• • •
Fleming wasn’t sure what to do. She should probably take the shot, but her aim wasn’t steady, and she had no idea how accurate flares were.
Last she checked, there were more than seven and a half million people in London. Their best chance at survival depended on the next decision Fleming made.
“What the hell?”
Now Victor was coming across the gunwale, reaching for his sidearm.
Fleming had no choice.
She had to take the shot.
She aimed.
Let out a breath.
Squeezed the trigger.
The flare exploded out of the gun. Hammett ducked below its arc, and it sailed out across the water, a bright orange streak, before falling into the lake a hundred meters away.
Then Victor was on her, kicking the useless gun away, putting his foot on her chest, pointing the Glock in her face.
“You lose,” Hammett said.
Fleming glanced at her, and watched as—
Oh no.
—she pressed the screen. “In seven minutes, London bridge is falling down.”
Tears erupted from Fleming’s eyes. She could imagine all of the people, the innocents, the children, swallowed up by an atomic fireball. Black and white images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki flash through her mind. The horror. The tragedy. The misery. The senseless waste.
All because I couldn’t aim a goddamn flare gun.
She stared up at Victor, into the barrel of his pistol, trembling and broken and beaten but still defiant.
And then she saw something.
Something above Victor.
Something black and red and plummeting down to earth like Satan getting booted out of heaven.
Chandler!
• • •
Flying an ultralight trike at night was hard enough. Especially this junker, which had been buried on top of my parents for six years and had seen much better days. I throttled the modified Evinrude motor, slowing down the rear prop, and took another glance at my PC to see if I was on course. According to the blip, I was right on target. But I couldn’t see a damn thing below me, and missing would be deadly. I was too far out to swim back to shore.
I had to be at a high enough altitude to prevent Hammett from seeing me coming, and so I could get the drop on them. The altimeter had some water damage, being exacerbated by the rain coming down. It said I was at 1100 feet. I was betting my life that it was right.
Then I saw the flare, bright orange, my own personal landing strip.
I killed the engine, ditched the PC because I had no way to carry it, and unbuckled my seat belt. Beretta in hand, I rolled out of my seat, falling into open sky.
As soon as I dropped away from the ultralight, I pulled the ripcord on my parachute. It took about nine hundred feet for it to fully open, so I was cutting it close.
I quickly fell through the haze, then saw the lights below me, following them to a white yacht. My chute deployed, making me jerk and rock in my harness. Still clutching the gun, I snatched the brake handles. Once I had control I steered toward the boat, sighting Victor on the bow. Victor, and Hammett, and…
Fleming!
My aim was for shit, but I emptied my magazine at Victor, forcing him away from my sister. He fired back, his bullets whizzing past me, and then I had my feet out in front of me and I planted both on his chest right just as I hit my buckle release.
Victor went flying, and I rolled onto the bow, out of control, crashing into the raised pulpit, the guard rails stopping me from falling out.
I turned around, scanning for Fleming, and instead saw Hammett, drawing a gun from her leather jacket, pointing it at my head.
I fired at her. No rounds left. Then I reached for the extra magazine in my pocket, and found my pocket had torn off.
• • •
Hammett doesn’t believe this is happening. Chandler swooped onto the deck like a bird of prey, firing wildly, then knocked down Victor.
She unholsters her .45 and aims carefully, anxious to put this unkillable bitch out of her misery.
“Hey!”
Hammett looks to the right, sees Fleming, who has crawled up next to her.
“Anchors away, Sis!”
Then she sees the anchor, Fleming swinging it like an Olympic hammer at Hammett’s legs. She jumps back, but not in time, and one of the pointed flukes catches her calf, digging a bloody rent across it.
Hammett slams into the bow, her gun falling overboard, the transceiver skipping across the deck. She quickly pulls the Spyderco blade from her sheath, ready to gut Fleming, then sees Chandler coming closer.
Fine. First Chandler. Then the cripple.
Hammett stands to meet her sister.
• • •
Fleming locked eyes on the transceiver as it skittered aft, down the bow.
“The phone!” she yelled at Chandler. “That psycho launched a nuclear attack on London!”
Then she crawled after it, her legs begging for mercy, her swollen hand slapping tortuously against the teak as she dragged her broken body, and the anchor, closer and closer.
A wave hit, splashing over the port side, cold water spraying her in the face. The boat tilted, and the phone slid back toward Fleming. She reached out her broken hand, and it bounced off her screaming fingertips, sliding off the bow—
—across the narrow gunwale—
—and skidding onto the stern, where it came to a stop at the edge of the transom. Two more inches, and the lake would have it.
Fleming pushed herself harder, fighting the pain, using the hand rail to pull herself and the anchor along the gunwale, past the deckhouse, across the starboard side windshield, and finally flopping onto the stern next to a cheap, folding metal deck chair.
The boat heaved up, then down, taking Fleming’s stomach with it. She bit back the rising gorge and got within two meters of the phone, so close she could see the bright glow of the touch screen counting down in large, red numbers.
3:55… 3:54…
She continued her trek toward it.
Almost there. Almost…
That’s when her anchor got snagged on a cleat, preventing her from getting any closer.
• • •
I lifted my knee and pulled the VORAX knife from its sheath, focusing on Hammett. The boat rocked gently, back and forth, and my stance was wider than normal so I didn’t fall over. Fleming, the boat, the transceiver, the guns on the deck, Victor—none of it mattered. The whole world was nothing but me and Hammett.
And I was going to kill her.
She lunged at me with her Spyderco blade, almost a fencing move. I parried appropriately, steel clanging against steel, the impact so hard and fast it made a spark. The bow was slippery, but there was enough space for us to circle each other.
“You’re like a cockroach,” Hammett said, her eyes venomous. “You just won’t die.”
I cut in close, slashing at her face, then back-slashing at her knife hand. Hammett pulled back, my attack narrowly missing her, and then dropped to one knee and cut me across the chest. But liquid body armor worked as well with blades as it did with bullets, especially as hard as Hammett was striking. I popped her under the chin with my left hand, making her stagger back, and then did a quick spin kick and solidly connected with her cheek.
Hammett fell backward onto her ass. She stared up at me with a look of shock.
“But… I’m better than you. The Hydra reports…”
“…are years old,” I interrupted. “That was then. This is now. And now, right now, I’m going to kick your ass, cut you into pieces, and feed you to the fish.”
I took a step forward, and then noticed Victor, coming at me from the side.
• • •
Fleming pulled, hard as she could. No good. Her handcuff chain was wedged under the stern cleat.
She turned her attention to the transceiver, resting on the very edge of the transom.
2:12… 2:11…
Fleming reached for it, stretching out her arms as far as they could go.
Not enough.
The cell phone was still a foot out of her grasp.
Fleming looked around the stern for something to extend her reach, and her eyes locked on the deck chair. She grabbed it with her thumb and pinky, but it’s a folding model, and it snapped closed around her broken fingers.
Her scream was drowned out in the clapping of thunder.
• • •
Once Victor gets up, the rage has overpowered him. His only goal in life to choke the living shit out of Chandler, make her pay for all she has put him through.
She’s preoccupied with Hammett, so Victor sprints at her, grinning, already picturing her neck breaking between his hands.
Chandler spins around and lashes out at him—oops, she has a knife—and Victor quickly dodges back.
“Ha! You missed!” he yells.
But the words don’t sound right.
Because they aren’t coming out of his mouth.
They’re coming out the gaping slit in his throat.
He brings his hands up to his neck, feels something hard and wet.
That’s…
That’s my thoracic vertebrae.
That’s also his last thought, and then he flops over and bleeds out onto the bow.
• • •
Hammett watches Victor drop, and she stares at Chandler and feels something she hasn’t felt in a very long time.
Fear. I’m afraid of her.
The Spyderco knife isn’t enough. Hammett needs a gun. No, she needs a goddamn bazooka.
Or some grenades.
There are grenades in the staterooms.
She sprints aft, over the windshield and the roof of the deckhouse, dropping onto the stern. Hammett sees Fleming, straining to reach for something.
The transceiver!
Then Chandler is on the roof, jumping down—
—and a swell hits the boat, making it roll starboard, so fierce it knocks Hammett and Chandler to the deck.
Hammett wants the transceiver.
But Chandler is in the way.
Indestructible, angry, scary-as-hell Chandler.
Hammett scurries away, heading below-deck.
• • •
1:19… 1:18…
The wave unhooked the handcuff chain from where it had been hung-up on the starboard stern cleat, and Fleming was free. She tugged her battered hand out of the folding chair and strained to grab the phone—
—missing as it plopped into the dark water.
Fleming quickly glanced at Chandler, and the two locked eyes.
Chandler’s eyes told her, “No, please don’t.”
Fleming’s answered back. “You know I have to.”
And then she pushed the anchor over the transom and sank beneath the waves.
• • •
Watching Fleming go after the phone, I realized what it all meant.
All of our training. All of our sacrifices. All of the pain we’d endured.
We were the good guys.
Not because our government used us like pawns in some grand, worldwide espionage game.
Not because we could kill on command.
Not because we were unfeeling, uncaring machines, programmed to follow orders.
We were the good guys, because we did the right thing.
No matter the cost.
Which is why I dove into the water after her.
• • •
Fleming sunk fast, the anchor dragging her down into the, cold murky depths. She managed a deep breath before she went over, and knew from experience it would last about ninety seconds.
Ninety seconds left to live.
Ninety seconds to save seven million.
The water was freezing, black, and when she hit the bottom the pressure in her ears was excruciating. She pinched her nostrils with her thumb and pinky, equalizing the pressure, and figured she was perhaps thirty, thirty-five feet deep.
Lucky. Some parts of Lake Michigan were over nine hundred feet deep.
Fleming squinted, looking for the light of the phone, turning in a complete circle.
Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s darker than a grave down here. The phone could be right next to me and I still wouldn’t—
There!
Two meters away, three tops. She could make out the glowing red touch screen.
0:57… 0:56… 0:55…
Fleming begins to crawl toward it, ignoring the pain, dragging the anchor through the muck behind her.
• • •
I decided, right then, that I truly hated water.
The icy, blackness fought me, not letting me in. I swam down two meters, but I couldn’t get any deeper. I was too buoyant.
It was my lungs. Filled with air, it was like trying to sink with two basketballs.
I peered down, not knowing how deep it was, unable to see Fleming or the phone.
And I made a choice.
If the air in my lungs is stopping me, I need to get rid of it.
I blew out a big breath, about half of my reserve, and then continued my descent.
• • •
Hammett hurries past the bridge, hearing the marine radio crackle. The coast guard is hailing the ship that shot the flare.
Damn Fleming.
Damn Fleming, and damn Chandler, and damn this entire op.
It’s time to cut my losses and get the hell out of here.
But first…
Hammett barges into the stateroom, finds the duffel bag filled with grenades.
Four of them.
More than enough.
• • •
0:11… 0:10…
Dizzy from exertion and oxygen deprivation, Fleming reached the phone. She picked it up in her bad hand.
0:09… 0:08…
Bringing it over to the anchor, she used her good hand to exit the countdown screen, bringing up the manual override.
Because the nuke had been launched from this transceiver, this transceiver was the only one that could disarm it. It was a simple, four digit code.
Fleming accessed the keypad, finger raised.
0:07… 0:06…
Oh, hell. Brain fart.
What the hell is that code?
0:05… 0:04…
Think! You designed the damn thing!
Duh!
Fleming punched it in, 5 9 3 1.
MISSILE DISARMED.
She smiled in the darkness. Then she turned the phone upside, looking what the numbers spelled.
IE65
LEGS.
And then Fleming started to laugh.
I did it.
I really did it.
Hell yeah!
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the worthless cripple who got shoved behind a desk has saved London!
As the air bubbled out of her lungs, Fleming felt no fear. No panic.
Her legs and ribs and hand no longer hurt.
All she felt was joy.
Pure joy.
And that was a damn good way to die.
Then something grabbed her in the darkness.
• • •
Dizzy, my lungs screaming for relief, I continued to swim downward, into the deep, not knowing where the hell I was going until my face was bathed by something warm.
Bubbles.
I followed them, then made out the tiny spot of light only a few meters away.
Fleming. Still handcuffed to the anchor. The transceiver in her hand.
I fought to reach her, struggling against the water, mustering up my last bit of strength. Much as I feared what was coming—the terrible panic and unbearable pain of my lungs filling with liquid—I had to save her, or die trying.
I grabbed her arm and tugged. Maybe the two of us, both swimming hard as we could, would be able to get her to the surface.
Fleming shook her head, then pointed a crooked finger up, her eyebrows furrowing in the soft glow of the phone.
She wants me to leave her.
I pulled her again, but this time she shoved me back, shaking her head.
We stared at each other for a moment. I watched her face relax. She showed me the phone.
MISSILE DISARMED.
Then she mouthed, quite clearly, “I love you.”
I threw my arms around her, hugging her, hugging her so hard and never, ever wanting to let go.
And then I remembered my jeans.
Hammett’s jeans.
Body shaking from lack of air, my thoughts beginning to scramble, I felt along the pants seam of the denim and found it.
A wire.
Even nearly dead, I could pick a handcuff lock. I popped her wrist free, thinking that maybe we actually could make it out of this—
Then the lake exploded.
The shock wave hit me hard, knocking the precious bit of air out of my lungs. Making my ears pop and ring, and rattling my body so hard I bit my tongue.
Grenades.
I covered up Fleming with my body, and another shockwave hit.
And another.
And another.
By now, I had no choice. I had to breathe, and my body sucked in the lake.
And then I was back on Victor’s kitchen table.
Back at Hydra training.
Back in Cory’s car as the water came in.
My whole body shook in panic, and I choked and tried to cough and once again I was going to die a mindless, panicked animal.
That’s when I felt it.
My hand.
My sister, holding my hand.
And for the briefest moment, I had the childhood I always wanted. A safe, caring home, and a sister who loved me.
I clasped my fingers in hers, and let the water take me.
“Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose,” The Instructor said. “Winning is better.”
The first thing I was aware of was an antiseptic smell. Then I opened my bleary eyes to a bright light and immediately gasped for air, my heart beating like hummingbird wings.
When I was able to focus, I realized I was in a hospital room. And I wasn’t alone.
The cop, Jack Daniels, was sitting next to my bed in a plastic folding chair. Jack held a syringe, and I realized she’d just injected something into my IV line. I tried to sit up and found I’d been handcuffed to the bed.
“Your sister is some swimmer,” Jack said.
“Yeah,” I said. “She can swim like a son of a bitch. Where is she?”
“The coast guard saw a flare and picked both of you up. You had to be resuscitated. That’s twice you drowned, isn’t it?”
Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath Page 23