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

by J. A. Konrath

  He was lean with some muscle tone, and taller than she’d surmised from the photo she’d called up on the Internet. Medium-brown hair and brown eyes, he sported black-rimmed glasses and a rumpled look that screamed nerd cliché. Fleming was willing to bet he was wearing a pocket protector under his jacket.

  She’d hoped to be set up to intercept him before he left for work this morning. Seeing that he was already climbing into his dark blue Volvo, she was obviously too late. Planning a kidnapping was a sensitive thing. Pulling it off all by her lonesome without getting hurt, injuring Milton, or pulling the police into the situation would take an artist. A con artist.

  She’d done it before, most recently to poor Eric, and she could do it again. But she couldn’t do it on the fly. Not with her original plan. She would have to figure out another approach.

  Fleming circled the parking lot and pulled back out to the street. She’d done some digging on the lab where he worked before she’d left for Baltimore, and the prospect of grabbing him there wasn’t good. Cameras covering the parking lot and twenty-four-hour security at the entrance would make it difficult to get near him and almost impossible to get away clean. Once he reached his lab, she’d be out of luck until he made the return trip home.

  Unless she could interrupt his morning commute.

  Fleming turned into a side street and pivoted into a quick U-turn. What she was about to attempt was risky. Maybe downright crazy.

  She pulled up to the stop sign and halted, then lowered her window an inch, the dawn twitter of birds mixing with the low groan of the minivan’s engine, and something else.

  An approaching vehicle and the hum of tires.

  Heart thrumming in her chest despite her efforts to control its pace, she waited for a glimpse of Milton’s car starting its arc around the curve in the boulevard.

  He drove past, and she pulled out, falling in behind him.

  Causing a fender bender was tricky. If she hit the gas too hard, if his vehicle was moving too fast, if her timing wasn’t right, she wouldn’t be solving a problem, she’d be creating a bigger one.

  After so many years in the Midwest, driving on the narrower streets here in the East, with tighter turns and no shoulder to speak of, felt strange. Add to that the new car and controls she wasn’t familiar with, and she was hesitant to try anything while they were moving. Too risky. She needed a stop sign or a light.

  Light after light turned green in front of Bradley Milton’s car, as if the man was blessed. Fleming was beginning to think she was out of opportunities, when the last light at the base of a hill near the laboratory turned yellow. Then red.

  Milton’s brake lights flared.

  “That’s it, sweetie. Slow down. Nice and safe.”

  Fleming slowed as well, not wanting to cause her scientist whiplash, but while he came to a halt, she kept her van rolling. She had just begun to brace herself for the impact, when she noticed a car to the right at the intersection.

  A car sporting black-and-white paint and a light bar on the roof.

  She hit the brake, her van jolting to a stop as the police car made its way across the intersection, and Fleming kissed her last chance at grabbing Milton this morning good-bye.

  Scarlett

  “After Hydra Deux training, you’ll be assigned a partner,” The Instructor said. “I’ve handpicked this person, to complement your own skill set, and to compensate for your weaknesses. On your own, you’re formidable. Together, you’ll be unstoppable.”

  Scarlett glanced at Rhett sitting next to her, noting his strong chin peppered with a day’s worth of stubble, deep-set blue eyes, ruffled blond hair, brown T-shirt hiding the body of an underwear model, and well-worn black Stetson hat, and she wanted to shoot the son of a bitch. She hated his Southern drawl, hated how he grinned and flirted all the time, hated his whole Duke Boys demeanor. He was a competent operative, and could be relied on to watch her back, but whenever he opened his mouth she felt like knocking all of his teeth out.

  Unfortunately, no one else on her team was any better. Tristan was a muscle head who had the personality of the side of beef he resembled. And Heathcliff was a cyclopic lothario with a seriously overinflated opinion of his abilities. Scarlett wouldn’t have wanted either one as a partner. In fact, she couldn’t think of any man in the world she wanted to be teamed up with. The only use for anyone with a Y chromosome was as breeding stock, and only if they weren’t allowed to talk or move.

  Lest Scarlett consider herself a castrating lesbian bitch, she didn’t like the women on her team any better. Isolde was an anorexic little S&M emo freak who needed a bullet in the head, and Earnshaw was a disgusting, steroid-chomping beast who was a worse mouth breather than any of the men.

  But then, what could one hope for in a group of professional assassins?

  “You got that look again,” Rhett said, the words slipping out lazily as he tucked a toothpick into the corner of his mouth. “The one where it looks like you’re sniffing manure.”

  “Fancy that.”

  “Frown lines in the corners of your mouth. And that little crease between your eyebrows. Shame for a sweet filly like you to get all wrinkly.”

  “Unlike you. Your face is so craggy and sunbaked I could cut it off and make a handbag.”

  “What’s the problem? On your period?”

  She batted her eyelashes and gave him a fake smile. “Yes, Rhett. I’m menstruating. That’s why I’m unable to find you charming. It has nothing to do with you being a sexist, revolting prick.”

  Scarlett turned her attention back to the computer. She was going state by state, accessing DMV records, looking for new vehicle purchases. Most specifically, vans customized to be wheelchair accessible. It was a long shot, and the shittiest detail to pull. Heath and Earnshaw were on their way to Mexico. Tristan and Izzy to Canada. Their missions were interesting. Scarlett’s sucked the farts out of a dead crack whore. But since the lighthouse, she and Rhett had been holed up in this shitty, two-and-a-half-star motel, first logging time on airport security cameras in Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, using facial recognition software to search for Chandler and her sisters, and now stuck with this tedious vehicle search.

  A damn shame. Both Mexico City and Toronto were a lot more exciting than being stuck here.

  “You know, I thought I won the lottery when I got partnered with you,” Rhett said. Her insult hadn’t fazed him one iota. “Poor ol’ Heath got stuck with a former Olympic wrassler, and Tristan got that skinny Goth girl who cuts on herself, but I landed a full-blooded, good-looking lady with curves in all the right places. I thought we could have ourselves some fun while working together. After all, you got the same needs I do.”

  “True. But I also have standards.”

  Rhett grunted, his version of laughing. “Why do you hate men so much, Scarlett?”

  “I don’t hate men, Rhett. But I don’t like you. Luckily, I don’t have to like you to work with you.”

  “Who do you like?”

  “Ashley. I love Ashley.”

  “A girl? That’s hot.”

  “Idiot.” Truth was she really didn’t like anyone, including herself much of the time. But this wasn’t the appropriate time for arguing, or for psychoanalysis. There were still twelve states left to search, and it wasn’t going any faster with John Wayne staring over her shoulder.

  “Why don’t you use the other laptop, do a stolen vehicle search?” Scarlett said, mostly to get Rhett away from her.

  “You know, darlin’, if you let me, I could make you feel real good.”

  That prompted a grunt from Scarlett. “No doubt. Put your big .45 in your mouth and pull the trigger, and I’ll have multiple orgasms.”

  Rhett’s eyes narrowed. “Lady, you’re just plum mean sometimes. You know Izzy and Tristan are getting it on. I think the big guy loves her. And I heard even Earnshaw and Heath had a little one-on-one time.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “No, baby. It’s natural. We g
ot a big ol’ bed in the other room, and could work out all our frustrations there. Who knows? You might even wind up liking it.”

  Scarlett turned to him again. She relaxed her face and lowered her eyelids, making her voice husky with a hint of Southern belle. “You know what I’d really like, Rhett?”

  “Name it.”

  “For you to fucking do a fucking stolen vehicle search.”

  He frowned. “Plum meaner than a snake in a hot skillet. You sure you weren’t born with one of them African killer beehives up your bottom?”

  She patted his cheek, hard. “You’ll never get close enough to check.”

  Rhett stood up and stretched his hands over his head—probably to show Scarlett his six-pack abs when his shirt lifted up—then plodded in his stupid-ass cowboy boots to the other side of the desk, where another laptop awaited.

  He was blessedly silent for fifteen minutes, then let out a hoot. An honest-to-Christ hoot.

  “I found our little disabled buddy. Believe it or not, she stole a van in Massachusetts. Even made the news.”

  Rhett swiveled around his laptop, showing her an article from the Waltham News Tribune. A woman matching Fleming’s description had taken a handicapped-accessible van for a test-drive and turned a shotgun on the salesman.

  She should have killed him.

  “Eric Brockney,” Scarlett read the man’s name. “How about we pay him a visit?”

  “You pack, I’ll drive.”

  “I’ll drive. And you can pack your own shit, I’ll pack mine.”

  Scarlett smiled. It might not be a big lead, but it got her out of this damn motel.

  The smile faded when she considered a five-hour car drive with Rhett. Maybe she should let him drive, and she could try to get some sleep. But sleep would be impossible, because when Rhett drove, he hummed country and western songs, the same three over and over again.

  Christ, she hated him.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Scarlett said. “I’ll do my best to be nicer to you. And I’ll even let you drive. But you aren’t allowed to hum.”

  “Hum?”

  “You hum songs while you’re driving, and it makes me nuts.”

  Rhett rubbed his chin, then stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

  He held out his end of the deal for eight minutes before he started to hum. Scarlett poked him, raising an eyebrow. Rhett stopped, then started again eleven minutes later. She hit him in the arm. He lasted eighteen minutes, then the humming kicked in, and she made him pull over and let her drive, swearing to never make another deal with the asshole ever again.

  Fleming

  “When carrying out an assignment, there is no room for personal feelings,” said The Instructor. “Sometimes good people get hurt. Sometimes evil people are rewarded. None of that is for you to decide. Just keep your eye on the objective, do your job, and let the universe dictate justice and karma.”

  After all the training Fleming had, some might assume she would have developed patience over the years. Unfortunately, it had never been her strong suit. She was an excellent marksman, but the job of sniper, with its long hours of waiting, had never appealed to her. Surveillance had never been a favorite either. She much preferred action. Taking a situation into her own hands. Doing something.

  The injury to her legs was the ultimate irony. But though the accident had changed everything about her life, it had never taught her patience. She’d simply transferred her need to be active to the technological end of the job. Inventing, directing Chandler’s missions, gathering cyber intelligence. After the accident, she hadn’t been able to take a physical role in her work, but she’d found a way to do something all the same.

  At the moment, Fleming was convinced that tracking the movements of a nerdy, work-obsessed scientist had to be the most boring assignment of her career.

  She checked her watch. It had taken her hours to set up. Unable to trust any of the official safe houses in the city, Fleming had rented a storefront in a nearby suburb. First month, plus deposit, for fifteen hundred cash to a harried realtor who wasn’t even sure which set of keys opened it up.

  Situated in a strip mall in a portion of the city struggling with economic recession, the store had been vacant for nearly a year. Half of the other spaces in the mall were vacant as well, front windows soaped, not much foot traffic to speak of, cheap rent and perfect for her needs. She’d bought a tiny refrigerator, an electric frying pan, air mattresses, and sleeping bags. She’d stocked the place with all the food and supplies they’d need, including another computer with a Wi-Fi package. A local Radio Shack sold her a several protoboards of various sizes; a multimeter; a pinhole camera; a mini microphone; earbuds; crystal oscillators; a soldering iron and accessories; and assorted wires, capacitors, resistors, transistors, diodes, coils, integrated circuits, and batteries. Finally, a trip to a hardware superstore got her fifteen meters of steel cable, wire clamps, and some heavy-duty padlocks. Last on her list was a handful of really nice fountain pens, wide Montblancs.

  Since late afternoon, she’d been ready and waiting in a park she’d noticed this morning while following Bradley Milton to work. Perched on the crest of a hill overlooking the lab, the park gave her the perfect vantage point. So there she’d been ever since, strapping on her leg braces so she’d be ready, then sketching a schematic on graph paper for the device she and Bradley would build. Fleming was terrific with electronics, both the design and the construction. She designed and etched her own circuit boards. But she wasn’t an expert in robotics, particularly of the miniature variety.

  So she doodled, and waited, and punched components into her protoboard to get an idea of the circuit needed, and waited, and searched the Internet for schematics and supplies, and waited, and ate a 7-Eleven tuna on wheat, and waited.

  The sun dipped in the sky. Employees left for the day; only Milton’s car and one other remained in the lot. The cleaning crew arrived. Milton had left for work at dawn and was still there at nearly ten o’clock at night.

  This guy really needed to get a life.

  As if she was one to judge. Fleming sighed, looking at the pages of schematics she’d drawn, and the patchwork circuit she’d created on the protoboard. After her accident, fieldwork had been impossible. The Instructor urged her to explore the tech end of spycraft, and with some extra training Fleming discovered she was a prodigy at electronics and computers. Her transceiver designs were cutting-edge, her encryption codes extremely sophisticated, and she was able to pour all of the frustration and pain her legs caused her into intellectual pursuits, which, if she hadn’t been working for Uncle Sam, could have given her patents that made her extremely wealthy.

  Funny, that. What turned out to be the biggest tragedy in Fleming’s life also gave birth to her biggest gift.

  Given a week, Fleming could have taught herself robotics and built the device herself. But there was a ticking clock. Once The Instructor released the video of the president’s death, Fleming wouldn’t be able to show her face anywhere in the world. They had to get intel immediately, and that meant getting help. Even if the help was unwilling.

  Another half hour passed before there was movement below. Light streamed from a door in the lab, and a tall, thin man stepped into the parking lot.

  Finally.

  Fleming started the van and maneuvered her way back to the street. Having followed the scientist to work in the morning, Fleming knew his route, and her vantage point in the park brought her to the condo well before him. All the parking spaces were filled, so she pulled the van alongside a row of bushes near the mailboxes, in clear view of unit 140, and the sole empty parking space bearing that number.

  Hitting the controls on the dash, she opened the driver’s rear sliding door and brought the lift carrying her chair down to pavement level. She then lifted the paper bag from the backseat and opened her door and the van’s sliding door behind her. By the time Milton’s Volvo turned into the lot and pulled into his parking space, she was ready.


  Positioning a crutch on the pavement, she lurched forward, tearing the paper bag and letting its contents spill across the asphalt. Four apples, five cans of pineapple, and a cantaloupe rolled toward a startled Bradley Milton. The cantaloupe came to a rest against his shoe. Two of the cans disappeared under his car.

  “Oh no!” Fleming floundered from the van struggling to balance on one crutch. She was painfully aware she looked pathetic, wobbling around on the crutch, which is why she never used them, preferring her chair. At least the stark reminder of never really walking again worked to her advantage this time. She didn’t have to do much acting. And after all that had happened in the past few days, she easily summoned tears to complete the picture.

  Bradley Milton stared at her as if mortified, his hands hanging limp at his sides. “Can I help?”

  “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not a big deal. It’ll just take me a second.” The gangly scientist got down on hands and knees to fish cans out from under his car. His cute little butt in the air, Fleming couldn’t help thinking about things other than the mission. Of course she’d keep this strictly professional, but there was nothing wrong with a little fantasizing now and then.

  “I’m sorry for causing all this trouble.”

  He scrambled to his feet, a can in each hand. “No trouble.” Looking her straight in the eye, he gave her a smile that seemed refreshingly genuine.

  Fleming found herself smiling back. “I’m just so clumsy sometimes.”

  He glanced at her leg braces, then back up at her face. “Um, that’s not true. I mean, I’m sure that’s not…”

  If she wasn’t being tricked by the parking lot lighting, she could swear his cheeks were a touch pink. “It’s OK. I’m used to it. Something like dropping groceries is a mishap for most people. For me, it’s a disaster.” She added a little laugh, designed to put him at ease, but when it came out of her mouth it sounded more flirty than anything.