You Can Run

by Karen Cleveland

Muffled sounds break through the quiet darkness in my mind. Voices. Garbled, unintelligible.

  I force open my eyelids. I blink, and my surroundings gradually settle into focus, my brain making sense of what I’m seeing.

  I’m on the ground, looking up. Figures are leaning over me. Two people, a man and a woman. College kids by the looks of them. A streetlight flickers overhead.

  My head feels like it’s splitting. I reach up, touch the back of it. There’s a bump there, a huge goose egg. But nothing wet, nothing sticky. No blood at least.

  “Are you okay?” the man asks, a worried look on his face.

  “Do you think we should call the police?” the woman asks him, quietly, urgently.

  “No,” I say, answering for him. It comes out like a croak.

  “She’s probably drunk,” the woman says, in an exaggerated whisper.

  “Probably,” the man says.

  I struggle into a sitting position. Everything around me is spinning. My head throbs and I feel like I’m going to vomit.

  “Whoa, are you sure you’re okay?” the man asks.

  “I’m fine.”

  I sit, wait for the dizziness to subside—it doesn’t, but it lessens slightly—and then force myself to my feet. I sure as hell don’t want the police getting involved. I need to show these people I’m fine.

  “Hey, is that yours?” the woman asks. She’s pointing at something down by my feet, something that must have been under me—

  I look down. It’s a piece of paper, folded in quarters. I reach for it. It’s not mine, or wasn’t mine, but I have the strangest sensation it is mine. That it’s meant for me.

  I hold on to it and give them an even look. Focus on standing still, not swaying. Looking normal.

  “Come on,” the woman murmurs to the man, reaching for his hand. “She’s fine.”

  The man gives me one last look, like he’s unsure if he should leave, but he lets her pull him away.

  I watch them leave, and then I slowly unfold the piece of paper under the light of the flickering streetlight.

  A message. Block letters, black marker.

  BREATHE A WORD, AND NEXT TIME YOU DIE.

  * * *

  —

  When I’m back inside my loft, dead bolt firmly engaged, I pull open the freezer, dig around for a bag of peas. Then I sink down on the couch, hold it to the back of my head.

  I could have been killed. I was knocked out cold, and another blow could have finished me off.

  The only reason I’m still alive is that whoever did this didn’t want to kill me. This was just a message. A warning.

  In my mind I can see the man’s face. Those eyes, focused directly on me—

  I shudder and reach for the beige blanket draped on the couch. Wrap it around myself.

  They want my silence. They want this story quashed.

  They’re terrified that I’ll find the truth.

  My mind turns to Jill. I’m not the only one searching for the truth. Far from it. If that man came for me, is she in danger, too?

  I put down the bag of peas and pick up my phone. I hesitate, the message flashing in my mind.

  Breathe a word, and next time you die.

  That means publishing, right?

  Or does it mean talking, too?

  I tap the Stronghold app, then tap Jill’s number. She answers after the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey. Listen, someone came after me tonight.”

  “What?”

  “A guy, in the park. Hit me over the back of the head—”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I reach up with my other hand, touch the goose egg on the back of my head. It’s still cold from the bag of peas.

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Big guy. Beard. Wide-set eyes.” I can picture his face in my mind, and shudder.

  “Falcon.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s Falcon. Really thick beard, right?”

  “Yeah.” My mind is churning. That was Falcon? “He left a note. ‘Breathe a word, and next time you die.’ ”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Are you out?”

  Just three words, but they’re loaded. I can hear the emotion in her voice. The fear, the anticipation. Almost like she’s standing on a precipice. Like she knows in a moment she’ll be elated or face crushing disappointment. No middle ground.

  Am I out? I sure as hell should be. I should let this go. Stay quiet. It’s the safest thing to do.

  But this story’s too important. I have an obligation to keep going. To find the truth.

  “No,” I say. “I’m all in.”

  * * *

  —

  After I end the call with Jill, I sit down at the table and open my laptop. I need to find out what’s going on. What kind of secrets justify these threats, this violence.

  I open ClandestineTips. There’s a new message from my source.

  Why haven’t you published yet?

  I read the words and almost want to laugh. While I was being attacked, warned to stay quiet, my source was urging me to do the exact opposite. What are the odds?

  Why haven’t I published yet? Because I promised Jill I wouldn’t. Because her family’s safety depends on it. And now…now there’s another reason, too. Because I want to stay alive.

  I give my head a quick shake, which sends it throbbing. I can’t think like that. I can’t let them get to me. Can’t let them win.

  Because I need more, I type.

  “And you sure as hell know more,” I murmur.

  I watch the screen and wait for another message.

  Nothing. I focus on the last one the source sent. Why haven’t you published yet?

  There’s something about it that doesn’t sit well with me.

  I lift my fingers to the keyboard again: Why do you want me to publish?

  I wait, but there’s no response. He’s not going to answer that, is he? He didn’t last time, either. Just said, Do it soon, before it’s too late.

  What do I know? Beau felt like there was someone high up in the CIA involved. Jill’s old co-worker thought the goal was to increase military expenditures. Could I find an intersection there? A CIA official with ties to the military-industrial complex?

  It’s worth a shot.

  I find a CIA org chart online. Jot down all the top positions. Director, and the list of deputies below that. The heads of the various directorates: Analysis, Operations, Science and Technology, Digital Innovation, Support. The leaders of the Mission Centers.

  It takes some digging, but I’m able to find most of the names of the people who fill the roles. At the more senior levels, most officers are no longer undercover. Mavis Sawyer’s in charge. The Gang of Three: Rosemarie Harris, Langston West, Gladys Chen. Rounding out the directorate leadership: Sean O’Leary, Nate Percy. Then on to the Mission Centers. I find names for each one except two: Counterintelligence, Counterterrorism.

  I write each name and position on a Post-it. Spread them out on the table.

  Next, I write down the biggest names in military industry. Boeing, Lockheed Martin, Northrop Grumman, dozens more. Spread those on the table, too, and look over everything. Who’s connected? Who stands to gain the most if we march toward war?

  Before long, the connections are appearing, and the table’s disorganized as hell. I stand up, stretch. Touch the lump on the back of my head. My whole head’s aching.

  Then I catch sight of the giant corkboard in the kitchen. Full of memories of Miles and me: tickets from concerts, sporting events, Broadway shows. Photo booth shots from friends’ weddings, selfies from our Polaroid, favorite snapshots we had printed. I haven’t been able t
o touch it. Haven’t wanted to erase those memories, or admit that we’re not making any more.

  I walk over and take everything in, my gaze settling on one item after another. The fortune from the Chinese takeout that made us collapse with laughter. A save-the-date card from our wedding. A picture of the two of us holding the keys to the loft, the day we closed on it.

  Then I reach up and start taking everything down, piece by piece.

  Within minutes the board is empty. I feel strangely lighter myself, like a weight’s been lifted. The empty board looks like a fresh start.

  I reach for the notes on the table, and I start pinning them up.

  * * *

  —

  Hours later, the board’s full. String connects the various people to various companies. Financial interests, advisory roles, any sort of ties between entities.

  Everyone has links, some more than others.

  My head hurts like hell, and not just from the blow.

  I stand back and look at it. The idea that it could be these people doesn’t seem so far-fetched. That the goal of the fake intelligence could be to feed the military-industrial complex. Looking at the tangled web of connections in front of me, it actually seems pretty damn possible.

  But who specifically is behind it? That’s the question I need to answer. Any of these people could benefit in some way from a military buildup. And I just don’t know.

  But my source does.

  I sit down at the table and open my laptop. I start a new message to my source, but I hesitate before typing. I don’t know if I should tip my hand. But maybe I need to give something to get something.

  We think it’s coming from within the CIA. Can you confirm or deny?

  I walk to the counter to pour myself a glass of water, pop a couple of Advil. When I get back, a message is waiting. Do you need the information to publish the story?

  Yes, I type. It’s not all I need, but it’s something.

  A new message appears:

  Confirm.

  That prickle of adrenaline runs through me. It is from inside the CIA. Who is this source, and how does he know?

  And why hasn’t he done something about it?

  I take a sip of water and type a reply:

  If people in our government are dirty, you have an obligation to do something about it.

  That was a step too far, wasn’t it? Too critical.

  The message comes back a minute later.

  YOUR government. If I tell you this information, I’m betraying MY government.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Jill

  I pace my hotel room like a caged animal. Alex was attacked. By Falcon.

  They’re getting more aggressive. And I’m terrified they’ll go after my family.

  I’ve thought about just getting in my car and driving down to wherever Drew and the kids are. But I don’t know where they are, and it’s a risk to ask. If he tells me on the phone, I can’t say with absolute certainty that they won’t hear it, too. Besides, what if they track me down there? It’s still safer if I stay away, and if I do everything I can here to figure out who’s behind this.

  Trouble is, I’m at a loss for what to do. Jeremy seemed like a promising route, but he’s not talking. He’s not talking because of them, because they took Max, the thing that was most important to him in all the world. Because they threatened to hurt his parents, proving they’d stop at nothing to silence him.

  It’s late when the phone finally rings. I pounce on it. It’s a number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”

  “It’s me.” Drew’s voice.

  “Thank God.”

  “I’m going to send you a link. Stronghold. I’ll call you back through that.”

  “Fine.” He sounds tense.

  I hang up, place the call through the app, and a moment later we’re reconnected.

  “How are you?” I ask. “Are you in a new hotel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “Worried. Frustrated. Bored.” His tone is clipped. “But they’re asleep now.”

  I picture them, tucked side by side under a white duvet in a big hotel bed, fast asleep. God, I wish I was there with them. “Did you get cash, like we talked about? You haven’t used a credit card, have you?”

  “Paid cash for the room.” I can hear the bitterness in his voice. “Do you know what kind of place takes cash?”

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The thoughts of them in that big plush bed vanish. They’re in some dingy motel, aren’t they? I’m sick at the thought of them being in a place like that. But it’s the only way, until the people threatening us are behind bars.

  “You need to go somewhere else tomorrow. Keep moving. Just in case.”

  “Really, Jill? How long?”

  “I don’t know. Until we get to the bottom of this. Until we know who’s responsible.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line.

  “I’m doing my best.” The words sound almost pleading, like I’m pleading with him to understand, to be on my side.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Jill.”

  The line disconnects. I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it. The picture of Owen and Mia, those carefree smiles on their faces. They’re worried now, Drew said so himself. And they’re going to be even more worried when they have to pick up and move again tomorrow. But there’s no other choice.

  Those people, whoever they are, they knew where my kids were.

  They hurt Alex, and threatened her.

  They took Max to get to Jeremy.

  They’re getting close.

  * * *

  —

  Sleep that night comes in fits and starts, and I keep being jolted awake by nightmares: visions of my kids being snatched in front of me, of screaming silent screams. When dawn breaks, I pack up what few belongings I have left, and I check out of the hotel.

  It’s time to move on. I need to take the same advice I gave Drew, keep moving, because if they get to me, I can’t get to the bottom of this.

  I run a surveillance detection route, a long one, and then instead of driving directly to the next hotel I’ve picked out, I detour and stop at Alex’s loft. Park two blocks away, approach the building from the rear, walk into the residents-only below-ground parking lot, then piggyback off someone else entering the building. I need to talk to Alex, and it might as well be in person.

  “How are you?” I ask after she shuts the door behind me.

  “Sore.” She reaches up and lightly touches the back of her head. “Have you heard from Drew?”

  “They’re at a new hotel. I told him to keep moving.”

  She nods, then motions toward the table. “Want to sit?”

  “Sure.”

  Her laptop’s open, and there are Post-its strewn about—

  I catch sight of the corkboard in her kitchen. She’s created some sort of link chart up there, with pinned-up Post-its and string. “What’s that?”

  “Research.”

  “Into?”

  “Top CIA officials. And their links to military contractors.”

  I sink down slowly into one of the chairs at the table, my eyes on her the whole time, waiting for her to say more.

  “Beau’s guess was CIA brass,” she says. “With the goal of feeding the military-industrial complex.”

  “Who’s Beau?”

  “A friend of mine. CIA case officer.”

  If she’s telling me this, revealing a source, she must really trust me. “And he knows about this?” I ask.

  “Parts of it.”

  I process those words, looking at the web of connections she’s created. “Looks like you think he might b
e onto something.”

  “Trouble is, could be any number of people. If that’s even the real story. Did you ever reach Jeremy? Did he have any thoughts?”

  In my mind I can see his face, those red-rimmed eyes. The jarring silence in his home, where Max should have been. “They got to him. He’s not talking.”

  She curses under her breath.

  “What about your source? Anything?”

  “Actually, yeah.” She nods toward her computer. “My source knows exactly who’s behind this. Said the people know I’m digging around and they’re not pleased.”

  “I think your run-in in the park proves that,” I say.

  “Also confirmed it’s coming from within CIA. But referred to it as our government. Said to give us more would be treasonous.”

  “So he’s not an American.”

  “Apparently not,” she says.

  “Did you get more?”

  “That was it. I asked a follow-up, but there was no response.”

  Wheels in my brain are turning, trying to make sense of this. “A foreign intelligence service,” I say, musing aloud.

  “I had the same thought.”

  “It makes sense,” I say, a current of excitement running through me. It feels like a break, at long last. “A foreign intel service is spying on CIA officials. That’s how they have the information. And someone who works for that service is sharing it with us.”

  “But why? I mean, it’s not about money, or they’d be approaching the CIA, right? Offering to sell these secrets?”

  “Could be a moral obligation. You know, trying to do the right thing. Could be revenge, someone who was passed over for promotions, something like that.”

  Alex nods.

  “Hard to know without talking to the source,” I add. “Knowing his background.”

  “Right. But he won’t agree to meet. Won’t tell me who he is.”

  “Can we track him down? Is there anyone who could access the back end of the tips system, find an IP address?”

  “It’s designed so that that’s not possible.”

  I hate having so little information, being completely dependent on this source to provide information.