotten how loud this is, even through the ear protection. Pop pop pop pop pop. Six shots. I look over the sights at the target. There’s a tight cluster of holes on the bull’s-eye, dead center.

  “Damn,” the woman says. She looks at me approvingly. “Where’d you learn to do that? CIA or something?”

  I smile. “Something like that.”

  * * *

  —

  Paperwork and payment complete, I walk out the door with the pistol in my purse. Once I’m in the car, I reach over and place it into the glove box, slam the door shut. Then I start the engine—

  The phone rings. It’s in my bag, on the passenger seat.

  I reach for it, dig through the bag until I find it. Pull it out, hoping to see Drew’s name, to be able to talk to the kids—

  Unknown.

  Dammit. It’s not Drew, it’s Alex.

  I press the button to answer. “Hello?”

  The instant I hear that deep, robotic voice, I know I’m wrong. It’s not Alex. It’s them.

  “We know where your kids are.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jill

  The line goes dead before I can respond.

  I lower the phone from my ear and stare at the screen, at the picture of Owen and Mia. My heart is racing.

  I unlock the phone, my hand trembling. Find the list of recent calls, touch Drew’s name. One ring, then another.

  Not again. He needs to answer.

  Why isn’t he answering?

  He doesn’t know surveillance detection like I do. Doesn’t know how to shake a tail. Hasn’t been trained in it, the way I have.

  I thought they’d be safer, away from here, away from me. Did I make another terrible mistake?

  Another ring—

  The click of a connection, and then his voice, tight and short. “Hi, Jill.”

  Thank God.

  “Drew. Is anyone following you?”

  There’s a beat of silence. “What?”

  “You need to leave. Wherever you are, find a new place. But watch for anyone following you—”

  “Jill, what’s going on?”

  “Please, Drew, just leave. Pack up the kids and go somewhere else.”

  Another pause on his end of the line. I can hear the kids in the background, very faint, talking. “They followed us?”

  “I think so.”

  He curses softly.

  I wish I knew where he was. But I can’t ask, not on an open line like this. Not when they might be listening. Maybe they don’t know where he is. Maybe it’s a bluff. And the last thing I want to do is lead them to him.

  “Drew, I need you to leave behind your phone.”

  “What?”

  “You need to stop somewhere and pick up a new one. A few new ones.”

  “Burner phones? Are you kidding me, Jill?”

  “No, I’m not.” God, I wish I was. “We’re going to start talking through an encrypted app, too. Stronghold.”

  “Jill, this is—”

  “Get all the cash you can—you can’t use a credit card. And google ‘surveillance detection route.’ Learn how to make sure no one’s following you.”

  There’s no response. In the background I hear Owen’s little voice. Mia’s giggle.

  My heart feels like it’s being squeezed.

  “It’s up to you to protect them, Drew.”

  “Yeah,” he says bitterly. “I guess it is.”

  * * *

  —

  I lay the phone down on the passenger seat. I’m still idling in the parking lot of the range. Through the windshield I see the front door. The woman with the tattoos is sitting on the stoop, smoking. Eyeing me suspiciously. I’ve been sitting here a while now, haven’t I? I took some shots, bought a gun, and then I just sat here.

  I shift into reverse and back out of the spot, then forward out of the lot, tires grinding noisily over the gravel.

  I pull out onto the street, my stomach in a knot. They know where my kids are, and I’m not there to keep them safe. It’s up to Drew, and he’s an attorney, not a spy. He doesn’t know how to do this.

  I feel a gnawing sense of panic.

  I need to figure out who’s threatening my kids. That’s how I can protect them.

  I take a right and start heading back into the city. The engine hums as I pick up speed.

  I reach for the phone, on the passenger seat. Find Alex’s number, eyes flitting between screen and road and mirrors. I’m headed back to the hotel on autopilot, watching for a tail, mind spinning.

  “Hi,” I say when she picks up. “Can we talk on an encrypted app?” I don’t know if they’re listening. I have to assume they are.

  “What do you have?”

  “Stronghold.”

  “Got it. I’ll call you back.”

  I set the phone down on the center console, focus on the road, and the mirrors. Traffic’s light. No one’s following me.

  A moment later the phone buzzes, and the Stronghold icon flashes on the screen. I tap it, then tap her number, and the call connects.

  “What’s going on?” she asks. Her voice sounds taut.

  “They know where my kids are. They called.”

  There’s a pause on her end of the line. “They could be bluffing.”

  “Or not.”

  More silence. The hum of the engine fills the void. “What are you going to do?”

  “What can I do? I told Drew to leave, to stop using his phone, to watch for a tail…”

  I trail off, and she says nothing.

  “We need to know who’s behind this. Did you get anything from your source?”

  “No.” The disappointment in her voice comes through, crystal clear.

  A motorcycle speeds by on my left, far too fast, the driver hunched low. I watch him weave around another car, switching lanes recklessly.

  “Someone followed me today,” I say. “When I was driving.”

  “Did you get plates?”

  “I got more than that. I saw who it was.”

  “And?”

  “It was Falcon.”

  “What?”

  “The guy…I recognized his picture from the cable at work. I remember his face, Alex. I’ll never forget it. The guy who followed me was the guy we thought was Falcon.”

  A tractor-trailer barrels past me on the left, draws my attention. I watch it speed ahead, lengthening the distance between us.

  “What does that mean?” she asks.

  “That Jeremy’s right? That it is the U.S.?” I glance in the rearview mirror, almost reflexively. Turn on my right blinker. Time to switch lanes, just to check.

  “Jeremy—did he find out more?”

  I veer into the
right lane, slow my pace, watch the mirror. No one follows, no one slows. “I haven’t been able to reach him.”

  Out the passenger-side window, a big green sign catches my eye. The next exit is Alexandria.

  Alexandria. Jeremy’s still in the same place, I think, judging from Facebook. His townhouse is a few blocks from King Street. I bet I could find it—

  There’s the exit. I veer to the right, pull off. “Listen, I’ll call you later,” I tell Alex.

  I set down the phone on the center console, check the rearview mirror. No one’s pulled off behind me.

  I follow the signs for King Street, head toward the commercial district, still keep an eye on the mirrors. Still clean.

  I see a street that looks familiar. The one I’ve turned down in the past to reach his house. I take a left, then wind my way through the neighborhood until I see another turnoff that looks familiar. I take a right this time, continue on—

  There it is, with the yellow shutters, and the American flag. Jeremy’s townhouse.

  I parallel park along the street, grab my bag, head toward his place, climb the three concrete steps to the landing. The door’s painted black, with oval-shaped decorative glass in the center. Just to the right of it there’s a small ceramic figurine of a Great Dane holding a Welcome sign.

  I ring the doorbell and take a step back, hear it chime inside. A moment later, a figure appears through the glass. Jeremy. It’s almost like looking at him through a kaleidoscope; he’s fragmented, but it’s definitely him, and he’s stopped in the foyer and looking right at me.

  He turns and walks away.

  Weird. But I’ve done that before when someone’s come to the door. Walked away to pick up a crying child before I answered—

  Jeremy doesn’t have a child. But he has Max—

  Where’s Max? The silence inside suddenly hits me. No booming barks, no giant Great Dane bounding toward the door, pummeling into it—

  And still no Jeremy.

  I knock twice, hard. There’s a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.

  “Go away, Jill,” comes his voice, shouted through the door.

  “Jeremy, what’s wrong?” I call back.

  “Leave.”

  I look through the window in the door. No sign of Jeremy. No sign of the dog, either—the knot in my stomach is twisting harder.

  “Where’s Max?”

  No answer. Then Jeremy appears again on the other side of the door, fragmented in the glass. Growing larger, coming closer—

  The door swings open. Jeremy gives me a look, fearful and angry and suspicious all at the same time. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his eyes are puffy and red; he’s been crying. “What do you know about Max?” he demands.

  “Nothing.” My pulse is racing. “What happened, Jeremy?”

  He blinks quickly.

  “What’d they do? Where’s Max?”

  He reaches for a piece of paper laying on the table in the entryway. Holds it up for me to see. Black marker, block letters, the same handwriting I saw on that note in Owen’s crib.

  STOP DIGGING. STOP TALKING. OR MAX IS DEAD.

  AND YOUR PARENTS ARE NEXT.

  “Who’s behind this, Jeremy?” I ask, because he’s been trying to find that answer. He might have already found that answer.

  He shakes his head, quick and firm.

  “You can’t let them get away with this,” I say.

  “They’ll stop at nothing.” His chin quivers.

  “What have you learned?” I ask. I can hear the desperation in my voice.

  “Nothing.”

  He closes the door, and the last thing I hear is the turn of the deadbolt.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Alex

  The office is starting to empty for the evening. There’s that late afternoon buzz, those final conversations of the day. The see-you-tomorrows and the have-a-good-nights. I’m dimly aware of the chatter, focused on my computer screen. Monitoring the latest developments out of Syria. Or trying to, anyway. It’s damn near impossible to concentrate.

  Jill said she saw Falcon. Following her. What the hell does that mean? I don’t know if she’s safe. Or if her family is. And they need to be. I protect my sources, and right now Jill’s one of them.

  And then there’s those last messages from my tipster. They’ve been replaying in my mind. The request to publish. The vaguely threatening follow-up: Do it soon, before it’s too late. I never got an answer to my question: Too late for what?

  Better not be too late for a scoop. This is my story. I can’t lose it.

  Marco, the college-intern-slash-social-coordinator, stops at my cubicle. “Brewster’s?” he asks.

  “I’m going to pass tonight.”

  “Next time,” he says with a grin. Heads off to the next occupied cubicle, off to round up more participants.

  The mention of Brewster’s brings Beau Barnett to the forefront of my mind. I wait until Marco’s moved on to the next row of cubicles, then I reach for my phone.

  I try his cell first; it’s late enough he might have left work. He picks up. “Hello?”

  “It’s Alex.”

  “Alex. Twice in two weeks.”

  “Friends chat, don’t they?”

  “What do you need?”

  A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. “I have a hypothetical for you.”

  “I love hypotheticals.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

  “We need to go encrypted. Do you have Stronghold?”

  There’s a beat of silence. “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  I hang up, touch the Stronghold app on my phone, place the call through the app. He answers before the first ring.

  “What’s the hypothetical?” he asks.

  I glance around to make sure no one’s listening. Then I speak more quietly. “Say someone in our government wanted to plant intel through a fake source. How plausible would that be?”

  He whistles. “Come on, Alex. Even with encryption we shouldn’t be having this conversation. Are you trying to get me fired?”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Home.”

  “Text me the address.”

  “Alex—”

  “You owe me. Those sources in Baghdad, those tips I gave you—”

  “Pretty sure I’ve paid down that debt.”

  I say nothing.

  “Why are you asking me this? Is it another anonymous tip?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk on an open line.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Again, I say nothing.

  “Fine. I’ll text you the address. But, Alex?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Same deal we had in Baghdad. I talk, so do you. I want some details on these sources of yours.”

  * * *

  —

  I show up at his apartment in Georgetown an hour later, a six-pack of Sam Adams in hand.

  “Come on in,” he says, opening the door wider, ushering me forward.

  I step inside. It’s a small one-bedroom, decked out like a bachelor pad: shabby threadbare couch, old coffee table with water rings, giant television, video game systems. No décor, nothing on the walls.

  I hold up the six-pack and he takes it from me, heads to the kitchen. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  He pops the caps off two of them. Walks back into the room, extends one toward me. I take it, and he plops down on one end of the couch. I sit on the other.

  “So, this latest source of yours,” he begins.

  “This scenario I described.” I’m getting the answers I need first. “The U.S., using a fake source. Planting intel. How plausible would it be?”

  He takes a swig. “Not very. It’s
the kind of thing you see in movies, but not real life.”

  That’s not what I want to hear. “Why?”

  “There’d be too many people involved. Sources aren’t run by just one person, you know? It wouldn’t just be a case officer making something up. There are a bunch of people who vet the source—”

  “Say the source made it through the vetting process.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “How?”

  “It’s a hypothetical.” I lift the bottle to my lips, take a sip. Avoid his stare.

  “Okay. Let’s say that’s true. But every meeting with the source—it’s an operation, you know? Multiple people involved, beyond just the case officer.”

  “What if there were no in-person meetings?”

  “COVCOM?”

  “Exactly.”

  He leans back, looks thoughtful. “Well, that makes it more plausible. Just leave whatever message you want, and it’s in the system as reliable intelligence.” He seems to be thinking aloud. “But getting that COVCOM is not an easy process.”

  I nod. So he’s saying it’s possible.

  “You still haven’t explained how—in your hypothetical scenario—the source made it through the vetting process.” He uses air quotes.

  I answer the question in my head. Threats. Kidnapping. But I sure as hell can’t say any of that. So I settle for “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Depends on the source, I guess.” He looks thoughtful again. “If it’s someone reporting on a hard target like China or Russia, it’s pretty unlikely. There are way too many sets of eyes on a source like that. Going through everything with a fine-tooth comb. You have to, with those counterintelligence concerns.”

  “But another country?” Like Syria?

  He shrugs. “More of a possibility. Fewer sets of eyes. Quicker encryptions. Especially for a high-priority reporter. Someone with access we desperately need.”

  Like someone reporting on biowarfare. I don’t say the words, and he doesn’t either. But I can tell from the expression on his face that he’s connected the dots. Last time we chatted, I asked him about Syrian biological weapons programs. And now I’m asking him about this—