Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels)

by J. A. Konrath

  Shaking off the punch, I pulled in my arms and swiveled my hips, doing a tight spin kick. It would have connected, but Rochester blocked with his left hand.

  So much for him not taking advantage.

  He followed up with a rabbit punch, drilling it into my kidney, so hard I knew I’d be peeing blood later. I fell to all fours, which quickly became all threes because I couldn’t put any pressure on my injured arm.

  “This is such a letdown for me, Chandler. The Instructor told me you were one of the best he trained.”

  “He told me about you, too. He said you’re a pervert who gets off on beating up little girls.”

  Rochester winked. “A man can’t deny who he is. This indeed is most arousing to me.”

  He took a quick step forward, and I rolled away from the oncoming kick. But it was another feint on his part, and when I raised my head he gave me a slap that sent me sprawling—

  —my face inches away from the third rail.

  I stared right at death, and could actually feel the power of the current running through the metal, like a magnetic wave tickling my face. It could have been my imagination, but it seemed like I could hear the crackling electricity and smell the ozone. I’d heard stories of drunk men urinating on the third rail, dying badly as a result of their shortsighted bravado, and this thought spun through my mind while I watched, mesmerized, as a drip of sweat fell from my forehead and kissed the metal.

  Nothing happened, of course. The sweat didn’t complete a circuit, and the electricity had nowhere to flow. Like a bird on the high wire, it became charged—the same voltage as the wire—but no current flowed through it. If I touched the rail, however, my body would be grounded on the tracks, completing the circuit and causing the 600-volt boogie.

  I crab-walked backward, getting to my feet, turning to face Rochester. He began to do that tapping thing on his head, forearms, and elbows, moving so quickly his hands were a blur, making it impossible for me to know where to hit him, or guess where his next strike came from.

  I threw a punch anyway, aiming where I thought his chin would be. He blocked it with his palm and elbow, then snapped the elbow around. I had the foresight to lower my head. His blow glanced off the top of my skull, probably hurting him as much as me. Then I abandoned my martial arts training and went pure NFL, punting as hard as I could between his legs.

  He caught my ankle between his thighs before I did any damage, then dropped to his knees, pinning me as well.

  “So, should Ol’ Rochester break your hips now? Or get you back to his place first?”

  The whole structure began to rumble. And this time, the train was on our side of the tracks. I was sure, because I saw it coming up behind my attacker.

  “I got a better idea,” I said. “How about you bend over, because the Blue Line is about to make you its bitch.”

  He turned around to look.

  I jackknifed at him, jeet kune do style, my right arm a ramrod and my body the piston driving it forward, punching Rochester in his muscled neck as hard as I’ve ever hit anyone.

  His legs released me as he grabbed with both hands at his throat.

  I turned and ran. Ahead of me, maybe twenty meters, was the El platform where the train stopped to pick up passengers. I noticed a few of them, standing on the edge and pointing my way.

  Behind me there was a screech of brakes, metal on metal, and the piercing wail of a train whistle. I didn’t bother to check if the El had done the world a favor and sent Rochester to hell, instead concentrating on running on the evenly spaced slats without tripping, and making it off the tracks without getting killed.

  Luck was once again with me, and I made it to the platform, where three Good Samaritans held out their hands and helped lift me up. I grunted a thanks and fought through the throng of people casting questions at me, slipping through the one-way exit, and then took two flights of metal stairs down to street level.

  Every cell in my body was shaking, but I couldn’t let myself think about that now. Instead, I absorbed my surroundings. No agents behind me. No agents around me. Civilians everywhere, none of them looking out of place. I smelled car exhaust, sewage from a nearby curb drain, and French fries from a fast-food place a few doors down. I listened for gunshots or anything else out of the ordinary, but there were only familiar city sounds.

  I jogged to the closest bus stop on trembling legs just as the vehicle pulled up, brakes hissing. After forcing the driver to break my fifty-dollar bill, I collapsed into one of the middle seats near the exit and tried to determine my next move.

  But as much as I wished otherwise, my next move was obvious. I needed to find Fleming. And the only way to do that was to get back to the hospital and ask someone who knew where she was.

  This time, however, I’d be much better prepared.

  The White House

  The president stared at his face in the mirror. He looked feminine, and even worse, clownish. He dabbed a pinkie into the corner of his mouth, removing a tiny dab of concealer. His makeup artist was terrific, and on television he looked like a movie star. But this close he felt more like a vaudeville comedian, painted in grotesque broad strokes. He wanted to wipe it off, but he’d already done two press conferences that day, and had another that night.

  “So they used a remote device like the one I have?” he said into his encrypted cell phone, the very device he was describing.

  “It appears that way, Mr. President,” said the man on the other end of the line.

  “I was assured this couldn’t be copied or cloned.”

  “We’re looking into it.”

  “And the two women?”

  “One has, regrettably, escaped from our custody.”

  The president closed his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was a low whisper.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, Mr. President. These women are…formidable.”

  “How about the other one?”

  “She’s being taken to a safe location. We should have some information from her soon.”

  “Do whatever it takes.”

  “We shall, Mr. President. She’ll tell us everything we want to know.”

  Hammett

  The Harley Softail was a joy to ride, the vibrating engine so strong Hammett almost didn’t feel the vibration of the cell phone in her front pocket. She pulled onto the shoulder of I-90 and answered.

  “Meeting at oh-sixteen-hundred,” her boss said. “Five men. CVs sent to your encrypted e-mail account.”

  “I just crossed into Wisconsin,” Hammett said. “Where is the meeting?”

  “There were no decent hotels with conference rooms available at such short notice. So I hope you don’t have coulrophobia.”

  Her boss named the venue. Hammett frowned. “You’re kidding.”

  “Have you known me to kid?”

  Hammett wondered if this was on purpose, a form of punishment, or if the spy game had truly become a ridiculous parody of itself. Even though she didn’t directly blame herself for how the operation had gone sour, Hammett knew that ultimately it was her responsibility. Her stepfather used to tell her, “Your life is your fault,” and she hadn’t ever truly understood what that meant until recently. We are each the sum of our decisions, and what happens to us is ultimately the result of our decisions. Even if something freakish happens, like being struck by lightning, that is a risk of being outdoors on a cloudy day. That is a potential price to pay. Like kicking your dog when there is a pissed-off assassin nearby.

  “Are they competent?” Hammett asked.

  “Their dossiers check out. But that’s for you to judge. Did you at least pack a swimsuit?”

  “You’re an asshole,” Hammett said, hanging up.

  And she meant it. She didn’t like swimming. And though she’d never admit it to anyone, Hammett did have a small touch of coulrophobia.

  She peeled off the side of the road, going zero to a hundred in eight seconds, pissed off at the world and her place in it.
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  Chandler

  “The enemy has expectations,” the Instructor said. “Always try to defy those expectations. If they expect you to run, that’s the best time to attack.”

  I sat on the toilet in the bathroom stall, my gym bag at my feet. I was at the Stretchers on Clybourn, a women-only gym I belonged to where I rented a locker. I had several lockers at several locations in the Chicago area and around the country, each stocked with supplies. Though I didn’t have any ID on me, I’d given the receptionist the fake name I’d signed up with, and she matched it to my picture on her computer and let me in.

  My gym bag had a getaway kit in it. Essentials like money, passport, weapons, first aid; all the requirements of a spy on the run. I unwrapped a syringe, filled it with Demerol, and then gave some to my shoulder and some to my elbow; enough to kill the pain without putting my arm to sleep. Then I dry swallowed some Adderall—I didn’t have ADD but needed the amphetamine boost—and opened the box of Clairol Nice ’n Easy. I set up a hand mirror on the toilet paper dispenser, wielded some scissors, and cut my above-the-shoulder bob to a decidedly shorter pixie cut.

  Hairdressing wasn’t among the many lessons the Instructor had given me. But I’d taken a few classes on my own, knowing that one day I might have to do just what I was doing. After flushing the shorn locks down the toilet, I snapped on the plastic gloves from the hair dye kit and in a relatively short time went from a deep brunette to a medium golden blond.

  I took a quick shower, hot as I could stand it, and then dressed in a neon green micro mini and a tube top, no bra. After spending ten minutes in front of the sink, putting on enough makeup to shame a Vegas showgirl, I slipped on some three-inch pumps, shouldered my bag, and left Stretchers to hail a cab.

  As expected, no one wanted to pick up a cheap whore who looked like Sandy Duncan, until I stepped out in front of a cab waving a hundred-dollar bill.

  “The hospital,” I ordered once I’d folded myself into the back. The cab smelled like curry, cigarettes, and body odor, and the safety glass between me and the driver had cracks in it. His radio was tuned to a talk station, and some angry blowhard was yelling about the aborted nuclear strike on England and how it was the fault of gay people who wanted to marry.

  Tuning out the idiocy, I dug my hands into my pack, out of view of the prying eyes of the cabbie, and made sure my Beretta Storm had one in the chamber. It was a 9mm, held sixteen rounds, and I had two extra mags. I stuck them in the side lining, so they wouldn’t be noticed immediately if the bag was inspected, then located the empty syringe. I jabbed the needle in my forearm, several times, watching little beads of blood pop out.

  “Hey! None of that in my cab.”

  “Mind your own fucking business and drive,” I snarled. Sometimes the best counter to indignation was bigger indignation, and the driver didn’t look at or speak to me again until we reached the hospital.

  I tossed the money at him, didn’t wait for my change, and exited the cab with the full syringe.

  Showtime.

  Needle still in hand, I began to hyperventilate, staggering up to the ER doors past two agents in black suits, smearing the blood on my forearm with my fingers. When I was sure a nurse was watching me, I fell to the floor.

  “We’ve got an OD here!” she called.

  Through fluttering eyelids I watched two orderlies lift me onto a gurney. The nurse took my pulse—fast because of the amphetamines—and I began to pant.

  “Tracks on her arm. She’s got a syringe.”

  It was taken from me. I peeked at the men in black, but they were only giving me casual attention.

  “Can you hear me? What did you take? What’s in the needle?”

  “Chest hurts…” I moaned. “Hurts so bad…”

  Then I pretended to pass out.

  Like all hospitals, they had a protocol for dealing with patients called ESI, the Emergency Severity Index. Near the top of the list was drug overdose and chest pain. I was immediately buzzed through the security door and wheeled into the triage rooms. The orderlies pushed me into one at the end of the hall, through a hanging curtain, and then they left. The original nurse set up an IV while I looked for the requisite equipment cart, reaching out a hand to grab a packaged scalpel. I sat up, throwing my arm around the nurse and grabbing her mouth, my other hand pressing the scalpel to her throat.

  “An hour ago. White man in a black suit with a shattered knee. Where is he?”

  I gave her throat a tiny prick with the blade, then released her mouth.

  “He’s… I think he’s going into surgery.”

  That was fast. Knee injuries weren’t anywhere near the top of the ESI, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the men in black had some pull. “What room?”

  “Operating room C. Down the hall to the right. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “I need you to take your uniform off,” I said, reaching into my gym pack and seeking out my gun.

  Then the curtain drew open. I expected to see a doctor, or at worst, an agent.

  But I didn’t expect to see Chicago homicide lieutenant Jack Daniels. Even more surprisingly, she was holding a .38 in my face.

  “Hand out of the bag. Slowly.”

  She wore the same suit she’d had on when I saw her earlier, except now her gold star was hanging around her neck. Her gun was a Colt Detective Special, and I noticed that its cylinder was full.

  “You won’t shoot me,” I said.

  “And you won’t shoot me either. But I will break your nose with the butt of this gun.”

  A tremor shook my hand—something I hoped was the Adderall and not fear or exhaustion. “You aren’t fast enough.”

  “You want to try me?”

  I didn’t. Though Jack was an ally of sorts, I had scrapped with her before, and she was pretty good. She was also correct. I wasn’t going to shoot her, any more than I was going to kill the ER nurse for her outfit.

  “You came back for the agent,” Jack said. “The one whose leg you broke.”

  I nodded. My shaky fingers were still on the Beretta.

  “He’s guarded. Four men, all armed. You aren’t going to shoot up this hospital to get to him. Now take your goddamn hand out of the bag and don’t make me ask again.”

  I weighed my options, and noticed Jack’s eyes narrowing. She was really going to make good on her threat. She was going to try to break my nose.

  Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t. But the chance of her gun going off was too high. That would alert the agents, and then everything would go to shit.

  I took my empty hand out of the bag, fingers splayed wide. “Now what?”

  “Now you let go of the nurse, and you get what you deserve.”

  Her choice of words intrigued me. And her eyes showed a glimmer of relief.

  “Do it,” she said. But it was less like a command, more like a request.

  Did she want to arrest me? Or was she asking me to trust her?

  I dropped the scalpel, but still kept my grip on the nurse.

  “Nurse Rosetta,” Jack said, reading her nametag, “I’m a police officer. I’m going to escort this woman out of here. But I don’t want to cause a panic. There’s already been enough trouble at the hospital today, and we don’t want to add to it. So I need you to calmly walk out of here, and ask hospital security to come by. Do you understand?”

  The nurse nodded.

  “Let her go,” Jack told me.

  I did.

  “Slow and easy,” Jack told her. “Don’t panic. Don’t make a scene.”

  She nodded, smoothed out her uniform, and left the room without resorting to hysterics. Jack threw me her black Smith & Wesson handcuffs, which I caught. The same pair I’d had on earlier.

  “Put them on,” she said.

  “No way.”

  “No time to argue. If the nurse does what I told her, security will be here in under a minute. If she panics, those assholes in the black suits will come running instead.”

  “I mi
ght need my hands free.”

  Jack tossed me something else. The handcuff keys.

  “You can’t get to the guy,” she said. “But I’ve got something almost as good. When he went into surgery, his personal effects vanished. Including his gun, which has his prints on it.”

  She glanced down at her oversized Gucci purse.

  “Won’t help,” I said. “His ID will be fake. Clothes will be untraceable. And even if you do get a match, he’ll either be listed as dead or the information about him will be false. These guys are ghosts, Jack.”

  “Well, we’re going to use good old-fashioned police work and try.”

  “And if I disagree?”

  “I know this is some deep shit, Chandler. I even tried to call in a favor—the mayor owes me—and his hands were tied. But I’m not going to let you shoot up a hospital.”

  I let out a slow breath. “You knew I’d come back.”

  She nodded. “It’s what I would have done. Now I’m asking you to do it my way. If it doesn’t work, you can always try this again. He’ll be in surgery another three hours, minimum. You really messed him up.”

  I considered it. Could I actually find my sister by examining someone’s stuff? Jack seemed to be a good cop, and she’d helped me twice before. There were worse people in the world to trust.

  “Come on, Chandler. We’re wasting time.”

  I handed my gym bag to Jack, palmed the keys, and put on the bracelets, letting Jack escort me out of the room. She kept a tight hand on my arm, and put her gun back in her shoulder holster, letting the butt peek through the lapel in a way that was so obvious it had to be on purpose.

  We marched out of the triage center and back into the ER waiting room. This time I drew more attention from the agents in black, no doubt courtesy of the hysterical Nurse Rosetta, sobbing behind the check-in counter to two guys from hospital security. One of the agents stepped in front of Jack, blocking our path. Thirties, ex-military, scars on his chin and his knuckles.

  “What happened?” he asked, making a question sound like an order.

  “Little Janis Joplin here was trying to score some morphine.”