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

by J. A. Konrath

  I wanted to hit her again. To hit her over and over until her face was so bloody it no longer looked like mine.

  But summoning up some Herculean self-control, I managed to sit back down. “I’m not like you.”

  “Well,” Hammett said, reaching for the bread. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  The White House

  President J. Phillip Ratzenberger sat behind the Resolute desk in the Oval Office, running his palm across the mirror-polished surface. It seemed to tingle and vibrate beneath his fingertips, causing goose bumps to stand at attention all up his arm. Ratzenberger’s throat was dry, his ears red and hot.

  It was better than touching a beautiful woman.

  He had worked his whole life to get this moment. And though it came as the result of a tragedy rather than an election, Ratzenberger felt that he’d earned it. More than that, he deserved to be president. Especially now. More than ever, his country needed a strong, dedicated leader. Someone to ensure America’s dominance of the world—politically, industrially, militarily, economically.

  Chaz, the White House cat, slunk up and stared at Ratzenberger, emitting a sour meow that sounded more like a meep, completely spoiling the mood. The president scowled, hitting the intercom button on the desk.

  “The damn cat is in my office. Get it out of here.”

  Mullins, one of his Secret Service drones, came into the office and quickly located and snatched up the cat, which immediately began purring.

  “Tell my wife if it gets in here again, I’ll have you boys shoot it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d do that, right? If I ordered you to?”

  “My duty is to protect you, Mr. President.”

  “That animal destroys my peace of mind. If you killed it, you’d be protecting my ability to ably run this country.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mullins turned to leave, and Ratzenberger made a note to have him replaced. On the far wall, CNN showed what seemed to be an endless loop of his predecessor’s body being wheeled out of the press room on a gurney, an image that had been seen by billions of people and in less than twenty-four hours had become as iconic as the Zapruder film of Kennedy’s assassination. As the gurney was hurried out, the bloodstain under the white sheet doubled, then tripled in size, sticking to what was left of the former president’s head, molding to its disfigured outline.

  An apt image, considering the bloodshed to come. Rivers of blood across the hemisphere…

  The phone rang, startling Ratzenberger out of his reverie. He snatched it up, slapping the receiver to his ear.

  “This is the vice—” No. Wrong. “This is the president.”

  “It’s me.”

  Ratzenberger frowned. It was the man who had orchestrated his predecessor’s demise. The one who was helping him implement his current plan for the USA. The previous president hadn’t liked the man. He was too smart. Too plugged in. And too sure of his power. But Ratzenberger needed him, and owed him, and he had to play nice for the time being.

  “Have you found them yet?” Ratzenberger asked.

  “We’re working on it, Mr. President.”

  “Where is the science team?”

  “En route. I need funding.”

  “You have funding.”

  “I need more.”

  “I’ll inform the DOD. As long as it’s a reasonable number, you’ll get it.”

  “How’s the new office?”

  “Hmm?” Odd thing to say. “It’s…it’s magnificent.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  The man who called himself The Instructor hung up, leaving the most powerful man in the free world wondering if he were indeed the most powerful.

  Fleming

  “There will be times when you need money,” The Instructor said. “The ends justify the means.”

  Fleming was sore all over, some of it good, most of it not. Her legs—scarred and useless and with more metal pins than bones—were the main source of her pain, and she also had other aches that competed. But the parts that ached from the recent, vigorous session of lovemaking with Tequila were enough to make Fleming feel almost normal. At least for the moment.

  “I like you,” she said afterward, snuggling up to his naked body, even managing to hook a useless leg over his. It was as intimate a thing as she’d ever said to a man in—well—ever.

  “I like you, too. You sure you want to send me away?”

  “The three of us—me and my sisters…We’re probably all going to die within the next few days.”

  Tequila said nothing for several seconds. When he spoke, his voice was as soft as she’d ever heard it. “I know.”

  “And I…I wouldn’t like seeing you die. Or having you watch me die.”

  He drew his finger up Fleming’s bare back, letting his hand come to rest on the nape of her neck. “Are you scared?” he asked.

  A silly question. Fleming, Chandler, and Hammett were about to be hunted as the assassins of the president of the United States. As soon as The Instructor released the video, they’d be the most wanted fugitives in the world. Every government agency on the planet, every private contractor, would be after them. Who wouldn’t be scared?

  And yet, Fleming wasn’t.

  “No,” she said.

  “Tired of living?”

  “Not that. These past few days, I faced death so many times, I think I’ve resigned myself to it.”

  Tequila pulled his arm away, sat up in bed, swinging his legs over the side.

  “Years ago, I lost my sister,” he said. “I felt the same way. Went after the men who did it and figured there was no way I’d survive. So I just accepted the inevitable. Except…”

  Fleming felt like reaching out, touching him. But she kept her hands to herself. “Except what?”

  “Except I didn’t die.”

  “How’d that work out for you?” She meant it to be a playful question, but Tequila didn’t answer.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” he eventually said. “Because you may not get it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The bad parts. They aren’t what makes life unbearable.”

  “What does?”

  Tequila frowned. “The good parts.”

  Fleming understood. If you have nothing to lose, you can’t be hurt. But once you have something to lose…

  Tequila rolled away, finding his boxer-briefs on the floor next to the bed. Fleming watched him.

  She really did like Tequila, but it wasn’t love. Asking him to leave was regrettable, but it was a courtesy from one professional to another, not a heartbreak. Fleming wasn’t sure she even knew what heartbreak was. After the accident, she resigned herself to living alone, growing old alone. She would never have a family. She would never have a man she had more than a passing affection for. And after the last few days, she accepted that she wouldn’t live through next week.

  Strange that she could be so calm about it.

  “You’re older than me,” Fleming said.

  “By a lot.”

  “So…”

  “So what made me go on living?”

  Fleming nodded.

  “No one is good enough to kill me,” Tequila said. “And I’m too chicken shit to end things myself.”

  “Chicken shit?” She’d heard few things so ridiculous. “I don’t think you have a chicken shit bone in your body.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Fleming thought about the choice she’d faced in the black site prison, holding a scalpel to her own throat. She should have taken her life to protect the secrets she knew. If she had, the president would still be alive. And Chandler, along with Hammett, wouldn’t be facing almost certain death now. Yet, somewhat ironically, at the time it was her desperation to save Chandler that made Fleming determined to live.

  “Maybe it’s sheer stubbornness,” she said, looking at Tequila’s back. “Or curiosity.”

  “Curiosity?
”

  “Life is filled with unexpected turns, and you want to find out what happens next.”

  Tequila raised an eyebrow. “Could be. Are you curious?”

  Fleming made sure she weighed the question before answering. “Yes.”

  “Then watch your ass out there,” he said, leaning over and giving her a smack on the rump, followed by a tiny kiss on the cheek.

  He finished dressing and walked out of the bedroom. Fleming flopped over, graceful as a beached fish, locating her panties and awkwardly threading her ruined legs into them. Her pants were next, a pair of loose-fitting khakis. Usually, during the ordeal of dressing, Fleming lamented her clothing, chosen for convenience over looks. She hadn’t bothered to wear cute jeans since the accident. Her Diane von Furstenberg boots had scuffs on the toes, but the soles were factory-fresh, and except for those boots, she’d taken to buying footwear with low or no heels because they kept catching on her chair. She couldn’t remember the last time she wore a dress.

  But as she put on her clothes, Fleming didn’t focus on her disability, or her appearance. Instead she thought about what Tequila said, about how the good parts in life made it unbearable. Was that why she had no friends? Was that the reason she kept men at arm’s length?

  If so, was that the person she wanted to be?

  Fleming allowed herself a grin. Self-awareness on the way to the gallows didn’t do a girl much good.

  She crawled her arms into her shirt and then awkwardly plopped into her wheelchair, which had recently been pimped out above factory standards, having been reinforced and fitted with hidden weapon compartments. When Fleming rolled into the kitchen, Tequila was there with Chandler and Hammett, making two ham and cheese sandwiches. He handed her one, and she took a bite. Too much mustard, but delicious just the same. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

  “The plan is for Tequila to take us into Baraboo,” Chandler said. “We secure a vehicle and essential supplies, and then drive east.” Then she frowned. “The problem is money. If The Instructor has hacked us, or already has physical and electronic surveillance in place, we can’t go to any known contacts or drops.”

  Fleming knew Chandler had cash stashed around Chicago and the suburbs, as well as in various parts of the country and the world. Hammett had the same training. Fleming also had various stashes in various locations, including several Swiss banks. But those sites could be compromised, and wiring money would involve picking it up, which left electronic trails. If The Instructor had the entire Department of Defense behind him, Fleming couldn’t be sure they could get money without tripping some alert, even if they were in and out fast. It would probably be safer to rob a bank.

  The thought brought a smile to her face. Wiping some mustard off her lips with the back of her hand, she said, “How do you girls feel about armed robbery?”

  When they arrived in Baraboo in Tequila’s truck a half hour later, he dropped them off at a busy shopping center, in an empty corner of the parking lot. After gently setting Fleming down in her wheelchair, Tequila held out his hand.

  “If you survive this, maybe you can look me up.”

  She took his hand in hers and shook it once, warmly. “I might just do that.”

  Then he nodded at Chandler, got into his truck, and drove off. No passionate kiss good-bye. No promise to keep in touch. That was how professionals worked. And that was fine with Fleming. She liked Tequila, as a business associate, and as a lover. She liked him a lot, in fact. But even if she ever chose to quit the business, she could never have anything long-term or serious with Tequila.

  After all, the guy was a stone-cold killer.

  “So, what’s the deal?” Hammett asked. The light drizzle was matting down her hair. “You gonna keep me cuffed forever? Or do we reach a point where we start trusting one another?”

  “I vote for cuffed forever,” Fleming said. “I’d also add gagged.”

  Chandler frowned. “The robbery is a two-person job, plus a wheelman.”

  “And you’re the wheelman,” Hammett said, staring at Fleming’s chair. “For obvious reasons.”

  Fleming’s face pinched. She didn’t trust Hammett. There were rules in this business, and Hammett had broken them. At the same time, an unloaded pistol didn’t do anyone much good. You either loaded it with intent to shoot or ditched it. They needed to use Hammett or get rid of her.

  “Sis?” Chandler asked.

  “Uncuff her,” Fleming said. “She tries anything, I’ll kill her.”

  “Don’t be so mean,” Hammett said. “They might kick you out of the Special Olympics.”

  Fleming hit the left lever on her chair, and the side panel opened up and instantly pressed a spring-loaded 9mm handgun into her palm. “My favorite event is the Bitch Shoot,” she said. “Wanna see me go for the gold?”

  “Try to steal a vehicle without killing each other,” Chandler said, tossing Hammett the handcuff keys. “Find one with a trailer hitch. I’m getting supplies.”

  She headed off toward the supermarket. Hammett eyed the gun, then looked at Fleming. “I’m guessing we’re looking for a van and not a subcompact,” she said. “Unless we can origami your legs and chair into the trunk.”

  Fleming saw the amusement in Hammett’s eyes, and wondered if it was a deliberate provocation, or just good-natured ball-busting.

  “No reaction?” Hammett asked while removing the cuffs. “When you fell, did it also shatter your sense of humor?”

  Fleming scowled. “Maybe I lost it a few days ago, when your partner was breaking my fingers.”

  Hammett rubbed her wrist. “Seriously? That’s your beef? That my partner broke your fingers? I figured you’d be used to broken bones at this point.”

  Fleming cocked the nine. “I should do the world a favor and end you right now.”

  Hammett sighed dramatically, then stuck out her little finger and held it in front of Fleming. “Here. If it’ll make you stop acting like a baby, go ahead and break it.”

  Fleming searched her sister’s face for some sort of deception. She didn’t see any. But if this wasn’t a trick, what was it? Was this psychopath actually serious?

  “C’mon,” Hammett said, wiggling the pinkie. “You gonna do it or not?”

  “You want me to break your finger?”

  “No, pinhead, I don’t want you to break my finger. But if we’re going to work together, I don’t want you holding a grudge. Christ, I waterboarded Chandler, and she’s not acting as pissy as you are.”

  “I’m not like you, Hammett. I don’t get off on hurting people.”

  Hammett smiled coyly. “Are you sure? Think about how much trouble and pain I’ve caused you and her. All the hell you’ve gone through, because of me. Wouldn’t you feel better if you—HOLYMOTHERFUCKINGSHIT!”

  Fleming released Hammett’s pinkie, now bent at a wrong angle, and brought the gun up in case Hammett tried to retaliate.

  “I gotta admit it,” Fleming said. “That felt pretty good.”

  Hammett let out a sound that was part hysterical laugh, part agonized groan. Her pinkie stuck out ninety degrees, almost like a hitchhiker’s thumb.

  “OK, sis. Ha ha ha. Good times.” Her teeth were grinding together in the world’s most pained smile. “Now snap it back into place.”

  “It’s going to hurt.”

  “Just do it.”

  Fleming tucked the gun away, then grasped the pinkie again and reversed her previous action, feeling the phalange bones grind together. Hammett fell to one knee, made a fist with her free hand, and hit herself in the thigh several times in rapid succession. A woman pushing a stroller walked past, averting her eyes when Fleming stared at her. Hammett made a gagging sound and then threw up in the parking lot.

  “Wow,” Hammett said, spitting. “That hurts like hell.”

  “Never broke a finger before?”

  “Plenty. On other people. Never one of mine. Got any of that Demerol left?”

  “I think so.”

 
; “How about you give me a shot, then we find a van to steal?”

  Surprisingly, a lot of the animosity Fleming had felt moments ago toward Hammett was gone. She still didn’t trust her, but the resentment had abated. At least for now.

  “OK.” Fleming dug into the compartment under her seat and took out the first-aid kit. She gave Hammett an injection in her pinkie. “It’s not a lot. You’ll still have use of your hand.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” Hammett gave her fingers a slow wiggle, then cleared her throat. “So, that Tequila dude. Sounded like he rocked your world. I’m surprised you aren’t hoarse.”

  Even though Hammett was her sister, Fleming didn’t feel the need to engage in sister talk with a maniac. “Let’s keep our relationship professional, Hammett.”

  “Fine. So, one professional to another, how good was he in the sack?”

  Now Fleming actually had to force herself not to smile. “He can hold a handstand while doing a split.”

  “Impressive. But what good is that?”

  Fleming stared at Hammett for several seconds, then finally gave in and shared the details.

  Hammett’s eyes went wide. “Oh. My. God. And you let him go? I would have chained him up in my basement and kept him forever.”

  Fleming couldn’t tell if Hammett was serious or not, and decided she probably was. She handed Hammett a packet of ibuprofen, then tucked away the kit and took out a toolbox. “You want to do the van or the plates?”

  “I’ll get the vehicle. You’re already at the perfect height to take off plates.”

  “Fine. No collateral damage. You can steal a van. But don’t kill anyone.”

  “You really think I’m that unhinged?”

  “You tried to nuke London,” Fleming said evenly.

  “I was in a bad mood that day.”

  “No civilians, Hammett.”

  “You think they’re going to just hand over their rides? What am I supposed to do with them if they say no?”

  “Something else. I dunno. Ask them to dance and take the car when they’re not looking. I don’t care. Figure something out. Just no deaths.”