Run: A Novel (19 page)

We reversed, turning in a wide, lazy arc, then lurched forward abruptly enough to tip me off my perch. The farther we got from the station house the faster we went, and I was beginning to feel seriously sorry for myself—pitching and rolling on the hard metal floor—when all of a sudden the truck swung hard to the right and braked to a halt. Nothing happened for a few moments, then my enclosure was flooded with light as the rear door swung open. The officer who’d led me to the truck appeared at the top of the step, leaned in to unlock the mesh door, and gestured for me to slide over to him.

“Turn around.” He took a smaller key from a pouch on his belt. “Cuffs.”

“Where are we?” I massaged my wrists. “Why did we leave the station house?”

“Ask the other guy.” The officer squeezed past me and sat on the right-hand bench. “Go on. Get out.”

I climbed down from the truck, struggling to believe what had just happened. And when I saw who was waiting for me at the base of the ladder, the situation didn’t make any more sense.

It was Agent McKenna.

M
CKENNA EASED THE TRUCK BACK OUT ONTO THE ROAD AND
was surprisingly gentle with the gas until we were safely around the next bend.

“What’s going on?” I asked, as we began to pick up a little speed. “Why did we leave the station house?”

“You were in danger. It wasn’t safe for you there.”

“Why not? What kind of danger?”

“I’ll explain later. There’s something I need to show you.” McKenna winced as the truck’s front wheel hit a huge pothole. “Thanks for getting me into that car last night, by the way. You’ve still got credit in the bank for that, no question. I’m just sorry we had to leave you behind. That wasn’t part of the plan. Where did you go?”

“I found a place to crash.” It struck me that I liked McKenna, in a strange kind of way. I wanted him to respect me, so I was in no hurry to confess how dismally my scheme to clear my name had worked out. “How’s your head? If I’d hit the ground like you did, I’d still be out cold.”

“It’s fine. It looked worse than it was.”

“Agent Brooking said you were still in the hospital.”

“Agent Brooking has a habit of exaggerating.” He winked at me. “Anything that woman tells you, take with a pinch of salt.”

“And the accusations she throws around. Does the same go for them?”

“Definitely. First sign of trouble she starts slinging mud, and
watches who it sticks to. Not scientific, but gets her results, I suppose. She’s tossed a little in your direction?”

“The virus they found on my computer? She accused me of creating it. And using it to attack the White House.”

McKenna let out a long, low whistle.

“Wow. She’s really trying to lay the whole nine yards on you. Well, Marc, don’t worry. We know you’re not behind that virus, whatever it’s supposed to do.”

“Thanks. And the virus? It got onto my computer while I was working at AmeriTel, right? I can’t figure out any other way it could have happened.”

“Yes.” He paused for a moment. “I’m sure it spread to your computer from there.”

“Thank you.” I felt my grip on reality grow a little tighter. And with that, I suddenly saw how another piece of the puzzle might fit into place. “The memory stick. The one that was stolen. That’s why you pressed me on it, isn’t it? You knew about the virus, even then. That’s why you wanted the stick, or anything else that could have AmeriTel data on it.”

“We knew about the virus,” he admitted. “But we didn’t know for sure it had spread. We needed to find out.”

“Is that why someone broke into my house? To check if the virus was on my home computer?”

“I don’t think so.” McKenna reached out and adjusted his door mirror.

“But, maybe why the computer was stolen from the police?”

McKenna grunted, but I couldn’t tell if he meant yes or no.

“How come you knew these things days ago, but Brooking and Peever were still in the dark?”

McKenna didn’t respond right away, and for a moment I thought he’d clammed up for good. Then he raised his right hand, like he wanted to stop me from saying anything else.

“I shouldn’t be doing this, Marc. You’re a civilian. But you’re up to your ass in this thing, and I think you’ve proved I can trust you. Just don’t make me live to regret it.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“You better not. Because the picture I’m going to paint—it doesn’t show the department in the best possible light.”

“I understand. What you say in this truck stays in this truck.”

“Good. Because the truth is, there’s a helluva lot we just don’t know. And part of that’s my fault. Look at Peever. He’s probably dirty. I should have twigged to that earlier. But Homeland Security’s like any other agency, anywhere in the world. You’re never quick to suspect your own.”

“I get that. But what about Brooking?”

“She’s clean, as far as I know. Only she was recently brought in, so she’s not up to speed.”

“And the police? The detectives, and the others?”

“In the clear, as far as I can tell.” McKenna paused. We’d reached an intersection, and he couldn’t turn left as he’d intended, due to some construction. “The problem is, they don’t have high-enough security clearance. Fewer than a dozen people in the country do. That’s why I couldn’t let that officer stay within earshot when I pulled you out of the back.”

“And the fire? At the station house? You started it.”

“It was just a smoke generator. No flames. No damage done. Hits the spot every time. Want to get people running around like headless chickens? Make them think there’s a fire nearby. Tap into their primal fear.”

“And the motorcycle guys?”

“My guess, they’re the muscle for whoever’s behind all this. The attack—be it on ARGUS, the White House, or both—is going through AmeriTel. But we don’t think it was dreamed up by anyone who works there. Their background checks all pan out. The AmeriTel guys are most likely just patsies.”

“You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t try to bullshit me, or stonewall me, or frame me. And I appreciate that.”

“You’re a good—”

McKenna broke off mid-sentence as we swung through a tight turn and almost slammed into two cars that had just run into each other. Both were on our side of the road, blocking our way forward, and a man’s body was sprawled in the other lane.

“Oh my God, they’ve had an accident!” I reached for my door handle. “We’ve got to help—”

“Leave it!” McKenna slammed the truck into reverse. “Get down. Ambush!”

The truck had moved back about three feet when McKenna stamped on the brake again. A man had raced across the road behind us. He was pulling a kind of chain. But instead of smooth round links, it was made of vicious three-inch spikes.

“A stinger.” McKenna shifted into Drive and hit the gas again. “Can’t risk it. The tires would shred.”

He steered sharp left, accelerating hard, aiming directly for the body in the road. Our wheels were going to crush the man’s head. I was about to shout a warning—how could McKenna not see what was happening?—when the guy raised himself up like a sprinter in the blocks and flung himself toward the curb. He was dragging something behind him. Another stinger. And he’d cut his move so fine there was no time for McKenna to react.

There were two bangs. Our tires had blown. McKenna fought the steering wheel, trying to keep going. For a moment I thought we might make it. But then the truck pulled left and shuddered to a halt. McKenna flashed a worried look in my direction, then pulled out his gun.

“Wait here.” He opened his door. “Lock the truck after me. And stay down. Do not get out under any circumstances.”

As he spoke, a third guy appeared from behind one of the wrecked cars. His face was hidden by a black balaclava, and he was holding something in one hand. A glass bottle. It was a quarter full with clear liquid and a rag was sticking out of the top. He had a lighter in his other hand, and with one swift movement he set fire to the rag, flung the bottle toward the truck, and ducked down out of sight. I heard the glass smash, and then a dull
whump
as the liquid went up in flames.

“Come on!” McKenna yelled, unnecessarily, because my door was already open. “The prison officer. In the back. We’ve got to get him out.”

A pool of liquid was burning fiercely in my path. I started to loop around it, but someone grabbed my arm. It was the guy who’d thrown
the bottle. He pulled me back, slammed me against one of the cars, and pressed a heavy brown envelope into my hand.

“RUN!” he said, then let go of me.

I stayed still.

“What are you waiting for?” he snarled. “Go.”

“Who are you?”

“Your guardian angel. Now, go.”

I hesitated, tempted to rip the mask from his face.

“RUN!” he snarled again. Only this time he pulled a gun.

F
OR THE SECOND TIME IN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS I FOUND MYSELF
running blindly through an unfamiliar neighborhood. Only this time, I knew exactly where I wanted to go.

I just had no idea how to get there.

The net was tightening around me so I forced myself to keep moving for another fifteen minutes, then paused to take stock of my situation. A giant oak at the side of the road gave me some cover, and as I leaned against its gnarled trunk, wheezing, I realized I was still clutching the envelope the guy in the balaclava had given me.

I tore it open and tipped its contents onto the ground. There was a cell phone, and a wad of ten-dollar bills. A couple of dozen of them. It was spookily similar to what Brian had given me at his apartment, the day before. Was he involved, somehow? Or was this a kind of standard urban survival kit, to be handed out to IT consultants on the run? I didn’t waste too much time thinking about it, though. Because I knew right away I wasn’t just looking at
things
. I was looking at a way to untie the noose from around my neck and turn it into a lifeline. Maybe the only lifeline I had left.

I powered up the phone, dialed a number for a pizza restaurant, and gave the address I could see painted on a shiny red mailbox on the other side of the street. Then I settled down to wait, dreading the howl of a siren or the pulsing of red and blue lights.

Twenty minutes later I picked up the sound of an engine. But not a throaty V8 like the police use. More like a couple of bees in a beer can. Moments later a delivery guy wobbled into view on a decrepit moped.
He pulled up at the side of the street, opposite me. Took off his helmet, and hung it on the handlebars. Then retrieved a pizza from the insulated box behind the saddle and set off up the drive on foot.

I ran to the bike and strapped on the helmet. I took half the money from the mystery guy’s envelope and left it on the ground, weighed down with a stone. Then I fired up the tiny engine and launched myself onto the road.

I hadn’t ridden a moped for ten years, when Carolyn and I spent a week together in Rhodes. I’d been happy tooling around the island, back then, recharging my batteries at the beaches and the bars. Her plans had been more ambitious. She’d been obsessed with taking a ferry to Turkey, to see the remains of some ancient theater. The clash of agendas hadn’t made for a peaceful vacation. But it had taught me to move fast on two wheels.

I made it as far as my street without a problem, but then I spotted two cars parked near the entrance to my driveway. Both were dark blue, unmarked Fords. I drew level with the first one, and its engine roared into life. I managed another ten feet before it started to move. It was coming after me, with its twin glued to its tail. I eased back on the throttle, deflated. There was no way I could outrun them. But the cars swept past me, still accelerating, until they were around the corner and out of sight.

My heart was racing as I looped around, coasted to the side of the road, and killed the engine. Then I started to wheel the bike down my drive, trying to balance my urge to get out of sight with the need to move quietly across the gravel.

I reached my door, and realized there was another problem. I didn’t have a key. It was still at the police headquarters. But I’d come too far to give up. The house had plenty of windows. I could break one. Climb inside. Get what I needed. And disappear back into the night.

The question was, which window? Do smaller ones make less noise when they shatter? Or would it make more sense to break one in the kitchen, to be closer to my objective? I was weighing my options when it occurred to me that if glass had to be broken, there was a better option close at hand.

I picked up a small, pointy stone and crossed to the trunk of my
Jaguar. I smashed the lens covering the license-plate lamp. Removed the bulb. Used the clasp on the helmet strap to bridge the terminals, which shorted out the light. And with it, the central locking. Just as the auto club guy had done last summer, after Carolyn had locked the keys in the trunk in her haste to drag me to
The Tempest
in Central Park. And that guy’d had a whole van full of tools at his disposal …

My garage remote is built into the Jaguar’s sun visor so I reached in and hit the button. The door began to clank its way up, agonizingly slowly. I waited until it was half open then ducked underneath, crossed to the kitchen door, and let myself inside. I lifted up the loose section of countertop, held my breath, and slid my fingers into the gap. Sure enough, the memory stick was still there. I pulled it out, dropped the slab back in place, and turned to leave.

Only I couldn’t. Because my path was blocked.

A man was standing in the doorway.

P
RETEND TO WITHDRAW, AND BRING YOUR QUARRY RUNNING OUT
into the open. A ruse that’s been in use since Genghis Khan’s time. Probably longer. And I fell for it. I felt like a twenty-four-carat fool.

“Officer, this isn’t how it looks. Or should that be
Agent
?”

A hint of a smile spread across the guy’s face.