Run

by Andrew Grant

  “Sir, I need you to stay where you are. And stay calm. The fire department is on its way. In the meantime, please take a towel from your bathroom. Wet it in the tub. Then lay it along the bottom edge of the door. OK? That’ll stop the smoke getting in.”

  I thanked her, then turned my attention to the agent who’d been posted in the corridor. He banged on my door and yelled for me to stay put until he found out what was going on. I agreed. But I was lying to him, too.

  McKenna should have known it wasn’t just the White House virus that was heuristic. I could learn from my experiences, too …

  I CROSSED TO MY WINDOW, eased it up a couple of feet, and waited for the first of the guests to reach the parking lot. Get people running around like headless chickens, McKenna had said. Make them think there’s a fire nearby. Tap into their primal fear. It was good advice. So I slipped through the space I’d created, lowered myself to the ground, and dodged from group to group until I was close enough to make a break for my car.

  THE LAST VILLAGE BEFORE LeBrock’s was picture-postcard perfect. I raced through at double the speed limit and could still take in the ice-cream parlors and artisanal produce stores, the vegetarian restaurants and the antiques emporia. And then, half a mile past the last pastel-painted building, I saw something less inviting. A line of police cars. Four of them, zigzagged across the road like fangs in a giant’s mouth, light bars blazing, blocking my way.

  I couldn’t stop. And if I plowed into them, I’d be killed. I was certain. There was a stand of pines to my right. They’d be just as lethal, at the speed I was going. So I had to go left. There was a space to the side of the last squad car. Just a sliver. Not paved. But my only option.

  My wheels left the blacktop and suddenly I was sideways. Then backwards. I locked eyes with a furious policeman as I slid past the roadblock, then he disappeared in the cloud of dust and debris thrown up by my tires.

  I was sideways again. Facing the other way.

  Then straight. I wrestled the steering wheel, battling to keep it that way. I was winning! Until the nose of the car dropped away and I lurched forward, the seatbelt biting into my shoulder and my chin slamming down into my chest.

  Trees and bushes rushed toward me. I was off the road altogether. Plunging down a steep bank. Speeding up. My head was bouncing off the seatback and the window, rattling my teeth, blurring my vision. The brakes didn’t work. I lost my grip on the steering wheel. A branch tore my side mirror off. Something hit the windshield, blurring it into a million opaque stars. Then the shaking died away. The car leveled out. I found the brake pedal. Hit it again with all my weight.

  The car was slowing.

  Definitely slowing.

  It was back under control.

  I was safe!

  Then the airbags blew.

  Saturday. Late afternoon.

  I SAW A MOVIE IN SCIENCE CLASS ONCE THAT SHOWED WHAT happens when you stir up an ants’ nest.

  That’s what it was like when I slammed my aching shoulder against the car door for the fifth time, finally freeing it from the twisted frame. At first all I could make out was chaos. Twenty or thirty people milling around, apparently at random. But then distinct groups started to emerge, each with its own purpose. The braver ones, coming toward me to investigate, or to see if they could help. The wiser ones, looking for cover until they were sure what was happening. Parents, gathering up their kids, anxious to shelter them. And the bewildered, wandering this way and that without a clue where to go.

  I struggled out onto my feet and saw a long, low building thirty yards away beyond half a dozen rows of parking spaces. It was a supermarket. I would have plowed straight into it, if my car hadn’t hit an old-model Lincoln Continental and stopped dead. Stretching back the other way, toward the slope, I’d left a trail of mud, rubber, and foliage. It was like an arrow, pointing to the police who’d been trying to stop me. I remembered the look in the one officer’s eyes. They’d already be coming after me. But from which direction? Down the slope? Around, on the street? Or both?

  THE SHOPPERS DRIFTED BACK toward the supermarket as their interest in my sudden arrival waned, so I went with them. The crush dissipated once we were inside, and smaller groups split away and started wandering between the checkouts and into the store itself. I had no idea how the place was organized, but I instinctively headed away from the entrance. The problem was, as supermarkets go, this one was tiny. There were only twelve aisles, lined up in parallel rows, and beyond them a frozen section and deli counter. I don’t know what kinds of hiding places I’d imagined I’d find, but Macy’s on 34th Street, this place wasn’t.

  An uproar erupted at the front of the store. The police had arrived. Half a dozen officers were trying to instill order, and it would only be minutes—seconds, maybe—before they swept me up and figured out who I was.

  I dived behind the deli counter and pressed myself into the cold tiles on the floor. After a couple of seconds I looked up, and saw how stupid I’d been. Apart from the lower eighteen inches, which housed the refrigerator mechanism, the deli counter was made of glass. I might as well have been hiding behind a few boxes of cornflakes. I glanced round, desperate for something more substantial, and my eyes settled on the base of a door. It was standing open half an inch. Just enough to get my fingers around, push it open a little wider, and wriggle through to the other side.

  I’d expected to find myself in a storeroom with shelves or piles of packages to crawl behind, but I saw the place was actually an industrialscale kitchen. Which made sense, when I thought about it. It would be where they prepared the food for the deli. Long stainless-steel counters held various machines—slicers, mixers, a couple of microwaves, electric can-openers, and a few things I didn’t recognize. There were three large ovens. A separate stovetop covered with giant pans. Two massive fridges. A pantry area that was partially walled off on the left-hand side. And a fire door, which I guessed would lead out to the back of the building.

  It was decision time. Run? Or hide?

  If I opened the door an alarm would sound, giving away my position. And there could be more officers outside, who’d spot me even if I was wrong about the alarm. But if I stayed, anyone who looked into the room would see me. Unless I could shift a few things around? Maybe create a little nook behind one of the fridges?

  It was too late. I heard footsteps coming my way. At least two sets. Moving fast, but not running. Could I barricade myself in? I’d tried to close the door but it refused to fit in its frame properly, leaving the same half-inch gap I’d spotted before I took refuge in here. If I could slide something heavy in front of it, that might buy me the time I needed to slip out through the back. I took a step toward one of the steel trolleys, but memories of my last attempt at blocking a door slowed me down. I changed course, heading for the fire escape. And then a voice stopped me in my tracks altogether. Not because of how close it was. Or what it said. But because I’d heard it before.

  “In there?” Agent Peever said.

  “Right,” a woman answered. “A couple of minutes ago. Slithering along the floor, like he thought no one would see him.”

  “How come you saw him?”

  “I was working the deli counter. Supposed to be, anyway. Sneaked out to see what the fuss was about, and was trying to get back before my boss saw I was gone.”

  “OK. Was he on his own, the guy you saw? Or was anyone with him?”

  “I don’t know. I only saw him, but—”

  “So he could have a hostage with him? You can’t rule that out?”

  “Not for certain, no.”

  “What about weapons? Was he armed?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Where does the door lead to?” It was a different woman. Her voice was also familiar. It took me a second to pin it down. Then it clicked. It was Agent Brooking. Peever’s boss.

  “The deli prep room,” the store employee said.

  “Any knives in there?” Peever asked.

  “K
nives? Of course. Drawers full of them.”

  “Any other ways out?” Brooking asked. “Doors? Windows?”

  “One door. It leads out to the Dumpsters.”

  “Don’t worry,” Peever said. “There are uniforms on every exit. If he sticks his nose out, it’ll get blown off.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Brooking actually sounded sincere.

  “Um, do you need me anymore?” the store employee asked. “Because if there’s going to be any shooting …”

  “No,” Peever said. “We don’t. You can go. And thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “OK.” Brooking waited for a light set of footsteps to recede into the distance. “Options?”

  “Do nothing, for now,” Peever suggested. “Wait for the hostage negotiator.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Bowman’s trapped. He can’t get away, this time. But we’re knee-deep in civilians. We can’t account for them all. One could be in there with him. He has access to weapons. Why take the risk? What if we try to force something, and it goes wrong? Think how it would look.”

  “What’s the ETA on the negotiator?”

  “An hour, worst case.”

  “OK. I can spend an hour to avoid a PR nightmare. But you two stay here. And if Bowman makes any kind of contact, I’m the first to know. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Another set of footsteps retreated from the door.

  “Do nothing?” It was a man’s voice. One I didn’t recognize. “Wait for the negotiator? What the hell?”

  “I know, I know.” Peever sounded irritated. “That crap nearly choked me. But I had to get rid of Brooking, somehow. What if she was still here when McKenna shows up? And insists on trying to take him in? Tries to give him his rights? Have you read the procedures for a situation like this?”

  “You think McKenna’ll show?”

  “He did last time we got our hands on his little buddy. It’s worth a shot. It’d be a lot easier putting this business to bed with both of them out of the way. And we could do that with a lot less paperwork if we don’t have Brooking breathing down our necks.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “You stay here and watch the door. I’ll go spread the word that the goat’s tied to the stake. Back in five.”

  From a sanctuary to a cell. And now to a coffin. For a moment I could have sworn the walls were closing in on me. Shrinking the space. Transforming the room into a tile-lined casket. But I pushed the image away. I only had time to think about one thing. How to get out. I had five minutes. Less, if Peever was faster than he’d thought.

  The store employee had mentioned drawers full of knives. There was only one guard on my door, and surprise would be on my side. Maybe if I could … Wait. Who was I kidding? The guard was a trained Homeland Security agent. And he’d have a gun. There could be ten of me and a hundred knives, and it would make no difference. No. If I was going to survive, brawn wasn’t the answer. I scanned the room, looking for something that could be. My eyes settled on the pair of microwaves. An episode from my past came rushing back to me. And I set off toward the fridges, moving as quietly as I could manage. Because now I knew what was going to save me.

  I rummaged through the first fridge. I was thorough. But I didn’t find what I needed. And had no luck in the second fridge, either. Was this the universe’s way of telling me my time was up? Peever had just said as much. And then I remembered something a friend had told Carolyn in response to her gleeful account of my mishap with the egg.

  I grabbed a container of dressing from the second shelf—it was the only thing I could see with a screw-down lid—and dumped the contents on the floor. I poured in a cup of milk and made sure the lid was fastened extra tight. Then I ran across to the nearer microwave, shoved the bottle inside, selected full power, and jabbed the ten-minute button three or four times.

  The next thing I needed was cover. I figured the wall that partly separated the pantry area might work, but as I hurried toward it I spotted a white apron and hat. They’d been dropped on a sack of potatoes, so I altered course to grab them.

  For the next ninety seconds I did nothing but slip off my shoes and put on the hat and apron. Then I took a deep breath and called to the guy Peever had left outside the door.

  “Hey! Homeland Security? Are you there?”

  The guy didn’t respond.

  “I know you can hear me. And you should know this. I do have a hostage. Peever was right. I’ve got a gun, too. And I’m going to blow her away unless you back off and let me leave.”

  “Mr. Bowman?” The agent took a couple of steps closer. “I understand what you’re saying. And I don’t want you to do anything hasty. Can you tell me your hostage’s name?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Can I speak with her? To confirm she’s OK?”

  “The gun barrel’s in her mouth, so, no. She can’t speak to anyone right now.”

  “OK. No problem. Remember, don’t do anything hasty. And listen. We have a negotiator on his way. He’s the best we have, and he’ll be here very soon. He can help you get what you want. Let’s just relax, stay calm, and wait for our guy to arrive, OK?”

  “Screw your negotiator. I’m coming out. Now. And if I see you, I’ll spray this woman’s brains all over the ceiling.”

  “Let’s not overreact here, Marc. You want to leave? I get that. Hell, I want to leave, too. But are you thinking this through? If you come out of the kitchen, what’s next? How will you get out of the building? We need time to let the other law-enforcement guys know what’s going on, so they don’t shoot you by mistake. Or your hostage. That would be an irony, right? And what then? Maybe you need a car? A driver? Some cash? If you just hold on a little longer, our guy can help you with all this stuff. He can coordinate everything. What do you say? Don’t you think that would be a better way to go?”

  The guy was annoyingly good. Even though I was bluffing and I knew he was lying through his teeth, I still felt a crazy desire to agree with him. My mouth was open and words had twice begun to form on my tongue when the pressure in the bottle of milk became critical. The lid could withstand it no longer and the container was ripped apart, tearing the front off the microwave and sending it cartwheeling across the kitchen in a jet of superheated steam.

  Parts of the oven were still in mid-air when the door to the room crashed back on its hinges and the Homeland Security agent rushed in, his gun sweeping jerkily around as he struggled to make sense of the noise and the damage. He stopped after half a dozen paces, but that was far enough.

  It meant I was behind him.

  And after that, I was just another scared-looking employee in a rush to get somewhere safe.

  Saturday. Early evening.

  THE PARKING LOT WAS SWARMING WITH POLICE OFFICERS.

  There were detectives, too. Peever and Brooking would be prowling nearby. And overhead I could hear at least two helicopters. Getting away on foot was a definite non-starter. My car was out of the question, too. It was a wreck. Panic was beginning to blossom inside me, then I spotted something I’d missed before. Around the side of the building, near the loading bays, there was a line of delivery trucks. Five in total, left stranded by the afternoon’s events.

  The first truck was from a liquor distributor. It was locked. As was the second, from a fish wholesaler. But the third—from a local bakery—was not. I rolled the door to its cargo area up just high enough to climb inside. I kept it open for a few extra moments, memorizing the layout of the interior. Then I shut myself in and navigated through the darkness to a space between two racks of shelves.

  The van sat motionless for what felt like days, but when it finally got under way I was quickly wishing for stillness again. It was even louder and more uncomfortable than the back of the prison truck had been, and once again I had no idea how long I was going to be trapped inside. The only advantage it had was not being locked, so when we did finally come to rest I was able to g
et out without having to wait to be released.

  I rolled up the door, ready to run if anyone saw me, and found we were at the back of a roadside restaurant. Someone was yelling at the driver for being late. Another toxic side effect of mixing with Marc Bowman, I thought.

  Although this guy was still alive, at least.

  I made my way deeper into the shadows and pulled out my phone. I asked Information to connect me with a cab company, but hung up before the first ring. I’d ridden my luck too often already. And besides, a safer alternative was right there, staring me in the face.

  The van driver was still out of sight, returning the other unseen guy’s ire in spades. His keys were still in the ignition. So, with a silent apology and a muttered prayer that the argument wouldn’t end any time soon, I slid in behind the wheel.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE, I’d been appalled to see Carolyn’s car in the driveway outside LeBrock’s home.

  This time, I was devastated to find it wasn’t there.

  LeBrock opened his front door before I was halfway up the path. His feet were bare. His hair was uncombed. A bruise mottled the skin beneath his left eye. And his paisley dressing gown hung open over a pair of crumpled pajamas. He looked twice as old as the guy who’d fired me on Monday.

  “You better leave.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ll call the police this time.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble, Roger. I just want to see Carolyn.”

  “She’s not here.”

  Something Weimann had said started to ring in my ears. We may rake in the dough, but it’s hard to compete with power. And it struck me, gazing up at his glass and steel palace—LeBrock had both power and money. What chance did I have?

  “How long’s it been going on? Between you?”

  “Marc, you idiot! Carolyn and I aren’t having an affair.”

  “I saw you together. Yesterday. Here. In your living room.”

  LeBrock made no attempt to deny it, and after a few seconds he stepped back and headed toward the rear of the house. I followed, and found him in a kind of study area—a horseshoe of pale wooden bookcases surrounding a glass desk with a task chair on one side and a pair of cream leather armchairs on the other.