You Can Run

by Karen Cleveland

  Who’s behind this?

  The question echoes in my mind, and is soon followed by another.

  And why?

  I’m moving the cursor to close out of ClandestineTips when a new message appears. From my source. I double-click, pulse quickening.

  Why haven’t you published your story?

  I hesitate. Why the question? I don’t understand.

  Because I need more information, I type. It’s not just that. But that’s part of it.

  I wait. There’s no response.

  I look back at the chat—

  A response, from my source:

  You need to publish soon.

  Unease runs through me like a current. I type:

  Why?

  The response comes seconds later:

  Do it soon, before it’s too late.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jill

  I leave Alex’s loft and check into a Hilton around the corner, one that caters to business travelers. It looks quiet and clean, and I can be anonymous here. Exactly what I need.

  The room is small and dark, and pleasantly cool. The hallways are silent. No noise from surrounding rooms. If the kids were here, I’d be shushing them, trying to keep them occupied with activity books and toys so they wouldn’t bother other guests.

  God, I wish they were here.

  How are they? Where are they?

  I perch on the edge of the king-size bed and unlock my phone. I find Drew’s name, the first in my list of favorites. Press call. One ring, then another, and another. Voicemail connects. Hello, you’ve reached Drew….

  I listen to his voice, heart hurting, and disconnect just before the beep.

  I lower the phone and walk to the enormous window, look out through the sheer curtain. A typical city view, buildings around, streets below packed with cars, dotted with pedestrians. Typical weekday rush hour. The activity makes me feel lonelier than ever.

  I did the one thing I’ve avoided doing for four long years. The one thing they warned me not to do.

  But I got what I needed: more time. Alex made the deal, agreed not to publish until the kids are safe.

  The kids. I look at my phone again. Nothing from Drew. Just the time, and the picture of Owen and Mia in the backyard.

  I unlock the phone with my thumb, search for another contact. Jeremy. I press send and listen to it ring.

  Voicemail. I end the call without leaving a message.

  I sit back down on the bed and reach for the remote, turn on the TV. Flip through a few channels. A sitcom I don’t recognize. A cartoon. News. All of it mindless, irritating.

  I turn it off, and an overpowering silence descends.

  I need to get out of here.

  I grab my purse and key card and leave the room, head down to the parking lot. Slide into my rented Ford Focus, start driving.

  I don’t have a destination, don’t have anywhere to go, anywhere to be. It’s just aimless driving, on roads that were once familiar. Four years ago, I knew these roads like the back of my hand. Seems like yesterday, and a lifetime ago.

  I drive past the Tidal Basin, where Drew and I had one of our first dates, walking through the cherry blossoms. Take I-395 over the Potomac into Virginia. The Pentagon’s just up ahead, on the right. On the left is that hotel with the revolving restaurant on top. Drew and I went to a wedding there once.

  I exit off to the right and wind my way past Arlington National Cemetery, onto the densely treed George Washington Memorial Parkway. I took this road countless times over the years. Quickest route between Langley and DC.

  I exit onto Route 123, follow it west into Vienna. I used to fight traffic on this road every morning, every evening. I’ve hit the sweet spot right now, midday, between rush hours. Cars are few and far between.

  I pass All Children’s on my right, and my throat tightens. Looks just the same as it did years ago. I remember the panic I felt the last time I pulled into that parking lot. The sheer terror of not knowing whether Owen was safe.

  I’m near the turnoff to our old neighborhood now. There’s a row of new fast casual restaurants on the corner. The corner grocery’s been taken over by one of the chains, and it’s twice the size. They must have knocked down the hardware store.

  I pull onto our old street. It’s quiet at this hour; everyone’s at work. I’m the only car on the road.

  There’s our old house. Still standing. The ones on either side have been knocked down, huge new houses erected in their places. The little ranch looks the same, but somehow older and smaller, overshadowed as it is by the giant houses on either side.

  I park on the street and just look at it. So many memories here. It’s the place where Drew and I started out our married life, where we brought home our first baby. I try to focus on those memories, but what keeps pushing its way to the front of my mind are those final weeks. The ever-present fear, the desperation.

  It’s someone on the inside. Someone on the inside is responsible for Owen being kidnapped. For threatening us. For taking away all semblance of safety, of security. The thought infuriates me. It’s not fair, what they’ve done. It’s just not fair.

  I take one last look at the house—I’m sure it won’t be here much longer—and pull away from the curb. I wind my way back out of the neighborhood. Past the new restaurants, back toward the city.

  I’m on I-66 when I first notice the car. A black sedan, traveling in the same lane, same speed, about five car lengths behind me. Probably nothing, so I switch lanes, just to be sure.

  The black sedan switches, too.

  I maintain my pace, watching it in the rearview mirror. Gradually I ease off the gas, lower my speed. The sedan stays in the same lane, same distance back, lowers its speed to match.

  My pulse quickens.

  I’m being followed.

  It’s them, isn’t it?

  Do they know I met with Alex?

  I thought her loft would be safer than a public place, but maybe I was wrong. Probably doesn’t matter, either way. If they were watching her loft, they’d have followed her anywhere we’d have met.

  If they know I met with her, they know I talked.

  And that means the kids are in danger.

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I’m crossing the bridge into the District now. The Potomac shimmers below, postcard-perfect.

  That car is still behind me. Too far away for me to see the driver or read the plates. But as soon as we hit Constitution Avenue, there will be traffic. Stop and go. I’ll be able to see something, won’t I?

  Onto Constitution now, coming up on a red light. Small clusters of tourists mill about, strolling down the sidewalks, headed to the Lincoln Memorial. I slow to a stop, but the black sedan slows sooner, lets two cars in between us. I can’t see a thing.

  The light turns green, and I inch forward, watching the rearview mirror. Slow enough for those cars to pull around me, I hope.

  One veers into the next lane, speeds around me.

  Then the other follows suit.

  Another red light—

  I stop, and the black sedan does, too, but at a distance, leaves too many car lengths between us. An SUV pulls in behind me from the other lane, blocks my view of the sedan.

  I slam a hand against the wheel. This isn’t working. They’re here, right behind me, and I don’t know who they are.

  They’re back—and this time, I don’t want them to disappear. I want to confront them. I want to know exactly who’s behind this.

  When the light turns green, I press down on the gas. Past the White House on my left, the Washington Monument on my right, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror the whole time. The car’s still behind me.

  A quick right on Fourteenth—the car follows—and then a left on Jefferson. A one-way, flanking the National Mall.
The black sedan’s right behind me, at a distance.

  The Mall’s crowded. With pedestrians, and with cars, parallel parked on either side of the street. I inch along, but the sedan keeps its distance—

  Bingo. Ahead of me, just across from the Hirshhorn Museum, a minivan pulls out from a parallel spot along the left side of the street, adjacent to the Mall. I press down on my brakes. The sedan slows to a distant stop behind me.

  The minivan speeds off and I parallel park in the vacant space, quick turns of the wheel, watching the rearview mirror the whole time. The sedan keeps its distance.

  I’m parked. That car’s still behind me, stopped at a distance—

  Another driver lays on his horn, and the sedan inches forward. Nowhere to go but forward. Past me.

  My heart’s beating fast. I watch the rearview mirror as it approaches. Nissan Sentra, DC plates, letters and numbers I memorize. And the person—a man, someone wearing a hat pulled low—

  I spin my head to the side as the car accelerates past. The driver turns his head as he passes. I can’t get a look at his face.

  I slam my hand against the wheel, again. Watch as the car speeds down the street. It takes the first left to cut across the Mall—

  Then a left down the other side of the Mall. The car slides parallel into a space near the National Gallery of Art, directly across from me.

  He’s not going away.

  He’s still watching me.

  And I still want to know who he is.

  Abruptly I open the car door. Get out, start walking, cut through the Mall. I catch sight of his car—

  The driver’s-side door is open. There’s a man stepping out. Dark baseball cap, pulled low. Gray hooded sweatshirt.

  Let’s see if he’ll follow me on foot.

  I take a right on the dirt path, head in the direction of the Capitol. I force myself to keep my eyes forward, to avoid making it obvious that I saw him, that I know he’s getting out of his car and following me.

  But I intentionally keep a slow pace. I want to give him time to catch up.

  I focus on each of my footsteps. Long enough now that he’s probably crossed the Mall, caught on to my trail—

  I turn and cast a furtive look back. There he is, following at a distance, hands jammed in the pocket of his sweatshirt, head down; all I can see is that black baseball cap.

  My pulse is racing. This is dangerous.

  But I need to know who he is. He’s got to be one of the people behind this.

  I walk another block, forcing myself to keep looking straight ahead. My skin is crawling, knowing he’s behind me, but not having eyes on him, not knowing exactly how close. I need him to get comfortable, need to catch him by surprise—

  I turn abruptly, heart pounding, and start walking toward him.

  It catches him off guard. He stops, lifts his head just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the lower half of his face. Facial hair, a thick beard. He’s too far away to see more, especially with that hat pulled low—

  He does a 180 and starts walking away from me.

  I start jogging toward him. I’m gaining on him—

  He glances back, face still shielded by the hat, then starts running—

  I break into a full run after him, chasing him.

  This is crazy. I have no weapon; I’m not prepared for any sort of confrontation. But these people are a threat to my kids. I don’t know who they are, and I need to know. I need to find the truth. The only way I can keep my kids safe is by figuring out who’s behind this.

  I have tunnel vision. I’m dimly aware of tourists around us, stopping and staring, but all I can see is him. His back, his sweatshirt, jeans. He’s a big guy, solid. And fast. He’s lengthening the distance between us.

  The Metro station, straight ahead. The Smithsonian one, the one that’s right on the Mall, a bank of long escalators heading down into the station, underground. He veers slightly off course, and I know he’s heading for it. I push myself to run harder, faster.

  He ducks into it, and I lose sight of him. I’m almost there—

  I run for the escalator on the right, start running down—

  There he is. Near the bottom of the escalator, pushing his way past a couple of tourists. I continue running down, hand grazing the rail, my eyes never leaving his back.

  He’s on the landing now. Runs past the ticket machines on the right, toward the turnstiles on the left—

  He leaps over the turnstile. His hat flies off, and I can see thick, dark hair.

  I don’t have time to stop. Straight for the turnstiles now. There’s a large woman in a flowered dress touching her card to the reader. I run straight forward, crashing into her, pushing my way through the turnstile behind her. She turns, shocked, scared, then gives me an angry look, but I’m already past her.

  Down to the next bank of escalators now. I catch sight of that gray sweatshirt again. He’s near the bottom already, and there’s a train there, doors open—

  I push past two men in suits, running down the steps as fast as I can.

  He leaps on board. I can hear the chime, the warning that the doors are closing.

  No, no, no.

  I’m at the bottom now, and the doors are closing. I’m almost there—

  The doors slide fully closed with an audible click. I didn’t make it.

  He’s on, and I’m not.

  I slam a hand against the side of the train in frustration. Then I stand back, breathing hard, and desperately scan the windows—

  There he is. Standing, facing me. Gray sweatshirt, jeans. He has a thick beard, bushy eyebrows, and he’s looking directly at me.

  The sight makes a shiver run up my spine. I recognize this man from the headshot in the Agency cable, years ago.

  He’s Falcon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jill

  I watch the train until it disappears, swallowed into the black tunnel. When I turn, there are clusters of people standing a safe distance away from me, some outright staring, some casting furtive glances in my direction. The woman in the wide flowered dress from the turnstiles is watching me with her hot pink lips pursed, her handbag clutched tight to her body.

  I catch sight of a guard in uniform ambling this way. Metro security. I turn, start walking away from him.

  Up the escalator now, taking the stairs two at a time, and back out into the blinding sunlight, onto the green grass of the Mall. I blink to adjust my eyes.

  Falcon.

  Did that just happen?

  Or was my mind playing tricks on me?

  No. That was him. I’m absolutely convinced of it. That face has been imprinted on my brain for years. The round face, the wide-set hazel eyes. The thick beard, the bushy eyebrows. I’ll never forget what he looks like.

  But why is he here? And why is he following me?

  There’s a tour group approaching, everyone in bright yellow shirts, the guide holding a matching yellow flag above her head. I angle past them, head down, back toward my car.

  He’s here because he’s not the person who works in the Syrian lab, with access to biological weapons programs. That person was never our source. We don’t have a source. What we have is people—people within our own government—planting fake intelligence through our COVCOM system. And this guy’s in on it.

  But one thing’s for sure: he isn’t acting alone. Someone—or more likely, some group of people—deep within the CIA must be involved. That’s the only way to explain the proprietary Z23 device. And this guy can’t be CIA, because his picture is in CIA cable traffic.

  Jeremy’s right, isn’t he? If there was any doubt in my mind that the U.S. is behind this, it’s gone now. This man is here, in Washington.

  And he’s watching me. Following me.

  I need to warn Drew.

  I pull o
ut my phone, dial Drew again. One ring, then another.

  No answer. Again.

  I reach my car, unlock it. Slide into the driver’s seat, shut and lock the door behind me. Then I sit in the silence, the air around me heavy and hot.

  I can’t reach Drew, don’t know where the kids are, how they are.

  I slam a hand against the steering wheel. Nothing’s going the way I want it to.

  I breathe hard, trying to marshal my thoughts, trying to figure out my next move.

  Then abruptly I start the ignition, pull away from the curb. I know exactly where I’m going.

  I should have done this years ago. I considered it then, decided against it. At first I didn’t want them to see, was afraid of what they might think. And then I told myself I didn’t need it. That they were gone, that we were safe.

  Turns out I was wrong.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m there. I pull into the gravel parking lot, the car bumping almost violently. A place I used to pass, back when I lived in Virginia. Dilapidated building, plain sign hung from the rafters. FIREARMS AND RANGE.

  * * *

  —

  “Buying or shooting?” asks the woman behind the counter when I step inside, a dull chime announcing my arrival. She’s leaning on the counter, a bored expression on her face, a web of tattoos covering her thick arms.

  “Both.”

  Her expression doesn’t change. “Do you know how?”

  “Knew how. It’s been a long time.”

  “What do you want to use?”

  “A Glock.” I scan the display on the wall behind her, then point to the smallest model, small enough to slide into a purse or a pocket. “That one.”

  The woman nods, then slides a sheet of paper in front of me. “Waiver,” she says. “Sign this, get your eye and ear protection from the bins by the door. I’ll meet you out in the first stall.” She walks away without bothering to make eye contact.

  I sign the paper, don clear goggles and ear protection that looks like oversize headphones, and head through two sets of doors to the range. It’s empty, and quiet.