That’s when two more guards walked out of the hatch.
Tequila dug out the dog whistle, commanding the hounds to stay. Then he brought up the AR-7, sighting the first guard.
His head burst open like a Gallagher watermelon before Tequila fired a shot. The second ran for the building, hoping to make it to cover in time.
He didn’t. The sniper’s bullet blew out his heart.
But that gave Tequila the chance he needed to dash for the hatch. He launched into a run, the three seconds it took lasting an eternity, and he envisioned the bull’s-eye on his back, involuntarily hunching his shoulders in expectation of the bullet.
The shot never came. Tequila made it to the opening and ducked down behind the stairs.
He waited, listening.
Silence, except for some gunshots elsewhere on the grounds.
He checked his phone, finding nothing, and realized he couldn’t wait for Chandler any longer. Especially since she could already be dead. So he descended the stairs and went to search for Fleming on his own.
The hallway was just as he’d seen it on the helicopter monitor. Dark. Rocky. Dirty. An expected setting for a dungeon. He followed the corridor southeast, moving at a light jog, reaching the iron door after four hundred meters or so. He found the toy copter he’d landed there and quickly returned it to its metal case.
The door was heavy, solid, locked. Splitting the remaining hunk of Semtex in two equal pieces, he shaped a charge around the lock and jamb. Then he stuck a detonator in the center and retreated twenty meters, hugging the wall.
The explosion shook the tunnel, dirt falling from the ceiling, dust and smoke obscuring Tequila’s view.
The AR-7 at the ready, he waited for the bad guys to come out.
Chandler
“Use every advantage you have,” the Instructor said. “There is no such thing as a fair fight. There are only the survivors, and the dead.”
The Latino man didn’t shoot me in the face. He hesitated, something crossing over his eyes.
Confusion?
No.
Recognition.
“What the fuck are you doing, you idiot?” I said, brusquely pushing his gun aside. “You couldn’t tell it was me?”
“I’m…I thought you were back at the water filtration plant.”
“Do I look like I’m at the plant?”
I held out my hand, and he helped me up. But the doubt on his face remained. He might have mistaken me for Hammett, but it wouldn’t be long before he realized I wasn’t my identical sister. My hair was wet, darker looking than my blond dye job, and slicked back with algae water, making it hard to discern color and length right away. But even so, the guy would notice something eventually, maybe my hair, or clothing, or the rough shape I was in, and then once again I’d be looking down the barrel of his Glock.
I had to kill him before it came to that.
“Why didn’t you radio?” he asked.
“Do you see a radio? I fell in the damn water.” I changed my expression to alarm, pointing suddenly over his shoulder. “Behind you!”
The man turned, but only partway—a pro. I lashed out with a wet boot, slower than I would have liked, catching his wrist but not hard enough to jar loose the gun. As he spun back, I freed the Ghost Hawk from my neck sheath and chopped at his forearm.
Blood sprayed. His Glock went soaring into the weeds. He ignored the slash on his arm, the loss of his gun, and continued his momentum, turning a 180 and swinging the back of his left hand against my cheek before I could duck under it.
I dropped to my left knee, trying to stop the world from spinning, mastering it just in time to see him draw something from his belt.
A balisong.
Also known as the butterfly knife, the balisong is an ancient Filipino weapon that opens in a fan pattern by flicking the wrist and twirling the fingers. Besides offering the simplicity of one-handed operation, balisongs are high on the intimidation meter. Those who know how to use them really enjoy the process, and few things are scarier than getting into a knife fight with someone who likes it.
This man seemed to like it. Though his arm was bleeding, it wasn’t slowing down his balisong acrobatics. The knife flipped open and closed, twirling in a silver blur, the ching-ching-ching of the blade against the dual metal handles almost as frightening as the sound of a shotgun racking.
His eyes gleamed, and a sick smile spread across his face. “Le rebanaré abierto, puta.”
I will slice you open, bitch.
I raised the Ghost Hawk, which seemed ridiculously ineffective against my attacker’s six-inch blade. He feinted a thrust, then slashed at my eyes. I parried, the clang of metal on metal causing a spark, barely an inch away from having three of my fingers amputated at the knuckles. I leaned away, kicking out my right leg, connecting with the man’s knee.
He staggered back.
I attacked, the energy coming from some deep reserve I didn’t know I had, throwing myself at him, seeking to hook the Ghost Hawk into an artery.
Every time I went at him, he wasn’t there, or he blocked. Small, efficient moves. And he wasn’t even striking back. Just taking pleasure in the footwork.
Slash at the neck.
Blocked.
Slash at the inner thigh.
Jumped back.
Slash at the inner arm.
Parried.
Then I was on the defensive, backpedaling as he advanced with the balisong like a fencer, alternating thrusts and lunges with parries and swings. The rule when knife fighting is to watch the eyes—the eyes betray the attack. But the blows were coming so fast I had to rely on pure muscle memory, barely dodging and blocking in time. And besides, his eyes gave nothing away. Even in the fury of the attack, they stayed focused on mine with an unnerving calm.
More gunshots in the distance. Another slash, and I felt a sting across the back of my hand. A cut opened like I’d been unzipped, speckling my face with blood. This man had skills, along with strength, stamina, and a superior weapon.
I was going to lose.
I got under the next swing, kicked at his crotch, and right after I connected, turned tail and sprinted. Besides his tailored suit, my opponent sported soft-soled Italian shoes. Fashionable, but not the ideal footwear for running through prairieland.
I sheathed my Ghost Hawk and zigzagged my way around scrub brush and construction debris to the building in the distance, the old oleum plant. It could offer me places to hide, and opportunities to get away. The numbness of the anesthetic was wearing off, the tearing pain of Lund poking around in my belly beginning to return. I didn’t know how bad it would get, but this wasn’t a situation in which I could let pain incapacitate me. I shoved that mental signal in a file cabinet with all the others I chose to ignore, and slammed it closed.
My eyes stayed on my target, the building, but I could hear my pursuer behind me. His footfalls. His breathing. He was catching up.
I wasn’t going to lose him. He was too fast. That meant I needed to find the proper area to fight.
I reached the crest of a short incline, the building coming into full view—dilapidated, part of it torn down and bumping up against a mound that was three meters in height and flattened on top. It looked like a multicolored dirt hill, which didn’t make sense until I noticed the grinder.
The construction grinder was a monster, taking up the entire flatbed trailer of a semi truck. A long conveyor belt stretched from the grinder to the top of the debris mound, where it deposited the pulverized rubble. But I wasn’t focused on that. I was focused on the truck’s cab. Often construction workers leave keys in vehicles, especially on private sites. After all, who is going to break into a fenced and guarded army-owned compound and steal a thirty-ton industrial grinder?
I headed for the thirty-ton industrial grinder, intending to steal it. If I could make it inside the cab and lock the doors, that would buy me enough time to figure out how to start it up and drive away.
Not the best p
lan ever, but it beat going toe to toe with a knife-wielding killer.
Focusing on my target, I shifted all of my reserve energy into my legs, running hard as I could, blocking out everything except that truck.
Twenty meters away…
Fifteen…
I could sense my pursuer right on my heels, and part of me anticipated, expected, the tackle that would end with his knife in my throat.
Ten meters away, I locked my eyes on the driver’s-side door handle.
I reached out a hand, imagining pulling it open and diving inside.
Assuming it wasn’t locked.
Assuming he wouldn’t pin me to the truck like an hors d’oeuvre on a toothpick.
Five meters, and I made a judgment call. Instead of going for the door, I leaped onto the hood of the truck, Dukes of Hazzard style, sliding on my belly and turning onto my hip, landing on the passenger side and snagging the door handle.
Open. I got in, slapping down the lock button just as my attacker went for the handle. I slid into the driver’s seat, locked that side, then did a quick scan of the dashboard.
This wasn’t a normal truck. This was Super Truck. There were so many controls, switches, and knobs that it would have confused a NASA engineer. I managed to locate the ignition, a grin breaking out across my face when I saw the key inside it, and then I hit the brake and clutch and started that bad boy up.
I popped it into first gear, released the clutch, and gave it gas.
Nothing happened.
More gas, and though I heard the engine gunning, the truck wasn’t moving at all.
I checked the side mirror and spotted the problem. The truck had pneumatic lifters on either side, raising it up off the ground. That prevented anyone from driving it off while the grinder was on and the conveyor belt still attached.
OK. I needed to raise the braces. I eyed the control panel again, squinting at labels covered with a healthy layer of grime.
A knock on the glass ripped my attention away from the controls.
The Latino was standing by the door, smiling. His cool demeanor remained, and his hair still appeared combed. The only indication we’d been fighting was the blood on his arm.
“I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot,” he said.
I began pressing random buttons on the dashboard.
“I am Javier. At first, I mistook you for my present employer. But I’m sure you knew that. You must be sisters.”
The truck began to shake, the whole cab vibrating. I’d turned on the conveyor belt leading to the debris pile.
Javier tried the lock, said, “I just want to talk.”
“Kind of busy here.”
“What is your name, señorita?”
I hit a few more switches, and the conveyor belt reversed direction, as if trying to take debris from the mound and pull it into the truck bed.
“It is so rare to find an equally matched opponent. Surely you know this. I cannot think of the last time someone’s blade even touched me.” He held up his bloody arm. “Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”
I wasn’t happy with his nonchalance. A moment ago we’d been in mortal combat, and now he was chatting me up like we were poolside at a singles resort. “About what?”
“Which of us would be standing at the end.”
“You’ve got the better weapon.”
He reached into his jacket and removed a second balisong. A millisecond later it was open, the point tapping on the window. He was just as good lefty as righty.
“I could loan you this. But you would have to promise me not to get blood on it.”
Even worse than someone who knew how to use a knife was someone who wanted to show you how much he knew.
“I’ll pass.”
His face darkened, the sly smile becoming a tight line.
“If you do not want to play my game, we shall play another one.”
I went back to fiddling with the buttons and knobs. The next time I looked over, he was gone.
I pressed a green button that started blinking. Then the trunk began to shake, and a godawful noise cranked up behind me.
Great. I’d just started the industrial grinder. The red button beside the green one was probably the kill switch. I reached for it—
Something hit the windshield. I flinched and looked up in time to see a piece of cinder block bounce off the glass—thankfully it was shatterproof. Javier was standing on the hood. He gave a little wave, then hoisted the chunk of concrete over his head and brought it down again, making a long white scratch.
I punched the red button as Javier continued to batter the windshield, but it only had the effect of ramping up the grind speed.
Fuck this.
I need a new—
The windshield popped out of the frame in a complete sheet, slid up the dash, and came to rest in my lap. Javier climbed through, riding on top of it, pressing me back into the seat. His face less than an inch from mine, our lips separated only by glass.
He winked, then gave the window a quick kiss.
I reached over and popped the lock, pulled the handle, and hauled myself out the passenger door. Hit the ground, rolled onto my feet, saw Javier scrambling out of the cab behind me.
I made a quick survey of my surroundings as I tugged the Ghost Hawk out of my neck sheath.
Heard the ching-ching-ching of Javier’s butterfly.
Straight ahead, only two meters away, loomed the debris pile.
I accelerated toward it and leaped onto a broken piece of plywood, felt it shift, then settle underneath me.
I glanced back.
Javier had stopped at the foot of the debris pile and was looking up at me with his head tilted.
“This is uncivilized,” he said over the growl of the grinder. “Climbing around on this dirty mound like animals.”
“Then feel free to stay down there.”
“These are eight-hundred-dollar shoes. Let me tell you something.” He pointed the balisong’s knifepoint at me. “If I ruin these coming after you, I will make your death infinitely more unpleasant.”
“Even more unpleasant than your constant yapping?”
His face got darker.
I scrambled up the gentle slope. Unsurprisingly, it was made up of all the things that made a building, only ground up into small pieces. Wood, metal, glass, plastic. Wires and pipes. Old furniture and fixtures. Solid enough to hold my weight, but occasionally a foot sank in up to the ankle.
I glanced back and saw Javier climbing toward me on all fours, both of his knives clenched between his teeth, points out, like a furious, charging tusked animal. I made it to the top of the pile, looking around for a stick or pipe or something more substantial than the Ghost Hawk. All that stood out was a small chunk of wood, no wider than it was long.
I snatched it up, then turned to face my tormentor.
Javier stopped when he was several feet below.
He looked at my two-by-four, said, “Seriously? You just aren’t any fun at all.”
Then one of his butterflies stuck in the wood.
I hadn’t seen him throw it. Hadn’t even seen his arm move.
Pure dumb luck it hadn’t gone through my rib cage. Or had he hit what he was really aiming for?
“Now pull out the goddamn knife and let’s have us a proper fight, no?”
I yanked it from the board and switched hands. My training played through my head like old, flickering movies. I knew how to fight with knives. I was good at it.
But obviously so was Javier.
He leaped nimbly, and then we were both standing on the summit of the debris pile. The sun was almost kissing the horizon, casting a soft orange glow and making our shadows gigantic. The air felt almost still, and a hawk screamed overhead. I assumed a fighting stance, legs spread, knees bent, arms wide.
He lunged.
I parried and countered, metal clinging and sparking.
He blocked and thrust.
I leaned away, chopping with the G
host Hawk.
He parried.
This all repeated five times until we each stepped away, neither at an advantage.
It had all happened in less than three seconds.
“That would have been a sweet YouTube video,” Javier said.
Suddenly my left leg was bleeding. Not a serious cut, but deep enough to hurt.
He smiled, the edges of his mouth curling up like a pit viper’s.
“That is the thing with knives,” he said. “When the blade is sharp and the slice is fast, you don’t even know you have been—”
Suddenly his nose was bleeding. He staggered back, eyes wide.
“That’s the thing with kicks,” I said, bringing my foot back for a follow-up.
He jabbed his balisong at my neck. It was the first time I’d seen the attack coming—a minor narrowing of his eyes. He was angry and couldn’t hide it.
I got low and, using his own momentum, scissor-kicked his legs and clamped down. It brought him to his knees, but he grabbed hold of my arm as he went, and we both tumbled down the gradual incline of the debris pile, coming to an abrupt stop faster than we should have.
And then, instant acceleration.
For a crazy moment I felt like I’d been thrown from a moving car and was bouncing along the asphalt. But the rumbling sound, and the sensation of the road moving in the same direction I was, made the realization sink in pretty quickly.
We were on the conveyor belt, moving at a very quick clip.
I tried to kick Javier off my ankle, which his bulk pinned to the ribbed slats of the belt. He was too heavy to budge. I jackknifed into a sitting position, raising my knife, and then we were both airborne, falling into the bed of the truck, into the jaws of the industrial grinder.
Fleming
“The secrets you possess may risk lives,” said the Instructor. “Many lives. You alone have to make the call. Are those secrets worth more than your life?”
Fleming’s hand trembled. She felt the bite of the blade at her throat, the blood trickling down her collarbone.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 41