Hashtag Rogue

by Chautona Havig

  “Don’t be. You needed it. Forget that. I need it, but the tears aren’t there.”

  “I just don’t know what I’m doing! Every time I try to figure out how to keep you safe, I think, ‘What would Keith do?’ But I don’t know! Why didn’t Mark listen to me! I could do something from the office, but here I’m just, like, guessing!

  Morgan squeezed her. “Again, whew! Finally got a like in there.”

  She’d have kicked him if he hadn’t been hugging her so tight. Erika pulled out a chair and leaned against the table as she sat. “You’re doing great, actually. Yeah, I was ticked at you, but Flynne…”

  “Don’t even try to go all patzies on me.”

  “Patzies?”

  Morgan translated. “Patronize her.”

  “Oh, brother. Look. I think you know I wouldn’t bother saying it if I didn’t mean it. You got me out of there. You got me here. You even got Morgie dorgs here…” She winked at both of them before continuing, “And you so deserved that. You got Morgan so loyal that he kept me from escaping for you. This was good work.”

  A sniffle escaped before she could say, “Keith wouldn’t—”

  “Okay! So, you’re not as good as the best the Agency has. So what? You’ve done as well as Karen did! Infinitely better than Corey. And I like you more than—”

  “Corey.” Flynne jumped up. “Corey…”

  “You probably didn’t meet her,” Erika said. “I mean, I think she was gone before you worked there.”

  But Flynne worked to tune her out. She could see the agent file in the drawer. Corey…

  “She never told me her—”

  “Shut up! I can almost see it…”

  When she did, Flynne went cold. Without a word, she dashed to her bedroom and pulled out the backpack. “Five… one. Five… two. Five…” She counted out six thousand dollars and hovered over the other bundles. Snatching two more up, she shoved everything else back in the backpack and locked the door behind her as she left the room.

  Morgan’s eyes bugged as she dumped it all on the table. Flynne went to retrieve the St. Louis Bread Company bag she’d saved and dumped it in with the order, “There’s seven thousand. Make sure you don’t buy something so expensive that you can’t pay the taxes and registration.”

  “Go now?”

  She nodded.

  Erika, however, had lost all patience with her. “Go why, and what happened here?”

  “Knupp, Erika. Corey’s last name is Knupp.”

  A flickering reel of emotions flitted over Erika’s face before an indecipherable one settled there. “Hashtag scared.”

  A small weekender sat on the bench in his bathroom. Mark had already put a few things in it—a favorite sweatshirt, a couple of books, and a bit of cash. From the hook on the bathroom door, he retrieved his favorite bathrobe, sniffed, and folded. Of course, the bunker had a perfectly good robe, but favorites were favorites.

  As he passed through the bedroom, the Bible he’d been trying to work through beckoned him. He’d almost decided against it when the memory of throwing it and the mental image of what Claire would think if he confessed beat down his resistance. If she comes, she’ll see I’m making an effort, too.

  If she came. That would be the sticking point. Could he convince her?

  Mark hefted the bag—all five pounds of the thing—and set it by the front door. He pulled out his phone and sent Will Rickwood of the West Coast Agency a text message. Weather’s awful. Might be a bad time for your friends to visit. What do you think?

  The instinctual temptation to plead, “Please let them come, please let them come, please let them come” both made him feel like a teenaged girl and prompted a new thought about how even people without faith in anything still pray. I’ll have to ask Claire about that.

  His perpetual motion clock chimed the three-quarter hour. After staring at it, almost willing the hands to slide back to the half-hour position, Mark moved to the couch, plopped down with the floppiness of a teenager, and began sending messages.

  Dr. Brecham—when could Keith leave?

  Tyler—figure out where and how to make the Todd family safe.

  Doyle—status on Schmatloch.

  Before he could send a request for an update on Langat, Karen called. “Just put Langat on a plane to Nairobi via Qatar. He’s out of our hands.”

  “And he’ll be dead inside a week.”

  Her voice went soft—like it always did when they knew they couldn’t prevent a death. “You did what you could. If they won’t hire the South African Agency, there’s nothing we can do for him. You aren’t God.”

  That truth rarely provided comfort. A soft ding rang out through the apartment—notification that the elevator button for his floor had been pushed. “Hey, I have something to monitor. I won’t see you for a while, but you know how to get messages to me. Stay safe, Karen.”

  “You, too. Without you, there is no Agency, and people need us.”

  No one knew that better than Karen. He sighed. “Wish I could have known about your parents, Karen. Talk to you soon.” And before she could try to reassure him, Mark disconnected. He folded back a panel and looked at the monitor. A grin formed, despite his studied nonchalance.

  She came.

  Claire stood there, smoothing her hair, checking her teeth for particles, adjusting her skirt. None of it necessary, of course. Only knowing that someone could step onto the elevator on any floor kept him watching. Then, as if it read his thoughts, the car slowed. Ten floors down.

  A man got on—Jadon Parker. A player of a guy, if Mark had ever met one. Since he was going up, Mark guessed the floor below—Madylin Morrison’s. Claire smiled at something he said. “Bad idea, Claire.”

  He’d been right. That’s all it took for Jadon to step closer, lean his forearm over her head and say… something. Claire frowned and stepped back.

  Mark’s hand hovered over the volume control. He preferred not to listen but…

  Claire looked up at the guy and laughed in his face. What she said Mark might never know, but he’d never forget the man’s poorly concealed embarrassment. “Good girl.”

  That would have gotten him kicked if she’d heard it—and rightly so. The fact that he’d have said it to a granny or a toddler as well wouldn’t have mattered. I guess I can see how it could sound patronizing. Even if it wasn’t meant to be.

  It was proof, he supposed, that even a dog as old as he looked could learn new tricks with sufficient inducement. And I bet she wouldn’t like being considered “inducement” any more than a “good girl.” I make her sound like a lap dog.

  By the time the man exited and the other ding announcing she’d arrived at his floor sounded, Mark had decided it was time. If he only knew what that even meant. But it is. She’s coming. It’s time.

  He opened the door even before she rang the bell. “What’d Parker want?” It was the simplest way to let Claire know he’d watched—to remind her that he could.

  “Parker? He said his name was Jadon!”

  “It is. Jadon Parker.”

  She kissed his cheek as she passed. “Well, I know you can listen. Why don’t you tell me what he wanted?”

  “Because, while I have to protect myself and my people…” Mark reached out and pulled her close. “Especially my people.”

  A slow smile formed as she gazed up at him. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I don’t listen if I don’t need to. I don’t like being invasive if I can avoid it. If you looked distressed at all, I’d have done it without a second thought, but…”

  “Thanks. Every time I think who you are and what you do will choke me, you prove it won’t.”

  You’ve got no idea that’s exactly what I needed to hear. He caught her hand in his, kissed it, closed his eyes as her arms slid around his neck. Half a second before his lips would have touched hers, he froze.

  “Mark?”

  Still holding her hand, he turned and scanned the area by the door. “Where’s your bag?” The u
nspoken answer echoed in his mind as she refused to look at him. “Claire?”

  “I can’t go.”

  “Why?”

  She buried her face in his chest, clinging to his sleeves and struggling—against tears, he suspected. “I can’t spend days, weeks… maybe even longer with you. Not alone like that.”

  Of course, she couldn’t. He shouldn’t have even considered it, but the idea of leaving her behind, vulnerable… it choked him. “How will you stay safe?”

  Claire gazed at him for a moment before moving to the window and staring out over the city. “I was going to ask if I could use your Wexfield place. I thought maybe…”

  “The security is best there.”

  “And I could contact you—keep you updated on stuff.”

  That wouldn’t work. The point of the bunker was no contact. “It doesn’t work—”

  “But it does! I’ll just talk to you in the house. You can listen to the recordings. We’ll create a code. Movies and stuff maybe. I’ll tell you how I watched You’ve Got Mail and just noticed that Tom Hanks moved out of his apartment instead of kicking out the girl. How sweet and cool that was of him when she was the jerk.”

  “I’d rather move you into the apartment and take my chances on the boat, too.” Her smile told him he’d translated correctly.

  In a voice so soft he could barely hear it, Claire whispered, “If I talk about Gilbert Blythe on the horse… when he says, ‘Hello, Anne…’”

  If he could only tell her—admit what he didn’t dare say. Not now. Not yet. Instead, he said, “Better watch it with that one. I’ve seen that movie.”

  She shot a look at him. “You have not!”

  “Detail on one of my first cases. An eleven-year-old incurable romantic. We watched it a dozen times in three days.” Mark moved to hold her, and in his bid to maintain a bit of self-control reiterated his original words. “So, like I said. Watch it with that one. I’m liable to call you ‘Carrots.’”

  The first tears fell. “When do you go?”

  “As soon as I hear Keith is safe to leave the hospital.”

  “Then we’ve got time for a movie.” She pulled away and turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll make popcorn.”

  His phone buzzed—the message app. Tyler sat up and punched on the overhead lights and blinked against the brightness. Flynne’s app—genius. He was almost jealous of it. Honesty drove him to confess that there was no “almost” about it.

  The message from Doyle chilled him. Moving OS. Someone at RV park is too friendly. Is threat still in Germany?

  It took three minutes to see the latest picture of breakfast in a town between Munich and Dachau. Still… what if the pictures had been scheduled? Certain apps did that. Tyler forced himself up and to the desk. The blank monitors stared at him. Message or call?

  He snatched up the landline and punched the numbers for the Deutsch Agency. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  The unexpectedly melodic voice on the other end assured him she did. I thought the Germans all sounded like they hocked up a loogie.

  “Sir? You’re looking for travel information? Is that correct?”

  And so began protocols he hadn’t had to do in over a year. Twice, he guessed. Only the grace of the God Keith insisted was real could have gotten him through it. He’d light a candle somewhere. Wasn’t that what you did when you wanted to say thanks? Movies did that.

  “What can we do for you?”

  He spelled out the story of Otto Schmatloch and the woman who had been threatening him online. “I don’t have the information source. Our tech girl is on personal leave—very sudden.”

  “Is Flynne well?”

  Great. She knows Flynne. A smile formed. Yeah! Great! Maybe she knows about me. He tried again. “Okay, if you know Flynne, you might have heard about her boyfriend?”

  “Tyler, yes. He sounds like a nice boy, but Flynne needs a man, don’t you think?”

  Boy!

  “I am just teasing you, Tyler. I recognize your voice from when I trained. Is Flynne well, though?”

  “She’s actually on detail right now. And I can’t tell you where she found this information, but it was damning enough to ensure we extracted Schmatloch when he got the latest threat.” Tyler went on to explain his concern. “Do you have access to CCTV cameras in the area near this restaurant… Cotidiano.” As he said it, Tyler paused. “Wait, isn’t that Spanish?”

  “Yes. For daily or everyday. Common. Habit.”

  “In Munich?”

  He could hear her fingers clacking against a keyboard as she worked to bring up what he needed. “They’re a cosmopolitan city.” She paused. “This could take a while. They’ve increased encryption protocols. I’ll call you back.”

  And just like that, she was gone.

  Tyler began a sweep of everything in play. The status of Langat—arrived in Qatar safely. Keith’s current status—sleeping. He even checked out Erika’s Twitter account. Two new #hashtagrogue tweets appeared. The first was followed by #chaching

  “Going to spend a lot of that money? Better tell Mark just in case.” The second one sent shivers down his spine. #sittingducks

  He’d just sent the first message to Mark when the call from Germany came through. “I found someone willing to help. Your photograph was taken this morning at nine-seventeen. I saw the woman take and upload it before she even took a bite of her food. Why do Americans do that?”

  “We’re afraid we’ll forget we ate and eat again.”

  “People do that?”

  It wasn’t nice, but she sounded so sincere that he couldn’t resist. “Why do you think Americans are so fat? We’re too busy to pay attention to if we ate or not, so…”

  “If you did not sound as if you were trying not to laugh, I would have believed you. It was nice to talk to you, Tyler. You may tell Flynne that I approve of her taste in men.”

  The line went dead before he could think of a reply.

  Mark called a moment later. “Hospital called. Keith left. Has he checked in?”

  “No. There are new hashtags—was just about to call you with them.”

  “Let me have them.” At the “cha-ching,” Mark snickered. “Spending that cash, huh?”

  “But on what?”

  “Not Burberry. That’s for sure.”

  Even Tyler had to smile at that. “She loves her Burberry.”

  “I bet she’s buying a car. Check registrations.”

  It was time to ask. “Why are we doing this? We know she’s in St. Louis. Why aren’t we just going to get them?”

  “That would be what Keith is doing. And since they’re alive and keeping us informed, with everything going on, they’re probably safer there than here.”

  “Except if she’s buying a car…” Understanding exploded in his mind. Tyler scrambled to compare the number with information he’d been collecting. It wasn’t there. He tried again as Mark asked what he was up to. “That hashtag. With the numbers. I feel stupid, but it’s a license plate.”

  “It’s Brent Knupp’s license plate. I looked it up.”

  Anger replaced understanding as Tyler’s blasting agent. “And you didn’t think to say something? It’s obvious he’s been there this whole time—freaking them out and everything!”

  “I doubt it. I suspect Flynne hacked into surveillance cameras from other sides of the building and caught the license plate that way—after talking to Erika or something. If they’d seen Knupp that early, they wouldn’t have been so discreet. They’d have called.”

  That was true enough. “Do you think Keith can handle it after surgery and everything?”

  “He’ll have to.”

  Twenty

  The evening air held a bite to it, even in late April. Each step away from the hospital wore Keith down faster than any physical training session ever had. People moved around corners, and he jumped with each one. They had me on a drip then. She said it was just saline, but…

  Until whatever it was left his system,
he’d have to be on his guard to be cautious without overreacting. Not easily done or said. Especially as the painkillers wore off. So much for handling it so well.

  By the time he reached the nearest subway station, the hospital bag he carried growing heavier with each step, he’d spent every bit of energy he’d stored up. Keith sat in one corner of the car, watching, wary. The looks people sent his way only served to add paranoia to his list of ailments—right up to the moment he caught his reflection in the window. Swollen jaw—purple. Thick lips.

  He glanced down at the buttoned-down shirt he’d worn to the hospital and saw a spot of blood on it. He’d soaked through the bandage he’d used to cover the chest tube incision site. Should have left the stupid tube in.

  Of course, he couldn’t do that and travel. He’d have to get more bandages as soon as he made it to the lockers and got the rest of the money. And a phone.

  A kid not much older than “Thor” had been eyed him. “You okay?”

  “Been better. Car accident. Got sick of the hospital.” At least, that’s what he tried to say. Speaking distinctly with a jaw wired shut proved harder than he’d expected. That’s what you get for refusing to speak the whole time you were in the hospital. Then again, considering they’d been drugging him up, it was probably best that he hadn’t.

  “Yeah… I broke ribs with a seatbelt once.”

  He nodded and tried to look as tired as he felt. “Just want to get home.”

  Questions followed. How would he drink and eat with the wires? How long did he have to keep them on? Was the other guy insured? As exhausted as he was, and since he was trying to conserve energy, Keith answered each one as it came without consideration for remembering what he said.

  At his station, he mumbled something no one could have understood and shuffled from the train. Near the exits, close to the lockers, he paused, resting… watching. Each passenger from his car passed. Several offered reassuring smiles. The kid either stayed on the train or went another way.

  That thought did little to stop him from surveying the area the entire time he loaded all but a couple hundred dollars of the cash into the towel he’d stolen from the hospital and stuffed it all in the bag. The cellphone and remaining cash he shoved in his pocket. With one last glance around him, he took off for the train to the transportation hub—and the bus station.