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

by J. A. Konrath

  Invisible again, she got into the van and started it up.

  Fleming was trained to focus on the mission and to bury her feelings. She couldn’t let personal attachments get in the way. Over the years, several of the men she’d slept with had died, some by her hand. This wasn’t the time to think about Bradley. He’d served his purpose, and was no longer needed.

  She got onto 295 South, heading for DC.

  Fleming only stopped once during the hour-long drive, at a fast-food place where she ordered a hamburger with extra napkins.

  The hamburger went to Sasha, curled up in the passenger seat.

  Fleming needed the napkins because it was hard to see with tears blurring her vision.

  Scarlett

  “I’ve taught you to kill,” The Instructor said. “But you also have to learn how to heal.”

  Rhett found one of those shitty, rent-by-the-hour motels on the outskirts of Baltimore, the kind that was all one floor and you parked in front of your room. The drive had been agonizing. As soon as they’d gotten away from Fleming, he’d kicked the shattered front windshield out. She’d sat in the backseat, keeping a gun to Bradley’s head, gritting her teeth as the cold air rushed in and slapped at her bleeding leg. They made it without attracting any police attention, and Rhett brought the kid in first, taking an interminable amount of time to secure him before coming to get her.

  As expected, the accommodations were sparse. Queen-size bed with a mattress almost as thin as the blanket. A TV at least fifteen years out of date. A cheap particleboard dresser and puke-green drapes that never should have survived the 1970s. The bathroom smelled like bleach. The carpet smelled like a dog’s ass.

  Rhett carried her in, placed her gently on the bed, and frowned.

  “Gotta ditch the car. Gave the kid a shot to put him out.”

  “Give me a shot.”

  “Can’t. You need to stay alert while I’m gone. Nothing stronger than aspirin.”

  “I hate you,” Scarlett said, and had never spoken truer words.

  “Save the hate for later, when I’m digging the shot out of your leg.”

  Rhett loaded a full magazine into her 9mm, placed it next to the bed, checked to make sure the hideous drapes were completely closed, and then left her there.

  Scarlett wadded the corner of a filthy pillow into her mouth and bit down on it, bleeding and crying until he returned. She used every trick she’d been taught to relax her body and manage the pain, but it was impossible. So instead she fantasized about killing Rhett. Growing weary of those scenarios, she turned her imaginary wrath on Bradley. He’d tell them everything he knew about Fleming. And even if he did so willingly, Scarlett was going to make him suffer, if only for guilt by association. She had some serious skills when it came to causing pain.

  Against her better judgment, she examined her leg. Scarlett tried to be detached, cynical, and she counted fifteen buckshot wounds before turning her head to the side and vomiting onto the floor.

  Rhett couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour, but she felt every second of it. When he finally showed up, he had a dopey smile on his face.

  “Sorry for the wait, Scarlett. Damnedest thing happened. Was pulling into an all-night supermarket to ditch the ’Stang, and the prettiest little thing parks right next to me, sees the damage and the blood, starts asking me questions, all concerned about my welfare. Some people are just good-natured, you know? Every once in a while I lose faith in human nature, but a simple act of kindness restores it. Anyway, that’s what took so long. Snapped her neck, dumped her in the woods. Her car is a black Honda, parked behind our room.”

  “Put me out,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  He smiled, tipped his Stetson, then prepared the syringe. Rhett wasn’t the best battlefield medic, and there would no doubt be plastic surgery in Scarlett’s future from the shitty job he did, but he’d get the lead out and patch her up. She may not have liked him, but she trusted him.

  Well, mostly.

  “And my clothes stay on,” she warned. “You try anything while I’m out…”

  “Why, Miss Scarlett, I am offended you’d even suggest such a thing. Besides, that pretty young Honda lady has already obliged me in that area.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Who? Me? Man has needs, and I had to kill her anyway for her car. Who knows? Maybe I made her last few minutes on earth a bit better.”

  Scarlett highly doubted it, but she kept quiet. “Just fix my goddamn leg and keep your dick in your pants.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m just hoping I don’t have to amputate. Ain’t got a bone saw, so I’d have to shoot through your femur.”

  He smiled and then jammed the needle into her arm.

  Chandler

  “Information is always useful,” said The Instructor. “But make sure it’s correct.”

  Relieved to get on the road and away from Hammett, I cruised down I-55 to St. Louis, where I followed I-44 to Tulsa. Once I cleared the Ozarks, the land became a combination of monotonously flat and gently rolling hills. The lack of topographical variety and light traffic made driving easy, and for the first time since my life had fallen apart, I felt some sense of control.

  Outside of Tulsa, I stopped at a truck stop for fuel, a bathroom break, and one of those stale fruit pies found in vending machines, intending to drive a couple of more hours before I let myself take a nap in the SUV. Not the most comfortable of situations, but with my face all over the television, I had to avoid being seen. Even a McDonald’s drive-through posed a risk.

  I took solace in the fact that Hammett was dealing with the same issues. The thought of her sleeping in her car, eating stale fruit pies, was enough to make me smile.

  Climbing back behind the wheel with my snack, I pulled out my phone to check in with Fleming. It was late, and I thought she might be sleeping. I was surprised when she answered, sounding a little breathless.

  “Keeping the help sexually satisfied?”

  “How far are you?”

  “Tulsa.” Unlike me, Fleming was perfectly comfortable talking about sex. Hell, both my sisters had slept with more men than I’d probably said hello to. I was the only awkward one in the bunch. That Fleming had brushed off my question had me wondering.

  “So did you have a spat, or…”

  “I’m working, Chandler. Getting ready for Jack to arrive.”

  “Fine. Sorry.” I wasn’t sure what it was, but she was upset. “You sound like Minnie Naughton.”

  “Minnie isn’t the problem.” In other words, according to our simple code, she hadn’t been compromised.

  “So what is it?”

  “I’m handling my shit, Chandler. What do you need?”

  Jesus. Something was definitely up. But there was nothing I could do about it.

  “I’m checking in, like we agreed. Where am I headed?”

  I could hear the clicking of a laptop keyboard. “Both operatives are in Mexico. Looks like the second one is also heading to Mexico City.”

  “Mexico City it is.”

  “Cross at Laredo. The drug cartels have been sending a lot through that checkpoint, keeping border control busy. Their resources are wearing thin.”

  “Laredo. Got it.”

  “Chandler?”

  “Yeah?”

  I was figuring she’d spill what was on her mind, but instead she surprised me.

  “You’re a good operative. No…a great one. Really.”

  Heat stole into my cheeks. I don’t know why I expected my psycho sister to keep my breakdown quiet. If it had been her dissolving into tears, I would have reported it to Fleming immediately. But still, I felt embarrassed and a little betrayed. Stupid.

  “You’ve talked to Hammett?”

  “No, why?”

  So her comment wasn’t based on something Hammett said? I frowned into the phone. In the years Fleming had been my handler, she’d never given me a pep talk.

&
nbsp; “What makes you think I need the pat on the head?” I asked.

  Seconds plodded by before she spoke. “Remember when I read you the short dossiers for Hydra Deux?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are dossiers for us, too.”

  I’d talked to Fleming a lot on the phone over the years, and I was pretty good at reading her, even back when I’d known her as Jacob and her voice had been electronically disguised. Judging from my sister’s tone now, I wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

  “And something in mine made you think I needed encouragement?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “What did it say, Fleming?”

  Another long pause. “Under weaknesses, it listed self-doubt. ’May crack under pressure. Panic control.’”

  My throat felt tight. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to think about that, what I was supposed to feel. It was like having my stepfather inside my head all over again, pointing out my shortcomings, listing my flaws.

  My stepfather, The Instructor, what was the damn difference?

  “Are you OK?”

  “I can’t say the assessment is wrong, Fleming.”

  “Can you handle this? Be honest with me.”

  “A day ago, I would have had to say no. But I’ve got it now.”

  “You’re sure? A lot hangs in the balance.”

  “And that’s why I won’t fuck it up.”

  “OK. You never have before, Chandler. Remember that. You’ve always found a way before.”

  “As soon as you hear anything, let me know.”

  Walking back to the SUV, I ended the call, then ripped off the pie’s wrapper and took a bite, although I don’t remember tasting it. Then I got back on the highway and focused on the reassurances I’d given Fleming.

  And tried to believe them myself.

  Hammett

  “There are many ways to die,” The Instructor said. “Drowning is one of the worst.”

  After a quick stop at the airport and a nine-hour drive east, Hammett parked across the street from a gas station in West Seneca, New York, and waited for the right sort of woman to drive up. She had to be alone, in a nice car, dressed well. It was a little after midnight, and didn’t take long for Hammett’s criteria to be met. As the woman pumped gas, Hammett crossed the street in the evening chill, approached her with a friendly smile, then put the .357 in her face.

  “Purse,” she demanded.

  The terrified woman handed it over.

  “Coat.”

  The trench coat came next.

  “Now Macarena.”

  “What?”

  “The dance. Really popular in the nineties.” Hammett began to hum the song, and the shivering woman went through the motions.

  “Look at the camera,” Hammett said, pointing her finger to the camera above the pump that she had her back to. “And smile. This will end up on YouTube eventually.”

  Incredibly, the woman nodded, and her dancing improved significantly. Hammett watched for a few seconds, amused, then jogged back to her car when the woman was facing the other way as the dance required.

  Not as satisfying as killing her, but oddly amusing.

  She drove north into the heart of Buffalo, found another gas station, and used the restroom. As expected, the stolen purse was filled with high-end makeup, and Hammett went to work.

  When she was finished, the result was somewhere between movie starlet and Vegas showgirl. The coat was long and covered her clothes. She gave her reflection a flirtatious wink, smiled, and then went back to the ’Vette to find a nice hotel.

  While Hammett’s face was now infamous, the video playing on every TV channel showed Chandler without makeup. Anyone who has ever seen before and after pictures of celebrity makeovers knew how different a woman looked when her face was done up. The presidential assassin looked like a militant lesbian who’d just run a marathon through hell. Presently, with her multicolored hair, Hammett looked like a famous rock star. Hiding in plain sight was the best way to go unnoticed.

  She drove up to Niagara Falls, valet-parked the Corvette at a boutique hotel called the Jiacomo, and asked for a Jacuzzi suite. The lobby was immaculate. Marble floors and lots of earth tones and patterns in an art deco–meets–Mayan revival style: more now than now. Dramatic stems of Heliconia Mayan Gold branched from decorative clay vases. And the rich smell of complimentary espresso and chocolate chip cookies wafted through the air.

  When the clerk wanted to see an ID, Hammett leaned forward and whispered, “Look, you may not know who I am, but I’m famous, and if the press finds out I’m here, it’ll get ugly. How about I leave the deposit in cash and you sign me in under Jane Smith?”

  He nodded like he understood what was happening and agreed. Funny part was, Hammett hadn’t been lying to him. He gave her the key and some fresh-baked cookies, and she took the elevator to her floor.

  The room was very nice: spacious, quality furnishings, lots of earth tones and patterns in a style similar to the lobby, a fireplace, and a big, comfy bed. Hammett used the phone book to find a pizza place that was still open. She ordered a small thin crust with the works and a salad, and watched CNN while nibbling on chocolate chips until the deliveryman arrived. When he did, she found perverse satisfaction in the fact that while she paid for her order the TV was showing Chandler killing the president.

  She drew a bath and ate while soaking. Chandler was probably at a rest area somewhere, sleeping in her car, eating vending machine food, and the image tickled Hammett. Tough chick, but no style at all. And very close to the breaking point.

  Hammett considered Chandler’s behavior in the alley. You didn’t need a doctorate in psychology to see the woman was hurting. But was it just stress and exhaustion? Or something deeper?

  And more important, why did Hammett care?

  She finished her salad and half the pie, and then toweled off and slipped into bed, naked except for some newly applied bandages.

  Hammett was able to disassociate herself from her multiple aches and pains, and sleep came almost immediately.

  Four hours later the nightmare woke her up.

  It was the same every night, so regular that Hammett could set her watch by it. As usual, she jackknifed out of bed, dripping in sweat, a scream close to breaching her lips, her mind’s eye still envisioning Father’s face.

  A moment later the memory was gone, and Hammett was back in charge of her body’s reactions, slowing her breathing and heart rate. She got out of bed because further sleep would be impossible, changed the dressings on her various injuries, and then did forty minutes of sit-ups. This caused several of her wounds to bleed, and she showered, changed bandages once more, and then flipped through the phone book while she put on her makeup.

  Hammett had breakfast in the hotel’s opulent dining room—eggs and bacon, granola and yogurt—and while eating recalled another boutique hotel she’d stayed in, years ago in Spain, where she had a seafood paella that ranked among the best meals of her life. Maybe, when this was over, she’d go back. Take some time off.

  That is, if she lived that long.

  After breakfast, Hammett drove up Robert Moses Parkway, next to the Niagara River, scouting for the best place to enter Canada. She had no ID, let alone a passport, so the only way to get to Toronto would be as an illegal alien. About eight kilometers up, past the Lewiston-Queenston Bridge, Hammett found a narrow bend of river. She parked and walked into the tree line with her binoculars.

  The river cut a steep trench into the rocks on both the US and the Canadian sides, but the grade was navigable. Hammett could hear and smell the rushing water, and the closer look revealed it was too fast a current to swim unassisted, even though it wasn’t more than a hundred and fifty meters from shore to shore. Indeed, it was fast enough to qualify as rapids. The chill in the air, and the time of year, meant the water was probably cold as well. A wet suit wouldn’t hurt.

  She stood there with her binoculars, scanning the area. It took her tw
enty minutes before she spotted the first patrol, on the Canadian side. Two guys on three-wheelers. Their uniforms gave them away. While not dressed like Mounties, they did look like cops, brown jackets with gold patches on the shoulders reading CBPA: Canadian Border Protection Agency. Surprisingly, they were armed.

  But so was Hammett, and she had more than just a pistol.

  She waited another fifteen minutes, and saw a boat motor past. US Border Security, the Citizen’s Academy. Hammett smiled. This should be a piece of cake.

  After her reconnaissance, Hammett returned to the ’Vette and headed south to Buffalo, to the watersports store she’d looked up. The young guy behind the counter was obviously a displaced Californian, bleached-blond hair, remnants of a tan, a Malibu T-shirt. His nametag read DAVY.

  “Can I help you, dude?”

  “A Sea-Doo scooter.”

  “Awesome. Gonna do some diving in Erie?”

  “Gonna swim the Niagara River into Canada.”

  “Awesome. But those are some gnarly rapids, bro. You’ll need some major horses.”

  He demonstrated one of the higher-end models, capable of four miles an hour. It was black, and shaped like a small torpedo with handles, which is essentially what it was. But rather than carry a bomb, it carried a person, much faster than they could swim underwater.

  “How long does it last on a full charge?”

  “Ninety minutes, bro. Needs to be charged for four hours first.”

  Hammett hit the trigger button, and the propeller whirred.

  “Power light is down to one LED,” Davy said, pointing at the indicator. “Needs a charge.”

  Hammett only needed it for a few minutes, tops. “How long will this charge last?”

  Davy shrugged. “Dunno. But you don’t want to lug it around when it’s out of juice. Big pain in the butthole. It’s neutrally buoyant, but not fine to swim with, know what I mean?”