“Where in Virginia?”
“Near the Shenandoah Mountains.”
The Shenandoah Mountains.
The pieces of this puzzle floating around in my brain slide together, snap into place.
“I know where they are,” I say.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jill
“Where?” I ask, even as I’m yanking the shoulder strap across my body, clicking the lock into place. How does she know where they are?
“I’m finding the address,” she says, thumbs tapping the screen of her phone.
I shift into reverse, eye the mirror, pull from the spot. Shenandoah. That’s where they landed. It’s, what, an hour or two from here?
I pull out of the lot, onto the road, try to get my bearings. The mountains are west. I need to head west.
The voice from Alex’s phone fills the silence in the car, tells me to take a right—
I take a right.
“How do you know where they are?” I ask again.
“A source.”
“Natalia?”
“Different one. A tip. One that didn’t make sense until now.”
I feel a wave of frustration. She had this information the whole time?
But in a way, didn’t I, too? How did I not connect that Langston West was behind this? He’s the one who streamlined the asset approval process, removed many of the intermediaries. He’s the reason it was just A.J., and the Chief of Station, and me, and COPS—and him.
Why didn’t I see that sooner?
Abruptly Alex reaches for her phone again, places a call. “Hey, Marco,” she says. “I’m going to text you an address. Can you tell me who owns the property?”
She lowers the phone and looks over at me. “I just need to verify this tip.”
I nod. I’m too wound up right now to press for details. I don’t care about the details, not really. I just care about finding my kids.
A moment later her phone chimes. She looks at the screen, then smiles. “Bingo. Langston West.”
A surge of adrenaline rushes through me. I press down even harder on the gas. Whatever this tip was, it’s good.
There’s a big rig ahead of me, driving too slowly. I turn on my blinker, switch lanes—
In the rearview mirror, I see another car switch lanes, too. A dark blue SUV.
I press down on the gas, pass the rig, veer back into my own lane. I watch the mirrors. The SUV stays put, and slower. The distance between our two vehicles is growing.
I’m just being paranoid, aren’t I?
We’re just crossing into Virginia when Drew calls again, through Stronghold. I fumble for the phone, answer on speaker.
“Hello?” I say. “Drew?”
“Hi.”
“What’s the latest?”
He hesitates. “Not good. Apparently the police out in Shenandoah just visited the airport, but there’s no surveillance footage. We don’t know where they went after they got off the plane.” He sounds desperate. “I think it’s a dead end, Jill. We’ve lost them again.”
“It’s not a dead end,” I say. I don’t want to get his hopes up by telling him too much. “We’re working something on our end.”
“You are? Oh God, Jill, I hope it works.” His voice breaks. “We need to find them.”
“I know,” I say. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll let you know when we have something.”
I lower the phone and focus on the road. I-66 is clear and wide, relatively empty, and I’m driving as fast as I can get away with, checking the mirrors for police, because that’ll only slow us down, and I can’t be slowed down.
We’re just past Gainesville when I catch sight of something in my rearview mirror. In the distance, in my lane, but matching my speed, which is far above the limit. And matching my route, because it’s here again, far from DC.
It’s the dark blue SUV.
We’re being followed.
* * *
—
I press down on the gas so hard I hear the engine struggle to respond. Out of the corner of my eye I see Alex look over, brace herself with one hand on her door.
“We’re being tailed,” I say without turning toward her.
There’s an exit just ahead. Just past an incline in the road, one steep enough to block the view of the road from a distance. If I really gun it, if I can put enough space between the SUV and my own car, I can take it, and I can have a chance at losing him.
The dial on the dash points to 90, 95—
I speed past the exit.
I can feel Alex turn toward me, surprised.
There’s a flat dirt area in the center of the highway just ahead. A turnaround for official vehicles, the kind of place police would sit for a speed trap, shielded from view by the rise and dip of the highway.
I slam on the brakes, jerk the wheel to the left, go careening into the dirt, spin at a 180, and back into the highway in the opposite direction, gunning the engine once again to increase my speed, blend in with the traffic that’s fast approaching. The kind of move I learned ages ago on the Farm: operational security, how to outmaneuver a threat.
There’s just enough of a gap in traffic to slide across all the lanes on this side of the highway and come to a stop in the grass on the shoulder of the road.
My seatbelt’s locked tight into place. I’m almost dizzy with adrenaline. Cars whiz past. I can’t believe that just happened. Alex is breathing hard, leaning back against her seat, holding on to the door handle with a white-knuckled grip.
I scan the highway in the opposite direction, the one from which I came, wait for the SUV to come into view.
Nothing. Other cars appear over the crest of the hill, but not that one. By now it should have come into view.
They must have taken the exit. Whoever’s following me thought I went that way. I wish I could see the exit from here, but I can’t.
They must be on that other road, trying to pick up my trail, or maybe they’ve gotten back on the highway ahead and they’re gunning it, trying to catch up to where they think I might be. I don’t know.
What I know is that they’re not here.
I lost them.
There’s a gap in traffic behind me, and I pull back onto the road, press down on the gas. I’ll turn around at the first opportunity, get back on the path toward Shenandoah.
I’m in the clear. I’m not leading anyone toward my kids. I’ve escaped whoever’s trying to follow me—
And then another thought occurs to me, one that fills me with a sense of dread:
Or they already know where we’re heading.
* * *
—
The map brings us deep into the Shenandoah Valley, then up a winding road, one that’s densely treed. There are homes here, older ones, spaced far apart, each set back in the woods, off long drives, private and serene.
I slow to a stop on the side of the street as we approach the destination on the map, idle there. The house we’re looking for—1457—is up ahead. I can see the bottom of the driveway, the mailbox, but nothing more. And I don’t want to get close enough for whoever’s inside to see me.
“What now?” Alex asks.
“I don’t know.”
We decided not to call the police, not yet anyway. We don’t know for sure the kids are in that house, and if they’re not, and we get the authorities involved, and it gets back to them, I don’t know what they’d do.
“Why don’t we—”
My thought’s interrupted by the buzz of Alex’s phone. She looks at the screen, then answers on speaker.
“Hana. What’d you find?”
“Natalia, she’s pretty senior. Works Middle East issues. Or did, anyway. She’s on a different assignment right now, but we don’t have info.”
“How senior?”
/>
“Holds the SVR’s highest set of clearances.”
That’s pretty senior. The old CIA officer in me feels a rush of excitement. Nothing better than hearing someone has access like that.
“And her family—it’s one hard-core SVR family, Alex.”
Natalia’s words ring in my head. I’d be betraying my family. That’s a line I can’t cross.
“Tell me,” Alex says.
“Her husband is Viktor Ivanov. Senior SVR, arrested five years ago. In the U.S. In that big roundup. He’s in a supermax in Colorado.”
I watch a trail of dry leaves skitter across the street in front of us. The gust of wind whistles around the car.
“And her kids. She has two. They went off to the SVR youth program when they were young.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know. Can’t track them.”
“Still SVR?”
“No reason to think otherwise.”
There’s a swift knock at my window.
I spin toward the sound, and there’s a man there. Tall and lanky, about my age, thinning blond hair. He has a goofy grin on his face, and he’s waving.
“Gotta go, Hana,” Alex says, abruptly ending the call.
“Who’s that?” I say.
“That’s Timothy Mittens,” Alex says.
Who the hell is Timothy Mittens? I roll down the window, and he bends down to look at us through the opening. He’s still wearing that grin.
“Alex Charles! You came. I’m so glad.”
“Hello, Timothy. Thank you for the tips.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Charles. I’m thrilled to see you following up.”
Alex nods. “Timothy, have you seen anything unusual in the past day or so?”
Timothy straightens, looks down at the cabin. “Well, yes. In fact I have. I was going to send you a message—”
“What is it?” I ask.
He shifts his focus to me. “A car pulled up late last night. A black Nissan Sentra.”
Black Nissan Sentra. Like the car that followed me to the National Mall. The one driven by Falcon.
“DC plates?” I ask.
He looks surprised. “Why, yes.” He shifts his gaze to Alex. “It was very late. Suspiciously late.”
“Did you see who got out?” she asks.
I can just picture this Timothy character at the window of his own cabin, peeking through the curtains—
“No,” he says with a frown. “Can’t see the top of the driveway from here.”
I glance at the house, and I know he’s right. I can’t tell if the car is there right now.
“But I did find this, in the driveway.” He holds up a floppy toy, one that’s instantly familiar.
It’s Owen’s stuffed elephant.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jill
I unbuckle my belt, push open the driver’s-side door. Out of the corner of my eye I see Alex doing the same thing.
“Call the police,” I say to Timothy. It’s time to get them involved, because I know for sure now:
Owen and Mia are in that house.
I bolt out of the car, pull my gun from my bag, and Timothy Mittens steps back, the stuffed elephant at his side, watches me wide-eyed. I head past him at a jog, gun at my side, singular focus on the driveway up ahead.
Another gust of wind whips the branches of the trees, sends more leaves skittering across the road. They crunch under my feet as I pound the pavement. I can hear Alex just behind me.
When I reach the gravel driveway, I can see a car, parked up near the house. The black Sentra. It’s still here.
The house itself looks dark, no sign of life. It’s a two-story colonial, the blinds on all the windows tightly closed. There’s a wide front porch, and two rocking chairs stand empty beside the door. One moves, ever so slightly, as a breeze blows through, almost eerily.
But the car—that car is here. That means my kids are here, doesn’t it?
“I’ll go this way,” I whisper to Alex, nodding to the right. “Can you take the other side? See if there’s a way in, or any sign of the kids?”
“Got it.”
I creep around the right side of the house, trying my best to use trees as a cover, to stay hidden. I try to peer through the windows, but I don’t see a thing through the blinds. Don’t see any lights.
There are two small basement windows, down low to the ground. It looks dark down there, too.
I continue on to the back of the house. There’s an empty firepit, four Adirondacks around it, covered in a thin film of dirt. A sliding glass door, with vertical blinds tightly closed—
A figure appears from behind the other side of the house, and my heart feels like it momentarily stops. But it’s just Alex.
I motion for her to stop, and then I make my way quietly past the back of the house, meet with her.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Don’t see a thing.”
It’s the answer I knew was coming, but it’s disheartening nonetheless.
What am I supposed to do? Wait for the police to arrive? Try to get in there immediately?
What’s safer for my kids?
That man, Falcon, what will he do if he sees the police arrive? Will he hurt Owen and Mia?
I have to get in there.
I look around this side of the house, so similar to the other. The first-floor windows are too high to reach. The basement windows—I drop to my knees in the dirt, dry leaves crackling under me. Stick my gun into the waistband of my pants. Push on the glass pane. Nothing. I push harder. There’s a little bit of give.
I center my right foot on the glass, and kick in as hard as I can. The glass shatters. It feels loud. Was it too loud? I kick out the fragments until there’s an opening big enough to climb through. Then I peer down. Nothing but darkness. I don’t know what I’ll be dropping down into.
“I’m going in,” I say to Alex.
“Want me to follow?”
“Probably better if you don’t. At least not right away.” If anything happens, better that it just happen to one of us.
I put my legs through the opening, lower my body into it, slowly, wary of any last sharp fragments of glass, until I’m just hanging there, until I can’t hold on anymore—
I squeeze my eyes shut and drop.
My feet hit solid ground. A floor, concrete. I bend my knees, manage to catch my balance.
I hold my breath. Hold still, crouched down, every nerve on alert.
It’s silent, except for a faint drip coming from the other side of the basement. There’s no one coming.
I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, and the surroundings gradually come into focus. A stack of cardboard boxes along one wall. Tools on a table along another wall. Furnace, water heater—
There’s a thump on the other side of the basement, and without thinking I yank the gun from my waistband, draw down. My heart’s pounding. But it’s silent again, no other sounds. Must have been the furnace, something kicking on.
I creep forward quietly, carefully, toward the stairway at the far side of the room. The stairs are steep, wooden, with a closed door at the top. I start climbing slowly, gun at the ready. The third stair creaks, and I pause, listening intently for any sounds upstairs. Nothing.
Another step, and another, these thankfully silent. I’m closer to the top now. Another step—
Footsteps, from above. I go still and listen.
More steps, just on the other side of the door.
I aim the weapon at the door—
They’re heading away. I listen to each step, the fading sound. Then there’s a creak on the stairs. Just one person, I think. Heading upstairs—
A voice, from the other side of the door. Slightly muffled through the door, but high-pitched
and sweet and oh so familiar—
“Owen, I’m scared.”
It comes out like Oh-ie, I’m scared.
I don’t even think. I just act. I shift the gun to my right hand and reach for the doorknob with my left. Open the door slowly, quietly, hoping the hinges don’t make a sound—
It opens silently, and I take in the sight. A dimly lit kitchen, dark except for the light filtering in from outside. Two chairs in the center of the room. Owen’s in one, Mia’s in the other. Their hands are bound behind them—
I raise my index finger to my lips in a silent shushing motion.
Owen understands. I can see it in his eyes, big and solemn and scared. He’s silent—
“Mommy!” Mia says, and she starts to cry.
“Shhh,” I say, heart racing.
That was too loud. Someone’s in the house. Falcon, probably. He heard that, didn’t he?
Oh God, he’s going to be back any minute.
I rush to Mia first, because she’s crying. Shove the gun into my waistband, find the knot in the rope behind her back, start working on it, my hands trembling. “You have to stop crying,” I whisper. “You have to be silent.”
Owen’s watching me with those big eyes, so serious.
The knot comes free and I pull the rope off her. “Go hide,” I whisper.
“Where?” she whispers back. Her eyes are glassy, her cheeks streaked with tears.
I look around in a panic. “Behind the couch,” I say, because isn’t that where she loves to hide when we play hide-and-seek at home?
“Okay.”
I move over to Owen next. Reach for the knot. This one’s tighter—
There’s a thump, from the basement. Alex, dropping down? Something else? Someone else? Oh God.
Footsteps, upstairs.
I try to work faster, but the knot’s too tough—
Steps on the stairs now, the ones leading up from the basement. I let go of the rope and step in front of Owen, draw my gun, just as a figure comes into view—
Alex. She raises her hands, palms forward, mouths the words It’s just me.
I holster the gun and get back to work on the rope—
You Can Run Page 23
