“Trouble?” she asked. He shook his head no.
“The booth is closed,” he said, holding up his wedge. “I found this, though.”
“And that will help us?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ve done this before,” he said. He jammed the wedge into the seam that separated the front door’s frame from the roof. The metal creaked as he pounded with the heel of his palm. The doorframe peeled back like the top of a can, leaving an opening maybe two inches wide between the top of the door and the roof. “Can you fit your arm in there?”
“I can try,” she said, stepping forward. Her hand went in fine, but the frame was tight around the meat of her forearm. Trent gripped the top of the door and pulled hard, opening it another fraction of an inch. She forced her arm in past her elbow, knowing that if Trent let go, the door would snap back like a catapult and break her arm. Her fingers brushed the top of the lock’s pull. “I’m almost there.”
Trent pulled harder. The metal groaned, but the opening was enough for her to reach in up to her shoulder and pull the latch up. She pulled her arm out after that. The doorframe squeezed her muscles like clothes through an old–fashioned wringer. As soon as her arm was free, Trent released the door, and it snapped back into place, knocking the wedge out. They were lucky the window hadn’t broken.
With the lock undone, Trent opened the door and went to work on the ignition. He tore out a dash panel with his pocket knife and started cutting wires.
“You folks coming or going?”
The voice was behind her. Trent stopped moving instantly, and Renee straightened and swallowed. She turned around. A middle–aged man with black hair and a goatee stood behind them; he wore blue slacks and a light–blue shirt. He had a name tag on a lanyard around his neck, but he was too far away for Renee to read it. He pointed to a shuttle bus an aisle over.
“Not too many flights out right now, so we’re running a little late. Sorry if you’ve had to wait.”
Renee’s body stiffened, but she forced herself to smile, hoping to hide her discomfort.
“We’re on our way out, actually,” she said. “Just flew in from Denver, and boy are our arms tired.”
She forced herself to laugh. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it thump against her ribcage. The driver cocked his head at her, his eyebrows drawing together.
“Are you okay, miss?” he asked, motioning toward the car with his eyes. “If you need me to call somebody. . .”
The car started up before the driver could finish.
“We’re fine,” she said, her shoulders slumping. She patted the car’s roof. “Rocket’s old, but he gets us where we need to go, even if it takes him a while to start sometimes.”
“And Rocket is your car?”
Renee nodded.
“Had him since graduate school,” she said, smiling. “Thanks for the offer, but we should get going.”
The driver nodded slowly.
“Have a safe drive home, miss.”
The driver looked over his shoulder twice as he walked back to his van, but he never went for the walkie–talkie on his belt. Renee took a deep breath and opened the Pontiac’s passenger door. As soon as she sat down, Trent put the car in reverse.
“You think that bus driver bought my story?” she asked. The engine throbbed. She was pressed back to her seat as Trent accelerated through the parking lot. He looked at her quickly.
“I hope you’re a better professor than actress,” he said. “But I think we’re fine.”
Trent handed a twenty and two fives to the cashier at the booth on the end of the lot, and they were back on the interstate within ten minutes. The Pontiac wasn’t a great car, but the ride was a lot smoother than the Crown Vic they had stolen in Chicago. More than that, it didn’t smell like dope like the Toyota they had stolen in Indiana. All told, they were moving up in the world. Renee hoped that they’d steal a Mercedes next.
She closed her eyes and leaned back, letting Trent settle into the monotony of freeway driving. Another new car, another new town. It was hard to get excited about it anymore. Intellectually, she knew they were better off than they had been before, but it was hard to feel good about their situation. She’d endure, though. She didn’t have a choice.
Sunday, September 15. 4:37 p.m
Penn–Lincoln Parkway.
The drive was long, monotonous, and largely silent. The Pontiac’s gas tank emptied quicker than a keg at a fraternity party, and, while neither of them would admit it aloud, they both knew they didn’t have enough gas money to make it to DC. Trent suggested they stop by Pittsburgh where he knew some people who might help. After what had happened in Chicago, though, the thought of stopping again filled Renee with a dread she couldn’t shake. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a better idea.
They used the last of what little money they had to gas up near Zanesville, Ohio. At Renee’s request, they also switched drivers. It was probably silly, but that little bit of control made her feel better.
Trent’s directions were almost eerily precise as they approached Pittsburgh. He knew what roads to drive on, what lanes to be in, what exit to take. He had mentioned that he was good with maps earlier, but this was something different. Maps don’t tell you want lane to be in or that traffic would be heavy around a particular curve. It felt like they were working their way through a plan that had been long–since percolating in his head.
“You should get in the right lane here,” he said, pointing ahead. “I want you to get off at Saw Mill Run; it’s about two miles up.”
Renee nodded and put on her blinker light before merging to the right. Traffic was heavier than it had been through most of rural Ohio, but, since it was Sunday, it was probably comparatively light for the area. With a quagmire of streets running every which way, rush hour in Pittsburgh must have been a nightmare.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“A neighborhood called South Side,” he said. He looked over, meeting her gaze. He must have seen something in her eyes because he put his hands up defensively. “This isn’t like Chicago. It’s a nice neighborhood. We’ll be in and out.”
She nodded.
“I hope you’re right.”
Trent pretended not to hear, or at least he didn’t say anything. As he said, though, the neighborhood they entered did look fairly nice. The buildings and streets were well maintained, and there were bars and restaurants beside boutique furniture stores, trendy clothing shops and even a hookah bar. Despite being a Sunday afternoon, the place was well traveled. Renee could feel her shoulders relax.
She pulled to a stop at a light and caught a whiff of bread from a nearby bakery. Trent pointed to his left.
“Hang a left here; it’s just a couple of blocks.”
She nodded and turned when the traffic light shifted to green. The commercial buildings slowly disappeared as they left the main drag. After two blocks, they were surrounded by row houses, many of which had flower boxes on front windows and ornate ironwork. She parallel parked at Trent’s direction in front of a three–story brownstone that probably would have run in the mid–seven–figure range in Chicago or other major cities. Unlike the commercial district, the streets were empty, but she could hear birds in the trees lining the sidewalk.
Trent opened his door and put one foot out.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Circle the block a few times, and I’ll meet you in front of that hookah bar up the street.”
She shifted on her seat.
“I’d rather just stay parked here,” she said. “In case I lose sight of you.”
“Not an option,” said Trent, nodding toward a sign a few cars up:
Resident Parking Only
Strictly Enforced
“They won’t tow us as long as I’m in the car,” she said. “I’m staying here.”
Trent pulled his door shut and looked around for a moment as if expecting people to watch him.
“They may not tow you, but you’re in a stolen car. We don’t need a meter maid looking up the license plate to give you a ticket,” he said, his voice low. “Please. Just trust me. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
Renee ground her teeth. Trent’s mannerisms didn’t indicate that he was lying. His voice was smooth, his pulse never seemed to waiver, his eyelids never twitched. None of his bodily responses indicated he was trying to deceive her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was holding something back.
“Just bear with me a little longer,” he said, as if sensing her trepidation. “I know this isn’t how the system is supposed to work, but it’s what we have. Just a little longer, and you’ll be able to go home.”
Maybe she was naive, but she believed him. She nodded.
“I’ll meet you outside the bar,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Trent, already opening his door. He stepped out but paused before closing the door. “Give me twenty minutes. If you can’t find me, just run and don’t look back.”
“Sure,” she said. Trent was obviously doing more than just asking an old friend for money. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know exactly what, though. As soon as he shut the door, she pulled away from the curb.
Please don’t get us arrested, Trent.
Her stomach churned uneasily, so she rolled down the automatic windows, allowing fresh air into the cabin. She glanced in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t see Trent anymore. He had gone to do whatever he planned. She might as well play her part.
She drove for a few minutes before turning onto the main commercial strip. Families paraded up and down the sidewalks, occasionally stopping to browse the wares in store windows or go into restaurants. Most seemed to be smiling, enjoying a mild fall afternoon.
She didn’t see Trent again for another fifteen minutes. It was difficult to see through the throngs of people, but it looked like he was carrying a small duffel bag at his waist. She pulled to the curb in front of the hookah bar so he could get in. His hair was mussed, and his shirt looked a little more wrinkled than it had been when she last saw him. He had definitely done more than just visit friends. He sat in the passenger seat and motioned for her to pull into traffic.
“Did you do whatever you needed to do?”
He looked at the traffic around them for a moment and then nodded.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask. The duffel bag he brought with him looked cheap, but it had the Pittsburgh Steeler’s logo on it, so it probably cost more than the most expensive purse she owned.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
“A few things,” said Trent, pointing at a road ahead of them. “Hang a left here. It’ll take you back to the interstate.”
“Care to elaborate on what ‘a few things’ are?” she asked, glancing in the rear view mirror to ensure that no one was following them. Trent unzipped his bag and held it open. The car was shadowy, so it was difficult to see. One thing was clear, though; Trent’s friends had given him a gun. It was a semi–automatic like she had seen detectives on television carry. She glanced at him, her eyebrows drawn together.
“It’s just for protection,” he said, shifting the bag and reaching inside. He pulled out an iPhone, a brick of cash and two leather gun holsters.
“Those are some friends,” she said, shifting her eyes from the road to Trent’s bag. “How much money is that?”
Trent leafed through the money as he would a deck of cards.
“A hundred twenty–dollar bills,” he said. “Should be plenty to see us through everything.”
“And the gun?” she asked.
“Hopefully it’s unneeded,” he said. He zipped the bag and rubbed his eyebrows with a thumb, sighing. “I know you’ve got questions, and I’ll answer them as soon as I can, but for now, can I just close my eyes? I’m exhausted.”
She looked at him for a moment. His skin was pale, and it almost looked as if his hands were trembling. It wasn’t what she had expected to see from her brave protector.
“Sure,” she said, nodding slowly. Trent’s chest rose and fell in a long, even pattern. He looked as if he were asleep, although she doubted he could have fallen asleep that fast. She followed signs to get back on the interstate and was heading toward Washington DC shortly after that. They still had a good portion of Pennsylvania to drive through and then parts of Maryland. All told, she figured they had five or six hours of driving ahead of them.
Money evidently wasn’t going to be a problem anymore, but security might be. They had been on the run since Friday, plenty of time for the police to get the word out. Likely, every cop in the country had seen their pictures. They were going to have to be more than lucky to avoid being arrested.
Sunday, September 15. 5:33 p.m
Hagerstown, MD.
Anatoly leaned his elbows against the table. No matter how much he tried to avoid it, he couldn’t help but think of his family. He kept running the scenarios over in his head, but they all ended the same way. If he had been home, he could have protected them. He may not have been able to stop Gregori’s men, but he could have slowed them down enough to allow Annya and Katja to escape. They’d be safe.
But that wasn’t right, either. If Gregori wanted them, they’d never be safe as long as he lived. His insides shook, and he felt raw, helpless rage.
“Hey, hey.”
The voice was like something from a dream. Anatoly opened his eyes and forced the world back into focus. He sat at a booth in a greasy spoon diner in Hagerstown, Maryland, just a little outside of Washington DC. He had bent the fork he was holding so much that it was likely unusable. He dropped it, his hands shaking. Victor sat across from him, excitement on his face and one hand over the mouthpiece of his cell phone.
“We got a hit,” he said. “Pittsburgh, about four hours from here.”
Anatoly nodded, not quite comprehending what Victor had said. He pulled a hard pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. The smoke was cool and nice. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, the cheap, wooden chair creaking under his weight.
His granddaughter wanted him to quit smoking. If he had much time left to live, he probably would have put more effort into it, but as it was, he was too old to change. Quitting might add another year to his life, but it would be another year full of pain and misery. He didn’t need the hassle.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice over his shoulder. He turned. The man who spoke was slight with long, greasy hair and a striped, short–sleeved shirt beneath a mauve apron. His nametag identified him as the assistant manager. “I’m going to have to ask you to put that out. It’s a law here in Maryland.”
For a moment, Anatoly considered jamming his cigarette against the guy’s cheek. Twenty years earlier, he wouldn’t have even thought about it; he just would have done it. Times had changed, though, and he could no longer afford the hassle it would give him. The manager stared at him with blank, vapid eyes. Anatoly stood and exhaled, blowing a puff of smoke in the man’s face.
“Fuck you.”
A woman at a neighboring table gasped and covered her son’s ears. The kid was about fourteen; he probably heard worse every time he climbed on the bus to go to school. Anatoly took a long drag on his cigarette and pulled a twenty from his wallet, more than enough to cover the check and leave the waitress a substantial tip. He chucked the bill on the table and looked at Victor.
“We’re done here,” he said. “Get up.”
Victor didn’t move for a moment, but eventually he hung up his phone and stood. He looked at the still dumbstruck manager.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes darting from Anatoly to the manager and back. “My friend is from another culture. He’s not intending to be rude.”
Even the manager looked incredulous at that, and he was clearly an idiot. Anatoly didn’t correct Victor, though; he wasn’t worth the energy.
He left the building through t
he front door and threw his cigarette on the ground. A memory flooded through his mind unbidden. He had been seventeen at the time and had been caught stealing cigarettes from a black–market dealer in St. Petersburg. As punishment, the shopkeeper burned him with the very cigarettes he had stolen. Anatoly could still feel the scars on his forearm and hear his own screams as clearly as if it had just happened. It was probably the worst pain of his life. If rumor was correct, it was also one of Gregori’s preferred methods of getting a captive to talk. He had to get his family back soon.
Victor walked into the parking lot, his arms flailed out and his eyebrows bunched together on his forehead.
“What the hell was that?” he asked. “The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves.”
“It was a mistake,” said Anatoly, nodding. “I let my emotions get the better of me.”
“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he said. He ran his hand over his chin. “We found Schaefer.”
Anatoly’s back stiffened. His heart almost jumped.
“And Dr. Carter?”
“Never saw her. But you’re not going to believe where Schaefer was spotted.”
Anatoly started back to their car.
“Pittsburgh?” said Anatoly.
“Yeah, Pittsburgh,” said Victor, nodding. He jogged to the driver’s side of the cruiser. “We’ve got him on film walking into an FBI safe house. He even knew where the goddamn camera was because he gave us the finger. When he walked out, three high–profile government witnesses were dead.”
Anatoly stood straighter.
“How?”
“Medical examiner said one had a snapped neck, another had a severed windpipe. Get this, though. He stabbed the third guy in the chest with a Swiss Army pocketknife. The blade went right between his ribs and hit his heart. And these guys were heavy hitters, too. They did work all over the place for a lot of people. That’s why the Bureau put them up. They were turning state’s evidence on some pretty powerful people.”
Just Run Page 14