Born to Run

The Greek turned deadly serious, working extra hard to speak with no accent. “I mean the Beretta model 21A semiautomatic twenty-two-caliber pistol fully loaded with forty-grain lead, round-nosed, standard-velocity subsonic ammunition. Weighs less than a pound, easily concealed in the palm of a man’s hand. Wrapped in a towel like this one, the muzzle blast is reduced to something less than a cap gun. Much less. On the street, it’s called a bobcat. You didn’t know that, did you?”

The Greek delivered his patented stare, a penetrating laser that could have burned through men of steel, much less a skinny bartender who looked barely old enough to drink. To most folks, the Greek was another one of those sixty-something-year-old marvels who could have lifted weights with Chuck Norris and out-boxed Sly Stallone. An unlucky few, however, learned why he stayed fit-though it had been a very long time since he’d killed a man over twenty bucks.

“There’s two hundred dollars in the cash register,” said the bartender, his voice quaking. “Grab it and go.”

“Don’t shit your pants, okay? This ain’t a robbery. I’m good with the drinks. Just put them on my tab, junior.” Dzunior.

“Forget about it. They’re on me.”

The Greek slid off his bar stool. “I’m gonna pay you for the drinks. I got some money coming in.”

“Sure, whatever. Just be cool and walk your bobcat right on out of here.”

He started toward the door, but an almost unbearable shooting pain in his right leg brought him to a halt. Sciatica from the L5 vertebra felt as if someone had taken a hot knife and sliced him open from hip to heel. It got that way only when he was under serious stress-and these last two weeks had been as serious as it gets.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the way his Zen muscular therapist had taught him. She’d given him various techniques, starting with a descriptive name for his pain that would make it seem weaker than his will to defeat it. He tried “Useless Pain in the Ass,” but that was too cumbersome. He settled on “Politico,” a shorter but synonymous term.

The Greek swallowed the pain and walked out the front door.

The cold night air cut to the bone, which only exacerbated his back pain. It was possible that the bartender would dial 911, but if he did, so what? As much trouble as the Greek had gotten himself into on the outside, he was probably safer in jail.

He stopped at the pedestrian crossing on the street corner. A taxi pulled up before he could even get his hand out of his coat pocket to flag him down. It was a van. The side door slid open, and the Greek climbed up into the middle seat.

“Motel Six,” he said, as he closed the door. “Just outside the Beltway.”

The driver nodded and pulled away, and before the Greek could react, a leather strap came up and over his head from behind. He grabbed it instinctively, trying to pry it from his neck, and it loosened just enough for him to breathe.

“Move and you die,” the man said. He was in the luggage area behind the middle seat. His accent was definitely Russian.

Shit, not again.

The Greek struggled to speak. “That you, Vlad?”

“It ain’t your momma.”

It was definitely Vladimir. He gave the Greek another centimeter of slack on the strap, and the words came easier.

“I’m no good to you dead,” said the Greek.

“No damn good alive.”

“I can’t raise a quarter million dollars overnight.”

“Should have thought of that before you started skimming from us.”

The Greek drew a breath. In the old days, a casino manager could pocket ten grand a month from the counting room and the Sicilians would look the other way, almost expecting their local boys to grab a little “walking-around money.” All that changed when the Russians took over Cyprus. Skimming in the classic sense- hiding your own money from the government-was still cool. But hiding money from the Mafiya was almost certain death, if you got caught. And the Greek had been caught red- handed.

“I’ll double what I owe,” said the Greek. “Five hundred thousand. Give me two weeks.”

The taxi rounded a corner, and in the rearview mirror the Greek caught a glimpse of the man behind the pistol. He appeared to be smiling.

“One week,” said Vladimir. “Call it professional courtesy.”

The taxi stopped, and the Russian leaned closer to whisper into his ear: “If I come back, it won’t be pretty, and it won’t be quick. Half a million in one week. Or you’ll wish to God I’d finished you off tonight.”

The driver hopped out and opened the door. Vladimir pushed the Greek out into the street, and the taxi sped away as he picked himself up from the pavement. He walked to the curb and cinched up his coat.

Half a million dollars. In one week. It didn’t seem feasible, not with two strikes named Sparks and Swyteck already against him. At this stage of the game, his only real choice was to go back to Keyes’ people. The Greek had sold his secret way too cheap the first time around anyway. They might pay again if he threatened to go public.

Or kill me.

He buried his hands in his pocket and walked slowly into the night. Yeah, they might kill him this time. But one thing was certain.

It beat letting the Russians do the job.

Chapter 20

The winds shifted overnight, and by morning the grip of winter had lifted from the Capitol. Jack and his father decided to go for a jog in the National Mall before breakfast. They weren’t alone by a long shot. It didn’t take springtime and cherry blossoms to bring out the joggers by the hundreds, more stress than sweat oozing from their pores. Harry, however, became winded in less than ten minutes. He found rest on a park bench near the World War II Memorial.

“I ran two miles every morning when I was in the governor’s mansion,” said Harry, shaking his head. “Your old man isn’t what he used to be.”

This was one of those moments when the good son was supposed to step up and say something like Nonsense, you’re in great shape. But Jack was thinking other thoughts.

“Dad, there are some things I need to tell you.”

Harry reached down and tried to touch his toes but made it only to his knees. “Okay,” he said, groaning. “I’m listening.”

“I’m starting to wonder about this whole thing.”

“My being vice president?”

“It’s more about how the job came open in the first place.”

Jack sat on the bench beside him. A group of college students ran by. Jack could almost smell last night’s frat party in the air. He let them pass, then continued.

“I’ve been hearing some disturbing things lately. Did you know that Grayson was cheating on his wife?”

Harry looked as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “What does that have to do with anything? Let the man rest in peace. And who told you that, anyway?”

“His daughter.”

“You talked to Elizabeth about her father’s sex life?”

“Well-yes, actually. His widow, too.”

“You’ve been hanging around Theo too much.”

“It’s not what it sounds like. This is serious.”

“Seriously weird.”