BRAINSTORM

Chapter Forty-three - Radio nowhere.

Jack hurtled out of the Metro station, the beat of his heart thundering in his ears. He squinted and oriented himself, trying to block out the percussive beat. He found the direction of WKSB and headed that way. The video had to get on the airwaves. Now. He considered it his life insurance.

He bolted into the building. Less than a dozen feet away, a young, pretty brunette sat at a desk. She raised her eyebrows, and he realized how ragged him must look.

"Can I help you?"

"I have breaking news. You need to get it on the air." He knew he sounded like a crazy person.

The woman raised one perfect eyebrow. "Regarding?"

"CIRAS."

She pursed her lips at him. "One moment, please. Sit over there." She lifted her hand in a frustratingly casual and condescending way, gesturing toward a group of chairs to her right.

"I think I'll stand." He crossed his arms and waited. The back of his neck prickled with fear.

"If you prefer." She picked up the phone and said, "Yeah, there's a guy here who says he has some breaking news about CIRAS . . . Okay . . . Okay, I'll tell him." She regarded Jack. "They said to tell you to wait in the seating area." She pointed to the chairs she had shown him before. "Over there." She pointed again. "In case you were wondering." She flashed a quick, false smile.

He waited. Standing. The receptionist kept on glancing up as if to see if he was still there. When he caught her eye, she smirked. The woman was stepping on his very last nerve. Wasn't she supposed to be friendly? Didn't they want to be the first one to break a story? They did. They should. Wait a minute. How long had he been here?

He glanced at his phone. Fifteen minutes. Too long. All of a sudden, everything snapped into a clear picture. Energy tingled through his limbs and into his stomach, where it stayed and started to turn to acid.

"I can't stay any longer," he told the brunette. Before she could reply, he walked out the door with fast strides. So much for his life insurance.

Outside, Jack started to run. Even though it was a cold night and he wore only Elvis's T-shirt and jeans, sweat cascaded out of his pores. His perspiration chilled immediately when it met the air.

He ran a couple of blocks, heading in the general direction of the Metro when he saw flashing lights up ahead. He reoriented to the right to avoid them. It seemed like more popped up whichever way he turned. He couldn't be sure he was the target, but it sure felt like it.

Ducking into an alleyway on his immediate right, he waited there to catch his breath. He pulled out his phone, punched a few keys, and posted the video on five different social media sites. There. He should have done that first.

Jack crept out of the alleyway. He felt exhausted, the weight of his limbs doubled. Stopping must have drained his adrenaline. There were glimpses of red and blue lights in every direction he looked, and he wouldn't be able to get past all of them. The only alternative was to walk right by. Maybe if he tried to look casual, they wouldn't notice.

Jack coursed briskly down the street. As he neared a Metro entrance, a group of cops emerged. One of them ran toward him and held out a badge shouting, "Jack Kerwin, you're under arrest . . ."

There was only a second for Jack to decide what to do. Fight or flight. Or give in. Jack sprinted in the opposite direction, willing his legs to go faster as he fled around the corner.

Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed that his pursuers had fallen back. He broke a quick left and pumped his arms hard. His legs flew. He ran past several blocks without thinking. It felt like those last few minutes of a soccer match when the score was tied, and it was imperative to make a crucial play.