by Chad Zunker
I was twenty feet out, trapped. The cop climbed out of the driver’s seat.
I jumped, slid across the hood of the police car, landed on the other side and continued my sprint. I wondered if bullets were going to begin flying. In a stroke of luck, a huge crowd was forming up ahead of me. Hundreds of tourists were waiting to get on the first Staten Island Ferry tour of the day.
I raced straight toward them. The Feds and the police would have to shoot into a crowd, which I doubted they would do. I hit the crowd at full speed, trying not to knock anyone over. I pushed my way through, shoving people out of the way. I heard the sirens of more police cars off to my left. They were coming in full force. I wondered if it was about to all be over. I broke through the crowd into an opening, circled the ferry building, found my way next to FDR Drive on the other side. Another peek behind me. I’d created some additional space. But where was I going, exactly? I was literally on an island.
I was sprinting up the sidewalk along FDR when a silver Honda Civic suddenly swerved right in front of me and skidded to a stop. I had no choice but to leave my feet, slide across the hood on my stomach, spill over onto the other side and roll. My head hit the pavement hard. I saw stars. A strong hand grabbed my arm. I looked up, shocked to see the blonde banker guy from DC. The man following Natalie yesterday. His hand on my arm, pulling me toward his car. Oddly, it felt like he was trying to help me get away.
“Get in the car, Sam, hurry!” he said, lifting me up, looking behind us. “They’re close!”
Without thinking, I did what he said, mostly because I spotted the mass of agents gaining ground. He had the back door open. I stumbled to my feet, dove into the car. He slammed my door shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, and pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard. We kicked off the curb, back into the flow of traffic.
“Stay down!” the blonde guy yelled at me, when my head peeked up.
I slid back down. My heart was beating a thousand times a minute. I could hear multiple sirens pass by us from the opposite direction. But it didn’t sound like any were turning around and following. We were losing them.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He didn’t respond. The car turned at an intersection. He was driving swiftly through downtown traffic, headed north. I saw buildings whipping past.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
Again, he didn’t respond. I looked around the backseat, trying to find something that told me anything about my driver. There was nothing. It was clearly a rental. It smelled brand new. Suddenly, the driver pulled the car over to the curb, stopping abruptly, and slamming my face against the front seat.
He turned to me. “Get out.”
“No. Tell me who you are first.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”
“Okay, then who do you work for?”
He gave me a stern look. “Sam, you’ve only got seconds.”
I looked around. We were at the corner of East 43rd and Park Avenue. Grand Central Station. The city’s major subway hub. I had a chance to get lost again. I had a million questions, but it was clear that my new travel companion was not going to answer any of them. I climbed out. Before I could even shut the back door, the driver peeled back out into traffic. He was gone.
I frantically tried to process what just happened. I glanced at the uniformed cop up ahead of me, who didn’t seem to notice me, and knew I had to keep moving.
I ducked quickly inside Grand Central.
THIRTY-FIVE
Monday, 9:46 a.m.
Bordentown Township, New Jersey
14 hours, 14 minutes to Election Day
I took a series of trains to New Jersey to get out of New York City.
Then I decided I was no longer comfortable on public transit. So I borrowed a new white Ford Explorer from the parking lot of Newpark Mall in Newark and began my trek down I-95, back to Washington, DC. I peeled off the New Jersey Turnpike around Elizabeth and threw my new phone, tablet, and IDs into the Elizabeth River. I would no longer be using anything that could be traced. They would surely connect me with Dobbs Howard since I’d texted Josh from that phone. Dobbs was dead. I would go nameless the rest of the way.
I drove the speed limit. I didn’t need to get pulled over right now.
I was so confused. Who was the blonde guy? How did he know how to find me?
That was twice I’d done a Houdini disappearing act with the help of strangers.
I thought about my conversation with Josh. I was indeed hand-picked. Someone had paid a lot of money and chosen me specifically to be out there on that campaign trail on that fateful night. I thought of the scribbled name I’d found on the yellow notepad inside Jill Becker’s apartment. Devin Nicks, Chief of Staff for Congressman Mitchell. Had Nicks been the one to reach out to Ted Bowerson? Had he hired Jill Becker? Had he set this all up?
I was on the road to Philadelphia when I first spotted it in my rearview mirror.
Silver Honda Civic. Fifty yards back. At first, I thought there was no way that it could be the same guy, the blonde banker. I slowed my stolen Explorer to fifty miles per hour anyway. Traffic on I-95 began zipping around me. But not the Civic. The driver just hung back, keeping its distance.
I pulled off the interstate near Bordentown Township. And sure enough, the Civic followed me. I zigzagged through several streets in the small township, before parking in the lot right outside a ShopRite Grocery. I left the Explorer and quickly made my way inside the grocery store, but not without confirming the Civic was still with me, parking in a spot several rows behind me. The blonde banker climbed out of his car to go grocery shopping with me.
The thought of walking straight out there and confronting him in the parking lot crossed my mind. But he’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to volunteer information. So I quickly made other plans.
I grabbed a hand basket, hit an aisle with other shoppers, then paused to make sure the banker was inside the store with me. When he stepped through the glass doors, I turned and headed quickly to the back of the store. I passed through a cold meats section and found a dirty swivel door to the warehouse. I found a set of concrete stairs to the loading dock and bound down them two at a time. Within seconds, I was back outside, circling the building, making my way around to the front again.
I took a moment to peer into the parking lot.
There was no sign of the blonde. He was still inside the store. I probably had two minutes to make this happen. I made my way up a row of cars and found his Civic. The door was locked. I dropped to one knee. I had never picked a car door lock so fast in my life. Inside the driver’s seat there was nothing, and nothing in the cup holders. I opened the middle console, looking for rental paper work. Nothing. Flipped down the visors. Nothing. Popped open the glove box. Generic rental paperwork but nothing that identified him. His blue blazer was folded in the passenger seat. I grabbed it, reached into all the pockets, and found it. An ID badge.
William Alexander, Special Agent, Central Intelligence Agency The CIA? Seriously?
I didn’t have time to think. I slipped the ID in my back pocket, fell to the floorboard. I pulled out wires and quickly dismantled the car’s starter.
I was back inside my stolen Explorer seconds later. The engine revved.
I quickly found the New Jersey turnpike. This time I would push the speed limit. I had to get back to Natalie, and fast.
THIRTY-SIX
Monday, 12:14 p.m.
Washington, DC
11 hours, 46 minutes to Election Day
Back in DC, I met Natalie on the plush grounds of the 624-acre Arlington National Cemetery, the vast burial plot for hundreds of thousands of honored military veterans. It was a quarter past noon. The sky was gray and hinting at more rain, but no drops had fallen just yet. Tumultuous clouds appeared on the horizon. The rest of my drive down I-95 had been thankfully uneventful. Although the blonde banker had proven to be very resourceful, he would’ve needed a helicopter to
catch up to me, as I chose to screw playing it safe and had my foot near the floorboard the entire rest of the way back to DC.
There was no further sign of CIA Agent William Alexander. At this point, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The guy had rescued me. I didn’t know why. Regardless, I didn’t like having a shadow.
I’d peeled off the highway near Baltimore, made a quick trip to Walgreens, then locked myself in a bathroom stall with a razor and shaving cream. My last hurrah. My head was now completely shaved. Not a stray hair anywhere other than the slight brown shag on my chin and cheeks. After being chased through Battery Park, I needed another drastic change. For the first time, I could count the dimples and bumps on my scalp. I examined the scar on the left side above my ear. A dealer had smashed me good with a beer bottle when I was fourteen; he felt I hadn’t moved my inventory quickly enough for his liking. I spent a night in the hospital after that one. Now the Yankees cap was gone, along with the windbreaker. Instead, I wore a new black hoodie, which currently covered my bald scalp.
I walked for fifteen minutes through the rolling hills of the National Cemetery to the back of the expansive property, passing two different military funeral services going on at that very moment. Natalie had instructed me to meet her by the Battle of the Bulge Monument. I used the map and found her exactly where she said she would be, standing to the left of the monument. I wondered if she even had a tail anymore, after the blonde banker had ditched her and followed me to New York City. I still didn’t know how that was even possible. I fought the urge to wrap my arms around her and pull her in close.
I stepped up next to her, my eyes on the small monument.
“Hey,” I said.
“How’re you holding up?” she asked me.
“I’ve had better weeks.”
I saw her studying my bald head peeking out from under the hoodie.
“Yes, it’s all gone,” I said.
She gave a small grin. “I like it. It’s better than the blonde look.”
“Good to know. Maybe this will be my new look. Did you check him out?”
She nodded. We’d spoken by pay phone when I was in Baltimore.
“He’s legit, Sam. He works for the CIA. Sixteen-year veteran. Terrorism Analysis Division. Lots of overseas experience.”
“Wonderful. So I’m a terrorist now. Any idea why he would rescue me from the FBI? Aren’t the FBI and CIA supposed to play nice together?”
“I still don’t know. There is nothing about his background that connects. At least nothing that I’ve found just yet. And my contact at the CIA says that Alexander is on a paid month-long leave of absence right now. But I do have something else for you.”
She pulled out her phone, brought up a digital color photograph. It was a picture of several men in military fatigues standing in a huddle smiling at the camera. I immediately spotted the now familiar face of Elvis in front. Then my eyes moved two guys left and froze. There he was, my friend, Square Jaw.
“Is that him?” Natalie asked.
I nodded. “That’s the guy. Where is this?”
“Military training center in Virginia. Headquarters for Redrock Security.”
I remembered seeing Elvis’s Redrock Security ID. “How did you find him?”
“I got someone on Congressman Mitchell’s team to ID him in some photographs. According to the aide, Congressman Mitchell recently had some domestic threats that they were taking seriously, so they’d contracted out additional private security. From Stable Security in Dallas. Your boy, Square Jaw, was one of those men. His real name is Tom Brickman. Former Marine Special Ops from Oklahoma.”
“So both of these men worked for Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“You think Devin Nicks, his chief of staff, coordinated the encounter with Jill Becker to get McCallister, then it backfired when he accidentally killed her instead of simply messing around with her? And then they decided to cover their tracks on the whole thing by sending out these contract killers?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke with Devin Nicks just twenty minutes ago.”
I turned to her fully. “Seriously?”
“Yes, I got word to him that I was working a major story that could have serious implications for the campaign. Asked him to call me back right away. He did within ten minutes. I asked him directly about his relationship with Jill Becker. He flat out said he’d never heard the name. So I asked him a second time, very clearly. He again denied knowing anyone named Jill Becker.”
“No surprise there, right?”
“Yes and no. I’ve spent a lot of time with these guys, getting quotes, and I’ve learned to read between the lines. Guys like Devin Nicks are usually more measured in their responses. Much more careful with their choice of words. They usually never directly confirm or deny anything, so they can always find an out to cover their asses, if needed. Nicks didn’t do that with me today.”
“So, what, you believe him?”
“I’m not sure, Sam. When he denied knowing her, he went on major offensive and then began grilling me for more info about her. Who was she? What kind of angle was I working? He was clearly desperate. They’re down five points with only one day to go. The polls open at eight tomorrow morning. I don’t think you do that if you’re connected the way we think he’s connected. You evade and get off the phone. So I bailed on the call myself, told him I’d be back in touch with him shortly. After that, some of my contacts let me know that Mitchell’s team was digging around like crazy on Jill Becker, in search of more information on my story. Nicks has already called my cell back twice since our first call. But I haven’t answered.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Natalie. It’s the only theory we’ve got right now that makes any sense. Plus, I found his name written down on a notepad inside her apartment. How else did it get there?”
“Not sure. It could mean a number of things. But I don’t have the answer to that yet.”
Her cell phone buzzed again. It had buzzed multiple times during our conversation. I was used to it going off all the time while we were dating. That was Natalie’s world. This time she looked oddly at her phone screen, then held up a text message. No name was listed.
Is the Duke with you?
Tommy, I told her. I quickly replied with, Yes, I’m here.
Another text from Tommy.
Where you been? Trying to get in touch with you for an hour.
Tossed my phone. Sorry.
Well, your boy, Jeremy, went live an hour ago. Working under an alias, but I got him. He’s still online right now.
I texted back. You got an address?
Atlas Arcade, 1236 H Street NE
Thanks, Mav. Headed there now!
“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing Natalie.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Monday, 12:51 p.m.
Washington, DC
11 hours, 9 minutes to Election Day
Atlas Arcade was in a bright orange building on a strip in a seedy part of northeast DC. It was billed as the best retro arcade bar in the city, featuring classic arcade games from the eighties and early nineties: Donkey Kong, Golden Axe, and Double Dragon 2. Natalie parked her Cherokee a block up the street. It had started to drizzle.
I pulled my hood over my bald head. We pushed through the front door.
I knew what Jeremy Lynch looked like; Natalie had found a yearbook photo, so I was searching for a skinny guy my age with brown hair, maybe glasses. There were about ten guys in a small narrow room who matched that description. Along the red brick walls on the right were a dozen full-size arcade games. On the left side, deeper into the arcade, was a small bar. Several guys were seated at the bar, where you could drink a beer and play video games at the same time. I had hung out in places just like this ten years ago.
We strolled by, studying the faces. Guys were huddled around the arcade machines in small packs. I did not spot Jeremy. Maybe he
had changed his appearance, like me. I asked the bartender if he knew where I could find him. The bartender shrugged.
We moved further toward the back, by the restrooms and a dartboard.
That’s when I spotted a guy sitting on the brown tile floor, back up against an arcade game, huddled over a laptop in front of him. He matched the picture from the yearbook, even wearing what looked like the same glasses from the photo. Plus, he was the only guy in the arcade bar at the moment who was using a laptop computer.
“Jeremy?” I asked, standing over him.
He peered up, startled. His eyes were completely bloodshot.
When he saw us, he slammed his laptop shut, scrambled to his feet, and darted right past us. Others turned to stare as Jeremy raced clumsily past them and out the front door, me in pursuit. Jeremy pushed through the glass door and sprinted up the block. I was out the door right behind him. There was no way he was getting away, but he sure was going for it. He ran past a strip of four two-story buildings, took a left at the first alley, passed two metal dumpsters, a parked van, and ran into a tall chain-link fence. He jumped on it, tried to climb up, but I had a hand on his jeans within seconds and yanked him to the pavement.
He was still trying to get away as I pinned him to the ground.
“Jeremy, stop,” I urged him. “I’m here to help you.”
He peered up into my eyes. The guy was really scared. I could see it.
“I promise,” I said, my voice softer.
He finally stopped struggling.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Monday, 1:08 p.m.
Washington, DC
10 hours, 52 minutes to Election Day