Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson

by JA Konrath

  I collared his neck with my left arm, and then before he realized what was happening, I grabbed my right elbow, pushed his head downward into the V of my left arm and flexed my biceps, applying pressure to his carotid artery.

  He tensed, but even though he had weight and strength on me, it only took seconds before he was unconscious. Stopping the blood supply to the brain will do that.

  I slipped out behind him and let his body fall back on the bed.

  Breaking someone’s neck isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. It also isn’t lethal 100% of the time.

  Breaking someone’s trachea and cutting of their air supply is simpler, and more effective. It’s possible to survive a broken neck. Survive not breathing? Not so much.

  I chopped the sex-trafficking pig in the windpipe, not sticking around to watch him suffocate. Grabbing my scrap of a bikini top, I slipped the memory card out of the camera and into my purse and closed the door behind me.

  I had finished tying the top around my back and slinging my purse across my chest by the time I reached the patio. The whump whump whump of the helicopter blade pulsed in the air. The sun glared off the water, making me squint. Raising my hand to shield my eyes, I scanned the chairs surrounding the pool.

  The other men were gone.

  So was Julianne James.

  “No operation is simple,” said The Instructor. “Things can invariably go wrong, and like any good soldier, you have to be ready to improvise, adapt, overcome.”

  I started down the steps, leaving the door open behind me. Once the helicopter left the ground, Julianne would be lost, and I’d be damned if I was going to let that happen. She had taken up with some bad people, which made her more like me at that age than I wanted to admit. But I’d been given another chance.

  She deserved one, too.

  “Where are you going?”

  I hadn’t spotted Udelhoffer standing behind a hedge that separated pool from lawn, but now he stepped out from the right, coming at me fast for such a big man.

  Adrenaline spiked my blood, making everything slower, clearer. Udelhoffer’s movement. The drum of my heartbeat. The smell of the water and screech of the gulls. I stopped and held up my hands. “I was just wondering where everyone went.”

  “What happened to Ronnie?”

  “He’s taking a breather.”

  Udelhoffer’s eyes narrowed. His beefy fingers twitched. I could see him thinking it over. Asking himself, is this just some dumb bimbo, or is something going on here?

  His training kicked in.

  His hand went for the Tec-9.

  I anticipated the move and kicked to the side, my right foot striking just below his knee cap. I followed the blow through, scraping the side of my shoe down his shin, drilling the stiletto heel into his instep.

  He bellowed like a bull.

  Without pause, I brought a knife hand blow to his forearm, targeting his radial nerve just below the elbow. Localized strikes are hard to pull off on a moving target, but I was fast.

  The Tec-9 fell from his grip and swung on its sling. I grabbed the strap, dropped, and jerked it off his shoulder, twisting as I did. Then I released. The machine gun skittered across flagstones without going off.

  I moved to follow-up with a chin jab, missing and hitting his chest. High heels were effective weapons, but they also made balancing trickier. By putting so much of my weight behind the stab to his foot and the blow to his arm, I’d left myself unbalanced.

  I saw him aim the palm of his hand for my chin, but I couldn’t reverse my momentum fast enough.

  My head snapped backward, the blow clanging through my skull. My brain stuttered, overtaken with too much stimuli at once. I staggered, almost going down. Motes of light swirled in my vision just as the pain came.

  He lunged at me again, slamming a fist into my solar plexus.

  Air burst from my lungs, and I doubled over and tried not to puke.

  He came at me again, an old-fashioned right hook this time.

  I twisted out of the way, causing his attack to bounce off the top of my skull. But even though it was a glancing blow, the force clanged through my head like a fire bell. I was able to get in close and respond with an elbow strike, snapping it up under his chin, but I wasn’t sure the behemoth even felt it.

  “That’s enough.”

  I heard the unmistakable sound of someone racking a semi-auto.

  Udelhoffer and I both stumbled to a halt. Above us on the steps, Hawk Nose glared down, a 9mm pointed at my chest.

  Another dark-haired man emerged from the house, one I hadn’t seen before. Wearing a white Scarface suit, he held an automatic pistol.

  Outnumbered and outgunned, I dropped my gaze and rounded my shoulders, looking submissive.

  “Take her inside. Think you can handle that, Udelhoffer?”

  The brute grumbled, breathing hard. He wrapped his left arm around my right like a bridegroom escorting me down the aisle, then grabbed my hand, locking me into place by his side. It was a hold often used by police to convince unruly civilians to come along without a fuss. Just a little pressure and he could easily bring me to the ground or break my elbow.

  I gasped as if he was hurting me. “Let me go. Please.”

  He forced me back in the direction of the house.

  The pulse of helicopter blades speeding up their rotation registered somewhere in the back of my mind. If that craft lifted off, Julianne was gone.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  The man’s training and size would enable him to counter any move I threw at him. My only shot was suckering him into underestimating me. I thrashed against him ineffectively, hoping to convince him this was all I had left to give.

  “Knock it off.” He put pressure on my wrist, and I let out a cry of pain that wasn’t entirely acting.

  I let him lead me past the pool, and we started up the shallow flagstone steps. Above us, Hawk Nose lowered his pistol. Apparently satisfied that Udelhoffer was under control, he and the other man turned and slipped into the house ahead of us.

  Halfway up, I stumbled a little, getting out of step, throwing him slightly off balance. Then I made my move.

  I veered toward him and reached down with my free hand, grabbing his balls and yanking them like the handle of a Nautilus machine.

  He released my arm, buckling over with a grunt. No matter how much hand-to-hand training a man had, when you went below the belt he forgot everything and tried to protect the goods.

  As he leaned forward I slipped to the side, grabbing his shoulder, using his momentum to carry him forward and introduce his head to the stone planter at the top of the stairs. He hit it with a dull thud, then crumpled to the ground.

  I didn’t know if I’d killed him or merely incapacitated him, and I didn’t wait to find out. I raced down the stairs and past the pool, kicking the shoes from my feet as I ran for the helicopter.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do once I reached it. I had no weapon, no plan. The aircraft was a purple Bell 427, under ten years old. Twin engine, light utility, seated eight. Through the cabin doors I saw four people inside, one of them the pilot, one Julianne. I’d been trained to fly several different varieties of chopper, including more common types used for corporate flying, but I didn’t think they were just going to hand over the keys because I asked nicely.

  Voices erupted behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. I ran in a zigzag pattern, waiting for the pop of gunfire, but it never came.

  Then I heard grunting behind me; a runner, giving chase.

  I straightened course and pushed more energy into my legs. The grass was stiff and harsh against the soles of my feet, jabbing and slicing. The copter backwash was hot, smelled like exhaust, blowing faster and louder every step closer, until I couldn’t hear my pursuer anymore.

  But I knew he was still there.

  Ahead the helicopter shifted to one side, then started to lift.

  I hit a dip in the ground and stumbled to one knee. Pushing
off, I righted myself and ran harder.

  I could feel the man behind me now, feel his footsteps gaining. I was fast, but in a few strides he would overtake me.

  I was nearly upon the aircraft. Sand particles pelted my skin, stirred into the air by the blades. Hair whipped across my eyes. The chopper was now three feet in the air, rising fast.

  There was only one thing I could do, and I couldn’t believe I was actually going to attempt it.

  Once I passed under the chopper, I leaped for all I was worth. My fingertips hit the right skid. I grabbed on, one hand slipping. The helicopter swayed and bucked and for a moment, and I thought the whole thing might come down on top of me. I made another swipe with my loose hand, and this time my fingers held and the helicopter lifted me into the air.

  My pursuer was right beneath me. His arms closed around my legs, binding, holding tight. It was the Tony Montana wannabe.

  I twisted, fighting to break free.

  The chopper tipped and veered to the right.

  I pulled a foot loose and kicked, hitting him in the forehead with my heel, but he wouldn’t let go.

  The blades canted, dangerously low to the ground. One hit and it would be over for all of us. I’d seen a bird cartwheel before. They never found all the pieces of the dead.

  I pummeled Scarface with my bare heel, the force shuddering up my leg. His hold slipped. He clawed at my knee, locking my ankle in his armpit, but I kept up my assault, driving my foot into his head, his face, as we ascended.

  My grip was one of my best skills. I could crack walnuts barehanded. Once, during training, I hung onto an iron bar for six hours.

  But I didn’t have an extra hundred eighty pounds gripping my ankles, or the extra g-force of liftoff. Unable to hold on, my left hand slipped off the skid.

  My right wrist turned, and I felt like I was being pulled in half. I chanced a look down, saw the ground blurring beneath me, and got a straight shot of fear.

  Fear was an ugly, destructive thing. It enveloped you, made you doubt yourself, clouded your thinking and muddied your ability to act.

  But human physiology also provided a plus to counter all of those minuses. The fear kick-started my adrenal cortex, and I got a pop of adrenaline that made me feel like my muscles had been electrified.

  Screaming against the pain, the weight, I slapped my loose hand up against the skid and doubled my kicking efforts, aiming for my assailant’s nose, feeling each impact shudder up from my heel to my palms.

  Say! Hello! To! My! Little! Friend!

  Scarface finally let go when we were high enough for the fall to break his neck.

  The helicopter rolled in the other direction, and it was all I could do to hold on. The air swirled around me, beating like fists. Tears filled my eyes and streaked my face. Hair lashed my cheeks.

  If I lived through this, I swore I’d shave my head.

  The copter leveled and rose into the air. My shoulder and chest still ached from Udelhoffer’s blows, and I groaned as I performed a pull-up and hooked my elbows over the skid. Below, the ground receded, and soon we were flying over Long Island Sound.

  Vibration from the rotors knocked my teeth together. Pressure squeezed my chest, making it hard to breathe. I had never been fond of heights, but that was nothing next to my hatred of water. I’d never forget the feeling of it closing over my head, trapping me, filling my lungs, pulling me down …

  Another shot of fear overtook me, so powerful I almost panicked, and for a moment I thought I might fall.

  I closed my eyes, blocking out the sparkling blue below. I couldn’t let myself think of the water, the height. I had to focus on getting control of the helicopter. I could land this one in my sleep. I just needed to get inside.

  That meant I had to get the other passengers outside.

  I kicked one knee over the skid and looked up into a side window just in time to see the barrel of a rifle—AR15 or M16—staring at me.

  I pushed myself forward and flipped head first, diving between skid and the body of the craft. A piece of cake in the gym. A bit more complicated hanging from a helicopter.

  Swinging from my hands, I jackknifed my body toward the bottom of the bird, not thinking, just acting on muscle memory. Finding the bracket where the skids connected to the craft, I pulled up and caught it with my knees. I hung wildly like that for a second, upside down, wind beating me, before I could find a handhold and right myself.

  I looked up. A gun barrel poked under the fuselage. Then a boot followed, bracing on the skid.

  I didn’t wait for him to get a shot lined up. I switched my grip to my hands. Using my stomach muscles, I swung my body as before, and on the second swing, aimed both feet directly at the boot. My heels hit hard, and the boot slipped, followed by the man. The rifle jarred free of his hands and hung by the strap around his shoulder. He caught the skid with his elbows, his legs dangling right beside me.

  The craft bobbed then dipped like a rollercoaster, and for another stomach-lurching moment, I thought we were going down.

  We locked eyes, his aflame with fear and rage. He kicked out, hitting my thigh, causing me to swing again. My strength was ebbing. Another kick like that, and he’d knock me off the skid.

  Hand over hand, I moved away from him. Then I switched my handhold and turned around, eying the other skid, opposite me, about seven or eight feet away.

  I looked back at my attacker. He gained hold of the rifle, pointing it in my direction.

  I jackknifed my legs and swung, hard and fast, like a gymnast getting ready for her dismount.

  Gunfire crackled behind me.

  I eyed the opposite skid—

  —and let go.

  The brief moment of weightlessness, soaring through the air under the chopper, seemed to play out in super-slow motion.

  I felt the wind, cold and sharp, invading every pore on my body. Heard the rotors and the shots, impossibly loud but surprisingly easy to ignore. Stared up at the blue steel underbelly of the helicopter as my body became parallel to the fuselage. Waited for my legs to hit the other skid, waited so long that I had plenty of time to second-guess my aim, sure I’d missed my mark, sure I’d plummet to the ocean where I’d shatter my body and drown.

  But then my knees found the opposite skid, my legs bending over it, my hands reaching up and locking on.

  Before I could celebrate, I caught a hot burn across my shoulder, like I’d been touched with a branding iron.

  Shot.

  I’d been shot.

  I turned around, still able to hold on, facing the man who shot me. He had one hand on the opposite skid, the other on the rifle, pointing at me.

  He was too far away for me to kick him, but, incredibly, I noticed I still had my cross-body purse hanging from my shoulder.

  Hanging from one hand, I pulled the purse strap off my shoulder and made a quick slipknot around my ankle.

  He fired, bullets breaking to my right.

  I swung at him, kicking out my legs.

  My handbag continued forward on its strap, and hit him right where I was aiming—square in the nose.

  He cried out through closed teeth, the sound driven away in the whipping wind, and his grip broke. He followed his assault rifle into the water.

  From this height, it was like hitting concrete. He wouldn’t be swimming back to shore.

  The wind was slamming against me so hard it was difficult to breathe, to think, and for a moment all I could do was hold on and wait for the helicopter to stop its roll and pitch.

  I’d only seen one other man at the house with Julianne, the skinny guy from the pool. Since I didn’t recognize the guy who had just gone into the Sound, Skinny was probably inside with Julianne, along with the pilot.

  I pivoted my hands, swung my legs over the opposite skid and pulled myself into a sitting position. Then I wound my purse back over my shoulder, simultaneously checking my wound. Barely a nick, not even worth a stitch.

  I was banking on my hunch that the second
armed man would be focused on the door his buddy had just exited. It took most people a moment to recover from something as traumatic as watching a human being plunge to his death. I’d put in countless hours to shorten my own reaction time.

  I felt the door open above me.

  Apparently someone else had shortened his reaction time as well.

  I saw the gun barrel first, but instead of putting a foot on the skid to gain balance and see what he was shooting, this guy just pulled the trigger.

  Even in the roar of the wind and the rotors, the crack of the rifle was deafening. I had no place to go, nowhere to run, and bracing yourself against gunfire was impossible. If he hit me, it would hurt, and I’d fall to my death. Or maybe it would kill me instantly. Either way, I had no defense.

  But luck continued to be on my side. The man fired eight rounds, none of them even coming close.

  I grabbed the rifle barrel. It was hot as a stove, and in the back of my mind I was aware of my palm burning. But I had a lot of practice ignoring the somatic reflex and hung on tight, shifting my body to the side to get out of the way in case he pulled the trigger again, tugging with all my strength.

  Like the first man, Skinny had the gun strapped around his shoulder, so when I pulled, I didn’t just get the weapon. He came with it.

  I released the searing barrel and let the whole package fall. I didn’t wait to see him hit the water. Instead, I climbed to the outside of the skid and lifted myself into the passenger compartment behind the cockpit. I pulled the door closed behind me.

  The cabin was separated from the crew’s compartment, and the first thing that struck me was how quiet the space was inside. I could still hear the blades making the classic whump whump sound, in fact it was still far too loud to carry on a normal conversation, but thanks to the trauma my ears had suffered and heavy soundproofing, the noise barely registered. Three leather seats lined each wall, three facing forward and three back, each complete with a headset hanging above.

  Julianne was slumped in the middle seat, her vacant eyes suggesting she might have had a little extra medication for the journey, or perhaps whatever they’d given her earlier was fully kicking in.