“She’s here,” Fleming whispered. “Six men with her, all armed and—”
That’s when Hammett pulled out a semiautomatic pistol and shot the maître d’ in the head.
After Hammett caps the rude maître d’—and let’s face it, the son of a bitch had it coming—she sidesteps the police line and goes to the express elevators, ignoring Victor and his shouts of rage.
A firefight breaks out, Victor’s men and the police in the lobby. Hammett slips into the first lift that opens and hits the button for the restaurant. Then she does a quick check of her weapons. A 9mm Beretta, loaded with hollow-points. A carbon fiber Spyderco Navaja. One of Victor’s MP9s, hanging from a shoulder sling inside her coat. And something with a bit more stopping power in her right pocket.
“Ready or not, dear sister, here I come.”
Fleming spoke in my ear as I was racing up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the restaurant. “Six men with her, all armed and—” Gunfire exploded in the background, making her words hard to hear. But reading the alarm in her voice was easy.
“Fleming?”
More gunshots. My stomach clenched like a fist.
As I approached the top of the stairs, I forced all thoughts of what my sister was going through from my mind. I needed to focus. I needed to get the phone.
After contemplating and rejecting various hiding places, I had decided to take a more direct approach and had given the phone to the bartender, feeding him a story about finding it in the ladies’ room. Then I’d hung around just long enough to see where he kept the lost and found.
Now I dashed straight for the maître d’s stand on one end of the balcony.
The top drawer was locked. Hands shaking, I started feeling along the hem of my T-shirt before I remembered I wasn’t wearing my own clothing.
Yet my fingers hit something stiff. Wires.
Of course. This was Hammett’s shirt. Hammett, who had gone through the same training I had.
I ripped the stitching and removed the picks, letting the fifty-dollar bill fall to the floor. The lock was a simple one and only took seconds. I pulled the drawer open and stared at over a dozen cell phones jamming the small space.
How did so many people manage to lose their phones?
I clawed through the collection. Seven iPhones, a Droid, at least six of the old flip models—who knew how long those had been there—and a variety of odds and ends, including a Kindle. Finally I located mine. I dropped it in my rucksack and zipped it up.
Just as the elevator door chimed.
Victor curses that shalava Hammett and then fires ten rounds into a wide-eyed cop who has barely cleared leather with his weapon. He also dispatches the cop’s partner, who manages to get off two ineffective shots before doing the machine-gun boogie. Then Victor’s men form a half circle around him and lay down a burst of suppressive fire. The two dozen people in the lobby who haven’t fled or hit the floor yet get the hint. All except some cripple in a wheelchair, who seems to be rolling their way with an expression of—
Chto za huy! I know that face!
Victor rolls out of the way as a barrage of bullets fires from the armrests of the wheelchair, mowing down three of his men. He slides across the tile floor on his shoulder, bringing up his MP9, but Hammett’s sister is already in motion, barreling toward his men, who duck for cover. She steers toward one who took a dive and then—what the fuck is that?—a long, thin blade comes out of the chair’s axle and neatly slices Sergei’s throat and then severs Nikolai’s hamstring.
Peter comes up behind, spraying bullets. They clang off the back of her wheelchair, apparently bulletproof.
She taps her armrest again, and a long jet of fire hits the poor bastard square in the face.
Holy shit.
The woman spins around, lifting up her footrest, which concealed another blade, and as Yuri rushes at her, she guts him.
That leaves Victor and Karl, and Karl is backpedalling as fast as he can move his feet, his shots flying harmlessly over the crippled woman’s head as she accelerates toward him, now brandishing a .45. She shoots Karl in the forehead, then whirls around, seeking Victor.
But he’s already in motion, raising his weapon, stitching rounds up her legs and across her chest.
The woman slumps in the chair, her gun clattering to the floor.
Victor looks at his fallen comrades, spits in disgust, and then storms over to her, ready to put the coup de grâce into her head.
The gunfire began when the elevator doors opened just a sliver. I immediately dropped behind the maître d’ stand, crawling away as bullets chewed into the wood and flung sawdust into the air, the tattoo of automatic weapon fire drowning out all thought.
I reached the stairs, flipping onto my back, freeing the Tec-9 and aiming with my left hand while the right held my Sig.
The shooting paused, and for a moment, all I heard was the ringing in my ears.
“Where was it?” Hammett called out.
I kept my arms extended, fingers on the triggers. “Lost and found.”
“Clever girl. Clever, clever girl.”
I caught the movement peripherally, Hammett rushing in low to my right, the muzzle flash of her machine gun preceding the barrage of lead pocking the floor in front of me, coming my way to cut me in half.
Ah, hell…
I swung the rucksack in front of me, using it as protection. The punch of a dozen rounds peppering it, I pushed myself backward, scooting down the stairs. Still being chased by bullets, I tucked my legs up to my chest and began to roll, feet over head. I bumped into the railing and kept somersaulting, each step bruising my spine, my skull. By the time the steps spit me out onto the lower floor, my sense of balance and direction were completely gone.
My skull ached, adding to the disorientation, and after a quick self pat-down, I found I had somehow lost my Tec-9, and—
Oh, no.
My rucksack.
My rucksack, with the transceiver in it.
I cast a frantic look around and saw it, sitting midway on the stairs.
I got my legs under me, ready to make an attempt, but Hammett suddenly appeared over the railing above, her face shiny with excitement.
Still dizzy, I fired my Sig and then dived to the side as more lead rained down on me. I made it to the edge of the carpeted dining area, crawled under the closest dinner table, and upended it, sending silverware flying. Hunkering down behind it, I replaced the magazine in my weapon and willed the world to stop spinning.
“Please tell me the transceiver is in that backpack.” Hammett’s voice carried a teasing edge.
She’d seen my face when I realized it was gone. She knew something important to me was inside. I wasn’t about to give her any more hints. “Why don’t you go and check?” I taunted, the Sig now loaded and ready.
In my earpiece, more gunfire and screaming.
I peered around the table, eyes on my rucksack, then looked left to the expansive wine cellar, stocked to the ceiling with bottles behind glass doors. I crawled over to it, broke the glass with the butt of my .45, and snatched a bottle of Merlot by the neck. Hammett was no longer at the railing, but I knew if I were up there, about to make a run at the rucksack, I’d be close to the stairs, yet behind cover. The only thing on the balcony that qualified was the splintered remains of the maître d’ stand.
So that’s where I threw the bottle.
As it sailed through the air, I quickly grabbed a replacement from behind me, then aimed and shot the Merlot. It shattered near where I guessed my sister to be, spraying glass and wine. I tossed the second bottle, grabbed a third, shot the second, tossed the third, grabbed a fourth, shot the third, and then I stormed the stairs, taking them two at a time, emptying my magazine as Hammett brought her gun up and began to blind fire. Discarding my Sig, I snatched the rucksack strap. Bullets cut the air around me. I flew up the last three steps, leaped past the maître d’ stand, and, just as my sister stuck out her head, I cracked her in the fa
ce with a 2007 MacPhail Pratt Pinot Noir.
I landed on my side and tugged the rucksack onto my shoulders. Then I pulled up my leg and freed the asp.
Hammett was on all fours, shaking wine, glass, and blood out of her hair like a wet dog.
I got my feet under me and sprinted at her, extending my telescoping baton with a chhhht-chhhht sound like a shotgun being racked.
Hammett brought up her MP9, and I swung the asp with all I had. It hit hard, bending both it and the barrel of her gun. Then I drew back a foot, aiming to kick her in the throat.
She twisted her body and caught my leg in her armpit. She thrust to her feet, and I fell backward, over the broken stand. Grabbing her jacket, I pulled her with me, and we both tumbled down the stairs.
Victor raises his weapon to the woman’s head. He pauses for a moment, savoring. The bitch destroyed his men. Only Nikolai is still alive, writhing on the floor, whining and clutching his useless leg. But in the end, Victor took her down, and now he will blow her goddamn face off. The fact that she looks like Hammett is a bonus.
He smiles.
Before he can pull the trigger, he hears the click, feels the twin prongs jab into him, and when the electric charge rips through his body a split second later, there’s nothing he can do.
His teeth clench. Every muscle seizes. A guttural groan bounces off the marble, coming from his own throat.
The woman opens her eyes and stares at him, very much alive, as the Taser pumps juice through his body.
He manages to stumble backward, ripping the darts from his flesh, but he can’t regain his balance and goes down, hitting the floor hard.
The force knocks the air out of him. He gasps for breath, but he’s not done. He still holds his weapon. Bringing it up, he sprays rounds in her direction. Bullets fly everywhere, uncontrolled; his muscles still in spasm.
Her .45 lies useless on the floor, out of reach, and she spins around, shielding herself with the armored chair. She takes off in the other direction.
She’s out of ammunition.
She has to be. It is the only reason for her to turn tail while he is down and wheezing and out of control.
Victor scrambles to his feet and starts after her. He feels stronger with each step, and he closes the gap between them despite her surprising speed. He has her now. This time he will not hesitate, he will not assume anything. This time he will shoot her in the head first and savor the kill later.
He pushes his legs to move faster, running all-out, gaining.
Small pieces of something fall from her chair and skitter over the marble. He doesn’t fully grasp what is happening until his foot comes down on one.
The spike drills through the sole of his shoe and knifes into his foot. Cold slices his flesh, chased by pain. He bellows and pulls up short.
The chair keeps moving, rolling around the corner.
Hammett releases her sister as they tumble down the stairs, spreading out her limbs to stop the rolling. She snatches the railing, the world a blur, and watches Chandler reach the bottom floor and begin to crawl away.
Oh no, you don’t.
Hammett unholsters her Beretta. She fires, pinging Chandler three times in the left side.
They’re hollow-points, meant to open up on impact and cause massive internal bleeding. A hit to a limb at this range should prove fatal, let alone three body shots.
Chandler cries out but keeps crawling.
Body armor? Perhaps the liquid prototype Hammett stole?
No matter. She’s got something stronger than hollow-points.
Slapping at her pocket, Hammett removes the grenade. According to The Instructor, the transceiver has a diamond-hardened case and is practically indestructible.
Chandler, however, is not.
She pulls the pin and throws it, fastball style, at her sister’s head.
Fleming took a turn into the main lobby, leaving the Russian behind.
She couldn’t help wondering how Chandler was dealing with their dear sister. Right now, she’d give nearly anything to be able to get upstairs to help. When Hammett’s men had started shooting, she hadn’t been able to hear much over the earpiece. Now her pulse was beating so hard in her own ears, all she could make out was a loud explosion.
She hoped to hell it was only gunfire.
“Chandler? What’s going on?” Her voice sounded shaky, even in her own ears.
There was no answer.
Fleming’s arms felt weak, as if all the adrenaline was suddenly draining from her system. Her chest and legs hurt like hell. While the liquid armor she’d borrowed from Forsyth’s body had stopped the Russian’s rounds, they’d still left countless deep bruises in their wake and what felt like at least one cracked rib.
Approaching one of the building’s exits, she slowed the chair and took several shallow and painful breaths. She should head for the Congress Hotel as planned, but the thought of wheeling out the door and leaving her sister to face Hammett alone left her cold.
But could she really help? She was injured, and while she normally wouldn’t let that stop her, she had the extra problem of being out of ammunition.
When they’d arrived, she’d had to stay on the ground floor because cops had closed off the restaurant and the express elevators leading to the top floors. Now those cops were dead. The elevators were accessible. And the bodies of Hammett’s men were scattered around them.
Hammett’s armed men.
A few of their weapons and a short elevator ride, and Fleming would be back in business.
She turned away from the exit and headed back into the building.
Getting shot while slathered in the liquid body armor felt a lot like getting hit with a bat.
Then, a moment later, the ball hit me as well.
But it wasn’t a ball. It was heavier and green and unmistakably a grenade.
It cracked into my hip, then rolled a meter to my left on the black marble floor. My heart froze in my chest. I had no time to think, no time to get a safe distance away, so instead I crawled toward it. No time to even pick it up, I swatted it and covered my head as it rolled into the corner of the restaurant.
The explosion was epic, impossibly loud and bright, the light blinding me even though I had my hands over my eyes.
Then came the wind.
I blinked away motes and saw that the grenade had blown out two of the floor-to-ceiling picture windows. The wind was gale force.
I crawled away from it, not anxious to get sucked outside.
Hammett, still on the stairs, had to grab the railing so the gust didn’t knock her over. I dug into my bag, pulling out the spare Sig, and unloaded on her. It took a few shots before I was able to adjust to the crosswind, but then I began pegging her like a tin bunny in a shooting gallery.
She dropped her gun, but the rounds didn’t drop her, and I guessed she must have slathered herself with the body armor as well. So I went for the head shot.
That’s when she charged me.
I tried to adjust, but I was dizzy and hurting; add the wind and my shot went wide, and then Hammett was throwing a tackle, lifting me up off of the ground, driving me toward the broken window.
Victor pries two spikes from his foot. The hot ooze of blood soaks through his sock, and he curses the bitch and her tricked-out chair.
She’s long gone now, he’s sure.
He’s not happy.
He turns and hobbles back to the express elevators. Bodies litter the floor, blood pooling on light marble. Nikolai is still wailing, his leg dragging behind him as he tries to crawl.
Victor doesn’t feel like carrying him, but although he wants to put a bullet in the worthless man’s brain, he resists, instead kicking him in the ribs. “Shut up and pick up your weapon,” he says to the man in Russian. “Be ready.”
Dialing his wails down to whimpers, the man does as he’s told.
“When Hammett steps off those elevators, shoot her.” Victor has had enough. He’s going to collect his transce
iver.
He picks up an AR-15 off Sergei and hits the up button. The chime sounds, and the elevator door slides open. He steps in just as shots squeeze out from Nikolai’s position.
What the hell?
He peers out in time to see the cripple roll in from the opposite direction. Nikolai is shooting, but she is not dying. She rolls past the open elevator, leans down, and scoops the weapon from Peter’s dead hands. She empties it into Nikolai.
She has her back to him, either not yet aware he’s there or confident her chair will protect her.
He steps up behind her. Keeping his body out of range of whatever blade she might produce, he flings the assault rifle’s shoulder strap over her head and yanks.
Her head slams against the back of the chair.
He keeps the pressure on. Once she stops struggling, he tips the chair forward and dumps her onto the floor.
She lies limp on the marble.
He levels his weapon on her, waiting for the slightest twitch.
A cough shakes her body. She’s still alive.
His first inclination is to end her before she tries something else, but then he notices her earpiece.
This one might be more useful alive.
Victor hears a police radio crackle. Any second, the cops will be swarming the place.
He drags the cripple over to the express elevators and hits the call button, reopening the doors.
It’s time for this debacle to end.
Hammett aches all over from being shot, and this little game has gone on long enough. The wind is howling and whistling, whipping through her hair. She body slams Chandler to the floor, pinning her down, and Chandler’s gun bounces across the floor and out the window. Then Hammett reaches for her Spyderco knife, wanting nothing more in the world than to slit this bitch’s throat, get the phone, and get the hell out of Dodge.
Chandler grabs her wrist, trying to leverage Hammett away, and Hammett drops a knee onto her stomach, provoking a lovely grunt of pain.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 20