by Jan Gangsei
The phone in his back pocket buzzed. He pulled it out. It was a message. From them. He hoped they were satisfied. He’d left the tray with the device right where they’d told him to. Maybe now, he’d move from the ranks of a foot soldier to a more important role.…With trembling hands, he read:
Nice work tonight. Did anyone witness you leaving?
The busboy hesitated. He’d carried out his mission. He’d acted for the sake of the greater good. The rest of what happened was his business.
No, he typed. Clean escape. And letting out a deep breath, he hit send.
Christopher Burke banged at the door the boy had just escaped through. How the hell had he gotten it to open? He coughed as smoke filled his lungs and tears stung the corners of his eyes. Hand over his mouth, he turned to face the chaotic scene. In the dim, smoky light he could see several people on the ground, hands clasped tightly over their heads. Several more were yanking at the balcony doors, frantically clawing at the glass that separated them from fresh air outside.
A woman lay sprawled on the floor in front of him, stockings torn, blonde hair fanned out around her head. Burke lifted his shirt over his mouth and made his way toward her. He reached out a hand and helped her to her feet. She had a small gash on her leg, but didn’t appear to be hurt otherwise. Just suffering from shock. She fell against him, crying.
“What’s going on?” she sputtered.
Burke shook his head. He had no idea. He could barely process it himself.
Just then, the overhead lights came back on, so bright the party guests had to shield their eyes. The robotic voice on the loudspeaker returned. The woman next to Burke shuddered.
“Consider yourselves lucky,” the voice said. “The bomb that just detonated wasn’t real. A harmless prop. But had we wanted you dead, you would be. Never forget.”
With that, the doors surrounding the room swung open at once. As partygoers raced for the exits, screaming and pushing, tripping over each other in their rush to escape, the screen above the podium changed one more time. A message appeared, written in bold black letters against a white background:
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
“Addie! I’m Addie Webster, I—”
She bolted straight up in bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, completely disoriented. She could tell it was late. The room was dark and strangely quiet. But she had no idea where she was—or even worse, if she’d just shouted out loud.
There was a loud rap on the closed door.
A bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. Shit. She had. She gathered the covers to her chest and swallowed a scream.
“Are you okay in there, miss?” a voice said. The door opened a crack. In the dim light, she could see the outline of a crew cut, crisp white shirt, the telltale earpiece. Secret Service. In a rush, it all came back to her. She was in a small house, somewhere off the Capital Beltway in suburban Virginia. They’d taken her here last night after hours of questioning at Secret Service headquarters.
Since then it had been more questions, along with visits from sketch artists, doctors, psychiatrists. She knew they were just trying to collect information, put together things that would help their investigation. But she couldn’t help but feel like they were trying to confuse her. Trip her up. Get her to admit she was something she wasn’t. Crazy. An imposter. A fraud.
“Do you need anything?” the agent asked, face earnest. All of these Secret Service types looked the same to Addie. Smooth cheeks, clipped hair: clean-cut all-American.
Addie took a deep breath. “I’m fine,” she said. But her hands trembled, despite her attempts to hold them still. “Just a bad dream.”
“You sure?” the agent said.
“I’m sure,” she answered.
“Okay. You know where to find us if you need anything.” The door clicked shut. She blinked and took in her dimly lit surroundings. Paneled walls, one bed, one dresser. No television. No computer. No windows.
Trapped. She was still trapped.
She sucked in another deep breath, wiped her palms on the sheets, and reminded herself she was okay. She was safe. She could get through this.
She’d been through far worse.
She put her head back down on the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. Pointless. Once she was awake, her mind started racing a million miles an hour. She wished she could shut it off, but it ran in an endless loop. All zeros and ones. Keystrokes and codes. Always going back to that voice. The familiar whisper in her ear that made her spine straighten automatically, her body primed for action—or punishment.
Don’t run.
Or there’d be a price to pay.
There was no way she’d get any sleep now. So she climbed from the bed and stretched out, back pressed to the floor, knees tucked up, arms at her side. Exhaling, she counted out crunches.
One, two, three, four…
Exercise always made her feel better. Her own secret strength. Something no one could steal. She moved quietly and efficiently, with the grace and speed of a natural athlete. As she curled into herself, every muscle contracted with perfect precision.
Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty…
She flipped onto her elbows, popped up on her toes and stretched into a rigid plank. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. In. Out. In. Out. She closed her eyes.
As her core tightened, her mind relaxed.
Strength is power. Power is strength.
She exhaled and transitioned to mountain climbers, drawing her knees one at a time to her chest and back. Her quads burned and her breath stuttered. But she didn’t stop. She kept going, harder now. She dropped into a set of push-ups. Sweat dripped from her biceps. With each rep, she felt herself growing stronger. Faster. Unstoppable.
Because the next time she had to run, there was no way she’d get caught.
Darrow Fergusson stood in his bedroom directly in front of his desk, squeezing the red checker in his hand so hard it left groove marks along his fingers. Eight years—eight years, and now this. He could barely wrap his mind around the possibility of it.
He stared at the Georgetown Hoyas poster hanging in front of him. He’d tacked it up at the beginning of junior year, when he’d started his early admission application process. Only his mother, and Elinor, knew what was hiding underneath the cartoon bulldog. His stomach knotted as he thought of the last time Elinor had been in this room; the taste of her sour-apple lip balm, the feel of her silky golden-brown hair between his fingers. The look on her face when she said it was over. Was there anything in his life he hadn’t managed to screw up?
With one swift motion Darrow ripped the poster away. As it fluttered to the carpet, the past he’d tried so hard to leave behind was exposed. Darrow scanned the faded map of the world, curling at the edges, that hung in front of him. He’d tacked it above his desk when he was only nine. He still remembered when it had been crisp and new, back when he’d woken up every morning thinking: Maybe today. Maybe today they’ll find Addie. Over the years, he’d carefully marked it with red Xs—one for every place his childhood best friend had allegedly been seen. Prague. Milan. Stockholm. London. San Francisco. Even upstate New York, a small town in Texas, and the remote Caribbean island of Bequia, where someone resembling Addie had been spotted by a half-dozen witnesses running through the J. F. Mitchell Airport.
But just like every other lead, it had been a dead end. Another X on a trail of dots that led nowhere. One day when he was thirteen, he had ripped the map off the wall and torn it in half, only to clumsily tape it back together and put it back up, tears streaming down his face. There hadn’t been a lead on the Addie Webster case in four years.
Until now.
Darrow’s heart pounded inside his chest. He grabbed a pen and marked another X—right in the center of the nation’s capital. Right here. He couldn’t believe Addie might actually be mere miles from his P Street row house in Georgetown. He wondered if he’d recognize her. He liked to think he would know those green eyes an
ywhere.
But time changed people. He doubted she would recognize him. He was seventeen now, tall and lean, with a muscular build that came from rowing crew in the spring and playing lacrosse in the fall. He was too big for tree houses and backyard swings. Too big for board games and freeze tag. His voice was deep, and he didn’t make wishes on shooting stars anymore. He had grown from a lanky kid into a darker version of his blue-eyed, blond-haired father, the minor-league baseball player who had walked out on Darrow and his mother to chase his big-league dreams when Darrow was only four.
Darrow stood there a moment longer, then pulled his backpack from his chair and started stuffing books inside. He was running late and had a history test first period. Of course, he could probably give some bullshit excuse and Mr. Polanco would eat it up. Teachers loved him; trusted him. They had no idea how close he’d come to blowing everything. And all because of Addie Webster. Well, he wasn’t going to flunk AP Euro and lose his early acceptance to Georgetown over her, too.
He slung the backpack over his shoulders and turned to look one more time at the wall. Addie. He was about to leave when his mother appeared in his doorway dressed in her D.C.-gray suit, briefcase slung over one shoulder, her thick, dark hair straightened and knotted at the nape of her neck.
“Hey, Mom,” he said. “Thought you’d left for work already.”
“On my way,” she said. “Just wondered if you had a minute?”
“Yeah, sure.” Darrow said. His mom walked in and gave him a quick hug, before pulling back and giving him a long, searching look.
“What?” he asked, uncomfortably aware of the time.
“I think you grew another couple inches overnight,” she said with a sigh.
Darrow groaned, even though ironically enough, his mother was probably the only adult in the world who didn’t completely annoy him. When he’d filled out his college application, he’d written his personal statement about her: Cheryl Fergusson, his hero, the first African American and first female chief of staff for a U.S. president, all of which she’d accomplished while raising Darrow alone. He’d meant it, but at the same time he knew it was exactly the sort of thing college admissions boards ate up.
His mom set her case down on Darrow’s desk. Her eyes flicked straight to the map above it. Darrow knew Addie’s disappearance had probably hit his mother nearly as hard as it had him. Her relationship with the Websters went way back to their undergraduate studies at UVA. And Cheryl Fergusson had worked with Mark Webster since his early days as state senator, right on through to his meteoric rise to the presidency. She was both a friend and advisor, and had pulled Mark Webster’s career from the ashes on more than one occasion, including six months ago when a cybersecurity scandal had threatened to derail his presidency.
“What do you think, Mom?” Darrow said. “Is it her?”
His mother’s hand went to the thick silver chain around her neck. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, as she always did when she was anxious.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Cheryl Fergusson said.
“Oh?”
His mother dropped the chain and reached out for Darrow’s hand. Suddenly, he felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. Like a tornado was about to strike. The same feeling that had hit Darrow the day they realized Addie was gone. Only now…
“The president just called,” his mother said. “The lab in Quantico completed the DNA analysis. Sweetie…it’s Addie. I can’t believe it. They finally found her.”
Special Agent Christina Alvarez drove up the tree-lined driveway and parked to the right of the single-car garage. As far as the neighbors were concerned, this simple 1960s brick ranch with its stone walkway and tidy garden was nothing more than the home of a reclusive old woman, who just so happened to winter in Florida and was regularly looked after by her government-employed grandson.
In reality, the Falls Church rambler was a Secret Service safe house, sometimes used to hide a witness. Sometimes used to keep a suspect quiet. Sometimes both.
But right now, it housed what was probably its most famous resident ever.
Agent Alvarez grabbed her bag and stepped from the car. She knocked twice on the front door. An agent she didn’t recognize answered. But as soon as she walked into the narrow foyer she heard the familiar call.
“Hey look, guys—it’s Big Al!”
Agent Alvarez rolled her eyes. “If it isn’t Billy Boy,” she said to Agent Murawczyk, who was seated at the kitchen table with two other members of the president’s detail, a deck of cards spread between them. Alvarez and Murawczyk had gone through qualifications together, where she’d earned her ridiculous nickname courtesy of the fact that she was barely five feet tall, and at one hundred pounds didn’t even weigh enough to donate blood.
“So they finally moved you off those bogus Gucci purse dealers, hey?” Murawczyk said.
“That would be ATM wire fraud, actually,” Alvarez answered.
“See? Something to do with purses.”
Alvarez ignored him. “Where’s the girl?” she said.
“Secure bedroom,” one of the other agents said, jutting his thumb over his shoulder. “Doesn’t come out much.”
“Yeah?” Alvarez said. “Can you blame her? Look at you three. It’s like a bad frat party in here. All you’re missing are some cans of Budweiser to smash on your foreheads.”
“And a stripper. You ordered the stripper, right, Billy?” another agent said, elbowing Murawczyk.
“Shhh!” Murawczyk said with a snort. “Weren’t you paying attention at the last sensitivity seminar? Hostile work environment. Right, Big Al?”
Alvarez flipped them off.
“You here to see if she’ll open up to a girl?” another agent chimed in. “Have a little heart-to-heart on fake purses, see if you can bring things around to fake First Kids?”
“Hey, shouldn’t you boys be out there looking for whoever fake-bombed that fund-raiser, not holed up in here playing Go Fish?” Alvarez retorted. She knew it had to be driving them nuts. A terrorist attack right in the nation’s capital, and here they were, sitting on the sidelines babysitting.
The boys went silent and Alvarez allowed herself a small smile. She could play the game as well as the rest of them. After all, she’d grown up with four brothers in a Marine Corps family. Knowing how to shoot, curse, and run fast were the keys to survival in the Alvarez house. All were traits that had served Agent Alvarez well since she joined the Secret Service. She’d been number one in her class—a better shot, quicker on the driving course, and just as fast as Billy Boy out there.
Which was why it burned Alvarez a little to get this assignment now—not due to her skills, but because she was a woman. And a young one at that. But the president had been very specific. After his daughter had been grilled by more than a dozen tough guys in suits, he wanted to send in someone who would come across as less threatening. Easier to relate to. Someone Addie could trust.
And Agent Alvarez wasn’t stupid. She knew an opportunity when it came along. She’d show them Big Al belonged in this boy’s club, along with the rest of those jokers at the card table who had no idea she’d just gotten the kind of assignment that would make any of their careers.
She stopped in front of the bedroom door, knocked, and waited. A small voice answered.
“Yes?”
“It’s Special Agent Christina Alvarez, U.S. Secret Service. Do you mind if I come in?”
There was a brief pause. “Okay. That’s fine.”
Alvarez slowly opened the door. A girl sat on the bed, a magazine open next to her. She looked surprisingly small, legs folded beneath her, hands in her lap. But Alvarez detected a hint of something…strong in the girl’s unflinching gaze. Like she might just challenge Alvarez to an arm-wrestling match. And win.
“Are you here to question me, too?” the girl asked.
Agent Alvarez shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
“Oh. So did you bring m
e something to do? It’s getting kind of boring in here. The wood paneling is attractive and all, but we’re running out of conversation topics.”
Agent Alvarez laughed. “Not surprised. I did actually bring you some fresh clothes,” she said. “I’m sure you’re sick of hanging out in Secret Service sweats.”
“Eh, they’re okay. Thank you, though. Is that it?”
“No, it’s not,” Agent Alvarez said. “I’m here because we got your DNA results back.”
“What?” The girl sat up straight.
“Yes, Miss Webster,” Agent Alvarez said with a smile. “Or do you prefer Addie?”
The girl gasped and jumped off the bed. “So you believe me now?” she said. “Am I going home?”
“Yes,” Agent Alvarez said. “I’m here to take you to the White House. I mean, home. I’m here to take you home.”
For Addie Webster, life had always been divided into two distinct parts.
First the before: Addie, the eight-year-old daughter of the governor and the brilliant software developer. The little girl with the world at her fingertips, lollipops in her pockets, and songs in her head. Blissfully ignorant, innocent Addie.
And then the after: Stolen Addie. Terrified Addie. No—survivor Addie. The one who learned to see things for what they really were. Smarter, wiser Addie.
Only problem was, she’d never really considered there could be another “after.” The thing she was living. The now.
Addie peered out the back window of the presidential limousine as it drove along Pennsylvania Avenue. The road was an eerie stretch of empty black pavement, devoid of any vehicles besides the advance car up front and the two that trailed her limo. The streets had been closed to traffic, a common and annoying occurrence for D.C. drivers whenever the president or some dignitary rolled through town.
But on the sidewalks and pathways, tourists stopped and gawked, pointing at the motorcade. Addie slunk lower in her seat as the cameras clicked outside, even though she knew they couldn’t see her through the heavily tinted glass. She reminded herself she’d better get used to the glare of the flashes. The spotlight was going to be on her now.
