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

by JA Konrath

  I cranked the wheel and hit the gas.

  He bounced off the hood with a sickening thud and hit the street.

  I kept going, gunning the engine as the cab lurched and bumped over him.

  Tires squealed around us. Horns blared. Cars rushed by.

  Some New Yorkers didn’t let anything get in their way.

  We cleared the intersection, traffic in front of us still moving. In the rearview, I could see the remaining two men race across the street.

  Judging by the purpose with which they moved, I assumed their SUV was close by. They’d be back on our tail soon. And if Hawk Nose did even a passable job keeping track of us from the sky, the Iranians weren’t our only concern. Even so, it was the best head start we’d had all day, and I’d take it.

  The West 30th Street Heliport rested on the bank of the Hudson River. More than thirty blocks away. Traffic was crazy, due to the tunnel being closed, the subway incident, and presumably the dead man now lying in the center of 9th Avenue, emergency vehicles everywhere.

  I drove like all of our lives depended on it.

  The SUV appeared, too soon for my comfort, ten car lengths behind.

  We played stop and go, street light to street light. Sometimes I gained a few meters. Sometimes the Iranians did. At each red, we watched intently to see if they jumped out of their vehicle to rush us. So far, so good.

  It took ten excruciating minutes to reach 49th Street, and I got the hell off of 9th and turned right, heading for 12th Avenue, our pace slightly faster than a snail surfing on molasses.

  “You guys okay back there?” I asked, eyeing my passengers.

  Kirk had distanced himself from Julie as much as he could, leaning against the passenger side door.

  “Never better,” he said, winking at me.

  I couldn’t see the SUV behind us anymore, but wasn’t optimistic I’d lost them. This op had been nothing but one bad break after another, and the only thing I was optimistic about was the fact that our luck was terrible.

  I blew through a yellow light and swung left onto the boulevard that was 12th Avenue, the vast blue/black of the river running parallel to us, filling my nostrils. Coming up on the right was the USS Intrepid, moored there since 1982. The once mighty aircraft carrier was now a museum, a relic of wars past.

  Once again I checked the rearview, eyeing Julie.

  The Intrepid was still a sight to behold, over two hundred fifty meters long, weighing thirty thousand tons, armor four inches thick in parts. A fearsome weapon.

  But not as fearsome as what I had in my back seat.

  Traffic was better on the boulevard. We passed the Silver Towers, the sprawling Javits Center, and finally reached our destination. A long, concrete platform edged the water, enclosed by fencing and a few no-frills trailers, the heliport was built for function, not fanciness.

  Lucky for us it wasn’t built for security, either.

  Best yet, a small, sightseeing helicopter sat on the helipad, as if waiting for us.

  Maybe our luck had begun to change.

  I swung the cab into the entrance. We didn’t have much time, and normally I would ram the cab straight through the fence instead of risking involving civilians. But considering Julie’s state, things weren’t so simple. If a flying bit of glass should cut her or she happened to bump her nose, a city full of civilians wouldn’t just be involved—they’d be dead.

  I double-parked, and we headed for the trailer promising helicopter tours of the Big Apple. I took the lead, Kirk hobbling behind me with Julie at his side. Still no sign of the Iranians.

  The inside of the trailer was about as posh as the outside. Indoor/outdoor carpet, particle board furniture, and the smell of well-aged cigarette smoke from before the recent indoor smoking ban gave the place an ambiance all its own. At least it was clean.

  “Can I help you?”

  The young woman behind the counter peered over her glasses at us. The evening sun streamed through the window and reflected off the diamond stud in her right nostril.

  “We need to take a helicopter.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a couple going up right now. We prefer you make reservations, but I have some paperwork here that—”

  I met Kirk’s eyes, and we brushed past the desk and made for the door leading out to the helipad.

  “Wait! You can’t—”

  But we could, and we did.

  Leaving the woman yelling empty threats in our wake, we reached a blue helicopter—a single engine EC120—emblazoned with the tour company’s logo. Smaller than the corporate craft used by Hawk Nose, this bird offered only one compartment, forcing the pilot and the passengers to cram together in the tiny space. The pilot stood with his back to us, instructing an older, well-dressed couple in how to fasten their harnesses.

  “I’m sorry, but you won’t be sightseeing today,” I told them.

  The tourist couple stared at me as if I was speaking another language. The pilot frowned.

  “Who are you?”

  “Homeland Security. We’re commandeering this aircraft. Now I need you to get out and return to the trailer immediately. Oh, and keep your heads down.”

  The pilot shook his head. “Can I see some sort of ID?”

  Overhead I could hear the whomp, whomp, whomp of chopper blades in the far off distance, the sound bouncing off buildings. I could only hope it was another tour coming in to land, but I had a bad feeling I was just fooling myself.

  I pulled out the Ruger. “The helicopter. We need it. Now.”

  The pilot backed away from the door. The couple scrambled, almost tripping over each other to get out. Some part of me registered that this was the third mode of transportation I’d stolen in the last hour.

  I nodded to Julie and Kirk. “Hurry.”

  Julie looked as if she’d rather do just about anything but go on another helicopter ride, but she stepped up into the tiny craft anyway.

  Behind Kirk, the pilot turned around, and I caught a gleam in his eye, that little surge of adrenaline people felt just before they were about to do something very stupid.

  I opened my mouth to shout a warning.

  I needn’t have bothered.

  Kirk twisted at the waist, throwing his body weight into a well-aimed punch.

  The pilot crumpled onto the concrete.

  “Nice,” I said.

  He cocked his head and shot me a half smile. “I’m a lover, not a fighter. Wait ‘til I show you my real talents.”

  Still no Iranians, but in the distance I saw a chopper heading toward us, still too far to tell if it was Hawk Nose, or just a tourist craft.

  I climbed into the pilot’s seat, Kirk slipping into the seat next to Julie.

  Moving fast, I familiarized myself with the interior: collective control stick, cyclic control stick, rudder pedals, RPM gauge, altimeter, airspeed indicator, manifold pressure gauge, vertical speed indicator, fuel gauge, oil pressure and temp, cylinder head temp.

  Then, Kirk: “Above us!”

  I was just reaching for the ignition when a round crashed through the upper windshield and dug into the main instrument panel. More bullets peppered the fuselage. I dropped to the floor.

  Apparently Hawk Nose had realized Julie’s corpse was nearly as valuable as taking her alive.

  Shitastic.

  Julie hunched forward. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  “Are you hit?” Kirk yelled at Julie.

  For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

  “They’re shooting at us,” Julie screamed over the noise.

  “But are you hurt?”

  “No, no. I’m okay.”

  “No crying.”

  Another full magazine of automatic weapon fire punched through the roof, pinging off the metal floor. While the layered construction of the hull and windshield was made to withstand the occasional run in with a seagull or even a goose, it couldn’t hold up to bullets. And I couldn’t risk lifting off, provided the instrument panel was even operational at thi
s point.

  “We have to evacuate. Find cover.”

  I swung the doors on both sides of the cockpit open.

  The roar of another engine caught my attention, then the shuddering clang of steel.

  I had hesitated at running through the fence. The Iranians hadn’t. The green SUV screeched to a stop less than twenty yards away, between us and our yellow cab.

  “The river.” Kirk gave me a look. “Can you keep them busy?”

  I nodded, fitting the Ruger into my hands, wishing I had a rifle. “Move.”

  Kirk and Julie scrambled out of the cockpit and crouched on the helicopter’s off side. I climbed out as well, kneeling low, trying to gain as much cover as I could.

  I gave Kirk a look, then squeezed off several rounds, first targeting the helicopter, which was too high to hit, and then the Iranians’ SUV.

  Bullets flew, from the ground, from the air, until it was impossible to tell who was shooting who, the only thing I was sure of was that Julie and Kirk had made it off the edge of the platform and into the river.

  I didn’t think I would be so lucky.

  The chopper lifted higher, flying out of range of my .380.

  Something moved in my peripheral vision.

  I swung the pistol back in time to see one of the Iranians advancing along the concrete pad that jutted into the water, just ten feet away.

  He wasn’t out of my range. I put a round in his throat.

  The Persian went down, made a few twitching movements, and then lay still, his rifle still slung across his shoulder.

  A gift.

  Firing off my last few rounds, I scooted toward the man I’d just killed. I yanked the rifle—a Madsen LAR—over his head and tugged the strap free of his heavy body.

  The weapon was hot to the touch, and by my mental count he’d used about half of his thirty round AK magazine. I squeezed off a burst of three at the SUV.

  No one returned fire, but I could see movement.

  The beat of the blades crescendoed, coming in for another assault.

  I couldn’t hold off the chopper and the SUV, not without more ammunition, and in a few more seconds, my chance to make a break would be gone.

  I fired another three rounds, then made my dash for the river.

  My feet slapped pavement, trying to get traction, adrenaline humming in my ears.

  Five steps to go.

  Four.

  Three.

  A gust of wind hit me, sending my Yankees cap flying, knocking me to my knees.

  The purple helicopter dropped in front of me, hovering, cutting me off.

  I propped myself up, raised the rifle, took aim, fired.

  My first shot cracked the windshield. My second missed entirely.

  The chopper turned to the side. The passenger compartment door gaped open, my old buddy Hawk Nose raising his rifle, putting me in his sites.

  I squeezed the trigger and held it, giving him everything I had left.

  But I didn’t aim for Hawk Nose.

  I aimed for the back rotor, and I hit it square.

  The helicopter whirled around, spinning, spinning. It veered to the side, smacked into the far side of the platform, crumpling like an angry god squeezed it in his fist. Flames began to curl out from the engines.

  Tires screeched, drawing my attention. It was the SUV.

  The last Iranian was driving away, fleeing the scene.

  But why?

  I scrambled to my feet, dropping the useless rifle and heading for the water’s edge. The helicopter exploded in a brilliant fireball, heated air and the smell of burning fuel washing over me.

  Adios, Hawk Nose. Maybe you’ll luck out and they’ll have donkey porn in hell.

  I spotted Julie and Kirk twenty meters away, hovering on the edge of the platform, clinging to the concrete pilings that anchored the pier-like helipad to the river floor.

  My purse vibrated, and I slapped my cell to my face.

  I traded codes with Jacob. It was a miracle I could remember the appropriate response.

  “Chandler, I’m watching via satellite feed. They’re coming.”

  “Who?”

  “The DoD. They’re treating you as hostiles.”

  “How soon?”

  “Now. Get out of there.”

  “Nice shot,” Kirk said, peering up from the water as I approached.

  The river smelled, of fish, of rot, of petroleum and garbage. The air smelled of smoke. Something moved at the base of the pilings, and I had a creeping feeling it was probably rats.

  “We need to go.”

  “We can swim downriver, steal a boat or a car.”

  “Let’s do it.” I squatted, preparing to slip into the water, and squinted past Kirk. “Ready, Julie?”

  “I … I can’t.” Julie stared into the darkness under the platform.

  “Don’t think about them,” I said. “Rats won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

  “No, no, it’s not that.” Her voice was soaked in tears, and I glanced at Kirk, waiting for him to warn her not to cry.

  Kirk was facing the same direction as Julie, but they weren’t staring at the rats. They were staring at the red blooming all along Julie’s arm and streaming into the water.

  A hum rose in my ears. Bright motes swirled in front of my eyes, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to throw up or cry.

  Kirk was the first to recover. “Get out of the water. Now.”

  He grabbed Julie by the arm and dragged her around the helipad and up the shore.

  I pushed all thought, all feeling into the back of my mind and forced myself to follow, my body relying on training and muscle memory to function.

  We ran for the closest trailer. The door was locked, so I broke it down. Once inside, I pulled off Kirk’s button down, wrung it out and handed it to him. We moved quickly and without talking, him wrapping the cut on Julie’s arm, me checking the trailer’s perimeter.

  The hum in my ears gave way to a beating sound, more helicopters, two of them, black this time. Four matching SUVs roared through the broken gate and rimmed the perimeter of the heliport, reflecting light from the burning chopper like dark mirrors. Soldiers wearing black CBRN suits deployed from the vehicles, assault rifles at the ready. They moved from trailer to trailer, clearing each, approaching ours.

  I knew what was coming but had no ideas of how to stop it. I had no gun. Even if I did, shooting was risky. Of course, they would have to choose their targets carefully. Julie was too valuable to harm.

  Unfortunately, I doubted Kirk and I would come out of this alive.

  But then, we already knew that.

  I met Kirk’s gaze, pressing my lips into a bitter smile.

  He lowered one lid in a wink. “I only wish we’d taken time for that kiss.”

  I did, too. I had just opened my mouth to say so when a window shattered, and I heard the hiss.

  An incapacitating agent.

  Yeah, that’s what I would have done.

  I started to feel the effects before I realized I’d taken a breath.

  “As an operative, you must learn to live in the moment,” The Instructor said. “Not just while carrying out an assignment, but in every aspect of your life. There’s no point in putting things off when the future may never come.”

  When I woke, I expected to be bound.

  Scratch that—I expected to be dead.

  I was wrong on both counts.

  Beyond that, my thoughts were scrambled. Images drifted through my mind in snips and snatches. Fire. Water. Subways and helicopters.

  Blood.

  Swirling blood.

  I forced my eyes open, pushed back the confusion long enough to concentrate on my surroundings. I was lying in bed, wearing a flimsy hospital gown and nothing underneath but heart monitor pads stuck to my chest. An IV tube snaked from my hand and led to a bag hanging from an adjustable metal pole attached to the bed frame. Cloth tape held a square of gauze to the outside of my left upper arm.

 
My skin felt hot, my stomach uneasy. I could smell river water and rubbing alcohol and the dusty scent of concrete. The area looked like a hospital room, white floors, blank, white walls, but there were no windows.

  And I was not alone.

  As soon as I saw Jonathan Kirk, I knew who he was, but it took a little longer to remember why we were here.

  The river. Jacob’s warning. The cut on Julie’s arm.

  He was in a bed hooked to monitors, same as me.

  I wondered where they’d put Julie. Wondered how long we had to live. I watched Kirk in silence until his eyelids fluttered.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He opened his eyes fully and frowned at me, obviously as confused as I had been.

  I sat up on my stretcher. A little dizzy at first, I planted elbows on knees and cradled my head in my hands.

  “I think we’re in some kind of lab.”

  A minute or two passed, and I could see the thoughts shifting around in his mind, just as they had in mine. Finally Kirk sat up and glanced around the room.

  “Plum Island.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  He shook his head. “Just a guess.”

  “Probably a good one.”

  He swung off the side of the bed, slid onto his feet, and grimaced.

  “Damn leg.”

  Bandages wrapped his gunshot wound, ankle to knee.

  “There’s a camera in the corner.” I pointed out the small device hugging the ceiling.

  Kirk gave it a sneer. “They’re watching us, waiting to see how we die.”

  In my line of work, dying was an occupational hazard. But I’d often speculated about how I’d feel when the time came. I’d faced death before. I’d fought it. So far, I’d won. But this time I had no one to fight. This time the enemy was inside, and no tool or training or sheer will to survive could save me.

  I probably should be frightened. Instead I felt nothing at all.

  “You’re awake,” a male voice said.

  I followed the sound to an intercom speaker, embedded in the wall.

  “Why are we here?”

  “You’ve been infected with a virulent disease.”

  “A virulent disease?” That might be the understatement of the year. “You mean Ebola.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the girl? Where’s Julie?”