She glanced at Tristan, who was unloading the truck. Hauling cases of soda seemed a lot more fun than what she was doing. But Izzy forced herself to continue. She was an efficient pilot, even better than Scarlett on some aircraft, but she’d never flown one of these before and needed the practice.
Turning back to the computer, Izzy restarted the program and went through the laborious preflight check, then took off in a light drizzle with a 7-mph northwesterly wind. It was almost as exciting as watching grass grow, and Izzy believed a grass-growing computer simulation would have been more fun as well.
The tent door opened, and a dude with a clipboard came in. “Hey! Why are you unloading? This isn’t one of the refreshment tents. Put those cans back on the truck, eh.”
Tristan rolled his shoulders, meeting Izzy’s stare, but she shook her head.
“I got this.”
Strolling over to him, a spring in her step, Izzy said to the walking dead man, “But we have the frabojamitz permit for it.”
His eyes crinkled at the made-up word, and by then she was on him with her straight razor, slashing his larynx, slicing his vocal cords so nothing came out but a wet wheeze. Her next cut was across his eyebrows, the blood flowing fast and blinding him. He flailed out his arms and Izzy did a dodge, turning a pirouette in her Doc Martens, the razor biting into his biceps, then a follow-up digging into his back, deep enough to catch on his spine. She severed it, and his useless legs lost their ability to hold him up.
Tristan went to watch the door, and Izzy straddled the dying man, humming to herself, removing bits of his face as he choked and bled out. When he finally died, Izzy’s leggings were soaked with blood, and she was in much better spirits. She made a nice, deep slash in her forearm, then rubbed black ink into it, luxuriating in the sting.
“Messy,” Tristan said, a rare instance of speaking without being addressed first.
“The grass will soak up the blood.”
Tristan lumbered to them, then dragged the man over to the truck and jerked him up into the back. Hopping up next to him, he pulled the body through the maze of soda cases and hid it in back next to the other body they were keeping on ice.
Izzy stripped off her clothes, then used some bottled water to get the blood off. Tristan watched her, that hungry look in his eyes. Unlike many anorexics, Izzy had no delusional self-image issues. She didn’t look in the mirror and see someone fat. She saw someone who looked like they’d lived for a year in a concentration camp, nothing but androgynous, emaciated muscle and saggy skin, and the chest of a twelve-year-old boy.
“Enjoying the show?” Izzy teased.
Tristan grunted, then unzipped his fly.
The sex was rough, painful, just like Izzy liked it. But, as usual, it was over too soon, which meant Izzy had to go back to the damn flight simulator.
Damn The Instructor. Damn him to hell.
She returned to the computer, saw her aircraft had crashed, and had to start over.
Still, it would be worth it. If the calculations were correct, they’d kill a half-million people tomorrow. They’d die horribly, bleeding and crying in excruciating agony, infecting anyone they came near.
The thought brought a rare smile to Izzy’s face. She rebooted the simulator and got back to practicing.
Fleming
“Killing is like riding a bicycle,” said The Instructor. “Once you learn how, it’s easy to do it again.”
After working with Bradley on the breadboard creating the circuit for the robot, Fleming copied it to a PCB computer-aided design program and printed it out on a sheet of Mylar. Then Fleming turned out all the lights, except for a red screen on her laptop, and peeled off the protective backing from a photosensitive board, and placed it and the board design in a photo frame. Then she exposed it under a fluorescent light for ten minutes, and mixed some positive-type printed circuit board developer with water in a dish. After the exposure was complete, Fleming put the PCB in the solution, agitating it like one would a photograph in a darkroom. When her design appeared on the board, she rinsed it off and prepared to etch.
“Would you be offended if I said you’re adorable when you work?” Bradley asked.
“No. Why?”
“Because you’re extremely competent, and I don’t want to belittle you by commenting on your appearance.”
Fleming laughed. He was definitely the cuter of them, in too many ways to count.
The etching solution—ferric chloride and water—chemically milled the PBC by removing the unwanted copper. That took about fifteen minutes, and then Fleming cleaned the finished board with nail polish remover, and began to drill holes and solder on components.
They worked for more than an hour, hunched over the table, fusing Bradley’s robotics with Fleming’s surveillance bug. Despite their calculations, the finished board, complete with microphone, speaker, wheel and motor, transceiver, antenna, battery, and fish-eye camera, didn’t fit into the desired housing.
“Let me have the Dremel tool,” Bradley said.
As he worked, Fleming kept an eye on her laptop, watching the enemy blips close to within a mile of her location. She did a weapons check. Fifteen shells for the shotgun. Eight bullets in the Skorpion. Two rounds in the armrests of her modified wheelchair. Assorted stabbing and slicing weapons. She added oil to the compartment in her chair to replace what she’d dumped in the mall, then dissolved Styrofoam packing pieces from her various purchases in a jar full of gasoline for later use.
“How does this look?”
Bradley held up the bug. It looked just as Fleming hoped it would: like an ordinary Montblanc pen.
“Great. Does it work?”
Bradley grinned. “My part does. I dunno about your end. Your soldering was…interesting.”
“Interesting?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I cleaned it up best I could, but even my skills have limits.”
He winked at her, and Fleming laughed.
“You know I can kill you six different ways with one hand.”
“I’m guessing solder me to death isn’t one of them.”
“Did you finish the external transceiver?”
“First thing I did. It’s bulky.”
It had to be. The bug had its own transceiver, but had a range of only a hundred meters. For Fleming to control it and receive its data, it had to communicate with another transceiver that had a longer range, one outside the White House perimeter.
“Did you upload the remote control program?”
Fleming nodded. “But I haven’t linked to the TracFone yet.”
“We can test it without that. Just use your Wi-Fi to try it out.”
Fleming accessed her network, found the new device, and typed in the code. Then she started the remote program Bradley had given her. A window opened, and a digital circle appeared on the screen. In it were four arrows, laid out like compass points.
Bradley set the pen on the floor. “I used gaming controls. They’re—”
Fleming knew gaming controls. She’d played enough Doom and Quake while recuperating. She pressed the W key and the pen moved forward, quicker than she’d expected. It went in a straight line, about as fast as a cockroach could scurry. She pressed D, which should have made it go right, but the pen just stopped.
“Only one wheel,” Bradley said, “so to turn—”
There wasn’t an axle in the pen, so the left and right buttons wouldn’t work. So Fleming pressed S and the pen began to move backward. As it did, the tail end dragged on the floor and turned the pen to the left.
So it was like parallel parking a car. Forward is straight, backing up changed the direction. Smart and simple.
“Can I adjust speed?”
“Go into options. There’s a limiter.”
“Will it go over carpeting?”
“If it isn’t too thick. I’ve got these same wheels and servos on a little RC car I made. It’ll go up grades of up to thirty degrees, work on dirt, even through small puddles.”
“Battery life?”
“Depends. I don’t know what your microphone and camera draws, but you should be able to run the servo an hour, maybe more.”
Fleming couldn’t check the camera yet, because that required a Wi-Fi setup. But she was pleased with Bradley’s work.
“It’s excellent, Bradley. And much quicker than I expected.”
“I’m a motivated employee. So I was thinking maybe we could…” He smiled shyly.
Fleming was surprised. “Again?”
“It’s been hours.”
“Are you popping Viagra behind my back?”
“I don’t need Viagra. Just looking at you is enough to—”
“Hold that thought.” Fleming raised up her hand, halting him. Her attention had been snared by her computer. The GPS tracker.
Rhett and Scarlett were within a thousand meters of the shop.
“I need you to stay here, lights out. Don’t come out no matter what.”
Bradley looked perplexed, then fear widened his eyes and he nodded.
“Don’t make any noise. I’ll be back soon.”
She wheeled toward the door as Bradley hit the lights. Before she left, she heard him whisper to her in the dark.
“Fleming?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
“I will. Remember what I told you.”
“Please come back. I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Normally, Fleming would have found his naïveté cute but dismissible. Puppy love was an obvious side effect to getting laid for the first time. But he said it with a tremor in his voice, obviously frightened, and it made Fleming consider that this could be the last time they’d ever see each other.
Scarlett
“The life of an operative is ninety-five percent boredom and five percent terror,” The Instructor said. “Eventually you’ll long for the boredom part.”
“You’re humming again.”
“Was I?”
Rhett smiled at her, all innocent and flirty. Chances were, the moron was unaware of it. But he also might have been doing it intentionally, just to annoy her. Ultimately it didn’t matter. If he kept it up, Scarlett was going to cut off his balls and shove them down his throat to shut him up.
She stopped at a red light. They’d been looking for Fleming for hours, an ever-spiraling radius from where the cab had dropped her off. They were about two kilometers from center, driving through this business section of town, knocking on doors and flashing Fleming’s picture at everyone they met. So far not a single person out of dozens recognized her. Which showed just how uninformed the nation was, because Fleming’s face matched the agent who’d killed the president.
Then again, the picture they had of her wasn’t very good, eyewitness ID was notoriously faulty, and the wheelchair was the deal-breaker. Still, it made Scarlett wish that people paid even a little bit more attention to what was going on around them. Instead, the world was populated by zombies completely unaware of their surroundings, self-absorbed to the point of single-mindedness.
The light changed, and they eased up to a strip mall, most of the stores vacant. Scarlett pulled into the parking lot and killed the Mustang’s headlights. Habit made her senses report. She smelled Rhett’s aftershave, the Armor All the dealership had used on the car’s interior, and through the slit in the window, a cold breeze carrying car exhaust. Besides the low grumble of the engine, she heard the double cluck of a Canada goose, and spotted a gaggle of six, waddling along like they owned the place.
There were five cars in the lot, and Scarlett circled slowly, minding the geese so they didn’t get uppity and announce her presence. The only two shops that appeared open were a sandwich place and a currency exchange. The rest had soaped or newspaper-covered windows, signs on doors begging for renters. She parked, killing the engine, setting the handbrake. Scarlett didn’t see any lights on. And yet, if she were a lone operative looking for a place to hunker down, this shopping center was perfect. So if Fleming were here, where would she—
Scarlett saw movement outside just as Rhett grabbed her hair and tugged her to the side.
A thundering boom! and the front windshield spiderwebbed, spraying Scarlett with tiny rectangles of safety glass. Instinctively she went for the 9mm in the middle armrest and began to fire just as Rhett did, shooting through the broken window without seeing where they were aiming.
Trapped in a car during a gunfight was begging for sudden death, so Scarlett groped for the handle and then spilled onto the pavement, tucking and rolling behind the open door, knowing her odds weren’t good depending on Fleming’s position, but Rhett was doing the same so there was a fifty percent chance that—
Boom!
The moment Scarlett heard the blast she felt the burning slap and tug in her leg. Buckshot, and a lot of it. Then the pain came, white hot and blinding, and Scarlett emptied her clip into an arc around her and tried to push herself away with her good leg. “Rhett!”
He answered with more gunshots, and then he was dragging her by an armpit to the rear of the car as the shotgun roared a third time, disintegrating the driver’s side window.
Adrenaline surging, Scarlett squinted at her leg in the darkness. It looked as if someone had dumped a plate of mostaccioli Bolognese on her pants from the knee down. Seeing it made the pain worse. She ripped the seam out of her sleeve, pulled it off her arm, and tied it around her thigh as Rhett reloaded.
“Cover your left,” Rhett said, then took off right, jogging in a crouch. He’d circle around, try to catch the cripple from behind. Assuming Fleming was the one who’d fired. There was a chance, albeit small, that her sisters were with her. Scarlett didn’t think so. If they were together, Fleming wouldn’t have been the one doing errands and wouldn’t have stolen the van on her own.
Scarlett wished she’d spoken up, told Rhett not to follow Fleming into the mall. Then they could have followed her back to her hideaway with the element of surprise still intact. Then they could have known for sure if Fleming was alone. Then they could have—
“Fleming!”
A male voice, definitely not Rhett.
Scarlett followed the sound and spotted a tall young man wearing glasses, running into the parking lot. His hands were empty, and in the glow of one of the overhead parking lights, he seemed panicked. Not a pro.
Scarlett pointed her nine at the man. An easy shot at this distance, even with her injury. And shooting someone always felt good, which would help dull the pain she was in.
She squeezed the trigger.
Fleming
“Don’t get close to people,” The Instructor said. “It never ends well.”
In hindsight, Fleming should have attacked from the side.
But when the Mustang rolled up and killed the engine, Fleming had just enough time to get in front of it and fire. She’d chosen a heads-on approach because there were two people in the car. Unfortunately, the shot didn’t kill them, and they reacted immediately.
Fleming managed to wound the woman, Scarlett, but was then forced to wheel away before Rhett could get after her. As he assisted his partner, Fleming surged into the parking lot, weapon in lap. She assumed Rhett would try to flank her, because Fleming had the same training. So she decided to make a wider circle and wait for him to come.
Then Bradley—dear, adorable, brilliant, incredibly stupid Bradley—decided to come out and scream her name even though he’d sworn to stay put.
Puppy love was going to get him killed.
Fleming knew she had to stick to her plan, and that realization gnawed at her like a live rat sewn into her stomach. If she showed herself, she’d die. That meant Chandler would die, too, and who knew how many others to Ebola.
Thousands? Millions?
She coasted behind one of the few parked cars in the lot and held her breath, listening for approaching footsteps.
Instead, she heard gunfire. Small caliber. Single shot. Final.
Fleming felt a
s if her heart stopped. For a moment she was unaware of her environment. For all her training, it seemed to disappear around her, Fleming’s senses drowned out by sorrow and rage. Then—
“Fleming!”
Bradley’s voice. Choked and scared.
But still alive!
Fleming’s momentary relief was replaced by the sick sensation of knowing what would happen next.
She heard Scarlett barking orders, and then Rhett replying.
“Fleming!” Scarlett called out. “I just shot your boy’s ear off. If you care about him, you’ll show yourself.”
Fleming stayed put. The mission was to rescue Julie, kill The Instructor, stop whatever plan the president had, and clear their names. The mission didn’t include giving up her position and surrendering to the enemy to save a boy toy.
“Suit yourself. We’ll be in touch. Don’t stray too far from a mailbox, because we’ll be sending you pieces of him every hour.”
Fleming felt like puking.
A minute passed. Then the Mustang raged to life and squealed tires, tearing off down the lot, away from her. When it was gone, she wheeled back toward her shop, and saw the small, silver object on the sidewalk.
A cell phone. Resting on a spatter of Bradley’s blood.
She snatched it up, then locked herself inside the store, lights out. The Baltimore PD showed up a few minutes later, spent a half hour searching the parking lot, then began a door-to-door check. While they did their job, Fleming did hers, removing the battery from the cell phone Scarlett had left, then building a makeshift RF detector on her breadboard while holding a penlight in her mouth.
After the cops left, Fleming packed up the gear she needed, then called a cab. It took her back to the mall, and her van. She circled the vehicle with the detector held in front of her, watching the LED blink then go solid when she held it over the left rear wheel well. Fleming used a hammer and tire jack to break the body, and then destroy the anti-theft device.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 80