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

by J. A. Konrath

  “Trust me, you don’t want to get tangled up in this.”

  “So it does.”

  Speaking of the plant, I stood and brought my field glasses to my eyes. I spotted movement. Three men this time, all dressed in dark clothes. From this distance I couldn’t discern the reason behind the stir of activity, but I had a guess.

  “I really am sorry I overreacted, but I have to go.”

  I turned and headed east. I wasn’t sure how I was going to accomplish what I had to do next. I checked my TracFone. No text from Tequila. Next I scanned for clinics in the area.

  I heard him behind me, his strides still loud as a thundering horde, keeping pace with mine. He seemed to be exactly what he was, but I’d been fooled before. Still, he might offer an opportunity to take care of my problem.

  I called Information, had them connect me to the Sauk County Fire Department. A woman picked up.

  “Is Lund in?”

  “He’s not,” she said with the voice of a heavy smoker. “Is this Val?”

  I went with it. “Yeah. Can you give me his cell phone again?”

  “Sure. He’ll be thrilled to hear from you.

  She rattled off the digits, which I memorized and punched in.

  Behind me, a phone rang.

  “This is Lund.”

  I turned, watching him catch up, his phone to his ear.

  “You just asked me out a minute ago,” I said.

  He glanced up at me, saw me on the phone, and smiled. It was a nice smile.

  “You’re calling to accept?”

  “I don’t know. Would Val be upset?”

  “You must have talked to Nancy, the district dispatcher.”

  “And Val? Tell me about her.”

  “Val…she’s great, but she’s clearly stated she isn’t ready for a relationship.”

  He didn’t seem entirely happy about that fact, so as a matter of personal self-interest and limited time, I decided not to dig deeper.

  Flirting was a useful tool, especially for a female operative, and I’d actually had to study its subtleties in training. But if Lund couldn’t help me complete my mission, I couldn’t waste time with seduction, whether he was cute or not.

  Best to find out straight away whether playing with him was worthwhile. “Your EMS, is it part of the fire department?”

  He frowned, as if trying to figure out why I was asking. “Not technically, no. You know, you look like you’re dubbed in an old kung fu movie, because I’m watching your lips move but the sound in my phone is delayed.”

  I knew what he meant, because he looked the same. I almost considered striking a tiger stance and threatening his master with my drunken monkey style, but I managed instead to stay on task. I tucked away my phone and asked, “Does it operate out of the same building?”

  “It’s next door. We serve the same district but operate as two separate departments. Why? Are you injured?” He narrowed his eyes as if finally seeing shadows of the bruises I’d masked with makeup. “Don’t tell me you pinned me to the ground that easily while you’re injured. They’re going to take away my man card.”

  It had been a rough week, and my physical condition was debatable, but I didn’t see a point to rubbing it in. “I’m fine. I have something else in mind.”

  “Something you’re not going to explain?”

  “You’re catching on. Is there a clinic close by? Maybe an office for an ob-gyn?”

  He gave me a once-over. “You’re pregnant?”

  Obviously I was going to have to be more specific, not that my next statement would clear things up. “I’m looking for ultrasound equipment.”

  “In this area? You’re probably going to have to try a hospital.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve had my fill of hospitals.”

  “If you just need the machine, I have one that was designed for dairy cattle. Although I can’t guarantee it works.”

  “Where is it?”

  “My in-laws’ farm. Not far.”

  In-laws? I glanced at his hand. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. Would they sell it to me?”

  “Since they’re dead, and cows haven’t lived in the place for years, you can have it. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  I sized up David Lund. I was hesitant to trust anyone, but I did need his ultrasound. “OK, I’ll tell you. But first we have to get out of here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “So now you’ve decided to be stubborn?”

  He shrugged and made a show of leaning against the peeling trunk of a birch. “Now I have something to bargain with.”

  I knew a lot of ways to make him hand over the machine without giving anything in return. Unfortunately for me, I also believed civilians shouldn’t have to face the same brutal realities as those of us who’d chosen this life. I thought of Tequila. No doubt, he’d just take what he wanted, no matter who got hurt.

  “Do you have first-aid supplies? Something more involved than butterfly bandages and ibuprofen?”

  “I believe in being prepared. I have whatever you need.”

  “All right then, David. I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Call me Lund.”

  “Lund.” I needed to get this show on the road. I scanned the forest around us, ears tuned for any movement. “I want the same as you, to find out what’s going on in the Badger Ammunition plant. Only my reason is more complicated than curiosity or being a good citizen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I believe this place is a cover for a black site.”

  He didn’t look as surprised as I expected. “Like Abu Ghraib? In Wisconsin?”

  “I need to get in there undetected.”

  “And how will an ultrasound and first-aid supplies help you do that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “OK, how about a name?” he asked. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “Let me guess, if you told me, you’d have to kill me?” He chuckled.

  I didn’t crack a smile.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I won’t kill you…probably. But other people might. Just give me the ultrasound and walk away, Lund.”

  He gave me a smirk and shook his head. “You’re not telling me you’re some kind of spy.”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Now I was insulted. “I did just kick your ass.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, well, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  I just bet he was, but that was not a distraction I needed at the moment. “Now where is the ultrasound?”

  “Why should I tell you anything? You haven’t answered my questions.”

  “Hello? Ass kicking?”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Just in the brief time I’d been around David Lund, I had a pretty good feel for who he was. Firefighter. Went into the profession because of a desire to rescue others. Liked to think of himself as a hero.

  I took a deep breath, hoping what I was about to do was smart. “My sister is being held there against her will. I’m going to get her out.”

  He canted his head to the side and watched me, as if deciding whether to buy the story or not. “Sounds like you should call the police.”

  I shook my head. “The police can’t solve this for me. In fact, it would be very bad if they got involved. I know that sounds overly dramatic, but I’m serious. This issue is beyond police. I call them, and people will die who don’t have to.”

  He thought for a few seconds, then shoved himself up from the tree trunk. “The ultrasound is old, and I don’t think it’s ever been used.”

  “I can deal with that. I’ll also need a sharp knife and bandages and some method of sterilization.”

  “Y
ou don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “You have those things?”

  “Sure. And your name?”

  “Call me Chandler.”

  “Like the mystery writer? What’s your sister’s name? Dashiell Hammett?”

  I didn’t answer. He sighed.

  “All right, Chandler, follow me.”

  The White House

  “Our contact has briefed you?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. I’m…shocked by this.”

  The president stared at his VP. The veep was older, his hair slicked back and no doubt dyed, giving him the Ronald Reagan look. As a running mate he’d been capable, carrying the states the party delegates had predicted he would, but as second in command he’d disagreed with the president in public, many times. Especially this last term. The president could understand why—he was distancing himself from some of the president’s unpopular decisions so he could run on a more conservative platform, which was the direction the country seemed to be moving in. The president acknowledged the reason for this, but he privately bridled at every contradiction. They were supposed to be a team, not every man for himself. The VP should stand by his commander in chief.

  “I’m as shocked as you are, Jim. Apparently the Hydra project was a need-to-know basis. Plausible deniability.”

  “So who took it over when your predecessor left office?”

  “I don’t believe he was aware of it, either. This goes back a few decades. I don’t even know who’s running the damn thing now. An assassination arm of the military…do you have any idea how many laws and treaties this violates? Not to mention the goddamn Constitution.”

  The VP winced. The president knew he was deeply religious, and hated taking the Lord’s name in vain. It was pure hypocrisy, as the man was an adulterer, and fiercely coveted the White House. Perhaps some of the Ten Commandments were more breakable than others.

  “What’s the next step?” the VP asked.

  “The Hydra agent is being debriefed. But I’ve also got my own team on it. People I can count on.”

  “Who?”

  The president hesitated, and in that moment he realized he no longer trusted this man. But then, that was the reason he’d called him into the Oval Office. “I understand you’re calling for a press conference. I’ve seen your speech.”

  The vice president remained silent, his expression blank. He had tiny dark eyes. Mole eyes.

  “I’ll be blunt,” the president said. “If you’re willing to blame me publicly for this fiasco, I’ll leak your indiscretions to the press.”

  “The party wants me to be your successor.”

  “The party doesn’t know about your penchant for young prostitutes. I assume your wife doesn’t, either. You want to hang me out to dry, publicly? You’ll hang alongside me. Do we understand each other?”

  After a brief stare-down, he answered, “Yes, Mr. President. I’ll have them rewrite the speech.”

  “You might think I’m a lame duck, Jim. But this duck still has some fight left in him. You want to see how much fight, cross me.”

  “The party won’t be pleased.”

  “The party is the least of my worries. You can go now.”

  The vice president nodded, took a quick look at the eagle-emblazoned Resolute desk, then scurried away, closing the door behind him.

  Tequila

  The man named Tequila passed the south shore of Devil’s Lake State Park and took Burma Road to its end, a mile north of the ammunition plant. He pulled behind a copse of trees, where his SUV wouldn’t be seen from the trail, and spent five minutes gathering up dead branches and dead leaves from the previous autumn, arranging them on his vehicle to disguise its shape. Satisfied it was adequately camouflaged, he shouldered a backpack filled with supplies and began to hike south.

  His pace slow and deliberate, Tequila kept close tabs on his surroundings. He spotted a camera strapped to a tree at shoulder length, but deemed it to be for park rangers rather than government spooks—one of those placed on game trails and set off by motion detectors to count deer or bear or bigfoot or whatever else the rangers needed to keep track of. He broke open the steel casing with a palm strike, then took the SD card inside. When given the option, Tequila preferred not to be photographed.

  For someone born and raised urban, Tequila was strangely comfortable in the woods. Though he had no real experience camping, hunting, or fishing, he often visited forest preserves in northwestern Illinois and took walks. Sometimes he didn’t walk anywhere, preferring to stand in one place. He enjoyed the stillness of it, the sense of being immersed in nature while also observing it in a detached way. Once he’d stood in the same spot for more than three hours, becoming so much a part of the scenery that a cardinal had landed on his shoulder.

  He continued south, pausing often to listen, not needing the map or the compass to assess his location. Half a mile in, he spotted a white-tailed doe nibbling on an elderberry bush. Going into stalking mode, slow and silent, Tequila crept up behind her. The animal was oblivious to his presence until he reached out and gave her a small pat on her flank. She bounded off into the surrounding trees.

  For some reason, the deer made him think of Chandler. She was competent, no doubt. Well trained, motivated, and probably very good at her job. Attractive, too. But she was still young, and he sensed a naïveté about her that she would no doubt rather die than admit. He knew other gymnasts on the Olympic team that were like that. Stubborn, overconfident, and caught completely unaware when life came up and smacked them upside the head.

  Discipline, hard work, and talent weren’t enough. The better you were at something, the more the tiniest mistakes became amplified.

  Chandler seemed primed to make a mistake.

  So why was he helping her? He didn’t need the money. And while he liked Jack Daniels, he could have refused. Unlike many in his line of work, Tequila took no pleasure from the things he did. He prided himself on doing the job well, but there was no personal satisfaction in it. He had no ego to satisfy. He wasn’t a hothead, an adrenaline junkie, or a sadist. He hadn’t taken any jobs in a while, even though he still kept up his exercise and training regimen. He might as well have been retired.

  But Chandler’s situation provoked something in Tequila. She had been betrayed, and a family member needed her. Once upon a time, Tequila had been in a similar situation. Many people had died, including some who shouldn’t have.

  Tequila didn’t believe in regret, so he didn’t believe in redemption. Karma, like morality, was BS.

  But helping Chandler save her sister appealed to some inner part of him. A part he was pretty sure had died years ago.

  There was only one problem. If Chandler was right, and this was truly a government-run black site, there was no possible way two people would be able to infiltrate it and escape with a prisoner. It was one thing for the government to grab some foreigner named Khalid and torture him in a third-world country as long as someone cried terrorist. The American people were happy to suspend the Bill of Rights if it meant they slept better at night. But a secret prison, on US soil, detaining and torturing US citizens? If the president thought the missile debacle in the UK had hurt his reelection campaign, he hadn’t seen anything yet. And as a result, he’d be sure not to let this secret become known. He’d have it protected with lethal force.

  They wouldn’t be able to save Chandler’s sister. They wouldn’t even get close. And chances were high they’d die trying or wind up in cells alongside Fleming.

  But that didn’t stop Tequila from continuing his hike south to Badger Ammo’s perimeter fence. It was chain link, still new and shiny, three meters high and topped with razor wire. No electric fence warning signs, which would have been necessary since it was adjacent to a public park. No cameras in this area, either, and Tequila had an idea why as he stared out over the plant.

  The area was huge. A giant, rolling, overgrown prairie filled with several dozen buildings, reservoirs, a spiderweb of roads. And he could on
ly see part of it from here.

  It would take a gigantic budget to post cameras every few dozen meters on a property that stretched over twelve square miles, not to mention a control room the size of NASA.

  Which meant locating the prison entrance wouldn’t be as difficult as Tequila had expected. He’d been anticipating seeking out activity to pinpoint the site, but there was already a lot of activity on the grounds. Construction workers, trucks, helicopters coming in. Covering this much area, on foot, looking for a secret entrance to a secret prison without being discovered—it could take a very long time.

  But looking for areas where cameras were present would be a lot easier.

  Tequila made sure his jeans were tucked into his boots. Then he snugged the straps of his backpack and scurried up the fence with the speed and agility of a monkey. When he reached the concertina wire on top, he unzipped the rear pocket on his pack, removing some pliers. The cutters weren’t large, and the wire was thick, but the muscles in Tequila’s hand made up for the loss of leverage and he snipped through with only moderate effort. He vaulted the fence, landing like a cat, and jogged along the tree line until he reached a road. Tequila followed it, his eyes constantly in motion. When a dump truck rumbled by, he ducked into a tangle of wild blackberries. He nestled among their thorny stems and picked a few ripe specimens, chewing them as the truck passed.

  Glancing up at the sun, he headed west, winding up at a paved clearing, weeds breaking up through the asphalt. Having studied the map earlier, he knew this was the cannon area, where munitions were tested. He jogged past a dilapidated building, its blast-resistant walls still standing firm against the ravages of time and nature, and came to a rusted fence. Another building was attached, and Tequila noted the antique gun mounts, probably once used for howitzers. He sighted down the line of fire to a hill-side, a giant concrete bunker carved into it. Within the enclave, a giant mound of sand. To test their propellant, they’d fire into the mound, checking depth of penetration. That was to be expected.

  What was unexpected was the kennel. New fences, six feet high, filled with six doghouses. One of the hounds, a pit bull and mastiff mix who must have weighed as much as Tequila, slept in the corner of the pen, its massive head on its paws.