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

by J. A. Konrath

  Fleming picked up her cell phone and shared the news with Chandler.

  “So, what do you think?” Chandler asked after Fleming’s explanation.

  “I think you and Hammett need to check out Toronto, and either Texas or Mexico.”

  “We’re going to see Harry now to get weapons. He’s going with Jack to DC to tour the White House.”

  “Does the cop know that?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Same here. You doing OK with Hammett?”

  “We’re managing. How’s your end of things?”

  Fleming stole a glance at Bradley and felt herself flush. “We’re managing, too.”

  “You slept with him.”

  “What?”

  “I hear it in your voice.”

  “Anything for the cause. I’ll call when I have something to report.”

  Fleming hung up. She hadn’t lied to Chandler. Sleeping with Bradley had been a means to an end, a way to make him comply. An enjoyable way, but business nonetheless.

  She looked at him again, sitting at the desk computer, eating his sandwich, and shivered when she remembered his hands on her legs.

  Easy, tiger. He’s just a tool to use. Nothing more.

  But staring at Bradley, Fleming wondered if she was lying to herself.

  Chandler

  “Fight until you have nothing left in you,” The Instructor said. “Then keep fighting.”

  “The Jericho 941 in .45 ACP, traditional double action, three extra clips with ten rounds each. An excellent weapon.”

  McGlade held the gun in his good hand and used his robotic one to work the slide, chambering a round. Then he handed it to me across his desk.

  “Magazines,” I corrected.

  “Huh?”

  “You called them clips. They’re magazines.”

  “Like Penthouse?” Harry held up one of the mags and squinted at it. “I don’t see any beaver.”

  “You’ll see the beaver later,” Hammett said, winking.

  Jesus. Why didn’t I just stay quiet? I snatched the magazine from Harry’s hand and gathered the others from the desktop.

  “And for the pretty one, a Mateba Model 6 Unica, also known as an autorevolver. Chambered for .44 Magnum. I’ve never used one before, but it just oozes sex, doesn’t it?”

  “Fuck yeah,” Hammett said, taking the weapon from McGlade. It looked like the bastard child of a revolver and a semiautomatic pistol, futuristic in a Robocop kind of way. As far as I knew, it was the only mass-produced semiauto revolver. Normally, a revolver was cocked by pulling back the hammer, or pulling the trigger. The Mateba cocked itself after each round was fired, using its own recoil to rotate the cylinder.

  I had gun envy.

  “For Chandler, a Paragon SEAL automatic knife, drop point, almost nine inches long with an anodized aluminum handle. Perfect for slicing, stabbing, or bashing the enemy in the back of the head. And for Hammett, an Emerson karambit.”

  McGlade flicked his thumb, opening up a short, hooked blade that looked like an eagle talon. The handle had a hole in the bottom that a finger went into, a thumb or a pinkie, depending on which direction it was held.

  Now I had knife envy, too.

  “Capable of skinning an entire buffalo or carving holes through oak trees. Have you used one before?”

  She took the weapon from him, and a quick blur later she had the blade to his throat.

  “I trained in the Philippines,” Hammett said. “And I’m planning on gutting people, not skinning buffalo.”

  “And once again, I am inappropriately aroused.”

  Hammett pocketed the knife, and Harry cleared his throat and stuck a hand in his front pocket to make adjustments.

  “Moving right along, two vests, Safeguard Stealth body armor, Level III-A ballistics, Level 2 for edged blades and spikes. Both in slimming black. Might I say it’s a shame to cover up those fine boobs?”

  “You may.”

  “You have fine boobs.”

  I already had boob envy, so I didn’t mind the comment.

  “Thank you,” Hammett said. “Did you get my things?”

  “Absolutely. Specialty shotgun rounds, twelve-gauge. We have dragon’s breath, piranha, fléchette, and armor-piercing. I’ve never heard of piranha shells before. What’s in them?”

  “Razor-sharp steel tacks,” Hammett said.

  McGlade leaned in close to her. “You are the sexiest woman to ever walk the planet.”

  “Did you find armor-piercing rounds for the Mateba?” Hammett cooed.

  “Those are illegal. And yes, I got a box for you.”

  “What’s that?” Hammett asked, pointing at a pair of handheld devices that looked like Star Trek phasers.

  “Chandler asked for those. Digital thermometers. Point and pull the trigger, and it registers the surface temperature.” Harry picked it up and pointed it at Hammett. “And baby, you are hot.”

  “Ebola dies at sixty degrees Celsius if held at that temp for at least thirty minutes,” I said. “There are also other ways of killing it. UV and gamma radiation, bleach, detergents, lipid solvents.”

  “How about shooting it?” Harry asked.

  I stared at him, wondering if he was joking. With Harry, you never knew where smart-ass ended and stupidity began.

  “I was joking,” Harry said. “And right now you’re thinking I’m an idiot.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Depends. Do idiots make you horny?”

  “Can you move this process along, please?”

  He aimed the temp gun at me. “Ouch. Cold like a dead fish. Are you sure your sister has a pulse?” he asked Hammett.

  “Unfortunately,” she answered.

  “What else did you get?” I pressed, not wanting to be part of their comedy routine.

  “All the crap you wanted. Paracord, compasses, GPS locators, radar detectors, first-aid kits, gas masks, Surefire Guardian 900 lumen flashlights, field glasses, night-vision monoculars with headsets, lock picks, cockneeds…”

  “What’s a cockneed?” Hammett asked.

  McGlade snaked his arm around her. “Mine needs you, baby. Right now.”

  “How about that special thing I asked for?”

  “I’m working on it. But I wouldn’t mind an advance on what you owe me.”

  They kissed, and for the second time that day I felt awkward and had to walk away from the groping and gyrating. This time I didn’t venture farther into McGlade’s office, which I’d learned from experience didn’t dampen the noise. Instead I mumbled that I’d be waiting by the SUV, thanked Harry, stuffed my backpack full, and left his office.

  As I loaded the vehicle, I tried not to think about how everyone was getting laid but me, and fought the desire to call Lund. I knew he wouldn’t take me back, but I just wanted to hear his voice, which made me feel even worse about myself. Codename: Chandler, Lovesick Idiot.

  Maybe Hammett was right. I needed a bad boy, and Lund was a good boy. But my track record with bad boys had been shitty. Was there such a thing as a bad boy who deep inside was a good boy? And why was I thinking about any of this while running for my life?

  Oh, yeah—because everyone was having sex and I wasn’t.

  Funny how that worked. An hour ago, I’d been ready to eat my gun. Now I just wanted to get laid.

  I suppose all the training and conditioning in the world couldn’t stop a girl from ignoring her base needs.

  I killed time by pinching my injured fingernail and practicing the techniques Hammett had taught me. I wasn’t quite buying her explanation of pain management. When I imagined the pain exiting my body, I still felt it in a detached sort of way. But it didn’t bother me as much. Which, I supposed, was a pretty cool trick to know. Though I wasn’t going to have surgery without anesthesia anytime soon.

  After twenty minutes, Hammett came out carrying her backpack of supplies, a notable spring in her step. She went to the backseat, but instead of putting her stuff i
n, she took stuff out.

  “Harry’s letting me borrow his ’Vette,” she said by way of explanation.

  “Isn’t that dangerous? What if you lead The Instructor to him?”

  “He’s got eight sets of phony plates and registrations in his trunk. He’s kind of like a perverted, bionic Sam Spade. I dig him.”

  “So, what’s this secret thing Harry is getting for you? You’ve asked for it twice.”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  I had a feeling I wouldn’t like what Hammett considered a surprise. “Did you want Toronto or Texas and Mexico?”

  “Toronto, definitely. Je parle très bien français. No hablo a español muy bien.”

  Her Spanish sounded perfect to me. But I was just fine with heading south. A long drive in the hot sun would help me clear my head. Besides, if I had to guess, I’d say as a Latino, Heath was the Hydra Deux operative The Instructor would most likely send to Texas or Mexico. Taking out my frustration on that son of a bitch might be just what I needed to get my feet back under me.

  Hammett finished grabbing her gear, and dug into the bit of money we had left over from the drug house robbery.

  “If I’m going to get into Canada, I need some extra supplies. Can you make it to Texas on five hundred?”

  I did a quick gas calculation in my head. “Yeah.”

  Hammett shoved the rest of our cash into her bag and gave me a share of the special shells Harry had procured for her. Then we stood on the sidewalk and silently stared at each other. It was almost as awkward as watching her make out with Harry.

  “Well,” she said.

  “Well.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  I wasn’t about to hug her. I wasn’t even going to offer to shake hands. But the fact that she wasn’t making an effort either left me feeling oddly empty.

  She nodded slightly, then turned and walked off, and as she crossed the street I wondered if I would ever see her again, and if that would be a good thing or not.

  For a dangerously unhinged psychopath, the bitch was growing on me.

  Julie

  Julie had begun to doze off when the knob rattled, the door swung wide, and The Instructor walked into the room. He closed it behind him and walked to the desk, acting as if Julie wasn’t even there.

  “You said you’d tell me where Chandler is.”

  Julie’s voice sounded small, like a weak child begging for a favor. She hated that, but she was never good at hiding her feelings.

  He picked up a desk phone. “Hold all my calls.” Hanging up, he crossed to where Julie was sitting.

  “Please, could you—”

  His hand shot out so fast Julie didn’t see it coming. Hand flat, he slapped her right cheek hard enough to throw her against the sofa’s arm.

  “You don’t have the right to ask me anything.”

  Julie’s head jangled and the taste of blood bloomed in her mouth. She struggled to sit upright.

  He swung again, sending her bouncing off the cushions and sliding to the floor.

  “Stop it!”

  He loomed over her, and at first Julie thought he was about to kick her in the face. She rolled into a protective ball, not knowing what else to do, praying he would stop.

  No kick came.

  Her head throbbed, her mouth tangy with blood. She looked up at him through tears and a curtain of hair.

  He said nothing, just stared at her.

  Julie willed her head to clear, only to realize her fall had left her hospital gown bunched up to her waist.

  She pulled it over her hips, trying to cover herself.

  “Get up,” The Instructor said.

  Julie scrambled to her knees.

  “Sit,” he said, pointing to the sofa.

  She did as he said. Julie was crying openly now, and she let the tears come, not able to stem them.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that, but you need to understand that what happened today can’t happen again. No attacking the nurses. No hurting yourself. Do you understand?”

  Julie’s face felt hot, her cheekbone throbbing with each beat of her pulse.

  “Answer.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You’re too important to our country, Julie. You’re too important to me.”

  “Please tell me what happened to Chandler.” To her shame, she flinched a little, expecting him to take another swing.

  Instead, he sat on the cushion beside her.

  “Such a pretty thing,” The Instructor said. He reached out, stroking the bruise on her cheek.

  Julie shuddered. She wanted to move away from him, but there was nowhere to go.

  “You’re very valuable to us, Julie. We spent years looking for someone with your specific genetic markers. Years, and a small fortune. You’re going to go down in history as a true patriot. A hero. Your blood is going to help our nation grow stronger than it has ever been. The true, dominant world power.”

  “By killing people?”

  “To make an omelet,” The Instructor said, “you have to kill a few unborn chickens.”

  “I…I hate the thought of people dying because of me.”

  “All wars have casualties. All growth is painful. I’m full of platitudes. Often thought of writing them all down someday, maybe publishing an inspirational tome. I think this e-book thing is going to be a boon for readers.”

  He moved his hand to Julie’s shoulder, rubbing her like a creepy uncle.

  “You’re immunized,” Julie said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Why isn’t Dr. Fossen? Don’t you have enough?”

  “We used a synthetic viral protein to make the vaccine. It’s quite ingenious, really, and we have a lot of it. But, like you, Dr. Fossen requires a bit of extra persuasion to do the right thing. So I’m withholding it from him until he’s finished with his project.”

  “What’s his project?”

  “You are, my dear. He’s amplified enough of the virus to infect two large urban centers. But that’s just phase one of the plan. We need more—a lot more—for phase two.”

  “Phase two?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. Neither does Dr. Fossen.”

  Julie knew that meant she probably should worry about it, but right then she was so overloaded with worries and information she couldn’t understand that she was at a loss to do anything at all.

  She pulled in a deep breath.

  “You like Derek Fossen, don’t you?” asked The Instructor.

  She couldn’t lie. He was the first person in this place who seemed human. “I guess so.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve had a man, Julie?”

  Julie didn’t answer.

  “Must have been a long time. You’ve been at that lighthouse, living like a hermit, for years. Don’t you miss the companionship? The intimacy?”

  Julie did. More than anything. But she wasn’t going to reveal that to this creep.

  The Instructor dropped his hand, grazing her nipple through the thin fabric. “I understand the needs a healthy young woman has. Say the word, we can be together.”

  Julie recoiled.

  “You don’t hide your feelings very well, do you?” he said.

  “I’m…I’m sorry.”

  “Would it help if I told you being nice to me could make a difference, at least where Chandler is concerned?”

  “A difference?” Julie wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what he meant. Since he’d been staring at her when she was naked from the waist down, she’d even half expected a proposition like this. But she needed to buy some time, give herself a chance to think.

  “A difference to whether Chandler lives or dies. How much pain she suffers.”

  “And if I have sex with you, you won’t hurt her?”

  “It would help me be more…charitable.”

  Julie owed Chandler everything. The years living in the lighthouse had been lonely and long, but she had been able to live them. She�
�d taken long walks with Kirk, enjoyed countless books; she’d even started writing stories herself. Chandler made that possible. Without her, Julie would have been stuck in a lab all that time…or dead.

  Maybe that would have been for the best, after all. If she had died back in New York, this man wouldn’t have her blood now. He wouldn’t be able to use it to kill people.

  Julie looked down at her hands, shaking and useless. She couldn’t change the past; she could only do what was in her power right now.

  The only person who had a real chance of stopping this man was Chandler.

  Julie looked back at the man and forced a smile to her lips, but even though she’d intended to say yes, the words wouldn’t come.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “I can’t say I’m not disappointed.”

  Julie had meant the words for Chandler, not The Instructor, but she didn’t correct him. She just hoped he wouldn’t hit her again.

  The Instructor laid a hand high on her thigh, his palm hot through the thin fabric. “I know you’ve been through a lot today, but I want you to really think about my offer. You’re easy to read, Julie; I can see you’re considering it.”

  She forced a nod.

  “Good girl.” He skimmed his fingers up and down the outside of her leg, inching below the gown’s hem with each movement upward. “In the meantime, I’ll send Dr. Fossen to take your vitals and bring you some food.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just let Fossen know when you’d like to see me.”

  She forced a nod.

  The Instructor stood and walked to the door, stopping before opening it. “I really hope you’ll take me up on my offer. I can make serving your country a much more pleasant experience, and if everything goes well, I’m the only one who can arrange for you to see Chandler.”

  Isolde

  “Practice is always useful,” said The Instructor. “But nothing beats the real thing.”

  Huddled over a folding table in the fairground tent, Izzy frowned at the laptop, wondering how the most technologically advanced country in the world, with arguably the most state-of-the-art military, produced a clunky flight simulator with controls so poor they were only outclassed by the shit graphics. Honestly, there were so many jaggies it looked like a spastic third-grader animated it with construction-paper cutouts. Izzy had no idea where The Instructor found this program, but Xbox had nothing to fear. Even the sounds were remedial, beeps and buzzes that were so annoying she seriously considered throwing the computer across the room, then hunting down the idiot who did the programming and torturing him to death by making him play his own damn game.