“Easy peasy,” she told Tristan. “Not even that dumb cow Earnshaw can fuck it up.”
He didn’t reply.
Izzy fished her Swiss Army knife out of her front pocket, and spent a moment contemplating its many tools. She picked the saw, and stuck it up her nose.
The mucus membranes inside the nostrils were particularly sensitive, and she’d long since plucked all of her nose hairs out, one by one. So instead she lightly scraped her septum, the pain bringing tears, and then blood.
It was delicious agony.
“Punch me,” she told Tristan, sticking out her tongue so the blood didn’t drip on the truck, leaving DNA.
“When we get there.”
“Come on.”
He didn’t hit her, but Tristan did put his hand on her thigh, pinching with his bodybuilder hands until Izzy screamed.
She licked her upper lip, closed her eyes, and let ecstasy take her.
Chandler
“There is action and there is reaction,” The Instructor said. “If you’re reacting, it’s often too late.”
The cop cars screaming toward us and Hammett gone from her post, my only option was to run. Jack’s betrayal meant my slender hopes at surviving this ordeal had been dashed. Fleming and I were dead, or worse.
I bolted, vaguely hearing Jack yell after me as I sprinted across the plaza, scattering pigeons to the four winds. I expected more police. Hell, I expected the entire US military. But as I ran, I didn’t encounter any resistance at all.
I bolted down Clark, turning west on Randolph, passing city hall. The Chicago River was three blocks ahead. If things went sour, we were to rendezvous at the SUV, parked on Canal Street. I glanced overhead, looking for helicopters, seeing none. The streets were full of pedestrians, but in a busy city like Chicago, no one paid any attention to a woman sprinting.
I found my rhythm, letting my limbs and breath settle into a steady tempo, and my phone buzzed on my hip. I cut down an alley, slowing down enough to pick up.
“Where the hell did you go?”
Hammett.
“Cops,” I said.
“They were going somewhere else, Chandler. It’s a big city. Crime happens. They weren’t there for you.”
I slowed my pace down to a jog.
“What about Abbey Road?” I asked. Prior to the meeting, we agreed mentioning Beatles albums would be a signal if one of us had been compromised. It was possible Hammett was under duress, being forced to flush me out.
“You’re an idiot. You took off for no reason.”
Shit. I stopped in the alley. “So where were you?”
“Across the street. Where I said I’d be.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“Of course you didn’t see me. I was staying out of sight. That’s what you do during surveillance.”
Double shit.
“Your cop friend took off. Want me to tail her?”
“Negative. Let her go.”
“I thought we needed her.”
“We do. I’ll call her again.”
“How about I just grab her, make her do what we want?”
“That won’t work on her.”
“It works on anyone.”
“Just listen to me, Hammett.”
She snorted. “Yessir, fearless leader. You’ve been doing such a great job so far.”
Hammett hung up. I aimed myself toward Canal Street, trying to slow my breathing.
But I couldn’t.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, my chest heaving, my heart hammering, and I couldn’t regain control over my body.
I closed my eyes, breathing through my nose, trying to picture my heart rate slowing down. Trying to make my blood into ice water. Relaxing my muscles. Clearing my head. Focusing on my diaphragm. Going through all the rituals as I’d been taught. All the things that The Instructor had forced me to learn, so I could be superhuman.
But that was the problem. I wasn’t superhuman.
I was less than human.
My shitty stepfather was right: I was a pitiful, whiny bitch. I had no friends. No husband. No children. No life. I finally found out I had sisters—something I’d wanted my entire life—and I’d already killed four of them and was on my way to killing the other two via my own gross incompetence.
A sob welled up in my chest, then burst out so loud it actually startled me. I squatted down next to a Dumpster, hugging my knees, almost every part of me bruised or cut or burned or shot, but that pain was nothing compared to how much I realized I hated myself.
I hated myself more than I hated my stepfather. More than he hated me. More than I hated my psychotic ex-boyfriend Cory, or Hammett when she was waterboarding me, or The Instructor, who was the soulless son of a bitch who had taken whatever humanity I had left and snuffed it out.
I was no better than an animal. No, I was worse than any animal. They had reasons to kill. I was just following orders like some brainwashed Nazi.
I was the worst of the worst. An assassin. A scumbag. A cancer on society. I hadn’t amounted to anything, just like my stepdad had predicted. I was a despicable killer, no better than Hammett, except she could keep herself together while I fell apart.
No wonder Lund dumped me.
The tears came, and I cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a kid. The only pride I had, the only thing that kept me waking up every morning, was my job. And now I couldn’t even do that. The world’s greatest operative was having a pity party in a stinking Chicago alley. The best thing for everyone would be if I walked out into traffic, let a bus finish me off. There was nothing left of me anyway. I honestly couldn’t remember what I was even fighting for. To clear my name? For what?
Lund was right. I was a monster. Thinking I could escape this life, become a normal person, was a stupid fantasy. I’d never end up happy. I’d end up dying alone, and it was a fate I deserved because I was such a—
“Chandler?”
I looked up, saw Hammett standing over me.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“Go away,” I managed to say between sniffles.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crying?”
“I’m done.”
“Done with what?”
“Fuck off, Betsy! I said I’m done!”
I stood up, not bothering to wipe the tears off my face, and began walking toward Randolph.
“Chandler, the car is this way.”
Hammett caught up to me, grabbed my arm. I twisted away.
“What’s happening here?”
I kept walking. Hammett got in front of me, drawing her .357 and pointing it at my forehead.
“Get your shit together, sis. We don’t have time for your little breakdown right now.”
We stared at each other, her annoyed, me broken.
“Do it,” I said.
She pulled back the hammer.
I closed my eyes, trying to come up with some comforting final thought, and failing at something even that simple.
Then my head was reeling back, and I felt a harsh sting on my cheek. I stared up at Hammett, who had put the gun away and used her open palm on me instead.
“Enough, Chandler. We’re going.”
“I’m not going any—”
She slapped me again, so hard I saw stars.
“This isn’t the time or the place,” Hammett said. “Follow me back to the goddamn vehicle.”
I didn’t move.
Hammett shook her head. “Seriously? After all the shit we’ve been through these past few days? You decide now is the time to give up?”
She slapped me three more times, until I fell to my knees. My ears were ringing, and my cheek was on fire.
“Why didn’t you do this earlier? Would have saved me a whole lot of trouble.”
Another slap. I felt ready to pass out.
“I don’t give pep talks,” Hammett said. “And I know threats aren’t going to work. Fleming and I are better off without your sorry ass
. So I’m just going to slap the shit out of you until I get bored, then finish the goddamn mission myself.”
Hammett hit me once more, and I tasted blood.
She grinned, shaking her head. “I think you’re actually enjoying yourself. What is this? Penance for you? Let’s step it up a notch.”
The next blow was a kick, dead center in my chest, sprawling me out onto my back.
“You’re a crummy leader,” Hammett said. “And you fight like a girl.”
She kicked me again, a football punt between my legs. I brought my knees to my chest, moaning.
“Why are you covering up? This is what you want, isn’t it, sis? What you deserve?”
Hammett kicked again, and my body reacted without me even thinking about it. I caught her foot, twisted, and brought her down to the pavement with me.
We locked eyes, and I felt something flare inside, bubbling up through the self-pity.
Anger.
Hammett went for a strike to the nose, and I blocked it with my palm and elbow, then snapped her in the chin.
She rolled away, and then we were both on our feet, circling each other.
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” Hammett said, her tongue snaking out and licking the blood from the corner of her mouth.
She launched herself at me, a muay Thai flying kick, and again instinct took over and I brought up my forearms to absorb the blow, then pivoted my hips, caught her arm, and judo threw her to the ground, still holding her left wrist.
The rest of her fingers formed a fist, but her splinted, broken pinkie jutted out. Without thinking I grabbed it and yanked back.
Hammett howled, and I realized Fleming was right. Breaking Hammett’s finger did make me feel better.
I let her go and stepped away, palms up.
Hammett looked up at me, her teeth clenched. “Done feeling sorry for yourself?”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure how long it would last, but at the moment, I was spent, and besides the physical pain Hammett had dealt me, I didn’t feel much of anything. It was a relief.
“Then can you please snap my goddamn finger back in place?”
I reached for her, wary of another attack, but Hammett kept still as a statue. When I put her finger back in place, she grunted. I pulled her to her feet.
“Nice throw,” she said.
“Thanks. And thanks for…”
“Don’t mention it. I’m still going to kill you eventually.”
We walked back to the SUV, and I called Jack’s office.
“Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”
“Apparently.”
“So…”
“I’ll do it. I just called Senator Crouch. He’s making it happen. I can be in DC by tonight. But there’s a problem. You can’t take tours alone. I have to bring someone with.”
“Do you have anyone?”
“Not on this short notice.”
I knew someone, but Jack wouldn’t like it.
“Give me your cell number,” I said. She did. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“We heroes have to stick together.”
She hung up.
I didn’t feel like a hero. I felt like a fraud. A fraud, a liar, a cheat, and every bit the reprehensible killer.
“No one ever called me a hero,” Hammett said. Apparently she’d been able to overhear Jack’s words. “Even when I was killing for Uncle Sam.”
“Me neither.”
“A hero is a protector. A savior. Only person I ever tried to save is myself. But you? You saved London. How did that feel?”
“That was Fleming, not me. I tried to save Julie, but you know how that turned out.”
“You’ll get another chance. I’ve got a feeling there will be more lives on the line than just hers. Maybe we’ll both know what it’s like to be the good guy for once.”
I highly doubted it.
Julie
The door’s squeak woke Julie from what seemed like an endless doze.
She had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been an hour, or it could have been five. But she was ready. At least, she hoped she was.
The same woman, dull blond hair, mole that resembled a bug, padded across the floor to Julie’s bed. She checked the monitors first: heart, blood pressure, God knew what else. Julie noticed then that she had a catheter inserted, and the idea of it made her squirm, so she tried not to think about it too much.
Nurse Brady Bunch moved on to the IV.
Once Julie made her move, they would know the sedative wasn’t enough to keep her under. Julie would only have one shot at this. She had to make it count.
When she heard the Velcro tear free, she was ready.
She opened her eyes and levered herself up in bed. Grabbing the Velcro binding her right wrist, she ripped it and wrestled her other arm free.
The nurse, or whatever she was, was twisted around, gathering her syringe from a rolling tray. Gasping, she spun around and stared at Julie. “But you—”
Julie didn’t hesitate. Channeling her inner Chandler, she swung her fist around and into the side of the woman’s head.
The nurse fell, smashing into the tray and then the floor. Vials and needles clattered across tile. The blow shuddered through Julie’s elbow, and for a moment her forearm and hand felt numb.
“Stop!”
Julie was shaking, tears streaming from her eyes. She grasped the tube feeding her drugs and ripped the tape holding the needle, then the needle itself. Blood beaded on the back of her hand, but she didn’t care. The monitor pads came next, leaving the machine screaming the flat tone that meant someone had just died.
The nurse scrambled to her feet, a purple bruise already coloring her jaw. “I’m calling security!”
“Tell them to bring their guns.”
She stared at Julie as though believing she’d lost her mind.
Julie almost wished she had. Unfortunately, this was the sanest thing she’d ever done. She might have done it long ago, if not for Chandler, if not for Kirk. She couldn’t abandon either of them.
Now both of them were gone.
The nurse slammed out of the room, and Julie turned her attention to getting out of bed. The catheter was more difficult to remove. But when she was finally untethered, she grasped the bar at the side of the hospital bed trying to release it.
It didn’t move.
Neither did the other side. Her mind was still muddled and sluggish, and for the life of her, she couldn’t remember how to lower the sidebars, if she ever knew at all.
But Julie wasn’t going to let that stop her. She scooched to the end of the bed and slid out onto the floor, the tile cold under her bare feet. She was in good shape, but she hadn’t moved in a while, and her inactivity combined with the sedatives made her head feel light and her limbs heavy.
Using the bed rail to steady herself, she made for the upended tray. Crouching down, she felt under the tray with her hand. The tray itself was simple, and all the edges smooth, its few pieces attached with rivets. She moved down the single leg to the wheels, feeling the joints where the wheel portion attached.
There.
The rumble of voices came from the hall outside.
Her fingers trembled, but she managed to get ahold of one of the screws holding the contraption together. It wasn’t much. But there was nothing better in the room. She wasn’t strong enough to take the rails off the bed. She doubted the machines would provide a sharp edge.
She loosened the screw, twisting as fast as she could until it came off in her hand. The tip was pointy, and while not sharp, it might be sharp enough.
Taking a deep breath, she dragged the point across the inside of her left wrist.
The door flew open. A man in a white space suit burst through, his features obscured behind the glare of his Plexiglas mask, followed by the woman Julie had clocked in the head.
“See?” Nurse Brady screamed. “She’s awake, and…Wh
at are you doing?”
Blood streaked across the pale skin of Julie’s wrist, but it wasn’t coming fast enough. Bleeding to death would take forever at this rate, and that was time she didn’t have. She needed to end things now.
She raised the screw to her throat.
“Put that down, Julie,” the guard said. He was young man, maybe a few years older than Julie. He spread his gloved hands and approached slowly, his face kind. The nurse approached from the other side.
Julie raised her hand. “My blood will kill you.”
“I’m immune, you stupid little bitch,” said the woman. “Do you really think I’d take your blood without protection?”
Of course. Immune, like Chandler had been.
At the thought of Chandler, Julie’s throat closed, tears blurring her vision. She grabbed the wheel frame from the table and hurled it at the nurse.
The guard stepped closer.
“Shoot me!” Julie begged.
“I don’t have a gun,” he said.
“I’ll rip your suit open.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Julie. I’m trying to protect you. My name is Derek Fossen. And I’m a—”
“What’s going on here?” A gruff male voice came from the doorway.
Fossen stepped aside, and an older man stepped into the room. He was dressed in a black shirt, pants, and sports jacket, and his silver hair sparkled in the overhead light. Julie had never seen the man before, but everything about him said he was in charge.
“Put that down, Julie,” he said.
She looked at the man, at Fossen, at the nurse—
—then she drove the screw into her neck. The sharp point cut, pain piercing her skin, hot blood sticky in her fingers. But it wasn’t enough.
“You’re going to have to kill me.”
“I’m not going to let that happen.”
A sob bubbled up, lodging in her throat.
“You also know you can’t kill yourself with that screw.”
“The hell I can’t.” Clenching her teeth together, she stabbed again.
“Julie,” the old man said. “Stop right now.”
She stabbed herself again and again, a scream erupting from her throat.
Fossen grabbed her wrist, pushing her down onto the bed, pinning her there, saying, “Stop, please stop it,” over and over.
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