I wanted him to say yes. Yes, that’s how he wanted it to end up. Yes, he accepted me for who I was, and was willing to be with me anyway. Yes, he could be enough for me, and the scenario I’d thrown at him wasn’t meant to be sarcastic, but instead it was my deepest, truest hope.
But Lund gave me nothing, other than sad eyes. And I said nothing, just sat there, arms crossed over my chest, determined that would be enough to hold me together.
He pulled back onto the highway, and asphalt hummed under the tires. Soon he turned into a dirt rut driveway and steered around a half-collapsed, split-rail fence. Another gambrel-roofed barn poked through overgrown brush and trees, this one so old and neglected there was barely any paint left on the weathered boards. The roof sagged in the middle, a portion of it gone entirely. A trailer stood where the farmhouse had likely once been.
“This is your source?” I asked, emotion shoved firmly into some compartment I wasn’t sure I still had. Business as usual.
“Not my source exactly.”
“Have you ever bought weapons here before?”
“Never had the need.”
“Of course you haven’t.”
He parked near the double-wide and twisted in the driver’s seat, his eyes digging into me. “When we’re done here, if you want to go your own way, I understand. I’m here for as long as you and your sister need my help. But, what we did last night…that can’t happen again.”
His words stung. I thought about apologizing. Taking it all back. Or turning on my inner vamp, seducing him right there in the truck. But before I had a chance to do either, Lund was climbing out his door.
I exited the vehicle and glanced around at the dilapidated farm. Lund’s in-laws’ place was the Ritz compared to this. “Are you sure there’s anything of value in this place?”
“It’s the only place to get some of the things on your wish list around here, at least that I know of.”
“All right. Lead the way.”
The air smelled like early fall, wood fire, and a touch of rot from the barn. Gravel and quackgrass crunched under our boots, birds twittered around us, and to the east I could hear the beat of a helicopter blade. I checked the sky to make sure the aircraft wasn’t heading in our direction. The sky was vibrant blue, spotted with nimbus clouds, and except for a V of Canadian geese, it seemed to be clear.
“Now this could get touchy. I need you to follow my lead. The guy we’re dealing with, he isn’t the most predictable—”
A click registered in the back of my mind, a sound I’d recognize anywhere, the hammer of a revolver cocking, the cylinder turning, putting a round into position to fire.
The gunman was behind an old cellar door, just a few feet from me. With a swinging blow from my right hand and a twist of my left on the gun, I could shift out of his way and disarm him. But I couldn’t shift Lund to safety at the same time.
There was only one thing I could do. I tackled Lund, pushing him to the ground, covering him with my body as I turned to face the threat.
Not one of the black-clothed CIA thugs nor one of Hammett’s lunatics, the man holding the .45 Bulldog revolver was dressed head to toe in camouflage, but the straggly brown beard and shoulder-length hair threaded with gray was definitely not up to military specs. Regardless of where this guy was from, the hand holding the gun was steady, and I didn’t doubt he could be dangerous.
“Let me see your hands.” His voice creaked and popped, as if it didn’t get much use.
I raised my hands.
“What the hell?” Lund started to rise.
“Stay down. I’ve got this.”
“Don’t hurt him, Chandler,” Lund said. “He’s our guy.”
“Did you forget to call ahead?”
“He never answers his phone.” Lund sat up, raising his hands as well. “Kasdorf, please put the gun down. I’m Lund. The firefighter. Remember me? This is Chandler. We need your help.”
Kasdorf squinted at us for a few seconds as if he couldn’t place Lund, then lowered the Bulldog and slipped it into his holster. “What do you want?”
Lund stood and then helped me up. “I want a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Weapons. Ammunition. I want you to sell us some.”
“You’re doing this for the police chief?”
“She doesn’t know a thing about it, and I give you my word she never will.”
I could only surmise he meant Val. Lund had borrowed her horses for me, asked her to smuggle us out instead of arresting us, and now he was swearing to keep my secrets. I had a feeling that if Blondie ever found me so much as jaywalking in her town, I would be looking at cavity searches and jail time.
Kasdorf bobbed his head in my direction. “How do I know this one ain’t a government agent or something?” For a moment, he looked as if he were contemplating going back to the gun.
I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that one.
“You know the old Badger Ammo plant?” Lund asked.
“Yeah, what about it? Place is a black site for the CIA.”
“Actually, you’re right,” I said.
“Of course I’m right. I live here, don’t I?”
Lund nodded to me, a hint I should continue.
“They took my sister, tortured her. We broke her out last night, but you know how those people are. They aren’t going to let us get away. They’re going to come after us, and we need to be ready.”
“I ain’t just giving you my collection.”
“I have money,” I said. “I’ll pay you well.”
He glowered at me for a few seconds, and I could swear I heard a harrumph. “We’ll see about that.”
I expected him to lead us into the trailer home, but instead he turned to the cellar and pulled the steel cover open. Steps led down into the earth, and I caught the scent of recently poured concrete.
He started down and motioned for us to follow. I went and then Lund, lowering the door behind us. The basement held very little, as far as I could see in the dim overhead bulbs. A chest freezer lined one wall, and a shelf full of Ball canning jars filled with pickles and tomato preserves. Something yellow, red, and green took up another wall.
“Is that corn relish?”
“My mother made it.”
“I had it once when I was little. It’s amazing.”
Kasdorf stared at me, then a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. He picked one of the smallest jars from the shelf. I could tell by the gentle way he lifted the glass that it was precious to him. He handed it to me.
“Can I pay you for it?”
“My mother would want you to have that. You and your sister.”
“That’s a very generous gift. Thank you.”
“But the guns and ammunition? Them you’ll pay for.” He turned back to the wall and pulled at something behind the jars. The shelves swung toward us, accompanied by a slight sucking sound, like the opening of a freezer door.
He stepped inside and we followed, a thrill shimmering up my spine at the array of wonderful, dangerous toys covering the walls like a munitions Toys “R” Us.
Fleming
“Sherman called war ‘hell,’” the Instructor said. “Sun Tzu called war ‘art.’ Pack for both.”
Was there anything sexier than a hunky man with an arc welder? Fleming didn’t think so.
She sat in a rocking chair on Lund’s back porch, laptop in lap, hacking into Hydra’s encrypted database server to find out where Hammett was holing up. This was in between stealing numerous glances at Tequila, who was near the barn, reinforcing her new wheelchair with spires from an old wrought iron fence. He had his shirt off, and the sweat on his chest glinted in the sunlight. Though she’d never admit it to anyone, Fleming had always had the hots for Darth Vader, and seeing Tequila in that black welding mask made her want to crawl across the pinecone-strewn lawn and violate him in delicious ways.
Fleming smiled to herself. She’d slept well, partly because of the drugs, partl
y because of the sex, but mostly because Tequila had given her a temporary reprieve from her fear and pain. She was sore—it had taken three ibuprofen and half a dozen small shots of Demerol before she’d been able to get out of bed—but she’d managed to avoid nightmares. That was surprising, considering that she often had nightmares on good days, and the ordeal she’d just been through could be classified as one of the worst in her life. But she hadn’t dreamt of Malcolm, or the black site, or Hammett. Nor did she have the usual walking dream, only to wake up and be once again devastated by her condition.
Last night, Fleming had dreamed of being a wife and mother.
It hadn’t been a particularly vivid dream, nor was it overly happy, but it made her think of Chandler’s dilemma with Lund. You can’t be in this business and have a family. Period. As safe as Tequila made Fleming feel, he was just the latest in a series of boy toys, and she couldn’t see developing anything more than friendship with him. But earlier, Fleming had seen the look of worry on Chandler’s face, and she understood the deeper feelings it covered up.
Chandler, like Fleming and probably Hammett, couldn’t allow herself to get close to people, because it inevitably ended in tragedy. Either for the beloved, or personally. Caring about someone meant putting someone ahead of you. For an operative in the field, that was death.
Plus, there was a chicken-versus-egg dynamic. Were they incapable of having meaningful relationships because they were assassins? Or had an inability to have meaningful relationships pushed them toward this line of work?
Over the past few days, Fleming’s interaction with Chandler had gone from businesslike to intimate. Chandler connecting with Lund was another step in that direction. This was dangerous, especially since they still had a mission to complete.
Fleming considered the Instructor. She owed him a lot for what he’d given her, the skills to be the best of the best. She also despised him for what he’d taken from her, namely, her humanity. After rescuing him, what next? Could Fleming go back to business as usual? Did she even want to?
A pair of fat blue dragonflies landed on Fleming’s rocking-chair arm. They were mating, connected to each other in a heart-shaped loop. Yet as unwieldy and uncomfortable as the copulation appeared, they were still able to fly.
For shits and grins, Fleming tried to imagine a domestic life with Tequila, but she couldn’t picture what that would be like. Instead of a computer in her lap, what if it were a baby? What if Tequila were planting bushes in the yard, rather than outfitting her wheelchair for war? What if Chandler had gone out to buy ingredients to bake cookies instead of guns?
The dragonflies flew off, erratically. Fleming half expected a blue jay to come swooping down to gobble them up. But they managed to live for at least as long as Fleming watched them.
It didn’t matter. Winter weather would kill them soon.
She went back to her laptop. Months ago, Fleming had used a worm, concealed in a rootkit, to install a backdoor on Hydra’s server. She didn’t know which program was the GPS tracker, and since each program was numbered rather than named, Fleming had to look at each individually. Many were password protected, which required cracks. She had various cracking programs stored in her file locker, which she could access remotely.
It wasn’t a difficult task, but it was slow going.
“OK, wheels are reinforced,” Tequila said. He wiped a sweaty arm across his sweaty brow, looking like he’d been chiseled out of marble. “It’s a lot heavier.”
“Are you mistaking me for some fragile waif, Tequila?”
“Just want to make sure you’ll be able to get this sucker rolling with me in your lap.” He tossed her one of his rare grins. “Of course, with the cycle parts…”
Tequila’s focus snapped toward the road, and Fleming heard it a second later; vehicle coming.
“It’s Lund’s truck,” Tequila said. How he could determine that by hearing its engine, Fleming didn’t know, but she liked the fact that even though he knew who it was, he still disappeared behind the garage. He might not have been trained by Hydra, but his abilities, and instincts, were top notch.
Lund pulled up and parked on the grass, and he and Chandler got out without looking at each other.
Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise.
Chandler took a duffel bag from the backseat and slung a rifle over her shoulder, while Lund trudged up to the porch, gave Fleming a bland nod, and stood there like a man wanting a smoke but out of cigarettes. Chandler walked up the porch stairs without looking at Lund, and Fleming could feel the tension between them radiating like microwaves.
“Got some oldies but goodies,” Chandler said, setting down the duffel with a heavy thump.
She dug into the bag. “Ceska Skorpion, chambered for .32 ACP.”
Chandler handed the submachine gun to Fleming, who admired its lethal beauty. Oldie was right—this looked to be 1960s—but the owner had kept it cared for, cleaned, and oiled. She checked the thirty-round curved magazine, unfolded the wire-frame stock, and pulled the bolt back.
“Two extra mags for you.” Chandler passed them over. “You also have an AR-15, standard five-five-six NATO, converted to full auto.”
Chandler unslung the rifle, and Fleming hefted its weight. A fully automatic AR-15 was basically an M-16, made famous by Rambo and any movie set during the Vietnam War. This had an extra mag taped upside down to the one in the well, and Leupold optics.
“Nine-mil Beretta,” Chandler said, handing Fleming a pistol, butt first. “And a KA-BAR.” The Marine fighting knife was seven inches long, in a leather sheath.
“Got my ammo?” Tequila had managed to materialize on the porch without Fleming noticing.
Chandler nodded, handing him some boxes.
“How about you, Lund?” Fleming asked. The poor guy had his hands in his pockets, looking like the last kid picked for the kickball team.
“Lund has done enough,” Chandler said. She focused on Fleming, on Tequila, on anyone except the man she was discussing. “He’s lending us his truck, but he isn’t coming along.”
Ouch.
Chandler was right, of course. Lund had proven helpful, and resourceful, but he didn’t have the training they had. Still, her sister didn’t have to kick a guy so obviously down. Fleming wondered what had gone down during Chandler and Lund’s shopping trip. It couldn’t have been pleasant.
“Thanks for the truck, Lund,” Fleming said. “We really appreciate all you’ve done.”
“Not a problem.” He nodded agreeably, but tension in the muscles along his jaw gave away how he really felt.
Fleming leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “You’re a fighter. Fighters don’t give up. On anything.”
He nodded again, but his expression didn’t change.
“We’ll be back. Chandler will be back.” Fleming wasn’t sure he wanted to hear her message at the moment, but if he was worthy of her sister—and judging from what she’d seen, he was—he’d be ready to fight for her when they returned.
Fleming’s computer beeped, the latest password broken, and she checked the program. “I found the GPS tracker.” She waved Chandler and Tequila over.
Moving her fingers along the touchpad, she quickly located Hammett’s receiver, and zoomed in on the map. Pulling in a sharp breath when she spotted their sister’s location, she tilted the computer so Chandler could see.
Chandler’s reaction was similar. “She’s back at the ammo plant?”
“Looks that way.”
“This is your other sister?” Tequila asked. He stepped closer, also eyeing the screen. “The maniac on the wire?”
Fleming nodded. “Hammett.”
“She must know the Instructor is there.” Chandler’s voice rose barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Fleming answered. The time for mulling over relationships and dragonflies was over.
“We’d better move.”
“Yeah.”
Chandler
“If you’re going to risk your life
,” the Instructor said, “it had better be for something worth dying for.”
It was past lunch when we rolled into Baraboo, and the three of us were famished. We stopped at a busy deli that boasted more than two hundred types of cheese—imagine finding that in Wisconsin—and I ordered some sandwiches while Tequila and Fleming waited in the truck. We ate on the way to a Walmart, where I used Tequila’s money to buy two pairs of 50x binoculars, three Motorola thirty-five-mile walkie-talkies, batteries, a climbing stick, a tree seat, two fanny packs, a TracFone, superglue, a first-aid kit, appropriate clothing, a night-vision monocular, bottled water, beef jerky, protein bars, pepper spray, and some braided paracord bracelets. Also in town was a medical supply store, and we outfitted Fleming with two forearm crutches and some aluminum leg braces.
Then it was off to the police station to get Tequila’s car out of impound. I could have done that earlier with Lund, but it would have required spending even more uncomfortable time with him. Our morning munitions shopping trip had been hard enough, and even though I’d avoided looking at him when I announced he wasn’t going to Badger, I’d sensed his feeling of powerlessness; and I knew not allowing him to help was probably the worst thing I could do to a man like Lund.
Not that I expected my announcement to stop him, which is why I’d taken his truck.
Of course, having a vehicle bearing Wisconsin plates and a state park sticker was handy as well, as long as we kept it in the park and away from Badger. As we wolfed down our cheese sandwiches and shopped for supplies, we hashed over our plan, and by the time we loaded up our purchases, we were good to go.
I was to accompany Tequila to the same spot where he’d dropped me off the day before, near the farm. Fleming was going to enter Badger via Devil’s Lake State Park, taking Lund’s truck. Apparently my sister could drive by using a cane to operate the gas and brake. I took her at her word. She was going to take Lund’s truck to the end of Burma Road, right at the perimeter fence, and set up a watch in a high hide.
“You climb trees?” Tequila asked.
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