Codename: Chandler: Fix (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by F. Paul Wilson

  I needed only eight seconds.

  I slipped inside, and after consulting my museum map, I followed the steps down to the first floor. I was in the American Wing, people talking and dishes clinking echoed loud from the café. I followed my map, through the sculptures in the Charles Engelhard Court. Finally the door leading to Arms and Armor stood before me. A velvet rope stretched across the glass doors, a sign prominently displayed.

  Exhibit Temporarily Closed to Public

  Closed because the meeting was supposed to take place here? Or would the meeting take place here because it was closed?

  I checked the doors. Locked. I couldn't see around the corner into the gallery where the meeting was set to take place. I listened, couldn't hear anything.

  This didn't feel right.

  I pulled the map from my pocket and saw only two entrances into the exhibit on the first floor. Not ideal for getting the drop on someone. But the second floor had possibilities.

  I backtracked a few steps back into the American Wing and climbed the stairs. There I discovered a wide array of musical instruments, from woodwinds to strings to drums. I reached a balcony displaying a beautiful pipe organ cordoned off to prevent curious fingers from touching. I crawled onto the balcony, holding my breath, and peered through the marble railing, spying the colorful flags and shining armor one floor below. Life-sized models of horses stood in the center of the large gallery, fully decked out in armor, knights on their backs. Glass cases filled with weaponry and more armor rimmed the room's periphery.

  And standing in the middle of the room, their backs to me, two men.

  The buyers? One guy's head looked too big for his neck and the other looked like a tourist. But it had to be them. But they'd found their way into a closed exhibition, and that had to mean something. I didn't know how they'd got in, but I had an idea how I would.

  I turned to the organ. Gripping one of the ivory keys, I began to pry it up until it disengaged from its hinge with a faint click. The key was heavy, smelling of lemon anti-dust spray. I cocked my arm back and flung it, hard as I could, to the end of the room.

  When it clattered against a display, I vaulted the railing, falling three meters to the ground, landing silent on bare feet, absorbing the shock with my legs and back. Then I sprinted, catlike, up to the men as they searched for the cause of the noise. When I closed the distance, I noticed how the tourist had his jeans tucked into his cowboy boots. A jolt of shock spiked through me.

  No…it couldn't be.

  The booted guy must have sensed me, because he whirled, reaching into his coat for his gun.

  But my gun was already out.

  "Freeze!"

  He froze.

  Oh, yes it could be.

  Jack.

  My first thought was this wasn't a coincidence. He'd somehow followed me here. But I dismissed the concept immediately, because he'd gotten here first.

  Jack was buying the toxin?

  That didn't make sense. Jack's gig was all about solving problems the system couldn't or wouldn't. Fix-its, he called them. Like some kind of vigilante repairman. He had a code.

  Or pretended he did.

  Had he been playing me this whole time?

  The only way to find out was to ask. I raised my gun and walked into the open, covering Jack and the thin guy with him.

  "Hands up, both of you."

  Jack's eyes were wide. "Chandler?"

  "Hands up, Jack."

  "You're the blackmailer?"

  "Don't make me shoot you."

  He didn't move. "Well, this is awkward."

  I could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

  I could almost see him making a move for his gun.

  I couldn't allow that.

  So I shot him.

  Jack

  Jack was almost positive Chandler wouldn't shoot him.

  Almost.

  He was still trying to make sense of it when she fired. A sharp burn cut across his left biceps, and the sound of glass tinkling to the floor erupted behind him.

  Jack slapped a hand on his wound, saw it was superficial. She'd grazed him.

  "For your scar collection," Chandler said. "Next one is through your forehead. Get your hands up. You too, skinny."

  He and Rasmus raised their hands, as Jack felt that dark part of himself begin to bubble to the surface.

  "Sex tapes?" he said as Chandler approached. "I didn't peg you for the type."

  She gave him a puzzled look as she patted him down, keeping the gun barrel tight and hard against his abdomen, just under his ribs. She found his Glock, his Semmerling, and his knife. Each time she took a weapon, she ejected the magazine and the chambered round one-handed, then slid them across the floor into the corner of the exhibit.

  It had been a thorough frisk, but not thorough enough – she missed the shuriken he had behind the wallet in his back pocket.

  Then she patted down Rasmus, and Jack was surprised to see he was packing, too. A Walther .380. Chandler emptied it as she'd done with Jack's firearms.

  Rasmus, strangely, didn't seem as frightened as he should have been.

  "Do you have it?" he asked Chandler.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "No names. Those were the conditions."

  "Conditions have changed. Who are you, and why are you with him?"

  Rasmus frowned. "This isn't part of the deal we made."

  Chandler appeared to consider his words.

  "The armor behind you," she finally said. "Go to it. Slow."

  The trio did an awkward shuffle to a mannequin wearing Tibetan chainmail. Jack waited for an opening to disarm Chandler, but she had her eyes on him the entire time.

  Why? he asked, wordlessly.

  He was surprised to see the same question on her face. Does she feel as betrayed as I do right now?

  "Hold his hand," Chandler ordered Rasmus.

  "Whose?"

  "The exhibit."

  "That's…that's just strange," Rasmus said. "Are you sure you're the person I'm supposed to—"

  "Now!"

  Rasmus jumped, then held the warrior's hand. Chandler took a zip tie out of her pocket and locked his wrist to the display.

  "Knees," she told Jack. "Hands behind your head."

  "Didn't we already do that around three am?"

  Chandler didn't smile. "Who is in charge here, Jack? You or him?"

  "Wait…do you two know each other?" Rasmus asked.

  Chandler's move was so quick it was a blur. She took the gun off Jack long enough to whack Rasmus in the chin with the butt, then had it shoved back in Jack's side.

  Dammit. I shouldn't have missed that opportunity.

  "Are you going to kill us both?" Jack asked. "What are you doing here, Chandler? I thought you weren't the just follow orders type."

  Chandler slid her hand into her pocket again and produced the balisong. The butterfly chirped a musical chingchingching as the blade appeared. She placed the tip on Rasmus's belly.

  "We brought the necklace," Rasmus whined. "What are you doing?"

  "I want to know who you are, and why he's here, or I'm going to open you up to see what you had for breakfast." Her eyes narrowed, boring into Jack's. "We start in the alimentary canal and open the digestive tract."

  She was quoting Jaws.

  Who in the hell did I just sleep with?

  This was all sorts of bad, and the bad was escalating.

  "We have the necklace," Jack said, keeping his voice conversational. "We hid it before you arrived, but it's close. You take the necklace, we take the tape, everyone walks away with what they came for."

  His words seem to infuriate her.

  "What's this 'tape' bullshit?"

  Jack felt as if they were speaking different languages. What was so hard to understand?

  "The sex tape, dammit."

  "Fuck it," Chandler said. "I'm cutting him."

  Her eyes flicked to Rasmus again, but this time Jack was ready for it. H
e dug into his back pocket with two fingers, pulling out the Chinese star while pushing the Beretta off his chest with his other hand.

  The Beretta fired, missing, shattering some other priceless museum display as Jack slashed with the shuriken, gripping it tight as he brought it across Chandler's forearm. Her gun went skittering across the floor, and she rolled backward in a summersault and came to her feet, brandishing the balisong.

  "For your scar collection," Jack said. He hadn't cut her deeply, but the blood was already dripping down her wrist.

  "Drop it," Chandler said, raising the knife above her head. "I can put this into your eye from here."

  Jack raised the shuriken. "And I can do the same with this. You want to explain why you're trying to blackmail the mayor?"

  "Have you lost your mind? I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Was all that spy bullshit just bullshit? Are you just some merc working for a paycheck?"

  She gestured toward Rasmus. "Just tell me, Jack: Who is this guy? Why are you here?"

  "I asked you first."

  "Stop being an ass. This isn't a game. I hadn't pegged you as a terrorist. "

  "A terrorist? What are you talking about? And where are your shoes?"

  She spoke through her teeth. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

  This wasn't getting them anywhere.

  "We need to deescalate this," Jack said. "We could go back to my place, talk it over as we stitch each other up."

  For a moment, Chandler seemed like she was going to agree. Then she said, "I don't have time for this right now. I'm sorry."

  And she threw the knife.

  Instinct took over, and Jack twisted as he let the shuriken fly. The weapons clinked in the air, and the impact was enough to change the knife's course. Chandler hadn't gone for his eye, she'd gone for his arm, and that was where it hit him – but handle first. It bounced off and clattered to the floor.

  Then she was charging, knee in the air, and he dodged the blow and let her sail past, adding to her momentum with a firm push. She rolled past the shattered display behind them. Chandler got to her feet, stepping gingerly around the broken glass on the floor, to a row of medieval axes, spears, and such.

  She picked up a halberd. A wicked-looking weapon – two yards long, the business end a combination of a spear and an ax. Chandler swung it over her head like a staff. Apparently antiquity hadn't harmed its effectiveness, because it stayed in one piece.

  "We're not really doing this, are we?" Jack said.

  Chandler advanced. Jack looked to his right, saw the other display her bullet had shattered. Swords. He ducked a shoulder, rolled to it, and came up with a cutlass in each hand. They were heavier than he would have guessed from his childhood days playing pirate. Weighty, but well-balanced. And whoever curated this particular exhibit had kept the blades sharp; Jack could see their edges glint in the overhead light.

  Then Chandler was swinging the halberd, and Jack was blocking her blows and backing up so he didn't get decapitated.

  "We shouldn't be fighting in here!" Jack said. "This is the weapons exhibit!"

  The Dr. Strangelove misappropriation, and the sentiment, were lost on Chandler, who didn't pause in her attack. She backed him up into a full-sized horse display and swung for the bleachers. Jack ducked, and she decapitated the poor equine.

  Okay… the lady wants to fight.

  Let's fight.

  Jack raised his swords.

  Chandler

  I'd never used a halberd before, but it didn't take long for me to adapt. Unlike a bo staff, this had a weightier end so it didn't balance as well. But the ax and spear were formidable, affording me a longer reach than Jack's swords.

  I spun, adding centripetal force to the strike, fully extending the pole so the axe arced directly at Jack. He raised both cutlasses, but even with him leaning into the block he was knocked on his ass.

  I advanced, raising the weapon again, going to a head shot with the flat end of the axe to put him out, but halted when cold pain shot through the sole of my left foot.

  Broken glass. I'd kept my eye out for it. How had a piece made it over here?

  I could ignore the pain of the cut itself but the glass was jammed through my skin. I took a quick hop, reached down, and pulled it out. But that was enough to allow Jack back on his feet.

  "Just tell me if you're the blackmailer," Jack said.

  "What's this blackmail talk?"

  "The sex tape."

  What was he talking about?

  "You made a sex tape?" I said. "Of us?"

  He made a face. "You're not kidding, are you."

  I hefted the halberd. "Does this look like I'm kidding? I know you're here for the toxin."

  "What toxin?"

  "Okay, if that's how you want to play it."

  I leapt over the glass in front of me, the halberd slicing through the air and crashing onto Jack's head. Except it didn't. He raised both swords, catching the staff in an X.

  "I'm serious, dammit!" He jerked his head toward the guy he'd come with. "This clown brought me along to help him buy back a sex tape."

  He seemed sincere. But all good spies seemed sincere. I tested his parrying skills as I advanced. Jack wouldn't make the Harvard fencing team, but he managed to deflect every thrust and swipe. He was hitting low, though, which I took to be proof that he wasn't as fast as I'd guessed.

  So I increased my speed. Instead of heavy blows, I went for short, quick attacks. Jack countered these as well, again hitting the halberd low, just below the steel business end. By the fourth swing I realized what he was doing.

  By then it was too late. He'd been chopping his way through the wooden pole, and with a final huge swing, he hacked off the top of the halberd.

  I backed up, spreading out my hands.

  "Someone is here to buy a WMD," I said. "A neurotoxin that can kill a hundred thousand people."

  "Well, don't look at me. I don't know a hundred thousand people, let alone a hundred thousand I want to kill. Sell it somewhere else."

  "I need to find it first."

  "What? Are listening to yourself? You're not making sense."

  He was right. I wasn't making sense. And it was slowly dawning on me that he truly didn't know what I was talking about.

  That left the guy with Jack. He had to know something.

  I scanned around for another weapon, and spied the second broken display, full of samurai armor. I hurried to it, watching my footing, and bent down, stretching for a katana. With sword in hand I whirled on the aforementioned clown.

  "What's your part in this?" I demanded, pointing the blade at him.

  "Who? Me?"

  I advanced, raising the weapon, but Jack got there first, brandishing his dual cutlasses, standing between me and my target.

  "How about we figure this out without hurting anyone or destroying anymore antiques?" Jack said. "Apparently there are some crossed wires here. We should talk it over."

  "Politicians talk. I prefer to act. Step aside."

  He shook his head. "I ain't going anywhere."

  "I don't want to hurt you, Jack."

  "Funny way of showing it. You really don't know about the blackmail tape?"

  "No. You really aren't here to buy a toxin?"

  "No."

  "So we ask your friend."

  "I don't know about any toxin!" Skinny squeaked. "I'm here to buy a blackmail tape!"

  "He's here to buy a blackmail tape," Jack said. "So am I."

  "I doubt there ever was a blackmail tape, and I suggest we ask him again, after applying some pressure."

  "You want to torture him? Here, at the Met?"

  "Just let me cut off a finger or two. I'll make it a work of art."

  "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "Step aside, Jack. Or I'll go through you."

  "This isn't the only way, Chandler."

  Perhaps it wasn't. But it was my way. The way I was trained. I didn't know how long we had before museum security
showed up. Or the cops, looking for the human fly they'd watched scale the building. Maybe minutes. Maybe seconds. My instructions were to secure the toxin, then eliminate the buyer. Before I could start assassinating people, I needed to know a few things.

  Like the truth, for starters.

  Jack wasn't talking, and I wasn't in a position to make him. But his skinny associate looked scared, and weak.

  I gripped the katana in the proper style; right hand on the tsuba, left even with the end, the last two fingers straddling the tsuka ito. I would go for Jack's calf, enough to get him out of the way but not kill him. Slowly, I assumed the Jōdan no Kamae posture, raising the blade.

  "Chandler…" Jack warned.

  I struck.

  The katana was faster than the halberd, cutting the air in a frictionless blur of silver. Jack somehow managed to get up a cutlass to block. Two clangs followed – the clang of metal striking metal, and then another clang as half of Jack's sword clattered to the tile.

  Japanese engineering. Can't be beat.

  Jack punched me with the hilt of his other sword -- a move I hadn't expected -- and I pulled away in time to catch just a bit of it on my chin. I backpedalled, and Jack advanced, tossing aside his broken cutlass and thrusting with his left hand.

  I spun around his blade, raising the samurai weapon for another attack, and then I was being lifted in a football tackle and carried backward.

  We crashed into a display, glass showering us, and I used the momentum to throw Jack, judo style, over my head when we hit the floor.

  I came up in a waki-gamae stance, and saw Jack was also on his feet, holding a…

  "You're going to bludgeon me to death with a battle mace?" I said.

  This was becoming a bit surreal.

  "I'm not going to bludgeon you, Chandler. But it's a pretty safe bet you've never seen a movie called Die Hard."

  "You'd win. Meaning?"

  Jack began to swing the mace over his head. The spiked ball on the chain spun until it was a blur, and then he struck at another display, spraying me with glass. I shielded my eyes with my arm.

  "Bruce Willis is barefoot," Jack says. "The bad guys shoot the glass."