Free Clawback by Mike Cooper Page B

unsourced?”
    “Sure. It’s online, I can write whatever the hell I want.”
    “Is
that
how it works?”
    “Close enough.” She pushed at her hair, which had begun to escape the ponytail and stick to the sweat on her face and neck. “Though it would be nice to have some official statements or something.”
    “They’ll arrive fast enough, once you publish. It’s too good a story for the press to ignore.”
    “The
rest
of the press.” But Clara was all action now. “I can’t wait. I have to get back and write this up before someone else figures it out.”
    “Can we talk when you’re done?”
    “Yeah, yeah.” And she was off—skipping up the path, on the way to her next huge scoop.
    Okay, I admit I’m lazy.
    Ganderson wanted a quiet inquiry. Maybe he was right that the Beardstown Ladies had gone vigilante. Maybe Wall Street was now facing armed rebellion, and every underperforming investment adviser was going to need an SUV full of Xe bodyguards. On the other hand, maybe it was just coincidence, bubbling and burbling in Ganderson’s paranoia. I certainly had no idea—and I didn’t feel up to the endless drudgery of an actual investigation, trying to figure it out.
    Instead, I could just kick over the anthill. Once Clara wrote up the rumor, it would be everywhere. If there
was
a gang of anticapitalist bomb throwers, the publicity might drive them closer to theopen, where they’d be easier to find. If not, well, I’d still done Clara a favor. And if Ganderson was ticked that his fears were now front-page news, oh well. I hadn’t exactly signed a nondisclosure, and how would he know it was me anyway?
    Up ahead, Clara was already almost gone, lost in the shadows of the park, where the pathway curved out of sight around a forested slope. Her legs and arms, paler than the dark running clothes, were visible, moving steadily. I wondered how easy it would be to keep up with her, over the long distances.
    A scream.
    From the trees to Clara’s right, two dark figures appeared, stepping into her path. At a hundred yards, I couldn’t see much. Shadowy motion, and Clara fell, tumbling to the ground.
    Before my brain finished processing, I was at a sprint.
    Another shadow—three attackers, now. Clara yelled again, cut off as one seemed to kick her. She rolled left, into range of another. By then I was close enough to gain some detail. Sweatshirts, loose pants, white faces. White hands, too, meaning no gloves. I couldn’t make out any weapons.
    They saw me coming, at the last moment.
    “Shit!” One swung my way, trying a slant kick, but he was too slow. I slammed into him at speed, putting my elbow into his torso, protecting my head. He went down hard, and I rolled off, keeping the momentum, coming back to my feet in a combat stance.
    S-S-SHHK.
    Uh-oh. A nasty, familiar sound—a telescoping metal baton, flicked out into its locked position.
    The man to my right swung at me. Two feet of coiled, slightlyresilient steel—it would have crushed my skull if it hit, or snapped my arm. I twisted aside. The baton grazed my shoulder, and I reversed, punching at the attacker’s arm.
    Missed.
    “That’s enough, motherfucker!” His voice was rough, not loud enough to carry beyond our little melee.
    The first guy kicked Clara in the head.
    A swish, I ducked again, the baton flashed past. I went inside, striking the man’s wrist to deflect the weapon. He lunged sideways, and I chopped his forearm, this time connecting. Hard. The baton spun away into the grass.
    The third man was on me from the left. I blocked one punch, took another in the ribs. But he lost some balance, and I put a knee into his hip, followed with an open-hand strike to his collarbone, and shoved him sprawling.
    “Stop! Stop now!” The leader’s voice again. I spun to confront him.
    No baton now. He held a pistol, two hands, pointed right at my midline.
    “We’re done,” he rasped. Apart from the weapon, he could have been a roofer or a plumber,