Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  Trent sat in the driver’s seat and pulled his Swiss army knife from his pocket. He jammed it into the ignition cylinder, but it wouldn’t turn no matter how hard he cranked his wrist. He eventually gave up and pulled it out.

  “Watch out and tell me if anyone comes running,” said Trent, stabbing the seams in the dashboard beneath the steering wheel. He pulled down hard and ripped off the plastic covering, exposing the wiring beneath. He sliced through a pair of red wires that connected the battery with the electrical system and stripped a half inch of the casing off each. As soon as he touched the wires together, the car’s electrical system roared to life, including its sound system. Pulsing, rhythmic bass shattered the night calm and echoed against the nearby buildings. It vibrated the seats so much he might as well have been sitting in a massage chair at Brookstone or The Sharper Image store. His heart almost jumped out of his chest. Renee pounded her fist against the radio, turning it off.

  Trent looked up and locked eyes with Renee.

  “Don’t do that again,” she said, gasping for breath. He swallowed and sat straighter, so he could see up and down the street. Breaking the window might not have aroused much suspicion, but the radio certainly would. The gangbangers they had run into earlier were likely already on their way. He took a deep breath, steadying his shaking hands, and sliced through the brown starter wires. He stripped them with the blade of his knife and touched them together. They sparked, and the engine coughed and rasped to life. As soon as it did, Trent put the car in gear and looked up.

  Dreadlocks was turning the corner ahead of them, already reaching behind him for a weapon. Trent floored the accelerator and jammed the wheel to the right. The tires screeched, and metal wrenched against metal as he slammed into the rear taillight of the car in front of them. He took his foot off the gas and threw the car into reverse. The Crown Vic was a heavy vehicle with a big V8 engine. He slammed it into the car behind them and felt it give a couple of inches. After that, he had more than enough room to get out.

  He punched the accelerator hard. Dreadlocks stood in the middle of the street with a firearm in hand as if he were playing chicken. It wasn’t the brightest move. Trent floored the accelerator. He didn’t want to hit the kid, but if he wasn’t given a choice, he wouldn’t feel guilty about it, either.

  Pop, pop, pop.

  It was a small–caliber firearm. A round broke through the windshield and into a rear seat. Renee jumped, but she hadn’t been hit. Dreadlocks probably didn’t deserve it, but Trent swerved so he wouldn’t mow him down. Their eyes locked as the Crown Vic slid around the corner. The gangbangers shouted something, but Trent couldn’t make it out above the sound of screeching tires, squealing brakes and a screaming Renee. There were dozens of pops as small–caliber gunfire erupted behind them. One or two rounds pinged against the Crown Vic’s trunk, but none made it inside the cabin.

  Trent reached over and pulled Renee down by the shoulder so she was low enough to have some protection from stray gunfire. He kept on the accelerator, leaving Dreadlocks and his friends behind. Eventually, the shots became softer until he couldn’t hear them above the sound of the engine.

  Renee shook violently, her eyes wide. When they were about six blocks away, Trent let off the accelerator, slowing down. He had been gripping the steering wheel so hard it took real effort to force his hands to open. When they did, his fingers were stiff and his knuckles hurt. He swallowed and looked at Renee. Her lips moved before words came out.

  “Let’s just rent a car next time.”

  Saturday, September 14. 10:37 p.m

  Chicago, IL.

  Gunshots outside Anatoly’s apartment were common enough that he hardly even noticed them anymore. The shots that night were different, though. The shooters were so close he could hear the steel cartridges smack into nearby cars. He could also hear his neighbors, including a few children, scream.

  The gunfire quieted a few minutes later, but the shouts continued unabated. Someone was screaming about a car. He blocked the sound from his mind as well as he could and slumped down in the chair. Carter and Schaefer had done a fair job of securing him, but they should have tied his wrists together so he couldn’t move his hands. That mistake would save him a lot of grief. With his shoulders and waist slumped, he could just barely reach the back of his shoes. He wrapped his fingers around his pants, pulling the fabric of his right pant leg high enough that he could reach the serrated diver’s knife attached to his ankle.

  He pulled the knife clear of the sheath and flipped it around so the tip rested against his forearm. The movement was awkward, but he could just barely reach the plastic wrap holding him to the chair with the razor–sharp blade. He nicked the tip against the wrap, cutting it a layer at a time. After about five minutes of that, he could move his forearm enough to start sawing. It only took another minute for him to get free.

  He rolled his shoulder and immediately went to the couch for his firearm. The weapon was still in good working order. Detective Schaefer was going to regret not taking it. He slipped it into his shoulder holster and grabbed a gray wool sport coat from his closet. The first police siren flew by his house as he rooted around the bottom of his closet for a spare magazine. The police came at a pretty steady rate after that. Like many of his neighbors, Anatoly eventually walked outside and sat on the front stoop to watch the officers at work.

  None of the shooters remained at the scene, evidently, and it didn’t seem like anyone had been hurt. Most of Anatoly’s neighbors suggested it was probably a gang dispute over a nearby intersection, valuable real estate to the drug trade. Anatoly believed otherwise, though: Carter and Schaefer had taken something that didn’t belong to them and almost paid the price.

  He remained silent and watched the police work until a pair of them peeled off from the main group of officers and walked toward the civilians. In a situation like that, it was common for officers to interview neighbors and other potential witnesses, but he didn’t need the hassle. While the officers were still a dozen yards away, Anatoly stood, his knees creaking unpleasantly, and started to walk back to his apartment.

  “Excuse me, sir; we need to talk to you. We heard about a possible break–in in the area.”

  Anatoly dropped his head. He stood at the head of the steps that led to his door. He considered walking inside as if he hadn’t heard, but that would only delay things. Instead, he turned around, forcing a sheepish smile on his face.

  “Forgive me, I am not English speaker.”

  He purposefully garbled the grammar, forcing his accent to sound thicker than it usually was. The officers looked at each other and back to him. Both men were young, probably in their late twenties or early thirties, and both had the sort of thick mustaches that were popular among police officers. Neither appeared to be much of a threat. They walked flatfooted rather than on the balls of their feet, and both presented their chests to him rather than their profiles. They were big targets. It’d take each man about half a second to shift his weight from his heels to the balls of his foot. He could reach his firearm and drop them both in that amount of time. It’d be over before either of them knew it had begun.

  Anatoly didn’t reach for his gun, though; instead, he shrugged apologetically.

  “Do you live in the basement apartment?” asked one of the officers.

  Anatoly looked at the door, his eyebrows scrunched together as if he were confused. Eventually, he nodded, his face brightening.

  “Underground apartment is mine, yes,” he said. “I live with daughter and granddaughter.”

  “Would you like us to get a translator?” asked one of the officers. “We have a Russian speaker at the station.”

  “No need,” said Anatoly. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. The officers reacted quickly. Both brought their legs back, squaring their stances, and reached for their firearms. Anatoly pulled out his phone. “I’ll call friend. He’s nearby.”

  The two men relaxed a bit and
nodded. Anatoly searched through his phone’s directory until he found Victor’s number. He dialed and put the phone to his ear.

  “It’s Anatoly,” he said before Victor could respond. “There are police here. They wish to talk to you.”

  Victor was silent for a moment, apparently thinking the situation through. Anatoly squeezed the cell phone hard, pissed at his former partner’s reluctance. He forced the smile to remain on his face.

  “Put one of them on the phone,” said Victor, eventually. Anatoly nodded and handed the phone to the nearest officer. He couldn’t hear what was said, but the cop looked at him a couple of times, his eyebrows arched. Eventually, he turned the phone off and talked to his partner for another minute before turning back to Anatoly.

  “Agent Stiles is on his way,” said the cop, nodding. “He wouldn’t say why you know each other. You’re not in witness protection, are you?”

  Anatoly glared.

  “None of your concern,” he said, turning to go back to his apartment. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  He opened his door before the officer spoke.

  “Your English improved quickly,” he said. “One conversation, and it’s like I’m speaking with a native.”

  “I’m a fast learner,” said Anatoly, his head down. He looked over his shoulder. “Now, is there anything else?”

  “Yeah. You got a concealed handgun permit for that gun you’re carrying?”

  Anatoly chuckled and turned.

  “I don’t think I have to answer that,” he said, focusing his gaze on the officers in front of him. “If you have any more questions, direct them through your sergeant and then through Special Agent Stiles. You’ll find I’m a little out of your pay grade.”

  He didn’t wait for them to respond; he simply turned around and went back inside. The front door was broken, but there wasn’t much he could do about that for the moment. The building superintendent would probably put a padlock on it to keep out the kids, but there wasn’t anything inside worth stealing. He went to his fridge and grabbed a diet soda before sitting and waiting. Victor showed up about twenty minutes later.

  The FBI agent stayed near the doorway, his arms crossed and his eyes wide. Anatoly didn’t indulge him by speaking. Victor’s impatience evidently overcame his annoyance because he eventually pulled out the kitchen chair across from Anatoly and sat down.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Dr. Carter and Detective Schaefer visited while I was out,” said Anatoly. “They left before I could kill them.”

  Victor raked his fingers through his hair and to the bridge of his nose. He sighed.

  “How’d they find out where you lived?”

  Anatoly shifted his weight on his seat and glanced around the apartment.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “They were looking for the laptop we took from Dr. Byram’s office. Gregori has it now.”

  Victor stood and turned around. He laced his fingers above his head. He looked like he was going to break out into a rendition of YMCA by the Village People. Katja, his granddaughter, had taught him the dance a year earlier; he couldn’t see the appeal.

  “I’ll find them,” said Victor. “They can’t have gone far.”

  “I suggest we follow Gregori,” said Anatoly. “They found me. They’ll find him.”

  Victor turned around and crossed his arms across his chest.

  “So we’re working together again?” he asked.

  “We were never working together,” said Anatoly. “You do what I tell you when I tell you. If you do this right, Gregori might trust you to work on your own, but for now, you’re my employee.”

  Victor glared at him but didn’t say anything at first.

  “What do you suggest we do, then?” he asked. Anatoly looked around the apartment, but there was nothing in it worth preserving.

  “We head east. Arman, Gregori’s father, has a house outside Washington DC. That’s where Gregori will be going.”

  “You know this how?” asked Victor.

  “Because he can’t stay in Chicago,” said Anatoly. “He knows I’d track him down and kill him.”

  Victor shook his head.

  “This job is messed up.”

  Anatoly agreed with him, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he pointed toward the front door.

  “Shut up and get your car.”

  Saturday, September 14. 11:42 p.m

  South of Chicago.

  Trent pulled to a stop at the first rest area they came to and separated the wires leading to the car’s ignition, stopping the engine. He and Renee sat there for a moment, neither saying anything. Eventually, Trent rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  “It’s not going to be comfortable, but we’ll stop here for the night,” he said. “We’ll call that reporter in the morning and see if we get anywhere with that.”

  Renee nodded. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before speaking. Eventually, she turned and stared at the building in front of her, not meeting his eyes.

  “Do you honestly think calling the reporter is still our best strategy?” she asked.

  Trent took a moment to respond. He couldn’t come up with anything better than the first thing that popped into his head, though.

  “I don’t know. We’ll try. That’s all we can do.”

  Renee nodded. She didn’t look comforted.

  “I doubt we’ll get lucky, but I’m going to see if I can find a blanket or something in the trunk.”

  He didn’t wait for her to respond before reaching to the left of his seat and pulling the trunk latch. It flew open and bounced on a spring. Trent got out of the car and looked inside, thankful it was late enough at night that there were few people around. There were no blankets or pillows in the trunk, but it did hold a duffel bag full of tiny vials, each of which held what was probably ten bucks worth of crack.

  Trent scratched his brow, thinking. They were at a small rest stop with enough spaces for maybe thirty cars and an equal number of trucks. Most of the truck lot was full, but he and Renee were the only people unfortunate enough to be overnighting in the car’s lot. That, at least, gave them some privacy.

  He ran his hands through the vials, pushing them aside to see if there was anything else of value. All he could find were drugs, though. Like a lot of dealers, the guys he stole the car from evidently separated their stash and money, so the police would only confiscate one if they were caught. He did manage to find a small roll of dingy, dirty bills, though. Five twenties and a couple of ones. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  He was about to close the trunk lid when he noticed something else. The moonlight glinted on steel. He pushed the duffel bag full of drugs to the side, exposing a hooded sweatshirt that someone had partially wrapped around a revolver. The gun looked like a thirty–eight, but it was a mess. Carbon had built up in the barrel, and there was dirt on the trigger.

  He pressed a latch and slid the chamber to the side. It held four jacketed hollow points. If he trusted the weapon, it would have been helpful. In its current condition, though, it might as well have been a paperweight.

  He put the firearm in a pocket and held up the sweatshirt. From what he could tell, it lacked bloodstains and bullet holes, two features he almost always looked for in new sweatshirts. It was too small for him, but Renee could still wear it. At least one of them would be comfortable.

  He threw the sweatshirt over his shoulder and closed the trunk lid before heading to the vending machines. It had been a while since the machines were refilled, so his choices were limited. He peeled off some one–dollar bills from his newly found roll and bought the last two packages of mass–produced sticky buns and a twenty–ounce soda. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but it’d have to do.

  Renee’s eyes were closed when he got back to the car, so he stayed outside to open the drink. She must have heard the venting gas because her eyelids fluttered open. She looked at him, her face
expressionless. He noticed the beginnings of laugh lines around her eyes, a hint at what her previous life had been like. She looked as if she were the sort of person people liked being around. Not a mom, but a favorite aunt, maybe. She opened her door and joined him outside.

  “Dinner beneath the stars,” he said, holding up his snacks. “I got you a sweatshirt, too.”

  “I see that,” said Renee, taking the sweatshirt off his shoulder. She put it on over her shirt; as Trent had thought, it was bulky, but it fit her well enough. She looked herself over and looked back at him. “I hate the White Sox, but thank you.”

  Trent leaned against their car and opened his dinner. He held the package out to her before taking one for himself.

  “You’re not a Yankees fan, are you?” he asked.

  “Cubs,” she said, shaking her head. The wrapper crinkled as Renee pulled out a pastry.

  “So you’re used to disappointment,” he said, pulling his own sticky bun out of the package. It was cloyingly sweet, but it wasn’t bad. He ate the entire thing in one gulp, suddenly remembering how hungry he actually was.

  “You should try chewing when you eat,” she said, staring at the interstate. “It’s a good habit to get into. Helps when you swallow. I’ve been doing it for years.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Trent.

  She took a small bite of her pastry and leaned beside him against the car.

  “You find anything else in the trunk?” she asked.

  Trent rubbed his eyes when he spoke, intentionally breaking Renee’s line of sight.

  “Just the sweatshirt,” he said. “It’s not a blanket, but it’s something.”

  She nodded.

  “You were in it for a long time. If you found a body back there, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  Trent chuckled and brought his hand down, no longer needing to hide his eyes.