Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  “I’ve been running most of my life,” she said, more to herself than Trent. “It’s strange to stop and watch.”

  “It’s a little surreal.”

  That was one way of putting it. She nodded without looking back. Neither of them said anything for another ten minutes as Trent rhythmically paddled. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

  “How much further do we have?” he asked.

  Renee reached into her pocket for their cell phone. The phone’s GPS system was designed to navigate roads, but it did a passable job on the river, too, as long as they were close to the street. She held it low in the boat, hoping to shield the light from prying eyes on the shore.

  “Another mile or so,” she said, her voice wavering. She took a deep breath. “We should be there in plenty of time.”

  “Yeah.”

  She shivered again and waited for the phone to inform them that they had reached their destination. It didn’t take long, half an hour at the most. When the phone beeped, Trent thrust his paddle deep into the water on the right side of their boat and held it steady so the canoe made a sharp turn. Both he and Renee paddled to shore, and, a moment later, she felt the bottom scrape against sand. Instead of getting out immediately, they stayed in the boat. Her chest rose and fell as the current pushed the stern down the river.

  “It’s time to go, Renee,” said Trent.

  “I know.”

  It took her another minute to get the strength to hop out. The water was cold, but it didn’t go far up her ankle. She pulled hard on the bow, dragging it on shore far enough that Trent could get out without soaking himself. The moonlight gleamed on the canoe’s silver hull. It would have been visible from the house, so Trent shoved it hard, sending it back into the more powerful current away from shore. It seemed as forlorn and lost as her as it sped away.

  She swallowed and looked around, feeling the nervousness rise in her stomach. The Fortunatov’s manicured lawn was big enough to hold a gala ball, while the multistory house was big enough that the gargoyles on the roof seemed oddly appropriate. She twisted her foot, shaking off water and hoping she wouldn’t get frostbitten.

  “Are you ready?” whispered Trent.

  Renee breathed deeply, stilling herself.

  “As ready as I can be,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Monday, September 16. 11:57 p.m

  Washington DC.

  Anatoly shifted his weight. The white wicker chair creaked. He wasn’t a large man, but time and a reliance on quick, easy meals had not been kind on his midsection. He coughed and strained his eyes.

  He and Victor were sitting in the darkened sunroom behind the Fortunatov’s estate on the Potomac. It was a good night for watching the water. The moon was high, and the sky was clear; he could see for miles around.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  Victor sat up straight, his mouth open.

  “I didn’t expect them to come.”

  Anatoly rubbed sleep out of his eyes and yawned. Victor had been right about Dr. Carter’s laptop. It had an alarm system on it similar to the alarm on high–end cars. As soon as the laptop was in range of a wireless network, it sent its location to a website, allowing its owner to find it anywhere on the globe. Gregori destroyed the laptop, but not before allowing it to connect to the house’s network for an hour. Anatoly almost felt sorry for Dr. Carter. She had come across the country, and the bait wasn’t even real. He stretched.

  “Tell Gregori that his guests have arrived,” said Anatoly. “We’ll need to greet them properly.”

  Victor nodded and bounded out of the room, while Anatoly crossed his arms, feeling the firearm hanging from his shoulder. It’d be over soon, and his daughter and granddaughter would be safe. The knowledge felt good. He rocked his weight forward and stood, his aging joints screaming. He checked his weapon to ensure that he had a full magazine and stretched before reaching into his jacket and pulling out his cell phone.

  He dialed the same number Arman Fortunatov had called him on earlier that evening. The extension rang twice.

  “Dr. Carter and Detective Schaefer are coming,” he said.

  Arman’s breath was raspy. He coughed before speaking.

  “I’m sorry Gregori involved you in this,” he said. “He’s lost his way. Thank you for helping an old man.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Anatoly. “What do you want me to do?”

  Arman’s breath was weak. He sounded winded. Anatoly had known his old friend was ill, but he hadn’t known how close to death Arman actually was. His most recent doctor’s assessment gave him six months at the most.

  “I don’t want my son to die, but don’t hesitate to shoot if he’s a threat,” he said. He breathed deeply, presumably catching his breath. “The girl has to go. I can’t afford witnesses. One of my contacts told me we might lose our American contracts unless we clean this up.”

  “What about the detective?”

  Arman coughed.

  “If he dies, he dies,” he said. “But he’s not our target.”

  Anatoly hesitated.

  “Who is he?”

  “A contingency plan.”

  Arman fell into a violent coughing fit.

  “If anything happens to me,” said Anatoly. “Will you take care of Katja and Annya?”

  Arman coughed again.

  “As if they were my own. I promise.”

  Arman wished him luck before hanging up. Anatoly cracked his knuckles. Gregori thought he had everything under control. He was about to find out how wrong he was.

  Monday, September 16. 11:59 p.m

  Washington DC.

  The moon was bright enough that Trent and Renee cast long shadows on the grass. Adrenaline coursed through Trent’s body. He felt more awake than he had for a long time. His heart pounded, sending blood rocketing to his brain and feeding a growing headache. He tensed the muscles in his legs, forcing himself to calm down.

  Renee’s shoulders rose and fell in a quick rhythm as she breathed. She looked nervous. That was to be expected, though. He leaned his back against a thick oak tree that could have been planted by the home’s original owner a hundred years earlier.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Renee nodded from a nearby tree, her skin glistening in the moonlight.

  The house was about a hundred yards away. In Basic Training, he had run a hundred–yard dash in just over eleven seconds. It was one of the best times in his unit, but, even still, it wasn’t nearly good enough. It’d take the average guard about a second to react to movement, and maybe another second to raise his firearm. Trent knew that he’d have a bullet in his chest before he covered forty yards. He glanced at Renee.

  “Stay low to the ground and try to stay in the shadows.”

  She nodded slowly. Trent and Renee ran to the next tree, zigzagging their way from tree to tree up the lawn. When they reached the house, they were both out of breath and sweating despite the chill in the air.

  The Fortunatov’s home was a red brick Federalist–style mansion with an expansive back patio, marble columns and eaves on all sides. It reminded Trent of the buildings at Renee’s college. They crept into the shadows, leaning against the brick. He glanced at Renee and held his finger to his lips while straining his ears. No one shouted or came running. Hopefully that meant they were okay.

  “How far is your laptop?” he asked.

  Renee looked around quickly before pulling the cell phone from her pocket. She huddled over it, allowing her hair to block some of the light.

  “The last signal was fifty–four feet to the west,” she said. “And twenty–two feet above our present altitude.”

  Trent nodded. It was on the second floor at least. He glanced at his watch. If Patrick was right, Arman Fortunatov should have been arriving at any moment with guns blazing. They needed to move quickly. He whispered for Renee to follow him.

  They crept along the wall, staying in the shadows for about te
n yards until they came to a rectangular, basement egress window. A small, brick retaining wall surrounded it and held back dirt and leaves. The egress window didn’t give them lot of room to move, but they ought to be able to fit through. He glanced at Renee.

  “You think you can make it through this?”

  She looked at the window before nodding.

  “Yeah.”

  Trent took out his firearm and hit the window’s center pane hard with the butt, shattering the glass. He glanced at Renee. Her back was ramrod straight as she pressed herself against the brick. Trent held his breath for a moment, but no one came running. They were still safe. He flipped his weapon around and used the firearm’s muzzle to clear away any remaining bits of glass before reaching inside. The window was probably as old as the house, and the latch was primitive. He pulled the handle upwards, and the bottom of the window came loose from the casement.

  Neither of them had dared to bring a flashlight, so it was hard to see inside. Nothing moved, though; at least he could see that.

  “It’s clear,” he said, looking back at Renee. She nodded and knelt down, positioning herself to crawl feet–first through the window. She was remarkably limber for a math professor. She arched her back and shimmied inside, her small frame clearing the casing with room to spare. He leaned down and held open the window so they could talk. Renee was almost at eye–level.

  “How is it in there?” he asked.

  “Dark. The window’s about five or six feet off the ground.”

  “See if you can find stairs while I climb in,” he said.

  Renee nodded and disappeared. Trent held his breath for a moment, listening to her footsteps dissipate before positioning himself in front of the window as she had. His legs went through fine, but the metal frame bit into his stomach and back hard, holding him like a vise. He blew out all the air in his lungs and used his arms to push off the grass, forcing himself backwards. The sill scraped against his skin like a dull knife. He grimaced and ground his teeth hard as he grabbed the retaining wall and pulled, leveraging himself through.

  His feet hit the ground with a thud, and he winced. Renee was beside him before he could pull his shirt over his back.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  Trent straightened his shirt and felt his chest and back. The skin was rough and raw, but his wounds were superficial. Once the adrenaline wore off, they were going to hurt like hell, but they were bearable for the moment.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, glancing back at the window. “We’re going to have to find another way out. I don’t think I’ll be able to do that again.”

  “One problem at a time,” said Renee.

  Trent nodded, scanning the area for threats or exits. It was dark, but windows like the one they had just crawled through allowed in enough moonlight that he could just barely see the edges of the room. The basement was about a hundred feet long and forty or fifty feet deep. Cheap, metal filing cabinets took up most of the floor space. It looked like the basement of a law or accounting firm.

  “Did you find a door?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Renee, already starting to walk away. “It’s over here.”

  Renee led the way, but he followed just a step behind, his gun in hand. The house was probably well over a hundred years old, and it had obviously begun to settle over time. The floor tilted a couple of degrees toward the center, and the concrete was rough and uneven. The wooden beams overhead were as thick as telephone poles. Renee stopped in front of a set of stone steps worn smooth by use. She titled her head toward the door at the top.

  “This is the only exit I could find,” she said. Trent nodded. The door was small enough that he’d have to duck his head to make it through. If it was original to the house, it was likely a servant’s door, which hopefully meant it led to the kitchen. He wiped sweat off his forehead as adrenaline pounded through his veins.

  “Arman should be here at any moment,” he said. “We’ll take a look around quickly, but we need to find a closet or somewhere else to hide as soon as we can. If we’re caught, I’ll slow them down while you run.”

  She nodded as Trent twisted the knob and opened the door onto the dimly lit corridor beyond.

  Tuesday, September 17. 12:04 a.m

  Washington DC.

  Trent may have warned her to forget about him and run if anyone caught them, but the moment he opened the door, Renee knew his advice was a moot point. She couldn’t move her legs.

  You can do this, Renee. Come on.

  She forced herself to take another breath. She was fine crawling into the basement, but for some reason, actually going into the house terrified her.

  Come on. Take a step.

  Renee lifted her right foot and stepped forward. Trent had already crossed into a white–walled corridor that led to what would have been a bright and cheery kitchen under most circumstances. She followed a step behind, casting her eyes around the room. Lightly stained oak wainscoting ran around the base of the walls, while the upper drywall was finished in off–white. A six–inch LCD panel affixed to the wall beside the basement door flashed something in bright blue letters

  Alarm system offline.

  She touched Trent’s shoulder and pointed it out to him. He nodded.

  “Stay on your toes,” he said. “Fortunatov wouldn’t leave the alarm off unless he were still awake.”

  Trent’s warning was thoughtful, but unnecessary; she couldn’t relax if she wanted to. They walked through the kitchen without saying another word and entered a nearby sitting room. The lights were off, but enough moonlight filtered through the windows overlooking the river than none were needed. She couldn’t see any doors leading to closets or nooks in which they could hide, so the room was useless for their purposes.

  Before leaving, though, she glanced out of the back window. A solarium jutted out from the rear of the house about twenty yards away, but there was no direct way to it from their location. Fortunatov’s home was enormous.

  Trent headed toward one of two corridors leading out of the room. The oak wainscoting and neutral off–white walls followed them through the hallway to an oval–shaped foyer. A pair of staircases followed the curving walls and led to a landing above their heads, while a crystal chandelier caught moonlight through an opening above the front door.

  The entryway was impressive. Whatever faults Fortunatov may have had, his taste in architecture was not one of them. She spotted what they had come for beneath one of the staircases: a small door shaped to follow the line of the flight of steps. It was probably a coat closet. She and Trent made for it at the same time without saying anything. Before either of them could get to it, though, the chandelier sprung to life, and Renee’s stomach plummeted to her shoes.

  “Put your hands on your heads.”

  The speaker’s Russian accent was thick.

  Renee’s heart jumped into her throat. She closed her eyes, feeling her gut twist.

  “Turn around.”

  She glanced at Trent. His throat dipped as he swallowed, his head nodding slowly. She turned to face the new arrival and found a gun leveled at her chest. It was Anatoly, the Russian she had seen in Chicago and the Bluffdale police station several days earlier. His skin was pale and gray, and his eyes were as black as midnight. They chilled her beyond anything the temperature outside or the river had done.

  “Put your hands on your heads,” he said, his voice so loud and strained that it was almost hoarse. Renee flinched but raised her hands. The FBI agent from Bluffdale appeared from the upper level. He walked down the stairs, and the older Russian started barking orders.

  “Search them for weapons,” said the Russian.

  The FBI agent nodded, and began patting Trent down; his search looked thorough, but he was quick. He pulled Trent’s firearm from his waistband before turning to her. She stiffened as his hands passed over her body. The search was quick and professional. He never lingered in one spot more than another, and
he didn’t try to grab anything inappropriate. Before he could get to her legs, though, Trent lunged at him, snarling. Renee jumped back, surprised, and the FBI agent backhanded Trent across the face with the firearm he had confiscated earlier.

  “Enough,” shouted Anatoly, his face contorted and red. “Do not doubt me. I will kill you.”

  Trent straightened and wiped his chin with the back of his hand, smearing blood on his skin. The FBI agent took a step back and looked at his partner.

  “They’re clean.”

  Trent’s outburst had kept the FBI agent from finding the revolver strapped to her ankle, but it was little comfort with a firearm pointed at her chest.

  “You don’t need to do this,” said Renee, her voice cracking. “I won’t tell anyone about my paper. No one needs to know anything. I’ll just disappear.”

  “I don’t care,” said the Russian. “Keep your hands on your heads and turn around. My employer wants to see you upstairs.”

  Renee’s legs felt weak as she and Trent simultaneously turned their backs to Anatoly. Trent’s face was unreadable, but his eyes darted around the room as if he were looking for something. The foyer was large, open, and empty of furniture. Even if she could get her gun, there was nowhere for either of them to hide.

  Renee bit her lower lip. If they went upstairs, they were dead. If they tried to run, Anatoly would shoot them in the back before they could make it to the door. Their only chance to survive was to make a stand and fight. She was armed, but so were her captors, and chances were good that they were more accurate shooters than she was. She didn’t know what to do.

  She glanced at Trent. His lips moved, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  She shook her head slightly, hoping no one else could see.

  “Get ready to run,” whispered Trent. He nodded toward the front door. “Now.”