T-Minus
by Shannon Greenland
Copyright © 2019 by Shannon Greenland. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
THE PRESIDENT’S COUNTRY HOME
Northern Virginia
Saturday, 1:00 a.m.
La-la-la-la-la-la-la.
With a moan, I roll over.
La-la-la-la-la-la-la.
Groggily, I open my eyes.
La-la-la-la-la-la-la.
My hand flies out to the nightstand, batting at my phone. Erik, my goofball brother, must have programmed it with a new ringtone. I would never pick a la-la tone.
Through the darkness of my bedroom, I squint at the display. Dad? I look at the time. 1:00 a.m. Why is he calling me from downstairs?
“Dad?” I croak and then clear my throat. “Why are you calling me from downstairs?”
“Sophie,” Dad rushes, and his voice shoots the sleepiness right out of me.
I sit up in bed. “What is it?”
“I need—” His voice catches, and with it, my heart lurches.
“What’s going on? Are you okay? Where’s Mom?”
“Please tell me you know where your brother is.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Sophie, wake up,” Frank calls from the hallway.
“You need to come downstairs,” Dad orders. “Now.”
Bang. Bang. Bang. “I’m coming in.”
My door opens, and Frank, my Secret Service agent, steps inside. He takes one look at me sitting in the bed with the phone clenched in my hand, and his expression turns calm. He does that in order to keep me just as calm.
My dad clicks off, and I still can’t move. What’s going on?
Frank efficiently glides around the room, turning on a light before grabbing jeans, a white hoodie, and my running shoes. He lays them on the bed, gently takes the phone from my hand, and quietly puts it aside. Numbly, I stare at the clothes he’s laid out. Why am I getting dressed?
Frank crouches down beside my bed, and I turn my head and look into his kind blue eyes. He’s been with me and my family forever, even worked for my mom back when she was governor.
He doesn’t have any children. If I had a daughter I’d want her to be just like you. He told me that once, and I remember thinking I would do anything to make him proud.
“You need to get up and get dressed,” he says softly.
My throat rolls with a swallow. Something is really wrong.
He stands. “Two minutes.”
Erik… I close my eyes. I have to focus. Why does Dad want to know where my brother is? My God, did he sneak out again? I’m going to kill him.
“Sophie.” Frank firms his tone. “I need a verbal response.”
My eyes open, and my brain shifts and moves with the facts. Dad just called me. He needs me downstairs. They can’t find my brother. And—my lungs contract for a breath. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s safe,” he assures me. “For now.”
Oh, Jesus. What does that mean?
“Two minutes,” he reminds me and then leaves my room.
I slide off the bed, and with trembling hands I take the clothes he laid out, tugging them on over my tank top and boxers.
On my nightstand lies the vintage American flag necklace that my grandmother gave me and that I only take off when I sleep or shower. I clasp it on, grab my iPhone, and meet Frank out in the hall. As we head downstairs, I bring up the tracker on my brother’s phone, but it registers that he’s here. Meaning his phone is here, not him.
Downstairs, our living room is packed with agents, my parents, and other people I don’t know. This is definitely not just about Erik.
Dad sees me, and his jaw hardens as he comes straight toward me. “Did you know your brother left?”
Icy alarm skips down my spine, and I run a worried look around everyone in the room. “What’s going on?”
Dad’s light brown eyes narrow in on me. “Did you?” he sternly repeats.
My head jerks with a shake, and panic clenches through me. “No, I promise. Please just tell me what’s going on.”
His firm jaw does not soften as he puts a warm and heavy hand on my shoulder. This isn’t him. He’s never scared and is the most levelheaded person I know. Even more so than my mom, the president. But looking at his strained expression, it’s not good.
He takes a breath, staring deeply into my eyes. “There’s a domestic terrorist group that’s put a hit out on your mother.”
“What?” I gasp.
Dad’s arm slides around my shoulders as he pulls me over into the corner so we can talk privately. “Protocol dictates they separate all of us in these situations. We’ll each be taken to a secure location until the threat is eliminated.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be separated.” The sound of everything going on in the room buzzes in my head, and my father’s expression softens a little.
“It’s going to be okay. Go with Frank. He’ll keep you safe.”
My fingers dig into my dad’s sturdy forearm. I’m aware of protocol, but this is the first time in the three years Mom has been president that we’ve ever followed it. Which means they think the threat is serious. Very serious. “But what about you and Mom? What about Erik?”
Dad’s momentary soft expression turns hard again. Brave, like he’s trying to demonstrate how he wants me to be, because if he’s scared, it’ll frighten me more. But he doesn’t answer my question because the room is breaking up now, and we’re about to be separated.
He pulls me in for a hug, and I grip him hard as I lay my head on his chest. He shifts a little, lowering his mouth to my ear. “Do not trust anyone. Your mother thinks this is coming from someone on the inside.”
My breath hitches. “What?”
Mom moves away from the people she is talking to and across the room to where we stand.
Earlier in the evening we argued over the nose piercing that I want. It didn’t go well.
Yesterday we argued over my desire for independence. I swear I wasn’t complaining. I have an amazing life, but every once in a while, it would be great to have a little free time.
The day before that my parents were so crazy about my college choices. We’ve been disagreeing a lot lately on pretty much everything. I’m just as annoyed with them as they are with me.
Now, though, the whole thing seems so trivial.
Taking me from Dad’s embrace, she wraps me up in slender arms. For someone so tiny, she has the sturdiest hugs. I close my eyes and inhale her familiar coconut scent. I’ve always loved that she doesn’t wear perfume and smells like the homemade soap we make together.
These days our soap making is the only time we don’t argue. It’s an unspoken truce that gives us a chance to be together without all the crazy in the rest of our lives.
“Dad told me,” I whisper, and she doesn’t respond, just kisses me firmly on the cheek before stepping away.
She looks me in the eyes, smiling a little. It’s a forced one, meant to give me assurance. It doesn’t, though. It only ramps up my nerves.
Agents step in then, and we’re ushered off in separate directions.
…
I’m now in the back of a Town Car with Frank driving. We left our country home in Northern Virginia in separate cars, each going to a different secure location.
With my forehead pressed to the chilled glass, I stare out at the darkness zooming by. Karen, another Secret Service agent, occupies the passenger seat. I don’t like her. Never have. She rarely says a word to me, which is why I find it so strange that she mumbled Happy birthday to me as I was climbing in the car. Maybe it was her odd attempt at making me feel better. I don’t know.
Yeah, happy seventeenth to me. One thing’s for sure—this will be a birthday I’ll never forget.
Mom waves a hand in the air. “Absolutely not. When you turn eighteen you can pierce whatever you want. But as long as I have a say in things, then no. No tattoos. No piercings. No.”
With a sigh, I look to Dad. But he simply shakes his head.
My eyes refocus, going from the scenery outside to my reflection, specifically my nose. Later today, I’m scheduled to give a speech with William, the vice president, and then I was going to do my own nose. I bought the jewelry, the needle, and the piercing clamp. I watched videos.
But where yesterday my act of defiance was the most important part of today, followed by the nighttime zip-lining I was going to do with my friends, now the whole thing is ridiculous.
Lifting my head up off the glass, I take the red ponytail holder off my wrist and tie my dark curly hair into a quick bun. Then I grab my phone and dial Erik’s number. It’s in his bedroom and not with him, but I still want to leave a message.
It rings twice, a digital voice picks up for the mailbox, and I say, “I hope to God you’re safe. Of all the nights for you to sneak out, this was not the one. You have got to call me. Please get this message. I only have one big brother, and even though he makes me nuts, I love him. Please call me.”
I tell myself he’s safe and that he’s just ignorant to what’s going on right now, but my brain naturally veers off with the what-ifs, the biggest one of all being—what if whoever has threatened Mom has taken him?
Though Mom and I have been bumping heads lately, of the two of us, Erik’s always been the “challenging” one, as my parents say. My God, he picked the wrong night to pull one of his stunts.
Frank exits 495 heading into D.C., and I bring up the tracker on my brother’s phone to see it still sitting in his room. I just wanted to double-check.
I’m sure his service detail has already called all of his friends, but still I dial his girlfriend, Britta. It goes straight to voicemail, and I leave a quick, “When you get this, can you please call me?”
Next, I dial his best friend, Max Grayson. He picks up on the third ring with a groggy, “What now?”
My caller ID comes through as UNKNOWN, but all of our friends know that means us on our secure line. “This is Sophie. Have you seen my brother?”
He lets out a yawn. “Yeah, about an hour ago. We all had some beers over at the river. I already told his hound dogs that.”
I roll my eyes. It really bugs me when he calls our detail “hound dogs.” “By ‘we all’ you mean…?”
“Danforth, Erik, me, and Britta.” He yawns again. “Now can I go back to sleep?”
I try not to get irritated because he doesn’t know the extent of what’s going on. He probably thinks it’s funny that everyone is out looking for my brother.
“Any idea where the three of them took off to?” I ask.
“I don’t know. A party, I think. I’ll call if I hear anything.” Then, without saying bye, he just clicks off.
I don’t waste a second dialing Danforth’s number. But like Britta’s, it goes to voicemail. “If you know where my brother is, please call and tell me. It’s important.”
I click off and sit for a second, trying to think of who else my brother might be with. Really, though, those are the three people he hangs out with.
Frank’s deep voice cuts through the quiet car. “We’ll find him. Don’t you worry.”
I take in his square jaw and his bald head. In the rearview mirror, he gives a reassuring smile. In return I nod, though my stomach tightens with the strain. If my brother is still with his girlfriend and Danforth, then they’re probably somewhere just drinking beer and not in immediate danger.
At least, this is what I tell myself.
Do not trust anyone. Dad’s words come back to me, and with them, my eyebrows pinch together as I look back out the window. What does that even mean? Frank, too? But I’ve always trusted him. Always.
SAFE HOUSE
Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 2:30 a.m.
Frank pulls up to a garage off Connecticut Avenue and keys in a code. The door opens, and he pulls us down into the underground parking area. Behind me, metal clanks on metal as the door goes back down, and the sound vibrates through my skull.
Do not trust anyone. Those words have been on repeat in my mind for the past several minutes, and with each repeat, more and more uneasiness curls through me. I wish I knew who Dad meant when he said that. I’m not sure even he knew.
There are several cars already here, and I recognize them as undercover vehicles, just like the one we’re in.
There’s a woman walking toward us, and from her functional dark suit, I peg her as secret service. Before Frank has had a chance to cut the engine, or Karen has had the opportunity to open her door, the lady has mine open and is grabbing me.
“Taffy Pop’s here,” the secret service lady says into a phone as she takes my arm and pulls me out. Taffy Pop, my code name.
Mom has a thing for old-fashioned candy. So, when it came time to name us, we each took on a themed name. Erik is Bit-O-Honey. Dad got Rock Candy. Mom, Cinnamon Drop. And then me, Taffy Pop.
I tug free from the lady’s hold. It’s the new ones who tend to handle me too much. “I can walk on my own,” I tell her, and she gives a respectful nod.
A camera mounted near the ceiling whirs. Behind me, Frank and Karen exchange muted words. I strain to hear but can’t make anything out.
We cross the garage, and as we reach the door that leads into the building, it swings open, and a man, I’d say in his early twenties, is led out. I don’t recognize him. But from the bloody nose and swollen eye, someone has definitely roughed him up.
“An asset,” the secret service lady tells me, and I take a step back to give everyone room.
The asset lifts his head, and his light eyes lock with mine for an unnerving second. Something, though I’m not quite sure what, flicks across his expression. Like he recognizes me, but not the type of recognition others usually have. His comes across as if he knows something.
Something the rest of us don’t.
He sneers. “Your mother will get what she deserves.”
“Come on,” an agent snaps, yanking the man away.
I stand, not breathing, as he’s roughly led across the underground lot. My family gets threats all the time, but I’m not impervious to them. They don’t just bounce off my skin like they seem to for Erik or Mom. That knot in the pit of my stomach tightens, as I understand things are about to get real.
I’ve had this feeling before.
Outside the car, someone yells, “Your mother should be ashamed of how she handled Cuba!”
Inside the car, I tense. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. Because of Mom those kids got the aid they needed.”
Erik shakes his head. “Ignore it, Soph. They see what they want to see. You know that.”
“Our mother is amazing. How easy people forget the equality she champions, the treaties she has signed, not to mention the recent prisoner release she negotiated.”
My brother chuckles.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just that I love how you defend her even though you two seem to be arguing over everything these days.”
I sit back, wanting to glare at the protestors outside the car but keeping my expression calm. “Just because she didn’t like my eye makeup doesn’t mean I’m going to give up on her,” I grumble.
Yes, Dad and I are different. We’re always affected by the haters. I wish I weren’t, but I am.
My eyes stay on the man until he’s shoved into the back of the car. The windows are dark, and I have no clue if he’s looking at me. I hope he is, though. I narrow my eyes, giving into a glare I’ve been told time and again not to. But I want him to see how wrong he is about my mother.
…
Chaos has officially broken out in the multi-room condominium that doubles as a safe house. One agent is on the phone. Another one is on a laptop. Two more are arguing. It takes everything in me not to interject my own questions and opinions, but I stay quiet and do my best to listen to all the fragmented conversations.
“We don’t know demands…”
“…a bomb goes off.”
“We should try partial negotiation…”
“…Director Prax said to keep it confined.”
No one knows what to do. And a bomb? What bomb are they talking about? Plus, what about that asset? Where were they taking him? Shouldn’t they be interrogating him more?
Someone touches my arm. “You need anything?” Frank asks.
“No.” My frustration mounts with the voices in the room. “No one seems to know what’s going on. And I just heard someone say, ‘partial negotiation’? You know as well as I do, we don’t negotiate, and that’s just going to piss them off.”
The whole room falls silent, and I look around to see what’s going on.
“The asset is dead,” an agent reports. “His transport was attacked, and his two escorts were killed as well.”
It’s like a vacuum sucks the air out of the living room before pushing it back in, and voices once again fill the space, crowding to be heard.
Your mother will get what she deserves. Maybe the asset got what he deserved. But the two agents? I didn’t know either one of them, and my heart aches for them and their families. They lost their lives protecting my mom.
Protecting me.
It takes a second for that monumental information to sink in. There is only one way to deal with a terrorist, and that is to either capture or to kill him. They don’t just go away, they never give up, and where there is one, there are others. Mom said that when she was running for office.
The question is, how many others are out there, trying to kill my family?
…
Everyone talks over one another, speculating on next steps. I keep hearing Prax’s name. He’s the Director of the CIA, but he’s an arrogant asshole. If he’s the one running this show, this is going to get screwed up. He only has one agenda, and that is to do whatever makes him look great. He’s going to try to “save the day” and do a partial negotiation, and it’s going to blow up in his face.
The same woman who tugged me out of the car enters the living room. With an iPad gripped in her hand and a determined look on her flushed face, she crosses the room toward me and Frank.
“What is it?” he asks.
She hands the iPad over to him.
“A list of extremists who have recently been making some noise on our channels.” She turns to address the other agents in the room. “Check your IMs. The director wants all eyes on the list.”
As Frank runs his finger over the screen, I ask the agent lady, “The asset that’s now dead, did he give any indication of demands other than the president’s life?”
She glances down at me, like she can’t believe I’m talking. I try not to get offended. There are only so many things they are allowed to loop me in on. “This is my family we’re talking about,” I implore.
She takes in a deep breath, like she’s praying for infinite patience. “Why don’t you try to take a nap or something?”
I shoot straight to my feet. “I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?”
Frank intercepts, giving my arm a little tug. “Let’s go.”
He leads me from the living room and out into the hall. I pull free from his grasp. “I hate when people placate me.”
“I know. She’s new. Just ignore her. I’ll tell you whatever I can, when I can. Trust that.”
With a sigh, I nod.
From down the hall a bedroom door opens and out steps a man with a Doberman. With the dog on his left, they approach, and I flatten my body against the wall to give the dog wide space.
Erik has a German shepherd named W.D. after his favorite show, The Walking Dead. W.D. bit me so hard it left a huge black, blue, and yellow bruise on my arm. My parents wanted to get rid of the dog after the biting episode, and so did my brother.
But he loves that dog, and so I went to bat for it, insisting the encounter was more my fault than anything. To be fair, I did get in its face, and anyone who owns a dog knows that’s not a smart idea.
Yes, I went to bat for W.D., and our parents hesitantly agreed to let Erik keep it, but I certainly feel no love when it comes to that dog.
Or any dog, for that matter.
After the Doberman passes, a tall and lanky man emerges from the same room. It’s Norman, the CIA’s top analyst. The last time I saw him, just last week, he sported a bushy blond beard. Now he’s clean-shaven.
He nods to me. “How you holding up?”
“I’m okay.” I fiddle with my necklace. “Worried.”
“I know. We’re going to figure this out.”
“What’s going on?” Frank asks him. “Why aren’t you at Langley?”
“When Prax called me in, this was the closest place to set up.” He blows out a quick breath. “Man, we are picking up a lot of traffic.”
“From?” Frank asks.
“Everywhere. The threat may have come from a domestic source, but the buzz is international.”
“What are you hearing?” Norman won’t placate me like the new agent did.
“That’s just it,” he says. “It’s all encrypted. At minimum, we’ll get a source, but when I say it’s encrypted, I mean it’s locked down tight.”
Frank’s phone rings. “Yes? Shit. Okay, thanks.”
“What’s going on?” Norman asks him.
But he doesn’t answer and instead turns to me. “I have to go out. You’ll be safe here.”
I nod, but my mind is already reeling about that encrypted data Norman just mentioned and the list Frank was looking at. Even though Norman’s good about telling me what he can, I also know there’s only so much he’s allowed to share.
Which is why I need my good friend, Jackson.
…
Jackson’s constantly changing his number, and I never keep up, and so I begin dialing the first one…
I’ve been in the teen program at the CIA since I was fourteen. Initially, it wasn’t something I wanted to do, but my dad insisted, and so I enrolled. By the end of the first week, I was hooked. The TIA, Teen Intelligence Agency, is open to the children of agency workers. Dad used to work there, and that’s how I got in. Funny enough, Mom being president had nothing to do with it.
My friend doesn’t pick up. I dial the next number…
I like the TIA for two main reasons. I get a chance to study and train with some of the coolest people, like Norman. And it’s where I met Jackson, Callie, and Zeke, my three closest friends.
Zeke—his name alone tumbles my heart, and the first time we trained together comes back to me…
On his stomach, Zeke lays down beside me and moves in. “Okay, now sight down the length of the rifle, blow gently out, and tap the trigger.”
Instead, I close my eyes and swallow. Oh goodness, he smells good—fresh like soap and laundry detergent.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
I peel my eyelids open and I stare at the life-size target some twenty-five yards away, and the clown painted on it. A lot of people think clowns are creepy. My friend, Callie, sure does. But I’ve never had a problem with them.
“Something wrong?” he asks again.
“No.” Yes, God yes. He’s too close. I can’t think when he’s this close.
“It’s just a paint ball,” he teases.
I cut him a look, and my gaze takes on a life of its own as it travels from his dark hair, down to his deep green eyes, across his perfect cheeks, and on to his strong and beautiful lips. Those lips twitch with amusement, and though my skin is light brown, it’s probably showing every bit of the flush creeping through me.
I’m only fourteen, but somehow, I know this boy is going to be the love of my life. Even if it is only one-sided.
Jackson doesn’t pick up, and so I dial the next number…
Yes, Zeke and me—the thing that will never happen. I’m destined to forever have a crush on a boy who will only ever be my friend. He’s so far out of my romantic reach, it’s ridiculous. He’s two years older, and though he’s never said it, I’m pretty sure he’s always looked at me like a younger sister.
At first glance, people tend to see this focused and handsome guy. I know I did. But there’s so much more to him.
Like the way he’s always calm in the most stressful situations. The sharp intellect and wit that even the sourest of people respond to. His loyalty to friends. The willingness to help anyone, anytime. And the fierce determination that makes him go above and beyond in all situations.
I sigh. Yep, the love of my life.
I try the next number for Jackson, and he finally picks up. “I knew you’d call me,” he says as a greeting.
“All your numbers irritate me.”
“I know, but you’re the only one who seems to have an issue with it.” The humor he carries in his voice makes my lips twitch.
I say, “I take it you know what’s going on?”
“I do.” I hear him shift and then click keys.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“My cave.”
By cave he means his basement.
“Where are you?” he counters.
I look up and down the hall that now sits empty. “Safe house.”
He says, “There is a freak-ton of traffic on the waves right now.”
“I’ve heard. There’s some encrypted data floating around—”
“Boom!” Some more clicking. “Encrypted, my ass. I got it.” He shifts again. “Okay, so there’s definitely been a hit placed on your mom. Huh”— he clicks some more—“and it appears as if these terrorists plan on bombing random places until your mother is delivered to them.”
“What?” My body slumps back against the hallway wall. “What the hell is going on? Bombing random places? As in, here in D.C.?”
“Yes, from what I can tell,” he mumbles, and his voice trails off as the clicking gets faster.
My phone buzzes with a text. “Hang on,” I tell him. PRIVATE comes across the screen, and I swipe my finger to read the message:
ERIK HERE. OUT PARTYING. COVER FOR ME IF ANYONE NOTICES.
My heart leaps with relief, and I forward the message to Frank, but clearly my brother has no clue what’s going on.
I type back.
YOU HAVE GOT TO CALL ME ASAP! EVERYTHING IS NOT GOOD HERE. I REPEAT, NOT GOOD.
I wait, staring at my phone, waiting for him to call me. A second goes by, followed by another, and still he doesn’t call me. What the hell?
“I have to go,” I tell Jackson, and then I dial the number that my brother just texted me from. It rings once and goes straight to a generic voicemail. “God! You just texted me from this number. Where are you? Call me!”
I jab my finger down on my phone to end the call, and another one comes in. It’s Britta, Erik’s girlfriend. Oh, thank God. “Britta?” I answer. “Please tell me you know where my brother is.”
“Sophie,” she pants. “Someone’s following me.”
The fear in her voice constricts my chest. “What are you talking about? Where are you?”
Her voice shakes as she whispers, “I’m at our spot…hiding.”
My fingers squeeze into the sides of my phone. “Call nine-one-one.”
“No,” she whispers. “Please don’t. Your brother told me not to call anyone but you.”
My brother? But I just got a text from him. “Wh-what is going on? Who are you hiding from? Who’s chasing you? Where’s Erik?”
She draws in a raspy breath. “Oh God, I’m so scared. Please,” she pleads, “please just come.”
But before I can ask anything else, the line goes dead.
BRITTA’S HOME
Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 3:15 a.m.
My heart cramps as I stare mindlessly at the phone. My brother just texted me that he’s partying, and then his girlfriend tells me that she’s being followed. He told her not to call anyone but me.
Dad tells me not to trust anyone.
Mom says there might be an inside person.
My hands shake and I force myself to take a deep breath.
With a swallow I study the shadows flicking through the laser course, my gun armed and ready. I saw my TIA opponent run right, but the play of shadows tells me he went left. Maybe I’m wrong and I didn’t really see him do that.
“Trust your gut,” Frank whispers from behind me. “Where did you see him go?”
“Right.”
“Then which way should you go?”
I step right and spy my opponent hiding behind a brick wall. I aim and fire, making contact.
“Good thing you didn’t go left,” Frank says, nodding my TIA opponent to exit the laser tag course. “Remember, always trust your gut.”
I don’t know what the hell is going on, but Frank is right. I need to trust my gut, and it’s telling me to get out of here and go to Britta.
I’m in the hall of the multi-room condominium that is doubling as a safe house. Other than the living area, I haven’t been in the other rooms. I spot a camera mounted at the end of the hall above the private elevator where we came in. There’s a bathroom off to the left with its door propped open.
Every muscle in my body coils tight.
I backtrack down the hall toward the elevator, surreptitiously eyeing the camera and its rotational path. I count six seconds between sweeps, and my plan falls into place.
I step into the bathroom, and my heart almost beats right out of my chest. One. Two. Three. I count the six and go right back out, glancing up to the camera as it moves away from me.
With a shaky finger, I press the down button on the elevator, and it opens. I step inside, the doors close, and my nervous breath flitters in the air as I study the buttons for a second.
We came in on G, the garage level, and that’s likely where I’ll run into Frank coming back, or where I’ll run into someone else. I press B for basement, and the elevator starts its descent.
This is the first time I have ever broken protocol and gone somewhere without notifying Frank. I don’t know how my brother does it when he slips through the secret passages back at home. I’m still in the elevator, and I swear I’m about to have a heart attack.
The door opens, and with a deep breath, I step out into another underground garage, just like the one we parked in. A few dumpsters dot the right-hand side, and a couple of cars, the left. Other than that, a wide cement space spans the area between me and the giant open door that leads straight out to an alley.
Behind me the elevator door closes. If I want back in, it’s too late now because I don’t know the combination to the keypad mounted beside the door.
Above me and to the left, a camera whirs, trained right on me. If security didn’t know I left, they do now. I am officially in so much trouble.
I take off running, and blood pounds in my ears as I weave left around a black BMW, dart to the right around a red Mustang, and sprint out into the night. I head straight across the street and up an alley.
I race right past a car window, and my hoodie flashes white in the surrounding darkness. Oh crap, I wasn’t thinking about my clothes.
Ripping the hoodie off, I sling it to the side and keep running. My fingers automatically go to the American flag necklace hanging around my neck, making sure it’s still in place.
As I emerge from the alley, my breath hitches when someone looms in front of me, but it’s just a drunk person passed out against the wall, his shadows morphed by a nearby street lamp.
I skirt around him, and a quick peek over my shoulder shows I’m not being followed. I scan up and down the dark street, getting my bearings. Red-light cameras. Shit. I need an off-street alternate route, and the only one is Rock Creek Park.
My pulse spikes all over the place.
Our TIA tactical instructor breathes deep, and then blows it out forcefully. “That will level your blood pressure quicker than patient breaths.”
He does it again—deep breath, then blows it out fast. “Remember that––because your first instinct will be to inhale and exhale slow. It’s what stress wants you to do, but not an effective way to deal. This way, you calm yourself quickly.”
I do that now—deep breath in, then blow out forcefully through my mouth. It calms me a little.
Headlights pierce the night, and I squint against their sudden brightness. They get brighter, and brighter, and it seems like they’re coming right toward me.
I don’t wait to find out as I dash across the street and disappear into Rock Creek Park. I start down the uneven path, and the darkness of the early morning hours moves in on me, becoming pitch black.
My toe snags on a root. I catch myself and keep running as I pull my iPhone out of my back pocket.
GPS tracker. Shit, I forgot about that, too. I chuck my phone as hard I can behind me and keep going.
Britta. My chest tightens. Please be okay.
The first time we met was right here in Rock Creek Park.
“Keep up, you twerp,” Erik jokes, picking up pace and showing off.
I pick up pace, too.
“Stay where I can see you,” Frank warns.
My brother leaps across a muddy patch, cuts right through a clump of trees. When I dart after him, I nearly run smack into him.
A girl with messy blond hair sits with her back to a boulder, holding her ankle. She glances up at us and her eyes widen. “You’re Erik and Sophie Washington.”
Smiling, my brother wipes the sweat off his face as he squats down in front of her. “Yep, that’s us. What’s your name?”
“Britta.”
Panting, I kneel down in the leaves next to her. I note the bloody scrape trailing the entire shin of her right leg, and I cringe. “What happened?”
She makes a face. “I’m stupid is what. I was running, cuing up my next song, not looking where I was going, and I tripped.” She nods to her ankle. “I sprained it pretty bad.”
“Are you alone?” Frank asks, and she nods. “Can you walk?”
“I can try…”
Frank ended up carrying her all the way out of the park, and the whole time, she and Erik just chatted away. They were so cute together, him laughing and her giggling.
Six months later, they officially became a couple, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. This fall they’ll be freshmen at Hopkins and have already been talking about getting a place together.
I try not to be jealous of them, but I am. A happy jealous. I’m going to be a senior and have barely been on a date. I wish I could have what they have with Zeke, but that would mean I’d have to tell him how I feel, and that takes a level of courage I’m not ready to display. I don’t want to risk our amazing friendship by opening my soul.
I keep following the trail, heading toward the creek. It will fork soon, but I need to go straight, which means no more trail. And there it is, up ahead, the fork. I take the bridge over the creek, then leave the trail and cut through the woods. Her house isn’t far now.
Something smacks me across the face, and I cringe at the exact second my right toe catches on a root, and I go flying forward. Flailing my arms, I try to keep upright, but my left foot hits the ground, and with a grunt, I stumble and roll.
It knocks the air out of me, and wincing, I grab my knee. A wave of pain goes through my lower leg, and I ride it out. I cannot get injured right now. Gently, I extend and contract my leg, and the fabric of my jeans scrapes across raw skin on my knee. Other than that, I’m okay.
Somewhere over to the left, an animal scurries, and the sound of it propels me back to my feet. I give my knee a quick test, and then I take off running again.
Finally, I emerge into a residential neighborhood of small freestanding houses, most with brown yards from the recent drought. I walk, trying to catch my breath and figure out where I am. I’m still blocks away from Britta’s home.
I spy a kid’s bike lying in a yard and race over. It’s three something in the morning, and no one is even watching, but still I tell the house, “I’m just going to borrow this. I’ll bring it back.”
At five foot five, I’m not a tall girl. I’m average, but my knees nearly hit my chin as I pedal away. I go as fast as I can through the neighborhood, cut across someone’s front yard, and come out on a road.
I stay to the side, pumping my legs faster. Faster. Faster.
Panting, I zip through a stop sign, and then another.
I reach Britta’s home, and I drop the bike. I stop to catch my breath, looking up at the three-story brick townhouse. Her parents are gone for their anniversary, her little sister is at summer camp, and Britta told me she was so looking forward to having the house to herself.
Someone’s following me.
Her words race through my mind, and I take a step back into the cover of shadows. I stare hard at her house, my eyes starting at the roof and trailing down each floor. I study each window, looking for any sign of movement. But other than a soft yellow glow from interior lights, nothing seems off.
There’s a small, square front yard and two narrow strips of grass down both sides. She said she was hiding in “our” place. Meaning her and Erik’s place, which is the fort in the backyard. With her little sister and her parents always around in the house, the fort was the only place she and my brother could have alone time.
I take one more look up and down the empty street, and then I step from the shadows and cross over to her yard. Both sides of her house are well lit by exterior lights. A bead of sweat trails my cheek, and I wipe it away as I creep down the left side.
Their flowerbed catches my eye, and I grab a large rock. A weapon. That I might use this to hit someone pitches new nerves through me.
“Be aware of your surroundings,” our TIA combat instructor says. “No matter where you are in the world, a weapon is not far.”
We’re standing outside, and she turns and points to a flower pot. “Break that into shards.” She points a stick. “Ready to go.” She nods to a yard light. “Pull that from the ground and you’ll find a nice sharp edge.”
Sure, I’ve practiced all kinds of things in the TIA—martial arts, various weapons, self-defense, driving, lying, espionage, language—but in real life?
No, never.
I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never used a weapon with purpose. I’ve never put my learned skills into real-life practice. I knew I would someday, but not right now at seventeen years old.
My pulse hits a fast cadence as I step along the narrow side yard. On my right towers the house, and on my left, a six-foot-tall tongue-and-groove fence. If I have to, I can go up and over that.
I come to the end of the strip, and the fingers of my right hand tighten around the rock. Through the dimness of the backyard, I spot the fort in the rear corner. From here it appears dark and empty.
The backyard looks exactly like it did last week when Britta’s parents had my whole family over for a barbecue. Which was odd, given the number of Secret Service agents who attended, and how the whole street was basically shut down for the two hours.
Yet another thing Mom and I argued over.
Our car pulls up outside, and I look out the window to where Britta and her family stand in their front yard waiting on us. Secret service line the street. One house over, a curtain moves as someone peeks out.
I sigh. “This is so embarrassing. ‘Look everyone, it’s the First Family. Don’t mind us. Go about your business. Oh, that’s right, you can’t. We shut down your street.’”
Mom smiles at the agent approaching her door. “Oh, stop griping and come on. It’ll be fun.”
Did the neighbors mind? I would.
But that’s Mom and Dad for you. They’re adamant we have as much “normal” family time as possible, even if it means shutting down an entire neighborhood.
Of course, a meet-and-greet with the neighbors afterward helped to smooth things over, but still. It would’ve been easier to have Britta’s family come to us.
I inspect the yard—the deck, the play set, the surrounding fence, the bordering bushes, and even the furniture, before looking again at the fort. Nothing seems off. Could they have a different “our” place now? One I’m not thinking of? I don’t know. Nothing is coming to mind.
With my senses on full alert, I cross the backyard, heading toward the fort. I want to call out, but I don’t. If she’s in there and looking out, she sees me coming. Which means—my steps falter—if someone else is in there looking out, they can see me coming, too.
I wish I had pepper spray or a Taser or, better yet, one of those rubber-bullet guns we use in TIA tactical classes. I hold the rock firmly and keep moving toward the fort.
I might be insane for doing this. But Erik told her to call me and not anybody else. My brother might be a goofball and a prankster, but he would never cry wolf. If he told her to contact me, then there is a vital reason why.
I come to the bottom rung of the ladder that leads up to the fort. Only five rungs. “Britta?” I whisper, my heart pounding clear down in my toes.
But silence greets me. Oh God, Sophie. I’m so scared.
Her whispered words come back to me, and my throat goes tight and dry. With one last glance over my shoulder to her empty yard, I grab onto the ladder and climb.
If someone was in there, they would have already come out, or I would have heard them, or seen them through the small windows. These are all the things I tell myself as I reach the last rung, the rock out and ready to bash a head if need be.
But the fort is empty, and relief hollows out my stomach as I slide up and in. Though, if it’s empty, then that means Britta was calling me from someplace else. I scoot all the way back against the wall, taking a second to breathe and get my nerves under control.
I close my eyes. Think, Sophie, think. Where would she be? I wait for it to come to me, but nothing does.
Unless she was here, and she had to run. My eyes fly open, and they land on the tiny hidden door built into the wall of the fort. It’s where they leave each other messages and love notes. It’s corny, but way beyond adorable.
Scooting across the wooden floor, I press my fingers into the spot on the wall where the tiny door sits, and it pops open. I stick my fingers in, fumbling around, and my breath hitches when I pull out a flash drive.
She left this. Or my brother did. Either way, I’m taking it, because my gut says this isn’t some love note between the two of them. This is somehow connected to whatever is going on.
Why they have this, I have no clue, but I’m going to find out what’s on it. I slip it into my front pocket, climb down the ladder, and I’m off again. I’m going to Jackson’s, but blood seems to stop flowing when the next thought slams into me.
What if the terrorist has Erik, and that text he sent me back at the safe house was fake?
That’s a very real possibility. Max said Erik was with Britta and Danforth. Someone from the extremist group could have been chasing them, and they split up or got separated. She came here. But that still doesn’t explain why they have this drive.
Which brings me back to finding out what’s on it, and Jackson is my best bet.
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