The Hunted

54

Harper Payne returned to Union Station, his brain clear, his objectives suddenly apparent, his soul renewed. With the image of Lauren standing in front of El Capitan and Ethel’s words of wisdom firmly ensconced in the back of his mind helping him to focus, he scouted out the GlobalNet Internet kiosk on the ground floor of the main concourse.

He knew that once he swiped Waller’s credit card, he would have only a matter of minutes before a massive Bureau alert would be issued. There would be little margin for error.

He found a pay phone and called for a cab. They were due to meet him at the west entrance in fifteen minutes, which he figured would give him enough time to send Lauren a message and get up the escalator to street level.

Payne was ready. He sat down at the kiosk and held the Visa card in his hand. His heart was a jackhammer inside his chest. He looked at the clock on the terminal’s east wall. Noon, straight up. He swiped the card through the magnetic reader and waited while the account received authorization.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. You’ve got plenty of time, Harper. Just get the message sent.

He tapped his fingers on the counter, watching the little hourglass and the flashing word “Processing.”

Something’s wrong. The Bureau must have rigged it so it would appear as if authorization were being granted, while in reality all it was doing was stalling, keeping him there while they descended on his position. Do we have the technology to do that? Come on, Harper — think!

Just then, the GlobalNet home page appeared. He let a breath of air escape his lips as he logged on to Hotmail. He typed in just_rose@hotmail.com and tapped out the message he had prepared in his head.

He logged off, not bothering to take the time to reread what he had written. He checked his watch: 12:05. So far, so good. He stood up and let his eyes roam the busy station as he headed toward the escalators.

Before he had walked ten steps he saw four men in dark suits approaching, twenty feet away. Their faces, dress, and demeanor said “FBI.” Their pace was quick, their strides firm and determined. How could they be looking for him already?

Although he had the fleeting thought of putting his head down and walking right past them — he had changed his physical appearance significantly — he did not want to chance it. In a pinch with no other options, he would risk it and feel good about his ability to succeed. But at the moment, he had safer alternatives. He stopped by a garbage pail, pretended to throw something in it, and then reversed direction, walking toward the west end of the station. He caught sight of a security guard heading toward him, prompting him to turn right toward the tracks.

His watch read 12:09. Shit. He wasn’t going to make it, not if the cab was going to be prompt and leave if he was not there. If it did strand him, he could always take the Metro. But that was fraught with potential delays, and it made it easier for the Bureau to track him once they located him. It would be as simple as sending out an immediate alert to the station managers at each stop along the line so that the moment his train arrived, undercover transit officers would be ready and waiting for him.

At the moment, however, he had no choice. He pulled a couple of dollar bills from his pocket and fed them into the fare kiosk. A small card emerged from the machine and he headed toward the train tracks.

As he boarded a waiting Metro subway car, he noticed a couple of empty seats toward the rear. He sat down and picked up the newspaper that was lying across the chair.

A moment later, a man in a gray suit rose from his seat and looked out. “Something’s gotta be wrong. Why are we just sitting here?”

The man’s friend bent forward to look out the darkened window. “Not a good day for this,” he said, pushing back his shirtsleeve to check his watch. “I’ve got a meeting…”

Payne’s pulse began galloping again. Had the Bureau put out an alert to search all trains before departure? Perhaps that passenger was right — something was wrong.

He craned his neck around and saw two men in dark suits approaching the car. He rose from his seat and headed for the doors, hoping to reach them before the agents did. But even if he was able to get out before they arrived, they would surely stop him to check his ID. As he passed the window to his right, he saw another grouping of agents dispersing, preparing to check the trains on the adjacent tracks. There was now no doubt as to what was going down.

They were looking for him.

With few options and no time to implement them, he decided to confront the agents head-on. He pulled out his credentials, left the subway car, and walked toward the approaching men. Payne looked the lead agent directly in the eye, held his case low, and used his middle finger to partially obscure the last name on his Bureau identification. “Special Agent Thomas,” he said, reasoning they might have been alerted to his cover name of Thompson. “He’s not in this car. I’m going to head on up to street level, start with the shops.”

The other agent nodded. “All station exits are covered. We’ll find him.” The man squeezed past Payne and boarded the subway car parked on the opposite side of the platform, to his left.

As Payne turned and headed away, he heard the man speaking to the passengers: “We’re federal agents. Please remain calm. We’ve got orders to inspect everyone’s identification, so please have photo ID available…”

Payne walked away from them at a fast clip, passing the fare machines on his way out. As he approached the brown steel doors that led to the main part of the depot, he began to run. He hit the door with his right shoulder and blasted through it. Ahead of him was an escalator that stretched up to the lower concourse but it was a down escalator and it was full of people intent on reaching their trains.

He thought about turning around and heading back into the metro, but just then, he heard shouting from behind him. He whipped his head around and saw several agents running in his direction.

“Freeze! FBI!”

Payne was paralyzed with a sudden flush of adrenaline-charged fear. The air suddenly turned murky; his head became light and he felt dizzy. He continued to push forward, but he was caught in a nightmarish haze that made him feel as if he were moving in slow motion.

The agents’ guns came out of their holsters and a collective scream erupted from the commuters, whose concern, only a moment ago, was whether they would make their trains on time. Like a trail of ants whose single-file line had just been disturbed by a falling pebble, the people scattered in every possible direction.

Payne turned his head and began pushing his way forward, swimming through the sea of cowering humanity. He burst through a crowd and nearly fell forward, but got bumped and driven upright. He pushed forward again, climbing over the backs of the crouching commuters, attempting to make his way up the down escalator. “FBI, let me through!” he shouted as he shoved and wormed his way around and between them, finally disappearing into the confused mass of terrified travelers.

“Thompson — give it up!” he heard as he made it onto the lower concourse. The agents’ voices were muffled, but frantic. “…Agents on every level!”

He began to run again, passing an upscale pharmacy and the Metro Market food court, nearly knocking several people down as he went. Ahead of him was another bank of escalators — these traveling in the correct direction — and he hit the moving steps in stride.

A few seconds later, he emerged on street level beside a Barnes & Noble bookstore. He turned right and walked quickly past the shops, trying to blend in with the swirling mass of activity.

He glanced behind him — he didn’t see any agents or security guards — and headed toward the First Street Metro exit. He caught the time on the large clock face near the revolving doors: 12:25. Would the cab still be waiting for him?

Payne emerged outside beneath an arch-covered patio and noticed a couple of agents eyeing the exit, two-way radios up to their ears. He ducked into a crowd and moved along First Street toward the front of the station, where the taxi stand was located. To his left, a lone cab was parked at the curb. Was it his? He didn’t care if it wasn’t — he was taking it.

Payne jumped inside and slammed the door shut. “Fredericksburg,” he said, panting out of fear as much as from his sprint out of the station.

“I’m waitin’ on a fare,” the heavyset man said.

“I’m the guy you’re waiting for. Barry Simon. Sorry I’m late.”

“Another minute and you’d a been stranded,” the cabbie said, yanking the gearshift into drive. “Wait policy’s ten minutes, then I can take any fare comes my way.”

Payne tuned out the driver and craned his neck to look out the back window as the taxi pulled away.

“Fredericksburg, you said?”

“Yeah.” Payne ducked down behind the rear seat as the agents that had been pursuing him came running out into the street. They were rotating their bodies and rubbernecking their heads, turning round and round.

Lost sheep without their dog.

Payne leaned back and closed his eyes as the driver turned the corner and accelerated.