Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  Before she could stop him, Trent whipped around and vaulted toward the FBI agent. He smashed his shoulder into the agent’s stomach, ramming him into the wall. Even from several feet away, she could hear the air exiting his lungs. She couldn’t see Anatoly, but now was her chance. She and Trent came in together, and they were going to leave together, one way or the other. Trent rammed his forehead into the agent’s nose. A spray of blood splattered both of their shirts.

  Renee started to bend over for her gun, but strong fingers buried themselves deeply into her arms before she could get there. She was wrenched back to her feet before she could reach the revolver. She felt an arm across her throat, collapsing her windpipe, and the hardened steel of a firearm pressed against her temple, twisting her neck violently.

  “Stop,” screamed her captor. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than pull this trigger. Do not give me an excuse.”

  Trent and the FBI agent stopped fighting. Both were breathing hard. Trent looked relatively unscathed aside from a raw, red spot on his forehead, but the FBI agent had a river of blood pouring from his badly broken nose.

  “Go clean yourself up.”

  The FBI agent seethed and shook as he looked at Trent, but he obeyed his partner and disappeared down the hallway. With her back pressed against him, she could feel the Russian’s breath on the back of her neck.

  Renee’s legs shook. If the Russian hadn’t been propping her up, she would have been sprawled on the ground. She twisted, trying to break free of his grasp, but his only response was to squeeze her throat harder, further collapsing her windpipe and sapping whatever strength she may have had. A moment later, her oxygen–depleted muscles could barely move. She felt dizzy, and the room started to spin. With the muzzle of a gun pressed against her head and an arm around her throat, the realization struck her like a hammer.

  We’re going to die.

  “Help me,” said Renee. The words were barely able to escape her lips before the Russian squeezed so hard she could no longer breathe. She clawed at his arm, but he didn’t twitch. Trent hesitated and looked around the room.

  “There’s nowhere to hide, Detective,” said the Russian, firmly pressing the gun against Renee’s head. “Move, and you’ll see her die. Her death will be on your hands.”

  Trent stopped moving and then slowly put his hands on his head. The forearm around Renee’s throat relaxed, but the gun was kept against her head. She gasped and inhaled great gulps of sweet air. Her assault in Mitch Byram’s office was happening all over again, and she was powerless to stop it.

  “Single file. Up the stairs.”

  Trent paused for a moment before moving. She could feel a tear spring to her cheek. The Russian nudged her forward, so she climbed the steps. The upstairs hallway branched off in two directions with an ornate pair of French doors in the center. She was shoved before she could get her feet beneath her, and she ran into Trent’s back. He reached around her waist and held her upright.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  She knew it was a lie, but in their present situation, it was the kindest thing anyone could have said.

  “Through the doors.”

  The Russian pushed them both. They stepped through the French doors into an oak–paneled library. A pair of windows overlooked the Potomac River, while a portrait of George Washington crossing the Delaware River hung on the wall to her right. A heavy oak desk dominated the center of the room, and the pungent smell of cigar smoke filled the air.

  Renee swallowed hard as she and Trent huddled in front of the desk.

  “I got them here. Where’s my family?”

  Renee was too scared and too tired to process the question.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get them back,” said the man sitting behind the desk. He looked like he was about forty. He had straight, brown hair and a goatee. Renee presumed he was Gregori Fortunatov. His tailored suit shimmered in the room’s dim light as he took a deep puff on a cigar. “My wife took them to the Air and Space Museum today. I put them up at the Willard Hotel in DC so they wouldn’t have to see our business. Relax, okay? I’ll get you a cigar. You did good.”

  “I just want my kids,” said the Russian. “I did my job.”

  “You’ll get them. I just need you to do a few more things for me.”

  “Our deal was for one job,” said the Russian, his voice shaking. “If I did the job, you would give me my family. I’m tired of this shit.”

  “Like I said, you will get them. I just need a few small things done first.”

  Renee turned her head enough to see the old man raise his firearm.

  “Give me my family, you son of a—”

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  She and Trent jumped as the shots rang out. A warm film covered her face as the Russian fell to his knees. His gun clattered to the ground as he fell forward, clutching his chest. Renee pressed her fingers to her face and examined the sticky, brownish–red liquid. She shook, but neither she nor Trent dared move. She was going to be strong, and she wasn’t going to cry. If Gregori killed her, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how scared she was as he did it.

  “That was a five–thousand–dollar rug,” said Gregori, staring at the body of his former underling. “Such a waste.”

  He looked at them.

  “Stand up straight, both of you.”

  Renee felt Trent stir, but she couldn’t move.

  “I said stand up.”

  Gregori’s voice echoed against the room’s walls. Trent wrapped his arms beneath Renee’s and lifted her to her feet.

  “Thank you,” said Gregori, walking over from behind the desk. He kicked Anatoly’s gun as he made his way to them. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Dr. Carter.”

  “You’ve caused me the same,” she said. She had tried to make her voice strong, but it cracked. Gregori smiled at her.

  “I caused you trouble?” he asked, chuckling. He turned, looking like he was going to walk back to the desk, but before he got more than a few feet he spun around and slapped her across the face hard. Her teeth rattled, her cheek burned, and for a brief moment, her vision turned black. Trent shifted his weight, lunging forward. “I’d stay still, Detective.”

  Renee’s vision was blurred through tears and pain, but she looked up. Gregori held his gun outstretched, glancing at them both and licking his lips. He waved the muzzle of his firearm at Trent.

  “Back off,” he said. Trent didn’t move, so Gregori walked forward, his gun extended. He pressed the muzzle against Renee’s temple, twisting her head. “Back off unless you want to see what the inside of her skull looks like.”

  Trent hesitated but put his hands up. Renee wanted to fight, but she stood still, breathing heavily and shaking. She could still feel Gregori’s hand on her face. It hurt.

  “You’re prettier than I thought you’d be,” said Gregori, curling a few strands of her hair in his fingers. “You know, I bet Anatoly didn’t search you properly. Why don’t you lean against my desk?”

  Renee shot her eyes to Trent. His chest and shoulders rose quickly, and his eyes smoldered, but he didn’t move.

  “Come on,” said Gregori, his voice light and airy as if he were talking to a child. “This will only be a moment.”

  Renee couldn’t have forced her legs to move had she wanted them to. Gregori grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled. She stepped back, holding her breath and hoping to stop her legs from shaking. As much as she tried not to, she jumped as one of Gregori’s hands landed on the back of her shoulders and slid down and forward to her chest while the other pressed a gun to her temple. He squeezed her breasts hard. She grimaced.

  “Isn’t this better?” he whispered into her ear. “Just the two of us.”

  “Leave her alone,” said Trent. His voice was rough and angry, but Renee knew he wouldn’t move as long as Gregori had a
gun to her head. He pulled her close enough that she could feel his breath on her neck. His hands snaked down her stomach and to her waist. She tried to be strong, but couldn’t stop the gasp from coming to her lips. She couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. She closed her eyes, pretending she wasn’t there, but she knew she was. Every part of her body screamed.

  As she gasped, Trent lunged forward. Gregori was fast, though. He threw Renee to the side and backhanded Trent across the face with his firearm. Trent stumbled back, grabbing his jaw as blood fell from his lips. Renee closed her eyes, the tears streaming freely as a single shot rang out. That was it, then. There was no one left. She opened her eyes. Trent was on the ground, his eyes wide with pain and shock. He had been shot in the chest. He was alive, but she didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She couldn’t tell if Trent was even capable of comprehending what she was saying, but she needed to say it. It was her fault. Mitch Byram, Sheriff Amerson, and now Trent. They were dead or dying, and so was she. Her stomach lurched, but with that realization, she felt something she hadn’t felt before. A stillness, a contemplative calm amidst the chaos. She wasn’t going to leave that room, but neither was Gregori.

  Time seemed to slow. She reached to her ankle and withdrew the revolver Trent had given her earlier. The world disappeared completely, but the gun felt solid in her hands.

  She took a couple of breaths, hoping her hand would stop shaking as she checked to see if there was a bullet in the chamber.

  When she stood, Gregori started at first, like a deer in headlights, but he brought his gun up and pointed it at Renee. She squeezed the trigger as hard as she could three times before he fired. The noise was deafening. She saw a spray of red behind Gregori before the bullet pierced her abdomen. The pain was like a thousand burning needles suddenly plunging into her stomach. She fell backward, unable to speak. Her firearm clattered to the ground.

  Her vision began to blur.

  Through a haze, she could see Trent crawl toward her. She tried to reach for him, but her arm didn’t have enough strength to make it. He caught her hand and held it in one of his own as he touched her face with the other. She couldn’t understand what he said, but it didn’t matter.

  The world went black.

  Wednesday, September 18. 11:17 a.m

  Baltimore, MD.

  Renee’s eyes fluttered open. The world was soft and white. She tried to sit up, but pain shot through her abdomen. She couldn’t move more than a few inches, but that was still something. She was alive. Everything was a blur, but gradually her eyes began to focus on the room around her.

  “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” an African American nurse said. “We were hoping you were going to come out of it soon.”

  “Where am I?” asked Renee, trying to sit up again so she could see beyond the few feet in front of her. The nurse pushed back on her shoulders, keeping her on the bed.

  “Stay down or you’ll tear the stitches,” she said. She handed Renee a small remote control. “You’re at the Johns Hopkins Hospital. Use this if you want to adjust the bed. There’s a button on the side if you need to call a nurse.”

  “Thank you,” said Renee. She pressed the switch to raise the bed so she could get a look around. It was a standard hospital room with a single bed, various monitors and an IV stand. She had a window, but the shades were drawn so she couldn’t see outside. Her throat was dry and parched. “How did I get here?”

  The nurse stood straight and stuck her lower lip out. She sighed.

  “You were involved in some sort of shooting,” she said. “You lost a lot of blood, and they had to helicopter you in.”

  Renee nodded.

  “Who called the police?”

  “Someone from a security company from what I gather.”

  Renee nodded again and closed her eyes. It hurt to talk, but she wanted information. “What about the man I was with? The detective?”

  “I don’t know if I’m the appropriate person to talk to,” said the nurse. She looked as if she were going to leave, but Renee shot her hand out and grabbed her wrist.

  “Please,” she said. “He’s a friend.”

  The nurse sighed.

  “Your friend was shot in the upper chest. The bullet missed his lungs. Because of his military background, we stabilized him and sent him to an Army hospital in Bethesda, Maryland. As far as I know, his wound wasn’t immediately life threatening.”

  Renee nodded and sank down into the bed. The next few days were slow and painful. The strangest part of it was that no one came to question her or take her statement. The police were probably questioning Trent, though. Since he was a cop, maybe his statement alone was good enough. She received flowers twice. The Mathematics department at Bluffdale sent her a bouquet of yellow lilies and roses. They didn’t ask for her letter of resignation, which was nice. The second bouquet was accompanied by a smiling teddy bear with his leg and head bandaged as if he had gone through a car accident. The card was simple, but it made her smile.

  Get well soon.

  —Trent Schaefer

  She was discharged a week later. She had six weeks of physical therapy ahead of her, and probably years of counseling, but she was alive.

  As she was about to leave the room for the last time, a nurse came in and handed her a letter that had been dropped off at the front desk for her. It had no return address. She sat on the edge of the bed and read through it quickly. It was from Trent. He said he had managed to get her laptop from the FBI and agreed to turn it over in exchange for an afternoon date at a coffee shop. She could think of worse ways to get it back.

  Tuesday, September 24. 3:15 p.m

  Cincinnati, OH.

  Renee pulled into a small condominium complex in a suburb outside Cincinnati. It was her first long drive since her surgery, but it wasn’t as bad as she had anticipated. She still ached, but the sharp pain from the invasive procedure was dissipating. Her physicians had even scaled back her pain medication to regular–strength ibuprofen. It wasn’t quite as much fun as the Vicodin she had started out with, but it worked.

  Since Trent had been shot in the upper chest, he couldn’t lift his arm enough to drive. Consequently, she was meeting him at his place. She pulled into his driveway and parked beside a white–paneled van. Men in white painter’s outfits streamed in and out of the condo through the garage. She followed them inside. Trent’s kitchen was open to the living and dining rooms. There were drop cloths on the floor, but no furniture at all.

  “Hello?” she called. “Trent?”

  One of the workmen said something to her, but all he could speak was Spanish. Eventually, through gestures, he was able to communicate that she was supposed to go upstairs. She smiled at him, beginning to feel a creeping sensation in her stomach.

  Like the first floor, the second was devoid of furniture. There was a second living room at the top of the steps with nothing in it. She sighed and started opening doors.

  “Are we playing hide–and–seek now?” she called. She went through a secondary bedroom and bathroom before she found the master suite. The master bedroom was a large room with a platform bed, an end table and a lime–green lamp. The furniture was functional, but it was ugly and cheap. It looked like he had purchased most of it at a thrift shop. She walked toward the bed. It didn’t even have sheets or pillows. She only saw two things on it. A flat, rosewood box and a blank envelope.

  “There are easier ways to get me into your bed, buddy,” said Renee, rolling her eyes as she opened the note. She read through it quickly, her eyebrows scrunching together, confused.

  Renee,

  You are an intelligent, resourceful and strong woman. If I could go back and change what’s happened to you, I would. I’m not who you think I am — frankly, I’ve had so many names over the years that I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t have your laptop, and I never did. It was destroyed before I could acquire it. I’m
sorry I lied to you, and I’m sorry I had to use you like this. I wish I had met you under better circumstances. This chess set won’t make up for what’s happpened, but it was stolen from one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces in Iraq six years ago. If you don’t want it, you can probably sell it to a collector. I wish I had more to give.

  Your friend,

  Trent.

  PS. For your own safety, stay in the house for the next ten minutes and please stay away from the windows until the gunshots stop.

  Renee paused, confused, before unlatching the catches on the box. It opened like a book, exposing a white–and–black–marble chessboard. She picked it up, exposing a set of crystal chess pieces that could have been in a museum.

  “What the hell are you doing, Trent?”

  Tuesday, September 24. 3:15 p.m

  Cincinnati, OH.

  The rifle was a bolt–action Remington Model 700, a civilian version of the rifle US Marine snipers used in Afghanistan. It was lethal and accurate at eight hundred yards; a good shooter could probably take out a target at a thousand. Trent leaned against his car’s bumper. His arm and chest ached, something he’d have to live with for the rest of his life.

  Victor Stiles was on the ground in a shooter’s pose, the rifle’s butt resting against his shoulder. He adjusted the optics and stared down the sights. When Trent first proposed the meeting, Victor had been reluctant to come. Trent hated using Renee as bait, but it was the only way he could convince the FBI agent to show.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Schaefer,” he said. “I didn’t see you coming.”

  “That was the point,” said Trent. “I was there in case you failed. Which you did.”

  Stiles nodded and looked over his shoulder quickly.

  “And you can confirm that Dr. Carter had no other backups of her paper or data set?”

  Trent nodded.

  “She would have told me about them if she had any,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Stiles chuckled and shook his head.