True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(12)

The key to overcoming the Rogue Element, whenever it appeared, was operational flexibility and a clear head. What Cross needed now were more facts before he could decide on a course of action. So, when he finally spoke, his voice was even and calm, betraying neither his anger nor his frustration.

“Who is that woman with Ludlow?”

Seth typed a command on his keyboard. One of the camera images of Margo on the media wall froze. Targeting points appeared on Margo’s face as the facial recognition software analyzed her features against the millions of other faces in their database. Her driver’s license, University of Washington student ID, credit card photos, and a blizzard of other bits and pieces of her life appeared on the big screen. Operatives around the situation room began shouting out details about her as they found them.

“Her name is Margo French.”

“She’s an author escort. Ludlow’s publisher hired her to take him around town for his events.”

“She’s twenty-four years old, single, and a college dropout.”

“She lives in a studio apartment in the university district.”

“She used to work at the bookstore Ludlow visited last night.”

“She owes two thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight dollars on her credit card, buys her groceries at Whole Foods, and her most recent Amazon purchase was a Lipstick Vibrator.”

Cross asked the room, “Does she have any special skills?”

“She was a goalie on her high school soccer team in Walla Walla.”

“She plays guitar and sings at local coffeehouses.”

“She’s got seventy-four positive reviews on Yelp for dog sitting.”

Victoria said, “She’s an easy kill.”

“So is Ludlow and we’ve failed three times,” Cross said.



Ian shrugged off his messenger bag, which had broken his fall, and got shakily to his feet, using his good, left arm to push himself up. Once he was standing, he didn’t pick up his bag. He’d decided to ditch it and the computer inside. If he kept the MacBook, it would reveal his location to the CIA the instant it was turned on. He felt claustrophobic, even though he was out in the open. He could feel the world closing in on him.

“We have to get out of here,” he said.

“Not me.” Margo stood up and examined the scrapes on her arms. “I’m done with this crazy shit. I’m going home.”

She started to walk back the way they came but Ian grabbed her arm.

“You can’t go home,” he said. “You’re in danger.”

“No, I’m not.” Margo easily yanked her arm free from his weak grasp. “Whoever they are, they aren’t after me.”

“They are now. You see those cameras across the street? Do you see the ones behind us? Do you see the traffic cameras in the intersection? There are cameras everywhere and they can access them all,” Ian said. “That’s how they knew where I’d be so they could hack a car to run me down. They know that you saw it. They are watching us both right now. I’m sorry, but now you’re in as much danger as I am.”

She looked around at the cameras and thought about what he’d said. Ian knew what he was saying sounded like the rantings of a lunatic and yet he could see from the expression on her face that it was beginning to make sense to her. That’s because his explanation was sensibly crazy: sensible in the context of what had just happened, but crazy if considered on its own. He’d used that argument in the writers’ room to justify all kinds of stupid stuff on Hollywood & the Vine and in the privacy of his own office on plot points in his books.

“Who are they?” she demanded. “Why do they want to kill you?”

Ian heard sirens approaching. The police and fire departments would be here in minutes. They were running out of time. “I promise that I will tell you everything but right now we have to disappear or we’re dead.”

“Why can’t we just wait for the police and ask for their protection?”

“Because they can’t protect us. Nobody can. You have to trust me, at least until we’re somewhere safe and I have the time to explain, or we’re both going to be killed today.”

She had the look on her face of a struggling math student trying to solve a difficult algebra problem in her head.

“Fuck you,” she said. “Follow me.”

Margo took off downhill and Ian followed her. They ran through the intersection, weaving through the cars and the pandemonium, down toward Fifth Avenue.



The camera feeds on the media wall tracked the pair’s zigzagging flight on foot through the streets and alleys of downtown Seattle.

The situation room was still silent, although plenty of activity was going on. Half of the Blackthorn operatives present were working the covert op that was unfolding in Seattle. They were frantically accessing private and municipal cameras throughout the area to maintain visual surveillance on the two targets. They were also actively monitoring street and air traffic, police and fire department communications and deployment, and any other activities that could potentially impact the outcome of the op.

The remaining operatives were focused on the aftermath of the Honolulu plane crash: monitoring the FBI, Homeland Security, and NTSB investigations, tracking news and social media coverage, and doing background checks on all of the airplane passengers, flight crew, airport ground crew, and investigators working the case.