“I’m a private eye, Jackie. I’m all about being sly and discreet. That’s how I’m able to take so many pics of cheating wives and husbands. I practically invented subterfuge.”
“You can’t even spell subterfuge.”
“It starts with an S. Or is that one of those silent C words? The silent C always screws me up.”
“Actually,” Fleming said, “if he just acts like himself, any surveillance will focus on him. Then you can drop the bug where I need you to.”
McGlade nodded. “Textbook Mission Impossible stuff. I’m the distraction, the decoy, and while I draw the attention, you do the deed that betrays your country and lets you go down in history as Ms. Benedict Arnold. Frankly, I’m disgusted with your behavior.”
“What if he draws so much attention we get caught?” Jack asked.
“Then I don’t know you,” Harry said. “Every man for himself.”
Jack’s shoulders slumped. “I think I’d have better odds if I just asked random people in the diner if they’d like to visit the White House with me.”
Fleming checked the clock above the glass counter filled with pies. “No time.”
“Jackie, partner, c’mon. Have I ever let you down?”
“Repeatedly.”
“This will be fun. We get a nice tour. We save the world. I get to have a four-way with triplets.” Harry shot Fleming a pointed glance. “That’s still on the menu, isn’t it, Wheels?”
Jack’s frown deepened. “You had to bribe him with sex?”
Fleming’s turn to frown. “For some reason, appealing to his good nature didn’t sway him.”
“My good nature is in my pants.” Harry beamed. “I call him Snatchmo.”
No one reacted.
“Get it? He wants mo’ snatch.”
Jack stood up. “I’m asking random strangers.”
Fleming told Harry to cool it, and asked Jack to please sit back down. Then she explained exactly what she needed them to do.
“Piece of cake,” Harry said.
Jack eyed him, obviously dubious. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” He yelled at the waitress, “Carrot cake! And hurry up, we’re visiting the White House!”
Fleming checked the time again. She thought about Bradley. Then she thought about billions of people, crashing and bleeding out because of Ebola.
“Not that one,” McGlade called. “The bigger slice next to it!”
Jack gave Fleming a forlorn look. Fleming returned it.
The next hour was going to be intense.
Scarlett
“Your ability to function may become compromised,” The Instructor said. “You must be able to continue at a diminished capacity. Or else, find another career.”
Scarlett woke up to pain.
Her leg felt like it had been trapped in a meat grinder with the gears still turning. Every movement, every breath, brought a wave of tear-bursting agony.
She looked around the motel room, seeing Rhett was gone. Where was that asshole? Didn’t he know she needed morphine? Scarlett was about to call out to him when she heard the voices in the bathroom.
“So you don’t know Fleming’s plan?” Rhett.
“I told you. She kidnapped me. I don’t know anything about her or her plan.” The hostage. Crying.
“Why did she kidnap you?”
“Because I’m really good at miniature robotics. But I don’t know what she wanted.”
“You didn’t build anything?”
“No.”
“So why weren’t you tied up?”
“I…I escaped.”
“You escaped, ran outside, and then called her name?”
Silence. Then a scream.
“That’s nothing, hoss. I can make you hurt a lot worse than that. And that little lady in the other room, she’s a lot better at this stuff than I am. She actually likes it. And I bet when she wakes up with her leg all shot to shit, she’s gonna be angrier than a rattlesnake on a honky-tonk dance floor during the ’Boot Scootin’ Boogie.’”
Scarlett cringed at the metaphor, but Rhett was right. She was pissed off and eager to take it out on another human being. Sometimes the only way to feel better was to make someone else feel worse.
Bradley screamed again, longer this time.
Setting her jaw, Scarlett heaved herself into a sitting position. The pain was dizzying. She swung her bad leg over the side, tears running down her cheeks, concentrating on what she was going to do to the boy. In her kit, she had a blowtorch. When out in the field, and when the survival of the person being interrogated wasn’t important, Scarlett found that nothing gave you more bang for the buck than good old fire. It looked and sounded scary, hurt worse than anything, and kept hurting. Unlike other forms of interrogation, with fire, people didn’t talk in order to stop the torture. They talked if promised a quick death.
Thinking about the boy, his fingers burned off, begging for death, was enough to get her to stand up.
It was awful, and she screamed, long and loud. Rhett came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands off on a white towel stained pink.
“Good morning, darlin’. You’re looking chipper.”
“Drugs.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rhett prepared a few syringes. “One to numb, one to take the edge off. I should change those bandages, too.”
“Get my blowtorch,” Scarlett said through clenched teeth.
“Yes, ma’am. Hear that, son? Miss Scarlett here is getting her blowtorch. We’re gonna have ourselves a squealer barbecue.”
There was a pounding on the door. Rhett’s pistol appeared instantly in his hand.
“This is the owner! I hear screaming in there.”
“Sorry ’bout that, hoss. We’ll keep it down.”
“You’ll be gone in five minutes. I want you out. The police are on their way.”
Scarlett turned to Rhett and said, “Kill that asshole.”
Rhett shook his head. “That’s the pain talking. If the police are coming, we have to clear out of here.”
“We can kill them, too.”
“Scarlett, sweetheart, you know that’s not in our best interests. Let’s get junior packed up and take him to the lab. We’ll have privacy, and more tools to work with. It’s only a six-hour drive. I’ll get us there in four.”
Even one hour in a car sounded about as much fun to Scarlett as brushing her teeth with a belt sander, but the drugs were already starting to kick in, taking the edge off of her temper.
“Fine. But I’m not dealing with him moaning and crying.”
“The car has a nice big trunk,” Rhett said. Then he smiled and winked. “Plenty of room for you.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Can’t help it. Southern charm is in my genes.”
Scarlett knew that Rhett was actually born in Ohio, but she chose not to go there because it always ended with him getting angry. And when Rhett was angry, he hummed his three country tunes louder than normal.
“I’ll alert the lab, tell them to expect us,” Scarlett said. “Have we heard from Fleming?”
“Nothing yet. Called a few times, letting the young lad cry into the phone. She isn’t picking up.”
“What a heartless bitch,” Scarlett said.
“All spies aren’t as sweet as you, darlin’.”
Rhett prepared another syringe to knock out Bradley for the trip.
“Not too strong,” she cautioned. “I want him to be awake and aware when I begin working on him later.”
Rhett smiled. “See what I mean? Sweeter than blackstrap molasses. I’m surprised you don’t have honeybees buzzing around you.”
Scarlett ignored him, instead thinking about her blowtorch.
She could practically taste the screams.
Heath
“Playing with fire might be exciting,” said The Instructor. “But some fires are hotter than others, and they don’t just burn. They incinerate.”
“It’s about time. I called you
an hour ago. I have a surprise for you.”
Heath closed the door of the shitty apartment and paused before turning toward the voice. If he was lucky, Earnshaw had a gun on him and was planning to put a bullet in his back.
Too bad he wasn’t feeling all that lucky.
“On three, OK?” Her voice lilted in a way that made him cringe. “OK?”
He grunted.
“Uno, dos, tres.”
He didn’t move.
“Turn around.”
Steeling himself for what was bound to be a bad scene, he forced his feet to do a one-eighty.
Earnshaw stood in all her huge, muscle-bound glory, naked except for a wisp of a pink lace thong and a pink lace bra about to explode with her pecs.
Aye dios mío.
When Heath had agreed to be part of Hydra Deux, he’d envisioned his partner would be female. With Earnshaw, this was in question. There were times he suspected she was more man than he was.
Sadly, this might be one of them.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from taking a taste a few weeks ago. Who could blame him? He had an open mind when it came to women. He’d resisted bedding Earnshaw for years, then horniness and boredom and downright drunkenness had worn him down. Sleeping with her had been a big mistake.
“I bought them for you. What do you think?” Earnshaw did a pirouette that looked more bodybuilder than ballerina. The fact that her voice was almost as low as his didn’t help matters.
He’d gotten her call while cleaning the patio de caballos at the Plaza Mexico. Shoveling horseshit had been hard work, as Manuel had warned, but it was nothing compared with servicing Earnshaw, something he never intended to do again.
“Muy bonita,” he lied.
Earnshaw gave him her version of a come-hither look, a strange combination of blushing ingénue and raging bull. “You really think so?”
One of these days, Heath really had to learn to keep his zipper closed. After this, he probably needed to give up women for good. Unless he could find the right woman. And he had just the woman in mind. Chandler.
Of course, she probably wanted him dead about now.
Heath smiled.
“I’m so glad you like it.”
Earnshaw started toward him, snapping him back to reality.
“Of course I like it. But there’s no time.”
“No time?” Smile turned to pout.
Over the course of their partnership, Earnshaw had told him many things about herself, much more than he’d shared with her. Most of her stories had centered around her years as a female wrestler, stories of travel and sweat and endless training.
The fascinating part was that while she was a phenomenal wrestler, she’d always secretly dreamed of going to Hollywood and acting in the movies. She was clearly delusional and one of the worst actors he’d ever seen, every expression falling somewhere between intestinal discomfort and tears. Heath figured she’d lucked out that The Instructor had found her when her Olympic dreams shattered, and she’d never had the chance to make that trip to Hollywood. She only would have been disappointed. Better to have the opportunity to express her true talent.
Killing people.
The Instructor had given him explicit instructions that she avoid playing roles in the field. But that didn’t keep her from trying out her lack of acting chops in an effort to manipulate him.
As long as she didn’t use her muscles to force him to do what she wanted, he would probably be OK. But since her biceps were bigger than his, the risk remained ever present.
“I have to get back to the plaza. The Ebola—where is it?”
“See the soda truck parked out front?”
He had. “The canister is inside?”
“Packed behind the soda.”
“Good. I’ll drive it to the plaza.”
“Not without me. I deliver the virus, you do the rest.”
“Let me guess, The Instructor said you’re to keep an eye on it, and me, at all times?”
She pursed her lips.
“You’d think he didn’t trust me.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Did he say why?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Do you trust me?”
Earnshaw stepped toward him, grasped his hands, and placed his palms smack on her gigantic lace-covered breasts, then she took his face in both hands, as if afraid he’d pull away, and gave him a long kiss on the mouth. “I trust you as long as you stay close. Real close.”
He should tell her he didn’t want her and be done with it. She could take it. She’d have to. But the truth was he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He didn’t even like Earnshaw, but he got the idea she hadn’t had many men in her life. He didn’t want to be the one to make her cry.
Or worse, have her break his neck in his sleep.
So he closed his eyes and resigned himself to take one for the team. As her hands drifted down his body, he tried to imagine it was someone attractive. An actress. A supermodel.
For some odd reason, Chandler popped into his head.
“See?” Earnshaw said, grasping him. “I knew you liked me.”
And then she was pushing him to the bed, climbing atop, clamping her big thighs around him in a move that felt less like making love and more like being pinned for the three count. He kept thinking about Chandler. Kept focusing on her face, her body, and blocking out the deep-throated groans and manlike hands pawing his chest.
Then she kissed him, which completely destroyed the fantasy because Chandler didn’t have razor stubble on her face.
Still, he managed to seal the deal, and hopefully endear Earnshaw to him long enough to betray her when the time came.
And the time was coming soon.
Years Ago…
His codename was Heathcliff, but back when his sweet madre was alive, he was known as Armando.
That was still his name after they put her in the ground, dead from tuberculosis. But Armando knew it wasn’t the disease that took her. The disease was only the result. The cause was poverty, no health care, years of toil picking garbage at el dompe in Tijuana.
The day she died, he sold everything except a cooking knife, his birth certificate, and the clothes on his back and used the money to bury her properly. Then armed with the knife and his American birth certificate, he abandoned Tijuana and walked across the border into a land of wealth and excess.
He was born in America and lived there as a young child, but now at the ripe old age of fifteen, he didn’t remember much. Not that it mattered. He had come for only one purpose, and it had little to do with making a better life.
He’d come to live up to the meaning behind his name. Soldier. Warrior. He’d come to fight the battle his mother couldn’t.
He’d come to kill his father.
That was Armando’s American Dream.
Armando stole four hundred and thirty-nine dollars at knifepoint from a convenience store in Chula Vista, then using his new wealth, bought a bus ticket, a cheap revolver from a gangbanger in an alley, and a bottle of Mountain Dew.
After switching to another bus in San Diego, he finally stepped off into the dry heat of Phoenix. Armando didn’t know where his father lived, but the man wasn’t hard to find. Armando was smart and crafty, and his father was a prominent man with no reason to hide, and by nightfall the son found himself scaling a stucco wall and landing in a courtyard complete with an azure swimming pool surrounded by palms and climbing vines. Grapefruit and orange perfumed the air, the trees heavy with spring flowers.
Dios mío.
Keeping to the shadows, Armando crept along the wall. Light shimmered from the pool. Soft music tickled the air from speakers hidden here and there among the plantings. The place was magical, like some kind of fantasy oasis, a world far removed from what he knew.
El Diablo lived in paradise while conscripting Armando’s mother to garbage hell.
The house rose high above the trees, dramatic stucco arches and clay tile ro
of. It seemed even bigger than the San Diego bus station, spotlights shining from beneath, and for a moment, Armando wondered how he would ever find a single man in a space so large.
He supposed he’d better start looking.
The windows and doors were closed, but after testing one of the sliding doors off the patio, he discovered closed didn’t mean locked. Armando slid the glass open and stepped into the house.
The air inside was cold and smelled of some kind of flower Armando did not know. He walked softly across terrazzo floors, passing a kitchen gleaming with stainless steel appliances and so many cabinets he couldn’t imagine what could possibly fill them all. A sitting area flanked the kitchen, leather furniture and bookshelves laden with more books than he knew existed. A dining room boasted a long table surrounded by twelve chairs. Other rooms sprouted off like endless limbs of a tree.
“Hold it.”
He turned to face the voice, reaching into the back of his jeans where he’d stashed his revolver.
A man stood at the dining room’s arched entrance. Pale skin and blue eyes, he stood erect, powerful, and in his hand, he held a gun, pointed at Armando.
“Hands up where I can see them. I will shoot you.”
Armando hesitated. This was his father. The shape of his jaw, the line of his nose, so like Armando’s. And for a moment, he had the urge to run his fingertips over his own face, just to compare.
“Robert?” The man looked behind Armando.
And then Armando heard the steps.
Rough hands closed around his wrist and bent it behind his back. Another hand took his revolver and then skimmed down his body and found the knife he’d tied to his calf with string.
It was over, all his plans, all his intentions. Ended because he’d been so busy gaping at the way the rich live, he hadn’t been ready to strike.
Now it was too late.
But although Armando had failed, he held his head high, staring into the man’s face with hatred, defiance to the end.
“What’s your name, boy?” El Diablo said, a slight smile on his face. “¿Cómo te llamas?”
“Armando.”
“Why did you sneak in here? Hmm? To steal? Well, look around. You don’t get this kind of home by stealing, boy. Stealing only lands your ass in prison.”
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 83