Maggie Croft, Run

by M. L. Harris

  But that doesn’t keep Jack from letting me know that sometimes I can be a total pain in the ass. I can’t help it. Being aggressive is my nature. I was born and raised on a ranch outside Austin, Texas where Daddy taught me how to fight and shoot. Pistols, rifles, everything. But probably the most important thing he taught me was not to take any shit from people. I am my own person and he shaped me into what I am, for better or for worse. So there it is.

  Had no Momma to raise me. She went up to heaven a couple of years after I was born. I only have pictures of her. Daddy carried one in his wallet. She had kind eyes and, always, a smile on her face. She must have been a really good-natured woman.

  After that it was just Daddy and me. He was a Navy SEAL and tough as they come, ‘til he blew out his knee on some sort of covert operation. Then he settled into an easier life working our family ranch. I spent a lot of time with him. Learned a lot during those years. Grandma Rose, Momma’s mom, helped Daddy raise me. I’ve never met anybody since who’s had common sense like she did. Boy, she was something special. We’d sit together on the front porch swing under a blanket, gazing up at the stars and the moon. One time, when we saw an eagle fly in front of the moon, she whispered in my ear. “I’ll always protect you… even after my bones give out.” I think of her whenever I look at the moon. Was the eagle symbolic? I never quite understood that.

  Then when I turned eighteen Daddy made the decision that I was going to have a career in the military, but it wasn’t meant to be. I did join the Army, though during my first tour in Afghanistan I broke my back in active combat and spent eight weeks in the hospital.

  That’s when I came home. Not long after Daddy had himself a massive heart attack. I miss him every day, so much that it hurts. He was my rock. If only I’d had siblings, maybe things would’ve been different. I shouldn’t obsess about things so much.

  Now completely alone I followed my penchant for tinkering with all things mechanical which lead me to Berkeley to study computer science, and that’s how I met Jack. He’s strictly a city boy, grew up in Seattle before coming to the Bay Area to study architecture.

  Unlike me Jack has a big, happy family. And one day I’d like to be a part of it. A few weeks ago we started talking more about marriage. I have my insecurities about being good enough for him. It’s probably stupid for me to think this way but that’s how I feel sometimes. God, I wish I had his self-confidence. They say opposites attract. It definitely makes things more interesting.

  If only Jack hadn’t taken that damn job as a limo driver for DynaTech. And that billionaire, Dylan Hunter, so young and full of promise, a great future simply wiped out. Just like that.

  My mind drifts back to the present and I begin thinking about that sedan’s license plate number.

  The equipment I need to track it down is on campus.

  Oh boy.

  Chapter

  5

  Rising five stories above the sidewalk the computer sciences building at Berkeley sits at the edge of a beautiful park. I ride into the parking lot on my motorcycle and set the kickstand. Entering through the outer lobby door I sneak up the stairs to the third floor.

  Hurrying along the hallway I enter the computer lab, sit down at a computer station and boot up the machine. I must admit, I’m having mixed emotions. While my friends and I have been known to engage in minor mischief online, none of it has been even remotely illegal. Here I find myself in a predicament: the things I am setting out to do are totally against my morals and principles, but at the same time, the fear of death pulls at me too.

  If the killer would murder a billionaire, could he be a cop killer too? And if he is, then I’m not safe and neither is Jack.

  My morals or my life.

  I wish Daddy were here so I could ask him: Given my circumstances, what would you do?

  I decide to forge ahead, for better or worse.

  My first priority is to send a message to Detective Gower. Obviously Jack’s protection detail is lacking. I’ll route it through an ISP in Burma and a couple of other rogue countries. By the time the message arrives it’ll be untraceable. Later, I discover that Emily moved Jack to a secured area of the hospital.

  Done.

  I take a small piece of paper from my pocket which has the sedan’s license number on it.

  Okay, DMV database. California plates.

  My fingers are flying across the keyboard.

  A few minutes later they stop.

  I learn that the sedan is registered to a company in Delaware which is controlled by another company in the Cayman Islands, and that company is owned by a parent corporation in Zurich.

  Just as I thought.

  This is the big league. Jack and I are in some deep shit.

  Somebody has gone to a hell of lot of trouble to cover their tracks. The next logical step is to find out where the money came from to buy the sedan, but it’ll take time.

  I begin writing a custom software program.

  Two hours later I decide I need a break. I lay myself across a row of chairs and try to rest for a while.

  Thirty minutes pass and I am back at the computer station with my fingers moving across the keyboard. Then they slow and stop.

  I stare at the screen.

  Wow!

  There’s a definite pattern here, no doubt about it. The funds used to buy the sedan flowed into and back out of the same bank account.

  The account is controlled by an attorney, big law firm.

  But where?

  A few more keystrokes.

  San Francisco, financial district.

  And the name?

  …Hector Gray. He’s a partner at the law firm of Evans & Cromwell. Whatever is going on he is up to his neck in it.

  I feel myself shaking.

  The law firm is a deathtrap: intimidation tactics, money laundering, and on and on. This reads like a catalogue of financial muggings.

  Okay, where does this guy live?

  I tap a few more keys and his address pops up.

  Saratoga. It’s an affluent suburb of San Jose.

  Chapter

  6

  Saratoga attracts wealthy people because of its proximity to San Jose. Residents who live in the mountainous community spend boatloads of money for seclusion and privacy.

  A lot of people seek it.

  But other people need it.

  Like Hector Gray, ruthless powerbroker at Evans & Cromwell.

  He lives with his wife and a young son in a large house situated on a quiet lane. Not at all surprising for a guy who plays God by swinging the legal system around like a blunt instrument and ruining lives.

  And who can do anything about it?

  I arrive in Saratoga carrying a duffel bag stuffed with my gear. This morning I bought a Honda Civic on the cheap from a guy who had it advertised online. The odometer shows 162,000 miles but it runs just fine.

  Gray’s neighborhood is wooded and I pull into an alley behind a row of houses. At the end I slow and stop. A cluster of big trees drapes over the alley and a small cottage.

  I present myself to the owner. I know from my research that he’s been in foreclosure for five months. He accepts a couple of months’ rent in cash for the cottage which sits above the alley.

  I park the Honda and take my gear inside and have a look around. It’s clean and cozy, just like the advertisement said. I boot up my laptop and study a file on Hector Gray. First there’s his photo: mid-fifties, cruel eyes and a sharp, generally useless look about him.

  And then I read a newspaper article telling how Gray had injured a young girl as he escaped a mob of victims outside his office. Using his briefcase as a battering ram he knocked her to the ground.

  I suddenly feel a chill running along my spine.

  Looking over maps of the neighborhood I lay out routes for getting in and out. I pack my gear and the maps into a backpack and head into the bedroom, kicking off my shoes and sprawling on the bed. I set the alarm for midnight and stare at the ceiling un
til finally I drift off.

  When the alarm sounds I jump up in a fitful state of mind.

  Sweat is running down my forehead and into my eyes.

  I pull myself together and fifteen minutes later I am jogging along the winding roads of Saratoga. Dressed in black from head to toe I reach Gray’s house and pause beside a huge tree across the road. His house is imposing and security cameras are hidden behind domes on the second floor.

  Moving cautiously I begin probing around the perimeter.

  Then I wait.

  There is no police response which means the security cameras reach only to the property boundaries.

  Check.

  I close my eyes and try to steady my nerves.

  Then Jack’s face pops into my head.

  How is he? Damn I love him so much.

  In the stillness of the night I can hear the faintest sounds: a dog barking in the distance, a garage door opening down the street, a car moving along the pavement.

  I try to move like a panther does, slowly and quietly. I circle the house and peering through binoculars I scan adjacent houses for window locations and sightlines.

  Then I move in closer to the house next door.

  I know from my fact finding that an elderly man lives here alone and he has no relatives in the area. None of the windows face the road and the bedrooms are located in a rear wing.

  Judging by the jungle-like landscape he is a recluse.

  Between his property and Gray’s a narrow strip of woods runs along the two driveways and extends all the way out to the road.

  A perfect hiding place.

  There’s a canopy of trees above and the underbrush is thick enough to provide cover. From this vantage point I can see Gray’s place and up and down the road, but it’s risky. If a neighbor should detect my presence the whole plan will have to be scrapped.

  With my probing done I embrace the crisp night air while jogging back to the cottage. I set my backpack inside the door and go over the plan one more time.

  Then I set the alarm and hope to get a few hours’ sleep.

  I am feeling extremely alone. And scared.

  Why can’t Jack be here with me? God please watch over him.

  Chapter

  7

  It’s half past six in the morning and I wake in a restless state. After tending to some last-minute loose ends I hurry down to the carport and get behind the steering wheel of the Honda and switch off the headlights. Slowly I drive down the narrow alley before heading for a bridge overpass above the Valley Freeway, which is ten minutes from Gray’s house and along the route he drives to his office in San Francisco. After hiding the Honda deep in the woods I walk along a tiny path that leads under the bridge and to a spot which I’ve already scouted out.

  Gradually the blanket of night gives way to a new sunrise. I pull out my laptop which is connected wirelessly to cameras and a microphone I positioned last night in the hiding place beside Gray’s house.

  Suddenly I hear a noise: the garage door is opening at Gray’s house. Peering into the laptop screen I can barely see between the trees. The shape of a car begins to take form.

  It moves along the driveway.

  A few seconds later and behind a veil of underbrush a black sedan rolls up to the gate.

  A BMW comes into view and the driver waits for the gate to open—his window is rolled down.

  Good morning, Hector Gray. a.k.a. slimeball.

  His expression is clear: smug, arrogant.

  Sweeping the road with his eyes he is completely unaware that he’s being watched. Apparently he sees nothing out of the ordinary because he drives away. I’m waiting to see if anybody else leaves the house and follows him. No one does so.

  He’s on his way.

  Seconds later I am horrified to see a dog running at full sprint toward my hiding place—and the cameras.

  My heart races and I freeze.

  Oh shit!

  Then suddenly the dog stops at the edge of the woods, barking.

  Now what?

  From across the road a teenage girl shouts out.

  “Max! Come here… come on boy.”

  To my enormous relief the dog obeys her command and turns and trots back across the road.

  Late last night when I was checking out Gray’s house I stood in the girl’s yard. My body scent must have settled there and when the girl opened her front door this morning the dog picked up my scent and followed the trail to my hiding place.

  That was close.

  A few minutes later another car approaches the gate: Mrs. Gray and her son.

  She’s taking him to school. No bus for this child, too risky.

  Seemingly from nowhere a car races by on the road.

  Just some kids. Probably late for school.

  But Mrs. Gray’s expression paints a different picture.

  Fear and panic.

  Like she’s imagining her husband’s enemies pulling her and the boy from the car and stealing away.

  I power off my laptop.

  What an awful way to live.

  Chapter

  8

  High above the Valley Freeway I pull a Remington rifle from a duffel bag at my feet and attach a bipod and a telescopic scope. I lay on my stomach on a concrete ledge at one side of the bridge. The perch gives me cover and a clear line of sight toward oncoming vehicles.

  I focus on a spot far away and adjust the high-powered scope for wind speed. The faces of drivers are clearly visible. The distance to my target: five hundred yards.

  My maximum effective range.

  Daddy was a great teacher.

  Hector Gray has entered an onramp and merged into traffic. Surround-sound pipes easy-listening music throughout the posh interior.

  Back on the bridge I am trying to calm my mind and muscles. I concentrate on each breath while attempting to suppress the rage I feel toward this guy because of what he did to the man I love.

  Slow… easy…

  I feel my heart, beating…

  My body and the rifle are getting in synch.

  Then I see him. Gray is entering my crosshairs.

  I finger the trigger and think about Jack.

  Hector Gray, asshole, messing with my guy.

  Three… two… one…

  Crack!

  A bullet slices the air at supersonic speed.

  There is a tremendous clank as the bullet shreds a rear tire.

  Sparks begin flying as the wheel rim scrapes against the pavement.

  Panicked and struggling for control Gray is reeling from the blowout. Gravel spits everywhere as the car skids to the shoulder.

  Finally the BMW grinds to a stop.

  I pull back on the rifle bolt.

  A spent cartridge flies into the air.

  Gray shakes violently.

  I chamber a second round of fury.

  Fixing the crosshairs I squeeze the trigger.

  The bullet smashes through the windshield.

  A leather seat tears open just inches from Gray’s heart.

  He flings off his seatbelt and dives for cover.

  Pressing his body against the floor he grasps his cell phone.

  Then a voice.

  “Nine-one-one operator. Where is your emergency?”

  “Somebody’s trying to kill me.”

  “Sir, please try to talk slowly. What’s your location?”

  “Uh… Valley Freeway… south of the Woodside exit…”

  Back at the bridge I set the rifle on a red-hot bed of coals.

  I scurry up the path and to the Honda, cranking the engine and tearing out to the road before heading out of the area.

  My adrenaline is pumping wildly.

  This is going to age me, like, twenty years.

  Scared shitless I try to keep the car between the ditches.

  I eventually put enough distance between myself and the freeway and get my heart rate under control, just enough to think.

  Did I get my message across?

>   There’s one way to know for sure if Gray is connected to Dylan Hunter’s murder.

  And tonight I find out.

  Chapter

  9

  There is no clock at my bedside in the cottage but judging by the angle of the sun it’s probably early afternoon. I lay here in the dimly-lit bedroom, emerging from a dream. It’s kind of similar to one that I’ve been having in recent weeks.

  The morning begins like any other. I leave home in search of an anniversary gift for Jack. I am with our daughter. The two of us are inseparable. We’re best friends. It’s another girl’s shopping day, our destination a shopping mall.

  Once inside we browse through specialty shops and stop at the food court for ice cream. We talk about things, everything and anything. No subject is off limits. It’s wonderful. She is fun and free-spirited. A precious gift, the apple of my eye.

  I find myself suddenly awake.

  The dream isn’t surprising. I think a lot about having children. I’d love to start a family. I’m so much in love with Jack. I want nothing more from life than to be his wife.

  If we ever get out of this horrible nightmare, that is.

  I say a prayer for Jack.

  With my mind back in the present I pull myself out of bed and jump in the shower. A friend of mine is checking in for me at the hospital and asking about Jack’s condition, like, twenty times a day.

  Hot and soothing water is pelting my body and I feel like the exhaustion is washing off of me and down the drain.

  I step from the enclosure and wrap myself in an oversized towel before opening a window and drying my hair as a cool breeze skims across my skin.

  Out on the porch I nestle into a cozy chair with a blanket draped across my legs. The neighborhood is so quiet that a pin could be heard dropping. I listen as a chorus of birds sings from the woods at the end of the alley and the sun’s glow warms my face. In the moment, I feel safe. But I know it won’t last so I’m soaking it all in.

  The stress is dissolving and I drift into a light sleep, recalling a day last week when Jack came over to my townhouse.

  “Maggie, I’m here,” he says.

  At first he doesn’t see me.