True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(15)

Cross pointed to it. “Tell me about that.”

Seth typed a query on his keyboard and looked at the result. “Pioneer Square is built above the old city. A small portion of the buried streets have been unearthed and restored for tours.”

“What about the rest of the underground streets?” Cross asked.

“Most of them are filled in,” Seth said, scanning the text on his screen, “but many are not.”

“That’s where Ludlow and French are,” Cross said. “Show me all the access points to the underground.”

A map of the underground was superimposed on a satellite image of Pioneer Square on the media wall. Blinking blue dots representing dozens of access points appeared on the image and were spread over several blocks.

“Those are all the ways in and out,” Seth said. “Some are manholes on the streets and sidewalks, others are the basements of buildings.”

“We’ve lost them,” Victoria said.

Cross knew she was right. But it was only a temporary setback. Ludlow and French had to surface sometime in Seattle and it would be in front of a camera somewhere. It was inevitable and inescapable. It was a fact of modern life. Privacy was fast becoming obsolete. The key was to be ready to act when the moment came. He addressed the room.

“This is a priority-one fugitive search. Access every camera in the vicinity, public and private, live and recorded, and run everything through facial recognition until those two are found. Hack anything with a lens: security cameras, ATMs, taxis, smartphones, the Six Million Dollar Man’s eyeball. Be creative and proactive. I want a deep dive into Margo French. Open her e-mail, her bank accounts, everything. No detail is too small. If she uses toothpaste, I want to know the brand and fluoride content.” Cross turned to Victoria. “Get our asset on a plane to Seattle right now.”

“What are the sanction parameters?”

“Put them both down,” Cross said. “I don’t care if it looks like an accident or natural causes anymore, as long as it doesn’t look professional.”

She nodded. “We’ll leave a mess.”



Ian followed Margo up an iron ladder that led to a manhole cover. She pushed the cover up, slid it aside, and climbed out into the harsh sunlight. Margo waited on the edge of the hole to help Ian out. He emerged into a small park, with more hardscape than greenery, which had become a crowded homeless encampment filled with tents and makeshift shelters made of cardboard, plywood, and sheets of corrugated metal. None of the residents paid any attention to Ian and Margo.

She slid the manhole cover back into place, spotted a bus at the edge of the park, and swatted Ian on the shoulder. “That’s our ride.”

They ran to the bus and hopped inside just as the doors were about to close. Margo flashed a transit pass and Ian dumped all of the change in his pocket into the driver’s hand. They found a seat in the back and hunkered down low, below the window frame. The bus lumbered forward.

They rode in silence, mostly because Ian fell asleep almost as soon as the bus started moving. After what felt like five seconds, Margo nudged him awake. He sat up, blinked hard, and saw they were no longer downtown. The bus stop was located in front of a cyclone fence that bordered what appeared to be sports fields and a nature preserve. On the opposite side of the road was the University Village shopping center. That landmark allowed Ian to get his bearings. They were northeast of downtown, between the University of Washington campus and the upscale Laurelhurst neighborhood on the western shore of Lake Washington.

They got off the bus and Ian stood for a moment, taking stock of himself and his situation. His mouth tasted like someone had used it for a urinal. His back ached from his unbalanced running. His broken right arm itched deep inside the cast. His good left arm was sore from overuse. And his head was pounding like his brain was desperate to escape. But he was alive and that was what counted.

He didn’t see any cameras, though he knew there had to be some out there. But he didn’t think the CIA was watching him now. Seattle was a big city and, at least for the moment, he believed his pursuers didn’t know where to look.

But he wasn’t fooling himself. Margo had bought them time to think, to take a breath, but they hadn’t escaped.

Margo trudged up the street, east toward the residential neighborhood.

Ian hurried up alongside her. “Where are we going?”

“I’m a dog sitter. One of my clients lives up here, in a big house on the lake, and won’t be back for three days. We can stay there.”

“So you’re a dog sitter, too.”

He wasn’t surprised to learn she had another job. There weren’t enough authors coming through Seattle for her to make a living escorting them around.

“It’s a lot like being an author escort,” she said. “I feed the dogs, take them out, clean up their messes, and hope they won’t hump my leg.”

“I’m sensing a little hostility,” Ian said.

“Gee, you think?” She shook her head, obviously dismayed by how clueless he was. “I totally get why someone wants to kill you.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s because you’re a self-centered asshole.”

“It has nothing to do with that.”

She came to a sudden stop, turned, and got right into his face, almost nose to nose.