“I’ll take it. I also need a wet suit and a mask.”
“Groovy gravy. How about fins?”
Hammett didn’t think swim fins would help her much in a strong current. The same went for a snorkel. She wanted to swim under the surface, and could hold her breath with the best of them. Full scuba gear would only make her heavier and slow her down.
Davy found a wet suit for her, holding it up. “Red is totally your color, dude.”
“I want black.”
“Black is totally your color, dude. You’re gonna look bitchin’ in this.”
“I look bitchin’ in everything.”
“Hells yeah, bro. You got some major muscle tone. Pilates?”
“Hand-to-hand combat,” Hammett said.
“Bitchin’.”
“Can you charge the scooter on AC?”
“Wha?”
“AC power? You know, AC/DC?”
“Totally. Saw them in ’03 with Rush and the Stones in Toronto. SARS-a-palooza. Half a million people there, bro. Tomorrow is supposed to be even huger. Canadafest, Downsville Park. I got tix. Lineup is killer. Slave to the metal.”
He began to headbang, lifting up his fist with his index finger and pinkie sticking out in the universal symbol of stoned loser.
“Hey, Ozzy.” Hammett gave him a tap on the arm. “I want to know if I can charge the Sea-Doo using my car’s cigarette outlet. Also known as AC power.”
“Wha? Nah, bro. Wall plug only. But there are inverters.”
“Do you sell them?”
“Nah. But you need any energy drinks? Buy two cans of Insanity Blitzkrieg, get the third free. My fave flavor is Inferno.”
Hammett decided if she had to listen to Davy for much longer, chances were high she’d wind up killing him. So she paid and got out of there without trying on the wet suit. Checking the time, Hammett saw she still had a few hours before checkout at the Jiacomo, so that would have to be where she charged the Sea-Doo.
Cruising west on Robert Moses Parkway, Hammett noticed she had a tail. White sedan, light bar on the roof. Buffalo police. Hammett knew the speed limit, knew she was fine. The cop was on a fishing expedition. But if he was running her plates, and McGlade’s came up fake or stolen…
The cop’s lights went on, and the siren wailed. Hammett frowned, then reached under the seat and tucked the .357 between her thighs. She pulled over to the side of the road, considering her options. Killing a police officer wouldn’t be wise. But she couldn’t let herself get arrested, or even delayed. Depending on the cop and depending on why he was pulling her over, perhaps she could charm her way out of this, or bribe him. But if he insisted on license and registration—which she didn’t have—her options were limited to fleeing. Whether she shot him first or not would be a judgment call.
She watched his approach in the rearview mirror, the stereotypical cop swagger. He was older, forties, beer gut, expression unreadable behind his mirrored sunglasses. Hand on his holster.
Hammett rolled down her window.
“License and registration.”
“May I ask why you pulled me over, Officer?”
“Your taillight is out.”
Goddammit, McGlade.
“Really? I didn’t know. This isn’t my car, but thanks for telling me. It’s dangerous driving without a taillight.”
“License and registration.”
“I saw an auto parts store a few miles back. I can take care of this right away. I really don’t want to be wasting your time on little old me. My brother is a policeman, in Chicago. I think you guys have the hardest job in the world.”
She gave him her best smile, and casually dropped her hand to her lap.
“I need your license and registration, ma’am.”
Shit, he wasn’t going to budge. So…kill him or not?
Hammett noticed his hand, saw the wedding band. That didn’t matter. She’d killed family men before. But she imagined the story on the local news, hero cop killed during a routine traffic stop, grieving widow pleading for justice.
No, there was a better, cleaner way. A Corvette could smoke a police car, and Hammett was a damn good driver. She winked, blew him a kiss, and floored the accelerator. The ’Vette squealed, the rear end fishtailing on the fat rear tires. Hammett cut left, skipping over the patch of grass between the two opposite lanes, tearing two trenches into the earth and then whipping around into eastbound traffic. Past 190 was Cayuga Island, a large residential area. Side streets, driveways, backyards, plenty of places to hide. She hit 80 mph, and the car still had plenty to give. All she needed to do was get a mile head start and—
It all happened in a millisecond. The small shape in her lane—brown, four legs, dog! Slamming on the brakes and turning hard. Missing the animal by a hair but heading right for the embankment. Screeching and pinning the gas again, pulling into the skid, missing the concrete but headed for more grass. The rear end catching a tree, spinning wildly, airbags popping in Hammett’s face. The car tilting on its side. Coming to an abrupt, hard stop, headfirst into the bag as water flooded in through her open window.
The river.
She was in the Niagara River.
And the strong current pulled at the car, taking it toward the second-largest waterfall in the world.
Fleming
“The mission comes first,” The Instructor said. “You’re a weapon. Weapons don’t form attachments. You can’t afford to make this personal.”
Fleming didn’t sleep. She kept glancing at the cell phone on the van’s dashboard, the phone Scarlett had left her. It was off. It had to be off. Turning it on meant listening to messages of Bradley screaming and begging.
The most difficult part was that she knew where they were. Fleming could track Scarlett’s and Rhett’s chips. But what could she do in a wheelchair with limited weapons? She’d barely been able to save herself. Saving Bradley was beyond her capabilities. Especially when there were more pressing things to do, such as stop an Ebola outbreak that could destroy humanity.
So she pored over her transceiver, got everything working perfectly by morning, and called her contacts and set to meet them at a café on Pennsylvania Avenue. Then she put on too much eye makeup and lipstick—as good a disguise as she could muster when her face was so famous—and started the van.
She got there early, like a good spy should, and found legal parking on the street. She fed and watered Sasha, then began the laborious process of exiting the van in her wheelchair.
When Fleming got to the restaurant, she went through the motions of checking for surveillance and memorizing exits, a practiced action made more difficult because the escape route had to be handicapped accessible. The place smelled of cinnamon. Faint easy listening blandness played through speakers set high on the walls, barely discernible over the clatter of dishes and conversation. Sick to her stomach for a variety of reasons, she ordered a coffee and some wheat toast, then waited for her help to arrive.
Lt. Jack Daniels showed up first. Fleming had never met her, but knew who the woman was when she walked in. Average height, brunette, athletic, dressed in a designer pantsuit, she might have been just another urban professional on the way to the law firm or the board meeting. Except for the eyes. Daniels had eyes like a cop, sweeping the restaurant with laser precision, assessing and dismissing threats. When she spotted Fleming, she walked over without a smile or a nod.
“Nice outfit,” Fleming said, meaning it. The suit was gray, flattering, and allowed full movement, which meant Jack could run or fight or shoot if needed. The only impractical thing the cop wore was black pumps. Fleming hadn’t worn heels since the accident.
“The tour starts in half an hour. Who’s coming with me? It has to be two people.”
“I’ve got a disguise. I’m going to dress up as an elderly Chinese man.”
Jack’s expression stayed blank.
“He’ll be here shortly,” Fleming said.
Jack sat down, remaining silent. Fleming didn’t bo
ther with small talk or thanks. Jack may not have been a spy, but she was a pro, and they both knew their part. The waitress came by, gave them coffee. Jack didn’t order any food.
“The toast is pretty good,” Fleming said. It came out lame, but it was damn good toast, even if her stomach didn’t appreciate it.
Jack frowned. “I’m about to commit an act tantamount to treason. I’m not very hungry.”
Fleming didn’t know Jack, and Jack barely knew Chandler. Yet, here the woman was, helping out. Doing the right thing. Fleming tried to wrap her head around that.
She’d done the right thing, many times, but it was usually a spur-of-the-moment decision, or the result of an order. Fleming didn’t have the freedom to choose between right and wrong. And, admittedly, she wasn’t sure it was an option she wanted to have. Completing a mission didn’t leave room for guilt. An operative lived in the moment, didn’t question her own actions lest she get killed.
Fleming wondered if she would hop on a plane to meet a complete stranger because another stranger asked her for help against some convoluted plot to murder innocent people. Probably not.
Jack, however, followed a different set of rules. Which meant Chandler was able to manipulate her into doing something that no Hydra agent would ever do. Did that make Jack gullible? Or braver than Fleming would ever be?
Fleming leaned in closer. The diner was full, the din of rattling dishes and conversation more than enough to mask her voice, but why risk being overheard? “You’re right. You’re taking a huge risk, and while I’m sure you’re used to that, this is on a whole different level. So why are you doing it?”
“Good damn question.”
“Got an answer?”
“A good one? Not really.”
“It isn’t treason, Jack. The guy is crooked. He killed his predecessor. Betraying a politician isn’t betraying your country.”
“I’ll tell that to the firing squad.”
“You’re saving lives. You know what almost happened to London. This could be worse.”
“You don’t need the hard sell, Fleming. I got that already. That’s why I’m here.”
Fleming studied the older woman. She seemed annoyed but determined. “You know why I think you’re here?”
“Do tell.”
“I think it’s because you’re one of the good guys.”
Jack shook her head. “You’re the hero. You’re the one who saved London.”
Fleming thought about Bradley, probably getting his knees broken at that very moment. “I’m not a hero. I’m a tool. A weapon, used to get certain things done. Some of those things are good. Some aren’t.”
Jack stared at Fleming, hard as she’d ever been stared at. “Bullshit. We always have a choice. You’re choosing the path you take, same as me. Sometimes those choices aren’t easy. But they’re yours. A gun can’t decide for itself when it fires. But you can.”
“It’s different in the military.”
“It isn’t that different. You’re still a human being.”
Sometimes Fleming wondered about that. This mission had several aspects to it. They were saving themselves. They were getting revenge. But they were also saving innocent people. Beneath all the selfishness, Fleming, Chandler, and even Hammett were helping the world.
But would they be doing it if they had no selfish reasons? If they were ordered to, yes. But volunteering for it? Fleming didn’t know.
She eyed Jack. She was sure of one thing. “What we’re doing here, it’s for the greater good.”
Jack sipped some coffee. “That’s a nice answer. The problem is there’s no universal indicator of greater good. Is it simple numbers? Two lives are always worth more than one. Right? What if the one is someone you love? Personal bias always comes into play, Fleming. We aren’t computers, able to calculate what the best choice is. We’re human beings. We make mistakes. We’re selfish, with our own agendas. And we’re very good at justifying everything we do.”
“Right now we’re both here to save a lot of people.”
“Sure. But to what lengths should one go in order to save those people? Is killing OK then? I’m a cop, not an assassin.”
“Haven’t you killed people?”
“You’re not one for small talk, are you?”
“We don’t have time for small talk. We’re both pros, we’re both trying to make things right. If you’d prefer to discuss sports, how are the Cubs doing?”
“Season is over. Look, I’ve killed, but only when it was me or him. Otherwise I arrest the bad guys, let the courts worry about justice.”
Fleming drank the coffee, found it sour. “So you wouldn’t kill someone to save others?”
“I wouldn’t follow orders to kill someone because I was told it would save others. But then, I’m not the one who just saved millions of Londoners.”
Fleming hadn’t been following orders then. She’d acted on her own initiative. But she was curious where Jack was going with this.
“We need the military to protect our country,” Fleming said. “Sometimes we act before we’re acted upon. That’s why soldiers need to follow orders.”
“In theory, yes. But in practice? How much of what our military does has to do with the agendas of men in suits? Those who seek power and money? When did this shield meant to protect us become a private security force to control oil prices, stock prices, and who gets elected?”
“It’s always been that way. Power corrupts. But it’s still for the greater good. You can’t argue ideology in the face of reality.”
“That’s precisely when ideology needs to be argued. It’s OK to throw out our Constitution and the Bill of Rights in order to serve the greater good? That’s the whole point of Homeland Security, isn’t it? Personal safety at the expense of personal freedoms. Who cares if our government kills our enemies without a trial or even evidence, as long as we’re protected? Who cares if we kill our own citizens? We trust those in power to do what’s right for the country, when they’re acting in their own self-interest just like anyone else.”
Fleming wondered if Jack would feel the same way if she’d been trained under The Instructor.
“There are bad people in the world, Jack.”
“I know that better than anybody, Fleming. But without laws, without due process, it gets grayer and grayer who the bad people are. How much of the gray do you accept for the few times it is truly black and white? How many innocent people have to suffer just so we can nail a few bad guys?”
“So if you were trying to save the lives of thousands, maybe millions, but someone you cared about was suffering as a result, what would you do?”
“I don’t put myself in a position where I ever have to choose something like that.”
“But if you were forced to. Save a busload of strangers or your fiancée.”
“I don’t sleep with a busload of strangers.”
“So you’d save your boyfriend?”
“I didn’t say that. But I’ll tell you something. I’ve lived my whole adult life trying to do the right thing in order to help others. Maybe I’d be happier if I tried to do something for myself every once in a while. And frankly, if someone I loved died and I could have prevented it, I don’t know how I’d go on.”
Again Fleming pictured Bradley. His face. His eyes. His voice. It was her fault he was in this mess. But instead of helping him, she was here, trying to serve the greater good.
Just like she’d been serving the greater good every time she killed some enemy of the state.
Fleming didn’t know Bradley that well. But she didn’t know the people she’d assassinated either. Just following orders hadn’t worked out so well at the Nuremberg trials.
“Oh, Christ,” Jack said, frowning at the entrance. “Seriously?”
Fleming didn’t have to look to understand her reaction. “We didn’t have much of a choice at the last minute.”
“And you didn’t tell me because you knew I wouldn’t help.”
Harry M
cGlade grinned wide as a zebra’s ass, waving at the women. He was shouldering a duffel bag, and wore a suit that looked as if it had been slept in. He made his way through the crowd toward them.
“It was Chandler’s call,” Fleming said. “If it matters, we both had to promise to go out with him.”
“Take plenty of penicillin afterward,” Jack said. “And it wouldn’t hurt to boil yourselves.”
Harry took a seat. “Hiya, Jackie. That’s quite the severe suit you have on. Don’t you have any clothes that show off your boobs?”
“Don’t you have any that aren’t wrinkled? We’re going to the White House, McGlade. You could have shaved.”
“I did. Just not my face.” He turned to Fleming, offering his hand. “Hello again, my little à la carte hors d’oeuvre.”
Fleming took it, reluctantly. “Hello, McGlade.”
“I love the eye makeup. And the red lipstick is killer. I’ll pay you ten bucks, right now, to watch you eat a banana.”
“Does being blunt like that ever actually work?”
“It worked on your sister.” He winked. “Twice.”
Fleming took her hand back. “You slept with Chandler?”
McGlade made a face. “Chandler? No, she’s too moody and self-absorbed. The other one, with the bigger fun bags. The psycho.”
Fleming’s eyes widened. “Hammett?”
“Yeah. She held a knife to my throat the whole time. Hot.”
Jack shrugged. “McGlade has a thing for psychos.”
“And Hammett didn’t kill you?”
“Well, I am a little dehydrated. And I have some chafing.” He kicked the duffel bag under the table, toward Fleming. “Early Christmas present, from me and your sisters. Lots of fun shotgun rounds, a pistol, some clips—er, magazines—for the Skorpion.”
“You brought that on a plane?” Jack said. Fleming was thinking the same thing.
“Checked baggage. It’s cool as long as you declare it.”
“I can’t bring him on the tour,” Jack leaned away from McGlade. “We’ll get caught.”
Harry shook his head. “No way. I’m too crafty for words.”
“You’re too stupid for words.”
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 82