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

by J. A. Konrath

  Hammett glanced at her digital tablet again. “Mr. Brown, I see you’ve been working consistently. Mr. Estrada, I notice you’ve been off the radar for a while.”

  Javier shrugged. “Had this thing going in Alaska. Didn’t end well. Just getting back into the game.”

  All of them except for Jersey, who was playing with the stump where his right index finger used to be, turned to look at the door before it opened. An overweight guy in a black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt—which had faded to light gray—took a step inside and quickly said, “Charlie foxtrot tango. Christ, you all look so goddamn serious.”

  This was Merle Hosendorff, vehicle expert.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Hosendorff.”

  “Speed,” he said. “Call me Speed.”

  What is it about mercs and stupid nicknames? Hammett thought. Then she remembered that Hammett wasn’t her real name either. Nor was it one she’d picked for herself. But then it was a helluva lot better than the one her foster parents had given her. Betsy.

  Does Betsy sound like the name for someone who’d killed over fifty people, bare-handed?

  Speed sat next to Jersey. According to his record, he could drive, fly, or sail any kind of vehicle, and repair them if needed. Hammett didn’t figure they’d need anything more complicated than insertion and extraction, but it never hurt to be overqualified for a position.

  She checked the time on her tablet. The last recruit was late, and she decided to begin the briefing without him.

  “Gentlemen, you’re all familiar with black sites. There’s one—”

  “Twenty-five kilometers south of here, in the old Badger Ammunition factory.”

  None of them had noticed the man slip into the room. He was thin, South American, and spoke with a slight lisp in a thick accent that might have been Bolivian. He had a clipped black mustache and oily, swarthy skin. Like Javier and Isaiah, this man was a bad boy. But not a bad boy you wanted to take to bed. This one was a bad boy you didn’t want to be left alone with.

  His CV listed him only as Santiago. His specialty was interrogation—a specialty that would be required once they had Fleming. Hammett was no neophyte at making people talk, but her sister had proven pretty tough. Santiago could supposedly make people confess in languages they didn’t even know.

  “You’re aware of this because…?” Hammett asked.

  “Because”—Santiago smiled, and it was an ugly smile, filled with crooked yellow teeth— “I’ve been there before. I did some work for them, in an unofficial capacity.”

  “So you know the layout?” Hammett only had satellite photos of the area and a sketchy blueprint that might or might not have been accurate. Truth told, breaking into a black site was a risky, potentially fatal endeavor, and she wasn’t keen on it. Insider intel could mean the difference between success and failure.

  “I do.”

  Hammett smiled, and though her teeth were white and even, she knew her grin was every bit as ugly as Santiago’s.

  This mission had just become much more possible.

  Chandler

  “I’ve taught you to trust no one,” the Instructor said. “But sometimes you’ll be forced to rely on other people. Tread carefully. The only thing worse than betrayal is incompetence.”

  I wasn’t sure what to expect from Baraboo, Wisconsin. Red gambrel-roofed barns with silos and quaint split-log lodges, perhaps. Things that I’d seen in travel brochures for the area. And while those items were scattered around the countryside, along with billboards touting Circus World Museum and Tommy Bartlett and water parks in the Wisconsin Dells, the things that held my attention most were the imposing tree-covered bluffs and the sheer size of the US Army’s Badger Ammunition plant.

  We’d just emerged from the river town of Sauk City and passed a tiny grass-field airport and a handful of farms when the fence began. Twelve feet down the highway, I had to wonder if it was electrified.

  Beyond the fence, row after row of old warehouses, barracks, and factories stood, some in disrepair, some with sagging roofs and half-torn-down walls, some nothing but concrete foundations surrounded with scrub grass. Once a busy plant serving the war effort, the place was now overcome with age and vegetation, nature taking back what was hers.

  Contaminated land, dilapidated ruins, and an ongoing effort of environmental cleanup made a good cover for a black site. People could go in and out. A heavy guard could keep an eye on the place. And yet no one would ask any serious questions about what was really happening behind that fence.

  We drove along the roads surrounding the site, looking for the best approach. Yellow stalks stubbled several surrounding fields, some of the corn already cut down in preparation for winter. Highway 78 flanked the plant to the east, following the Wisconsin River, and Highway 12 bordered the western side. As Tequila had previously said, the forested bluffs of Devil’s Lake State Park looming to the north seemed like our best bet. But there was so much terrain to cover, we decided to split it into sections.

  “I’ll go in here. The elevation should make it easier to take in the whole area.”

  Tequila nodded and said nothing, as usual.

  “What approach are you taking?”

  “Through the park. I’ll text you.”

  “Great.”

  “Before I drop you off, you need to pay me.”

  One of the longest sentences he’d uttered in the past hour. Figures that it would be about money. “You’re quite a mercenary.” I mentally calculated the cash I had left. His advance would take most of it. “You haven’t done anything to earn it yet.”

  “But you know I will.”

  Tequila took 78 to 133 heading north, turned left at a campground, and followed a small road called Helweg, bordering the park on the southeast corner. It continued to follow the edge of the park going west and came to a dead end at a cornfield that was still standing. He stopped, staring through the windshield, his hands on the steering wheel. “The money?”

  On the way up, I’d sorted the supplies Harry had not-so-generously provided, stuffing the items I needed into my gym bag and leaving the rest for Tequila. I counted out ten grand, trying not to let Tequila see I didn’t have much more than that, slipped it into the bag with the other supplies I was leaving him, and hopped out. I didn’t like trusting him, but at this point, I had little choice. “You don’t do the job, I’ll find you.”

  “I’ll text.”

  I slammed the door and hiked northwest into Devil’s Lake State Park.

  The park itself was beautiful, though I couldn’t see the lake from my location. The air smelled of leaves starting to turn, wood fire, and pine. Only natural sounds reached me, wind through boughs, the chatter of birds, the soft pad of evergreen needles under my feet.

  The terrain was rocky and inclined sharply, outcroppings of Baraboo quartzite everywhere, and even though I was moving at a ground-covering jog, my progress was slower than I liked. Most of my work entailed moving around city landscapes, and I had to admit I was more comfortable with traffic and crime than wild raspberry bushes and a seemingly inexhaustible variety of burrs. They stuck to my jeans and socks and pricked my legs, holding on with a vengeance no matter how hard I tried to pick them clean.

  I angled my path westerly, heading for the spot of highest elevation, somewhere I could get a good view of the whole layout at once.

  Reaching the crest of the bluff, I shimmied up the trunk of a squatty maple and pulled a set of binoculars from my gym bag. I didn’t have to climb high to get my view.

  If I’d thought the plant was expansive from the ground, the space we were dealing with was even more daunting from up here. Barracks lined the area to the west. Factories, old warehouses, and some suspicious mounds in the earth dotted acre after acre of land. Two large open-water concrete reservoirs dominated the northern end, just below the bluff where I perched. A network of gravel and dirt roads connected each of the clusters of factories and train tracks cut through the plant’s center. Several large dump trucks
kicked up dust near the barracks area to the west, and a large backhoe bit into a pile of wood refuse and dumped it into the biggest wood chipper I’d ever seen.

  I focused on the areas boasting less activity. If Fleming was here, she could be almost anywhere. At least until you read the signs. And heading my way was a neon one bigger than all the billboards we’d passed on the drive up.

  The helicopter was designed for stealth, but that didn’t mean it was totally silent. While it didn’t give me the beating sensation in my chest, I picked up the sound of the blade before I saw the sleek black body.

  It circled the area, approaching from the south. Although I was fairly certain it wouldn’t be able to spot me, I snugged a little farther into the leaves anyway and watched its descent.

  It chose a cluster of old buildings close to the middle of the acreage on the northern end, and once it lowered down into a clump of trees and brush surrounding the structures, I lost sight of it completely, even with the benefit of my vantage point.

  To learn more, I’d have to get closer.

  A man dressed in black emerged from a door one building over. In his hand, he held a tablet computer, his eyes glued to the screen. He crossed the short space to the area where the chopper had landed and disappeared behind a clump of ratty box elder trees.

  My pulse kicked up a notch. If the man I’d just spotted had the software to track me, they knew I was here. That damn GPS tracker. Medical supplies beyond the most basic first-aid kit weren’t among the items Harry had provided, and what I had in mind was a bit more involved than simple bandages and cold compresses could handle. I slid down the tree.

  Even after what I’d seen, I didn’t expect company so quickly.

  I heard him long before I saw him. A man, probably tall, moving through the forest with the tromp of a giant.

  I crouched low behind an outcropping, making myself as small and unobtrusive as possible. The adrenaline pouring into my system made my vision clear, my other senses sharp. The scents of leaves and pine were joined by the man-made fragrance of shampoo, an inexpensive herbal, and leather. A twig snapped, then a boot tread slipped on rock. Finally the jingle of keys moving in a jeans pocket, and quiet.

  I couldn’t see him from my hiding place, but judging from the footfalls, there was only one. If they’d pinpointed my location, I would expect them to send more.

  I pulled my weapon from my waistband and slipped it into my jacket pocket, finger on the trigger. Moving as quietly as my target was loud, I inched to the side of the rock and peered through the trees.

  He was standing near a fallen pine tree, not dressed in black like the man below, but in jeans, boots, and a leather bomber. He had dark hair and a strong build, and from all appearances was a guy who just happened to be enjoying a walk through the woods…if you didn’t count the pair of field glasses he was focusing on the spot where the helicopter had just landed.

  Interesting.

  I rose to my full height and stepped toward him.

  He spun around and looked me straight in the eye. Jumpy.

  “Doing a little bird-watching?” I asked.

  “Uh, yeah.” He squared his shoulders, obviously sensing something wrong, even though from all appearances I was just a hiker enjoying the woods, same as him. “Nice day, huh?”

  “A little cold for my taste.”

  “Not as cold as it will be in a month.”

  “You spend a lot of time out here?”

  He narrowed his eyes, sizing me up. “I live nearby. Where are you from?”

  “Chicago. Just doing a little hiking.”

  “Perfect weather for that.”

  Every detail about him screamed civilian. He even had the weather small talk down. But though there weren’t any laws against civilians using a little magnification, the binoculars bothered me. I nodded toward the landscape below. “What is this place?”

  “Old ammunition factory. Owned by the US government.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You have no idea.” He glanced at the spot where the helicopter had landed, then dipped his right hand into the pocket of his jacket.

  I was on him in less than a heartbeat.

  I dove for his wrist and seized it with both hands, right above left. Without giving him a chance to react, I jerked it downward. If done fast and hard enough, a move like this can produce considerable shock, almost amounting to a knockout blow.

  I was slightly off balance in my attack and he was a big man, so I flowed into the next move immediately.

  I swung his arm up, shoulder height, twisting it toward me and forcing him off balance. I stepped forward and under his arm, twirling in toward his body as if performing a dance move, and twisted his arm behind his back.

  He staggered forward and fell to the ground.

  I moved with him, driving my knee into his back and pinning him face down on the forest floor. After the beatings I’d taken in the past day, it was good to know I still had it…well, at least enough not to have my ass handed to me in every fight.

  “Who are you?”

  It took him several seconds to answer. “What the hell is with you Chicago people? Are you mugging me? We’re in a state park, for crying out loud.”

  “Is that a cheesehead rule? You can be mugged, but never in a state park?”

  “What?”

  “Who are you?” I repeated. “Your name. What is it?”

  “David Lund.”

  “What are you doing here, David Lund?”

  “Bird-watching, like you said. I was keeping an eye on the helicopters.”

  “Why?”

  “They fly in and out all the time. But whenever I’ve asked what’s going on, no one will tell me a damn thing. Are you with the army?”

  “I’m asking the questions, David.”

  “Look, if you’re a mugger, my wallet is in my back pocket. If you’re some sort of military, you’ve made your point. I’ll stay away from now on.”

  I hoped David Lund was who he said he was, because I kind of liked his coolness under pressure and smart mouth. It would be a shame to have to kill him.

  “Why do you care so much about these helicopters?” I asked.

  “Why do I care?”

  “That was the question.”

  “Maybe because as a citizen in a democratic republic, I’m supposed to keep my government in check. Will you let go of my arm before you dislocate my shoulder?”

  I didn’t move. “You think they’re hiding something.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s usually fire.”

  “And why have you decided to cast yourself as fireman?”

  He blew a derisive laugh through his nose.

  “Let me guess. You really are a fireman.”

  “Firefighter.”

  What were the odds? “Can you prove it?”

  “If you’d get off me.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Why would I be armed?”

  I checked his jacket pocket and found a computer printout of a map featuring the ammunition plant.

  “I was going to show you that when you suddenly decided to kick my ass.”

  Running my hand down one side, then the other, I came up with similarly innocuous items. Car keys, change, a pen. Except for an impressive set of muscles, appealingly solid under my fingers, he had no weapon.

  I pulled out his wallet and flipped to a Wisconsin driver’s license for David Lund, local boy, and another ID that showed him to be a certified fire inspector. If he was CIA or a similar agency, they’d done a flawless job with the details—something they aren’t exactly known for.

  I released his arm and thrust myself off his back. “Turn around slowly, stay seated, and let me see your hands.”

  He did as I said, brushing leaves and mud off his jacket and out of his hair.

  He was a good-looking guy, dark hair curling a little at his collar, brown eyes, and bone structure that jibed with the Nordic last name. His shoulders were broad, thighs st
rong. It was probably due to the adrenaline, but I had to admit, I could imagine him dressed in a firefighter helmet…and nothing else.

  “So you really are a firefighter?”

  “What else would I be?”

  Unfortunately a firefighter’s skills didn’t do me much good going up against the people I was facing, and now I’d complicated the situation by assaulting a civilian.

  “So…going to tell me who you are?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Just my luck. I run into a mysterious woman in a forest, and she beats me up and refuses to give me her name. That’s not the way the Penthouse Forum stories usually go.”

  I couldn’t hold back a smile and had to admit once again that his sense of humor and composure under stress impressed me. It made sense that a firefighter would be good at controlling and compartmentalizing emotion.

  For a second, I flashed back to Victor Cormack, who I guess I could call my ex, although our breakup had been a little rough. His cover had been working for the fire department, but as an EMT. He’d also been cool in tough situations, good-looking, funny. I’d been impressed with him, too.

  God, I hated being so predictable.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry for being so paranoid. It must be my city upbringing. I see threats at every turn.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He finished brushing forest debris from the front of his jacket and jeans. “I’m not as fragile as I look.”

  “If there’s a word that doesn’t fit you, it’s fragile.”

  “You’d be surprised. For instance, if you refused to go to lunch with me, I might be crushed.”

  “You’re asking me out?”

  “Trying to.”

  And if I wasn’t about to save my sister, I might take him up on it. “I’m a little busy.”

  “Hiking?”

  “And other things.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Those things don’t have something to do with the ammunitions plant, do they?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  He arched his brows and shot me a who’s-kidding-whom expression.