Page 245 of Whisper
AMB.
Arlington Memorial Bridge.
ETA 0810.
He checked the time. 0749 hours.
He had twenty-one minutes.
But he had no idea where he was.
Kris grabbed Dan’s gun and started running, heading down the gully as he pulled up the phone’s GPS mapping software. The screen flickered, and the program loaded as slow as a glacier. It was a shitty burner phone, and it had shitty burner phone GPS. “Come on, come on.”
Finally, a splotchy map of Washington DC appeared, blocks appearing at random, fuzzy and distorted. A pin appeared deep inside Rock Creek Park, in a gully beneath one of the horse trails that went up to the low cliffs overlooking DC.
Had Dan wanted a high vantage point, when whatever was about to happen went down? Some view over DC? What could be seen from the cliffs they’d been driving on? Georgetown, Foggy Bottom, the landmarks on the National Mall—
The Nine Eleven Memorial service, the Patriot Day gathering, which began every year at 8:46 AM with the ringing of the bells and a moment of silence, and then the recitation of the names of those murdered in the attacks.
Victims’ families, their loved ones, the president, members of congress, the cabinet, military officials, and thousands and thousands of civilians were there every year. Crowding the National Mall.
That must be what Dan planned. Magnifying a tragedy, squaring the worst attack on US soil in the history of the nation, trying to incite the end of days with a spike of pure rage to the heart of the nation’s mourning.
Kris tasted ash on the back of his tongue.
He was seven miles from Arlington Memorial Bridge, through Adams Morgan, Dupont Circle, and the West End, in the middle of rush hour traffic. Most of DC came to a standstill for the September 11 anniversary. But not everyone.
He followed the map, jogging through dense underbrush and scrambling up the sides of the gully, trying to climb out of the ravine. If he followed this gully, he should pop out on—
Asphalt appeared, dark and cracked. Ridge Road, running up the northwest side of the park. He jogged onto the street, his back, his legs, his entire body screaming.
Tires hummed over the pavement, coming from around the bend, heading his way.Perfect.Kris stood in the center of the road, spreading his legs and taking aim.
The driver screeched to a stop, brakes squealing, almost side-sliding to a stop. His hands rose, hovering by his ears as his jaw dropped.
“CIA!” Kris bellowed. “Get out of the car!”
A man in a jogging suit poured out, falling over himself in his scramble from his SUV. He stared at Kris, hands held high, and sputtered. “You’reCIA?”
What a sight he must be. Dirt stained his jeans, the pullover he’d borrowed from Dan after his shower. He wanted to rip it off, throw it on the ground, shoot it until it was nothing but threads that blew away. His trench coat fluttered in the morning wind, flapping behind his thighs. His hair stuck up at every angle, and grime stuck to one half of his face.
“CIA business. I need your car.”
The jogger frowned. “I need to see some ID—”
Kris pointed his gun at him, right at his chest. “Thisis my ID.”
The jogger backed away, all the way off the road, until he slipped onto the dirt shoulder. “Take it,” he snapped. “Just fucking take it. It’s insured.”
“The government will contact you.” Kris hopped in, slammed the door. The jogger glared at him, flipped him a double bird, but stayed on the shoulder.
Kris threw the car in reverse and slammed on the accelerator, yanking the wheel hard to the right. Tires squealing, the car spun in a slick turn, until he shifted gears and straightened the wheel.
0755 hours.
Fifteen minutes.
He dialed George’s number as he came out of the park and skirted Adams Morgan on Rock Creek Parkway.
