Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath

by Flee - a Thriller

  How could everything have gone to hell so quickly?

  When I was a girl, I was happy. Whatever doubts I harbored about my assigned parents’ real names, I couldn’t doubt that they’d loved me. I’d felt it every day. Now standing at their grave, I longed to be close to them once again. I longed to lie down on the leaf-strewn grass beneath their headstone and cry myself to sleep.

  “Hi, Mom. Hey, Dad. I know I don’t visit you guys too often. But I think of you, a lot. I learned… I just learned… that you aren’t my real parents. That’s okay, though. You’ll always be my parents to me.”

  A coyote howled in the distance. Mournful. Lonely. Thunder rumbled, a storm moving in. I reached over and brushed a stray leaf from the tombstone.

  “I screwed up. Big time. People have died. And more people are going to, before this is over.” I stared up into the dark, black night, eyes glassy, trying to find the words.

  “Part of me just wants to give up. I hurt… I hurt so bad right now. But I need to make this right. It’s stupid, but do you remember when you were teaching me how to ride a bike? I was seven years old, and I kept falling off, and I skinned my knee and was crying and wanted to quit and Mom, you kept telling me, ‘As long as you keep trying, honey, you won’t fail.’ And Dad, you smiled and put a bandage on me and said, ‘Stiff upper lip, soldier. Failure is not an option.’“

  The tears were coming freely now, and I didn’t brush them away.

  “So I’m gonna keep trying, Mom. Dad. I’m gonna try my damnedest.”

  I turned and started for the cemetery garage only a few gravesites away. It held a garden tractor for mowing the grass, a backhoe, and garden tools for trimming and digging. The door was locked, but the simple side-hung windows easily lifted from their tracks. I grabbed the top frame and swung myself in feet first, gritting my teeth at the pain seizing my… well, every part of my whole damn body.

  The tiny structure smelled of dried grass, dead flowers and gasoline. I located the tool rack, selected a shovel and let myself out the door. Once back beside my parents’ grave, I finally swiped at tears winding down my cheeks. Then I shoved the blade into the earth. Sweat slicked my skin as I cut through sod and scooped out shovelful after shovelful of black dirt. The sharp stab of pain in my chest grew into an all-encompassing ache, a pain I couldn’t escape, and I no longer even tried.

  Three feet down, my shovel hit something hard. I kept working, uncovering the large fiberglass box, digging out the edges to expose the whole thing, then stepping down into the hole. I lifted off the lid.

  The red fabric was still inside, untouched from when I’d buried it originally. I pulled it all out, and then lifted the small, Evinrude boat motor free.

  My upper lip was stiff. Failure was not an option.

  “I’ve done my best to train you,” The Instructor said. “The rest is on your shoulders. You can either sink or swim.”

  #bq

  Fleming didn’t have to open her eyes to know she was on some kind of boat. Either that, or death felt like the rolling toss of waves, accompanied by a lilting sickness in her belly.

  The anchor she was handcuffed to was another clue, as was the distinctive smell of a large body of fresh water, she’d guess Lake Michigan.

  A boat, then. Death will have to wait.

  She managed to force her lids open, only to be rewarded with claustrophobic darkness. Fleming felt around with her free hand, the one the Russian had mangled. Each bump made her gasp. The pain was bad, but she’d had worse. She kept probing.

  It turned out she was in a small enclosure, probably a pantry or closet. The anchor was a modern one, maybe half a meter high. Fleming gave it a shove with her shoulder, figured it weighed about forty pounds.

  In her condition, it may as well have been four hundred.

  Using her unbroken thumb, she gingerly prodded at her legs. They were bandaged, but only to control the bleeding. The wounds were open, some slugs still lodged in her flesh. They obviously didn’t intend for her to live long enough to heal.

  The last she remembered, she’d been in the restaurant at the top of the Hancock building. Hammett was shooting her, kicking her. And the Russian, Victor…

  Victor had thrown Chandler from the window.

  Fleming closed her eyes once more. That image was burned onto her retinas, and ten times worse than any physical pain. Chandler had been everything to Fleming these last years. Unable to be in the field after her accident, she’d lived through Chandler. She’d gotten to know her sister better than she’d known anyone.

  Fleming loved her.

  And now she was gone.

  Fleming let the tears come, not even trying to check their flow. But even in her anguish, she held on to a certainty. If she was the one who’d died, Chandler would never let those responsible walk away.

  And neither will I.

  Fleming had wanted another chance in the field, and she’d gotten it. Now it was up to her to make Hammett and her Russian stooge pay.

  You’re an operative. Use your training.

  She continued her exploration of the space. One of the sides of the enclosure moved—the door… and it wasn’t locked.

  Oh, so I’m so harmless you don’t even have to lock me in?

  Big mistake.

  Big fucking mistake.

  • • •

  Victor reclines in a white leather swivel chair at the helm, one hand on the wheel, and navigates the Sea Ray 610 Sundancer across the expansive darkness of Lake Michigan. The water is choppy, the pickup in wind and rumble in the distance signaling a storm. Suddenly he’s glad to have the nineteen meter yacht, even if it is too big for his current needs.

  Of course when he’d arranged for it, he’d assumed he’d be traveling with six more men. Such a waste, dying so badly.

  That’s what they get for being incompetent.

  He pulls in a deep breath, double checks his GPS coordinates, and turns up the state-of-the-art sound system. Rachmaninoff swells through the room. Passionate. Powerful. Russian. And loud enough to rattle the instrument panel.

  This is the life.

  He still wants to kill Hammett and knows she aims to kill him. As he stares through the windshield and out over the black, undulating water, he imagines how he’ll do it. A knife would be fun, carving her up, bit by bit, until she begs him to end it. He’d like to hear Hammett beg. That would be the ultimate turn-on. And he always had a thing for knives.

  Of course, since it’s Hammett he’s plotting to kill, he’ll probably just shoot her. He reflexively checks the Glock on his hip.

  Yes, shooting is best. Anything else is too risky. I’ve seen what she can do.

  However Victor does it, he’s content to leave her alive for now. Now that they have the transceiver, things are a little more relaxed between them. She did as he told her, bringing her sister along, and for the past hour, she’s been on the phone with his tech team, figuring out how the transceiver works, leaving him to relax and think about what he’ll do next.

  He’s a rich man now. He can do whatever he wants.

  Hell, maybe he’ll start off by getting laid.

  He smiles, liking that idea. The only question is which sister does he have a taste for? Hammett? Or her crippled lookalike below deck?

  As if on cue, Hammett saunters into the cockpit, clad in silk and leather. She is sexy despite her battered face, or maybe because of it. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes gleaming, and for a moment he half-expects her to start stripping right there. Instead she holds up the transceiver.

  He turns down the music.

  “I’ve figured out the launch application.” Her tongue flicks out, running across her lower lip. “Let’s nuke a city.”

  • • •

  How much did it cost to put teak flooring in a boat?

  Fleming shook her head, hoping to rid herself of inane thoughts. The pain was messing with her mind. She focused on her senses, trying to concentrate.

  She was in a cabin, a platfor
m bed to her left, stairs to the right. Classical music came from above deck, Rachmaninoff, no doubt the Russian’s choice, and she could hear the slap of waves against the bow. Fleming also detected a growl of thunder, but no rain. At least not yet. She could smell a hint of it on the air.

  Before she went any further, Fleming had something to do. Something awful. She sucked up her courage, then took a look at her hand.

  Oh… boy.

  Two of her fingers were bent at crazy, unnatural angles and swollen like overcooked hot dogs. Her thumb, pinky, and ring finger remained unscathed, and if Fleming bit her lower lip to stop from crying out, she could pinch them together like a lobster claw.

  But that wouldn’t be enough. For her to have a chance, she needed to have a greater range of motion in her hand.

  She started with her index finger. That one appeared to be in slightly better shape. At the second knuckle, it bent backward at almost a ninety degree angle. Fleming moved her hand to the anchor, gripping the digit tightly, squeezing her eyes shut—

  —this is going to be bad—

  —and then bent it the right way.

  There was a sound like a walnut being cracked, and then the wave of pain hit. She had to turn her head and bite her left biceps to keep from howling. When the worst of it faded, she peaked a teary eye at her middle finger.

  Two bends in this one, each in opposite directions. It looked like a bruised, misshapen Z. Fleming knew the thing to do was pull on it to align the bones, then snap them back into place. But neither of her hands moved.

  All pain is temporary. Bad as it gets, I can get through it.

  Her body still refused to obey.

  Do it. Just do it, goddamnit.

  Such a small part of the body, a finger. Yet when she tugged it straight, the entire essence of Fleming’s being was reduced to white-hot agony. Her vision swirled, and then the darkness came in from all sides, making her already-aching head vibrate like a church bell being rung. The little bones inside her middle finger were so shattered it reminded Fleming of a beanbag.

  She chanced a look, both hands quivering. Her middle finger was more or less back into position, but it still needed a lot of work.

  There’s no way I’m touching that again. I’ll make do.

  Fleming dragged herself through the closet door, going from teak flooring to thick carpet. She sank into the pile like it was deep sand, fighting the weight of the anchor for every inch. It was slow going, and she needed to be quick. If Hammett or the Russian discovered she’d escaped the closet, there wasn’t much she could do to protect herself, let alone bring the hurt to them.

  And she wanted to deliver some hurt.

  What Fleming needed was a weapon.

  She struggled past between the galley and a seating area and stopped at the base of the stairs, struggling to catch her breath. The seven small steps loomed above her like Mount Everest. As she sized up the challenge ahead, her gaze rested on the large cabinet seated into the wall. It was marked Emergency.

  Gritting her teeth, she plopped the anchor on the first step, then dragged her body up after it. The steps were wood, hard, making her miss the thick pile carpet on the floor. A chrome handrail framed one side, the perfect height if she’d been standing. But as things were, it was as good as worthless.

  She mounted the second the same way, then the third and fourth. When she reached the fifth, she could reach the emergency cabinet. Leaning on one hip, she gripped the latch.

  The boat rolled hard to the starboard side, almost sending her careening down the steps. She clung to the anchor with her good hand and tried to quiet her stomach before reaching for the box again.

  This time she managed to get it open before another heave from the waves. And as she clung, her eyes locked onto a silver blanket, a waterproof radio and a bright orange, plastic gun.

  That would do.

  She pulled out the signal gun and loaded a magnesium flare. Fleming had never fired one before, but the mechanism was simple. Point and shoot.

  She tucked the gun in her waistband and turned her attention to the remaining two steps. The boat continued to pitch and sway, and the climb seemed to take forever. With each sound, she braced herself, expecting Hammett or Victor to suddenly appear and put a bullet in her, ending it all.

  Fleming made it to the deck, lifting the anchor, placing it in front of her, then dragging her body after.

  Lift, place, drag.

  Lift, place, drag.

  Voices carried on the wind, over music and waves.

  She tucked herself behind a small beverage fridge and strained to hear.

  “No, Victor! I love Paris!” Hammett. Her tone was a mock-whine.

  “You women and Paris.” A man. The Russian, Victor.

  “How about London?” Hammett said. “Rains all the damn time.”

  “I can live without London. Do it.”

  A chill ran the length of Fleming’s body. The transceiver. Hammett had figured out the launching sequence.

  And she was launching a nuclear strike on London.

  She struggled to breath. Please, let me be wrong. Let it not be true.

  Once again, the boat rolled hard to the side, and she held on to the side of the refrigerator.

  If they were indeed launching a strike, Fleming had to find a way to stop them. No doubt they were armed. The cheap plastic flare gun in her crooked hand suddenly seemed like a cruel joke.

  “Why don’t you try to steady this damn boat? I’ll look up the latitude and longitude.” The heels of Hammett’s boots clicked across teak. A second later, she let out a startled noise. “Oh, hell. That bitch.”

  Fleming gripped the flare gun. She was almost certain the refrigerator blocked her from their view. Hammett couldn’t have seen her. But if not her, who could she be talking about?

  “What is it?” A second set of shoes scuffed over the floor, Victor joining Hammett at the cockpit’s control panel.

  “Look for yourself.”

  “Chandler!” Victor shouted.

  Fleming’s heart stuttered.

  “It can’t be her. It has to be one of those pigeons.”

  “You really think a pigeon is going to fly out over the lake, Victor? It’s Chandler, and she’s coming right at us.”

  • • •

  Hammett grabs a set of binoculars from the cockpit and races out of the deckhouse.

  “Hold her steady!” she yells at Victor through the side windshield. Then she grips the guardrail and walks along the narrow, port gunwale, stepping onto the yacht’s expansive, twelve meter bow. It’s a perfect place to sunbathe, but not a perfect place to stand during choppy water. Especially wet, and the rain had begun to fall. She plants her feet and scans the horizon.

  The water churns white behind them, the Chicago skyline barely visible through the storm clouds rolling east over the lake. She searches the waves in the direction of the blip, but sees nothing.

  Impossible.

  She looks again, sweeping slower this time. Lightning flashes and the rain kicks up.

  “Where in the hell is she?”

  As soon as the question leaves her lips, Hammett knows the answer. The tracking devices don’t show height… and they don’t show depth either.

  Chandler is coming at them from under the water. She’s using SCUBA gear. Or, considering her speed, a submersible.

  No problem. I can deal with that.

  She makes her way back into the cockpit and grabs a duffel.

  Victor glanced at her and raises his brows.

  “She’s under water,” Hammett tells him. “Kill the engine and let her come.” She pulls two grenades from the bag. “Are there more in the staterooms?”

  “Yes,” he answers, but the lazy bastard doesn’t move his ass off the swivel chair.

  “Then get them, damn it.”

  She grabs the tablet PC out of the duffel before she spins around and returns to the boat’s bow. Chandler’s blip is nearly below them now. Time for Hammett to g
ive her sister the welcome she deserves.

  She pulls the pin on one of the grenades and throws it into the waves.

  The explosion is powerful enough for her to feel the concussion shake the hull and vibrate in her chest. Water erupts into the air, meeting the rain falling from above.

  She throws another off the starboard side, right where the blip should be.

  The whump hits the ship like a slap from an angry god, causing it to pitch, then roll. Hammett points the deck spotlight on the water, and smiles when she sees something float to the surface.

  Hell. It’s a salmon. Son of a—

  “Freeze!”

  Hammett glances portside, sees her disabled sister holding an anchor in one hand, and a flare gun in the other. The image is so ludicrous, she begins to laugh.

  “I want the transceiver,” Fleming says. Her hand is shaking badly.

  “Or what?” Hammett asks. “You’ll signal for help?”

  “How about I shoot you with a flare instead? Magnesium burns at three thousand degrees, and I’m aiming at your fat head.”

  Hammett considers her next move. Getting hit with a flare doesn’t sound like a good time. She has a .45 in her shoulder holster, under her jacket.

  “Fair enough,” Hammett says. “I’ll give you the phone.”

  She casually slips a hand into her coat.

  “Hold it! I saw you put the phone in your side pocket. Take your hand out slowly, and give me the goddamn phone.”

  Hammett blows a snort of air out of her nostrils, annoyed. They really don’t have time for this. But, impaired as she obviously is, Fleming is one of the Hydra sisters. Hammett respects the training she’s had, and follows her orders, slowly holding up the phone.

  “Now toss it to me,” Fleming says.

  “How about instead you toss me the flare gun,” Hammett smiles wide, “or I’ll press the touch screen and destroy London?”