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

by J. A. Konrath

  Ann: We’ll have to take Three someplace else.

  Joe: Any thoughts about where? And how it’ll work out with Hammett on their side? Isn’t she too much of a psychopath to trust?

  Ann: Oh, I have a lot of thoughts. We can take this international. And I love the idea of an enemy becoming an ally. I guess it remains to be seen how Chandler and Fleming deal with Hammett.

  Joe: I also gotta say thanks to our friend Blake Crouch for letting us use his characters Javier and Isaiah. Those are his villains from his books Snowbound and Abandon, and he was cool enough to let us borrow them so we didn’t have to make up new characters on our own. So thanks, Blake.

  Ann: Are we paying Blake anything?

  Joe: Hell, no.

  You did the sex scene in Flee, and in Spree, and I just added some naughty bits to them. I think, for Three, we each do a sex scene. I feel I’m ready to do one on my own.

  Ann: Your transition to sex just gave me whiplash. But, you’ll be great! When people try to guess which part you wrote and which I wrote, they’re usually wrong.

  Joe: They’ll know for sure this time. My sex scene will take place while they’re plummeting from a helicopter while on fire.

  It’ll be hot.

  Ann: And they’ll really fall for each other, right?

  Joe: Ugh. You’ve been collaborating with me too long. People are going to think I wrote that joke for you.

  Ann: You didn’t?

  Joe: Sadly, no.

  So, is Three going to be it for the Codename: Chandler series? Or will there be more books with these characters?

  Ann: We’ve written three Codename: Chandler novellas; Exposed, Naughty, and Hit, which all take place before Flee. I can’t imagine the ideas will suddenly stop flowing. These are fun characters!

  Joe: You’re doing another Val/Lund book, right?

  Ann: I’m writing at least two follow-ups to Pushed Too Far: Cut Too Deep and Dead Too Soon, in addition to other things. And you have about a billion books planned, don’t you?

  Joe: I’m doing another Kilborn horror novel called Haunted House, and a sequel to Origin called Second Coming, among other projects. So the only way we can squeeze in another Chandler is if she becomes a huge hit and fans want more.

  Feel free to contact Ann at ann@annvosspeterson.com and demand another Chandler story.

  Ann: Great idea. You can also contact Joe at—

  Joe: Sorry. We’re out of time.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  We truly hoped you enjoyed Spree. While it can be read as a stand-alone thriller, this is the second part of a trilogy featuring Chandler, Hammett, and Fleming. If you like to read things in order, it is Flee, Spree, Three. Chandler also appears in the short novel Exposed, and in Hit. Hammett appears in the short novel Naughty. All of these take place prior to Flee.

  The characters of Lund and Val appear in Pushed Too Far, by Ann Voss Peterson.

  The characters of Jack Daniels and Harry McGlade appear in Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, Dirty Martini, Fuzzy Navel, Cherry Bomb, and Shaken, written by J. A. Konrath. They also appear in Stirred and Serial Killers Uncut, written by J. A. Konrath and Blake Crouch.

  Harry McGlade also appears in Babe On Board, written by J. A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson.

  The character of Javier appears in Snowbound, by Blake Crouch.

  The character of Isaiah appears in Abandon, by Blake Crouch.

  The character of Santiago appears in Afraid, by Jack Kilborn.

  The character of Tequila appears in Shot of Tequila, by J.A. Konrath.

  The only thing more dangerous than being her enemy is being her ally…

  AUTHORS’ INTRODUCTION

  Three was written as a standalone thriller and requires no prior knowledge of either Peterson’s or Konrath’s respective bodies of work. But it is the third novel in the Codename: Chandler trilogy. It is also preceded by several other works featuring many of the characters who inhabit this novel.

  In the Kindle book edition of Three, the reader will come across occasional hyperlinks when a character first appears. Clicking on this underscored text will take the reader to a brief description of the character and the work they appear in, for those interested in getting more information, clarity, or explanations of past events. These links, however, are in no way necessary to understanding and enjoying the Three story line.

  Our goal is to provide the reader with a complete picture of the many novellas and novels that compose our interconnected body of fiction, and the e-book format has given us the opportunity to unify our works in a way that has been impossible in the print world.

  We hope this state-of-the-art feature enhances your enjoyment of Three.

  Chandler

  “The enemy of your enemy is not always your friend,” The Instructor said. “But sometimes she can be useful.”

  “We need to hide somewhere, plan our next move,” Hammett said. “He’ll be looking for us.”

  Hammett was naked and handcuffed to the porch railing, the falling drizzle beading up on her skin, washing away dirt and leaves. Though she was my identical twin and had identical training, her body wasn’t quite the same as mine. Her hair was longer, darker. Her multiple scars were in different places. Her stomach muscles were a bit more sculpted. And for some strange reason—I have no idea how—she seemed to be a cup size larger.

  I wondered if I’d made the right choice letting her live. Something I’m sure I would always wonder. But we needed the information Hammett had, which made her more of an asset than a liability.

  For now. Barely.

  “No shit,” Fleming said. She was also my sister, another twin, and had more scars than Hammett and I combined. Fleming backed up her wheelchair on the porch until she was under the awning and out of the weather. She met my eyes, her face stern. “But once you’ve assassinated the president of the United States, your options narrow.”

  No shit was right. I hadn’t wanted to kill him. Wouldn’t have if I could have saved those I cared about any other way. But what was done was done. I was the fifth presidential assassin in American history, part of a very select collection of scum.

  But it got worse.

  Evidence against me also implicated Fleming, and even more interestingly, Hammett—the woman I hated as much as the man who’d forced me to commit this crime.

  We were in this mess together. And there didn’t seem to be any way out of it.

  “The Instructor knows all of my safe houses,” Hammett said. “And if he hacked into your network, he knows yours as well.”

  “He didn’t hack me,” Fleming said. She folded her arms across her chest. Defensiveness, or fear.

  “Are you sure?” Hammett asked. “One hundred fucking percent sure? Because if you aren’t, he’ll be waiting for us when we get there, dumbass. Why don’t you try using that high IQ of yours for something other than inventing exploding phones?”

  Fleming didn’t answer.

  We were at a farmhouse on the outskirts of tiny Lake Loyal, Wisconsin. It belonged to a man I thought I loved who didn’t love me back. He was gone.

  “Let’s work on not speaking until asked a direct question,” I warned Hammett. “I could still take you back to the woods.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, Chandler. Or can I call you Lee Harvey?”

  The man standing next to Fleming, a former gymnast turned former mob enforcer named Tequila, stared at Hammett.

  “Should have killed her,” he said.

  “Big talk from such a little man,” Hammett said. Then she smiled, a scary imitation of coquettish, sticking out her chest and wiggling. “Like what you see? I know you do.”

  “Seen it,” Tequila said, placing his hand on Fleming’s shoulder and squeezing. “But when I did, it was sexy.”

  I held a bag with my previously worn, stained clothes, which I tossed at Hammett. “Are you sure The Instructor knows our safe houses?” I asked.

  She caught the bag in her handcuffed ha
nds. The vixen disappeared, replaced by the stone-cold hit woman. “It’s scary how much he knows,” Hammett said. “The guy is plugged into everything. We check into a bed-and-breakfast in Durango, Colorado, without Internet or phone service, he’ll know. And we’re not exactly inconspicuous.” Hammett cast a quick look at Fleming, lowering her eyes to my sister’s wheelchair.

  I chewed my lower lip, thinking. When someone like The Instructor had the means, and the notion, to find you, there weren’t many places to hide. Even in this remote location in the woods, with plenty of tree cover, we shouldn’t have been outside. I could almost feel the spy satellites staring down at me from low Earth orbit.

  The Instructor hadn’t publicly revealed his evidence of my guilt—a video of my pressing the button that killed the president—and there was no telling when he’d play that card. Life was difficult for those on the top of the government’s Most Wanted list. I knew. I’d killed my share of them.

  To really, truly disappear, you had to erase your trail, erase your identity, then go where no one knows you or expects you to go. It would be tricky, especially with Fleming. Maybe we could drop off the grid by vanishing into the woods, or the mountains, or the desert, but that didn’t serve our ultimate purpose. Unless we wanted to be hunted our whole lives, we needed to find, and kill, the ones hunting us. That meant we needed access to certain things: weapons, communications, computers, transportation, cash, disguises, and ultimately new IDs. Things that left trails rather than erased them. And if our safe houses were compromised, so were our contacts, and anyone who’d ever assisted any of us on a mission would be under surveillance.

  This was going to be tough. But things would get even tougher.

  “Is there any place we can go that no one knows about?” Hammett asked. “A place that’s never been spoken about on the phone? Never mentioned in an e-mail? Someplace so far off the grid that no eye in the sky has noticed it?”

  “Tall order,” Fleming said to Hammett. “You know of any?”

  “Maybe one or two. But would you trust me?”

  Fleming and I said, “Hell no,” at the same time. Then we looked at each other, and I guessed she was thinking what I was thinking.

  There was one place that was safe. Only three people knew about it: Fleming, me, and the girl we’d hidden there. The journey would be risky, but once we arrived we’d be virtually invisible while we regrouped and plotted our next move.

  “OK,” I said. “We’re going to need a vehicle, ammo, supplies.”

  Tequila shrugged. “I’ve only got a few hundred bucks left.”

  I stared at the man who had helped me beyond words, whom I now thought of as a friend.

  “Your employment has been terminated, amigo. Go back home.”

  His shrug turned into something else, a cross between disappointment and disapproval.

  “You sure?”

  “You’ve done enough, and this isn’t your fight. Things are going to get really hot, and you don’t want to be a part of that.” I held out my hand. “Thanks. For everything.”

  He shook my hand with conviction and warmth. “My pleasure, Chandler.”

  “Give Fleming your bank wiring info. I’ll pay you what I owe you in the next few days.”

  “Be safe,” he said. Then he released my hand and looked at Fleming. “Can I trust you with my bank information?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Fleming said, her lips curling in a smile. “Share it, then try to get the information out of me.”

  “Sounds like a challenge.”

  He opened the door, then pushed Fleming back into the house. I also wanted to get out of the rain, but I didn’t have any burning desire to listen to them say good-bye to each other. Especially since I knew what it would entail. So instead I stood out there, getting more and more drenched, watching my evil sister try to put on pants with both hands handcuffed around the stair railing.

  “Get on your knees,” I said.

  “Kinky. Especially since we’re related.”

  I gave her a look that said I wasn’t kidding. Hammett knelt in the mud, and I came behind her and pressed my chest against her back, letting her take most of my weight. Then I uncuffed her left hand and placed the Skorpion submachine gun against the back of her head.

  “Can you get dressed without forcing me to kill you?”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  I eased back, and Hammett stood up. After a prerequisite tough-girl stare to prove she wasn’t afraid, she got dressed in my dirty clothes. When she was finished, she dutifully locked her hands back together in front of her.

  “This sweater smells. And it’s ugly. Who taught you how to shop?”

  “Some of us didn’t do so well with our adopted parents,” I said, thinking of the bastard who’d adopted me at age eleven after my first adoptive parents died.

  Something dark passed over Hammett’s eyes, and she surprised me by not replying. The rain kept coming. Not a heavy downpour, but a slow, stinging drizzle that pattered on the leaves and clicked against the windowpanes. It took longer to do the job, but it got you just as wet. Death by a thousand cuts.

  “So now what?” Hammett eventually said. “We stand out here and get wetter and wetter while those two bump uglies?”

  “Up the stairs.”

  I marched Hammett into the house, to the kitchen, and sat her at the table. In the fridge I found a loaf of bread, some mustard, cheddar cheese slices, and a package of deli ham. There was also a tomato, but that would involve slicing, and I didn’t want Hammett anywhere near a knife.

  I made myself a sandwich, then kept my hand on the Skorpion while Hammett assembled one for herself.

  “What?” she said, grinning. “I’m going to kill you with this cheese?”

  “It is sharp cheddar.”

  For a moment, neither of us said anything. And then it happened.

  She laughed, and so did I.

  Not what I was expecting. I hated this woman. She’d done things to me, to Fleming, and to the world that were unspeakable and unforgivable. Sharing a joke wasn’t something you were supposed to do with the enemy.

  I stopped laughing, ate my sandwich warily. Hammett finished hers first and went for seconds. Then the groaning started.

  Fleming first. Then Tequila. Fleming’s rose in pitch until the groans became squeals then whimpers.

  “Jesus,” Hammett said. “Do I sound like that?”

  It was the same thing I’d wondered the first time I heard Fleming and Tequila go at it.

  “Probably,” I admitted, afraid we were all more alike than I wanted to believe.

  “I don’t see how she can go on living with her legs messed up like that.”

  “She seems to be coping OK.”

  “I would have eaten a bullet.”

  “That’s still an option.”

  Hammett rolled her eyes, taking another bite of sandwich. “Can you cut the threats already? I know why you didn’t kill me.”

  I didn’t want to have this conversation. “You can help us find The Instructor.”

  “Yes. But that’s not the main reason.”

  She was right. But I didn’t have any desire to admit it.

  “The Instructor videotaped your little speech, where you pressed the destruct code on that cell phone,” Hammett said. “That code blew up the president’s phone, probably blowing his head off. The Instructor also has the phone you used, with your fingerprints. Which are also my fingerprints, thanks to the bizarre genetic fuckup of our birth. Once The Instructor makes that video public, we’re going to be hunted to the far corners of the earth.”

  “So we kill him first,” I said.

  “And if we don’t, you kill me. Leave my body someplace public. I take the fall for the murder you committed. A perfect patsy. Prints match. Face matches. No more being hunted.”

  She took another bite. I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Hammett was correct. If things got too hot, I wouldn’t hesitate to kill her to th
row the trail off Fleming and me.

  And I knew Hammett felt the same way about the two of us.

  “I could always kill you now,” I said. “Keep your body on ice.”

  “Wicked. It’s such a shock your boy toy left you, when you have thoughts like that. Did you really believe people like us could have a relationship with a civilian?”

  “That’s none of your business.” I had a quarter of sandwich left, but was no longer hungry. I set it on the table. “And I’m not like you.”

  Tequila must have changed his angle or his tempo, because Fleming’s squeals became full-blown screams.

  “I heard your little breakup scene,” Hammett said. She fluttered her eyelids and said, “Oh, Lund, why can’t you be with me?”

  “Careful,” I said.

  Hammett changed her voice, making it lower to imitate Lund. “The man guarding the truck. I watched you slit his throat. I saw…”

  She played me again. “If he saw us, he would have shot us.”

  Lund again. “It’s not that.”

  Me. “Then what is it? I don’t understand.”

  “Shut up,” I told her.

  But Hammett went on. “I saw your face when you killed him. There was…nothing there.”

  “Enough.” I stood up, and without thinking I raised the Skorpion.

  Hammett didn’t stop, still quoting Lund verbatim. “Your eyes, they were flat, dead, as if killing him was nothing more to you than swatting a mosquito. You ended a man’s life, and you felt nothing at all.”

  She grinned, and said in her own voice, “Kinda like now.”

  I almost pulled the trigger. Instead, I lashed out and slapped Hammett across the face, only turning my fist into a flat palm at the last possible moment.

  Hammett’s head reared back, and then she looked at me with amusement as her cheek blossomed red.

  “And you seriously wonder why he left you?” she asked.

  I searched my mind for some reply, some retort, but came up blank.

  “You’re a weapon, Chandler. Trained by the government to murder without mercy or guilt. You’ll hurt, maim, torture, and kill both the guilty and the innocent to complete your mission. You think you hate me? Wake up, sister. We’re the same. You want someone to hate, take a good, long look in the mirror.”