“I not come to steal.” Armando’s English was no good, but his father must have been able to figure out the words, because he answered.
“Then why did you come, boy? To beg? To get a handout? I should have known.”
“No.”
“You here illegally?”
“I was born here.”
“Anchor baby, eh? Well, you need to get your ass to work and learn some English, make something of yourself, son.”
Armando looked into the man’s eyes to see if he had recognized him. But there was nothing there. No recognition. And Armando had to conclude that he had used the word son as an expression, nothing more. “My madre, she worked for you. Maria Elena Castellano.”
“Don’t remember her.”
“She clean house.”
“I’ve had lots of maids.”
“She deported.”
“I have important friends. I can’t have illegals working for me. I don’t have time for this. Robert? Call the police. I got this.” He nodded to the pistol in his hand.
Armando’s arms were suddenly free, and he stumbled forward. He no longer had his revolver or his knife, but he would kill his father with his bare hands if he had to. Even if he died trying, his sacrifice would be in honor of his mother.
But he needed to say something first.
Armando had practiced the words in English all the way on the bus, but now his throat was so dry he had trouble pushing them from his lips. “I came because you are my father. I came to kill you.”
The man’s pale skin grew a little paler. Then his lips pulled back from his perfect teeth and his chest began to rumble with laughter.
He frowned, as if something was finally clicking in his memory. “What was your mother’s name again?”
“Maria Castellano.”
“Pretty? Mexican?” He laughed again. “Nope. Don’t remember. But I’ll bet you have a birth certificate that has my name on it.”
“Si.”
“Some women will resort to out-and-out lies to get their babies born on this side of the border.”
Armando eyed the gun and wondered how close he could get before a bullet took him down.
Footsteps sounded on terrazzo, and the bodyguard walked back into the room holding out a mobile phone like the ones Armando had seen some of the missionaries use.
“You want me to call the police, sir?”
“No. I have a better idea.” He took the phone and punched in a number. “If you really are my son—and I’m not saying you are—you gotta make something of yourself, understand?”
Armando’s English wasn’t so good, and he was pretty sure he misunderstood. “Make me into something?”
“A soldier. A weapon. You got some anger in you. That can be put to good use.”
Armando wasn’t about to give up on seeing this man die, but this was a twist he had never imagined, and he wanted to know more. “How?”
“If you were born here, you should serve your country. Become a soldier.” The man’s index finger hovered over one of the buttons. “It’s either that or the police, and I can guarantee your path in life will be much different if I call them.”
Armando paused, listening to a grand clock chime through the house. Then finally he gave a nod.
His name meant soldier, warrior, and that is what Armando would become. And the next time he faced his father, he wouldn’t have his weapon taken. The next time, he’d be prepared.
The next time, Armando would have his revenge.
Hammett
“There is no fear more primal than drowning,” The Instructor said. “That’s why waterboarding is so effective.”
As the Corvette filled with water, Hammett’s first coherent thought was of Julie’s dog, Kirk. If Hammett died, the mission would fail, which meant the dog would likely be euthanized.
The thought of it snapped her car crash–scrambled brain back into reality.
Hammett remembered the cop pulling her over. Taking off. Swerving to avoid a dog. Skidding out of control. Hitting the grass, then a tree.
And now—
Now she was fucked.
She pulled the .357 from under her thigh and fired upward, deflating the airbag pressed against her face. Her window was still open from her exchange with the police officer, the Niagara River pouring into the vehicle like it was being pumped. Hammett smelled the burnt odor of the airbag exploding outward and the gunpowder from her shot, and then her nostrils were filled with water and she craned up her neck and took a last choke-filled breath before the ’Vette sank.
Hammett went Zen, forcing calm in the hysterical face of certain death, making her heart rate slow down so she didn’t burn the oxygen in her lungs while using her adrenaline boost to focus on her immediate needs.
First, grab the Sea-Doo.
Second, the weapons duffel bag in the trunk.
It was too late (and damn near impossible) to put a wet suit on while in the water, so she shoved it aside in her search for the scuba scooter.
The water was cold enough to cloak her entire body in instant gooseflesh, and though Hammett had amazing lung and diaphragm control, anything below sixty degrees Fahrenheit meant taking her best time holding her breath and cutting it in half. She reached around, slow and methodical in her search for the neutrally buoyant Sea-Doo, her vision not helping in the murky water, the car swirling and tilting to disorient her even more than the accident did, aware that the undertow and currents were taking her ever so closer to—
The falls.
Holy shit, she was headed for the falls.
When researching the best place to cross, Hammett rightfully picked a spot downriver from the falls. She didn’t want to risk even the slightest chance of free-falling fifty-one meters over their edge. Hammett knew the history. Five thousand dead since they’d started keeping records in the mid-1800s. Forty people killed every year. Survivors? A few dozen. Surviving without injuries? Unless you were in a well-constructed barrel and got obscenely lucky, surviving unscathed was impossible. You had a better chance of living through a lightning storm while strapped to a fifty-foot metal rod.
The car upended, Hammett now hanging upside down by her seat belt. In a way it was fortuitous, because the Sea-Doo bumped her in the head and she was able to grab its handle. But now she’d completely lost her sense of direction, and the murk had become so dark Hammett couldn’t tell where the surface was.
Figuring she had forty-five seconds of air left, tops, Hammett released her seat belt and kicked off against the steering wheel, her feet tangling in the deflated airbag. She dropped the .357 and tugged the keys from the ignition, stuck them in her teeth, then looped the seat belt through the Sea-Doo handle and refastened it. Then Hammett shimmied out the window, fighting to keep from getting hung up, muscling her way through until she was free of the car.
But she wasn’t free of the current.
The undertow shook her in its angry fist, pulling and shoving and slapping her in so many directions that she felt like a feather in a tornado. Hammett clutched the doorframe with both hands, knowing she had to get into the trunk. That’s where the weapons were, and without them, Hammett’s mission was as dead as if she’d drowned in the river.
She kicked, but it was impossible to swim against the current, so she had to make do with going hand over hand across the ’Vette’s undercarriage, grabbing the frame, the exhaust—which had already cooled in the frigid water—struts, the rear tire, and finally the trunk. Hammett worked by feel, locating the lock, sticking in the key, opening the trunk, wrapping a strap from the duffel bag around her shoulder.
With less than twenty seconds of air left, Hammett made her way back to the driver’s side door. The car began to pitch forward, nose first, and she blew out some carbon dioxide to make herself less buoyant and made it to the open window. She reached inside for the Sea-Doo, gripped the seat belt, and hit the release button.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, yanking on it, bu
t the water or the cold made the button stick.
Hammett had no idea how far she’d drifted, but she could hear the falls, a white noise rumble in the water growing steadily louder. Without the Sea-Doo, she wouldn’t make it to either shore.
She hooked her foot onto the steering wheel to stay with the twirling car, then used both hands to unzip the duffel bag, snaking a hand in to find her karambit knife. She didn’t find it, but her fingers did brush against the flashlight. She clicked it on, and the interior of the bag was flooded with light.
Her oxygen reserves near depletion, Hammett found the knife, stuck the light in her teeth, zipped up the bag, and quickly cut the Sea-Doo free. The edges of her vision had begun to darken, her brain fogging like she’d just woken up. Soon she’d have to suck in a breath, and Hammett knew she’d rather pass out first, even if it meant dying. As part of Hydra training, all of the sisters had been waterboarded. Drowning was awful, and she didn’t want to relive the experience.
Hammett felt like she was moving through glue, her limbs sluggish, her thoughts fuzzy, but she managed to pull the scooter through the window and hit the thrust.
It buzzed to life, rocketing her away from the car. Hammett fought to hold on, somehow managed to get her other hand onto the handle, and then she was racing toward the surface.
She bobbed out, cutting the throttle and taking a huge gulp of cool air mere milliseconds before true panic set in.
Then Hammett looked around, and true panic set in.
The current was so fast she’d drifted several kilometers and was already parallel with Goat Island—the landmass that separated the US and Canadian falls.
Goat Island was about a thousand feet to the north. Canada was two thousand feet south. And the famous Horseshoe Falls, three thousand feet away and coming fast.
Hammett had to make a quick decision. The cop must have seen her car go into the river, and now the authorities were alerted. Going back to the US side was the safer bet, but crossing by river later would be out of the question, because too many people would be on the lookout for her.
That meant getting to the Canada side before going over the falls. A lot riskier, but the Sea-Doo held its own against the powerful current.
The falls were loud enough to interfere with her thoughts, but not so loud that Hammett wasn’t hit with the obvious.
I’d have to be a fucking idiot to try for the Canada side.
She gunned the Sea-Doo, heading north to the banks of Goat Island. The Sea-Doo cut through the undertow, pulling her toward the Three Sisters Islands—small landmasses south of Goat Island. The water turned white, dropping her a meter or so, but nothing short of a nuclear blast was going to make Hammett let go of that scooter. Though she covered a lot of distance quickly, the rushing water took her past Three Sisters, to a smaller speck of land called Brother Island, and Hammett was sighting the rocky shoreline to see where she’d dock when the Sea-Doo whined to a stop.
Dead battery.
Hammett tried to get it started again, fooling with it for several long seconds, and then she ditched it and swam for her life.
She was strong.
The current was stronger. And it was taking her right to the falls.
Hammett realized, with a very high certainty, that she had perhaps thirty seconds left to live.
Even if she avoided the talus—the craggy rocks at the bottom of the falls—a drop from that height could be fatal even if she hit nothing but water. Broken bones. Ruptured organs. Concussion. Unconsciousness would kill her just as easily as splattering against the scree.
The sound now was deafening, thunderous, the water jetting her forward like the world’s deadliest flume ride. Hammett went under, got smacked around, then surfaced again and saw a tiny scrub of land, filled with trees and bushes, situated just before the water fell off the horizon. If she could reach it, she could hold on until rescued. It would mean arrest, but she’d rather face an army of cops than certain death.
She had one chance. It was a small chance, but she clung to it with fervent hope.
The land came up fast—
—Hammett reached for a rock—
—bounced off—
—and then she was plummeting over the brink.
Fleming
“One mistake can ruin an op,” The Instructor said. “Don’t work with those who make mistakes.”
Fleming rolled up to the corner of Jackson and Pennsylvania, into Lafayette Square, near the big, black statue of Rochambeau. He was on a high stone pedestal, dressed in his best French general’s uniform, pointing into the distance. At what, Fleming didn’t care, but the certainty the statue conveyed, the conviction in its pose, was the complete opposite of how Fleming was feeling.
Like Rochambeau, Fleming had a goal. But rather than feeling brave and confident, Fleming was on the verge of vomiting her breakfast.
She directed her wheelchair toward an ornate lamppost across the street from a row of brownstones, terraced ivy-covered row houses that spoke of history and money. She unfolded a large map, letting it obscure her movements as she quickly used a screw hose clamp to attach a black box to the post. The radio transceiver booster, with a Wi-Fi dongle on it. It took only thirty seconds, and when she was done it looked like part of the post, some sort of meter or industrial equipment that some city construction workers put on for whatever reason. Hiding in plain sight.
Then Fleming took out her laptop and scanned for Wi-Fi hot zones in the area. She found several strong signals—probably from the nearby homes—and quickly broke the encryption and piggybacked on a wireless connection. Then she put in an earbud and rolled back to Rochambeau, listening to Harry’s voice.
“So the senator gave you AIDS?”
Another man’s voice. “No, Mr. McGlade. I’m Senator Crouch’s aide.”
“It’s not some sex thing?”
“I assist the senator.”
“Assist him…sexually?”
“Forgive Harry,” Jack said. “He was dropped on his head as a boy. Repeatedly. On purpose.”
“Not true. I’m just naturally plucky.”
Fleming checked the video feed, saw nothing but black even though the camera was active. Jack must have the pen in her pocket. That probably also accounted for the slightly muffled sound quality.
“This is the presidential library,” the aide said.
“Can we check out books?” McGlade asked.
“No. It’s for the president’s personal use.”
A snort. “What a waste. I’ve seen him in front of a teleprompter. Reading is not one of his top skills.”
“Excuse us a moment,” Jack said. Then, in a low whisper, “Stop it. Right now.”
“Stop what? My pluckiness? I’m too full of pluck.”
“You’re full of something. Just stop being you for ten minutes. OK?”
“Role-play? That’s hot. How about I’m the cable guy, and you’re the horny housewife willing to do anything for free HBO.”
“I just threw up in my mouth.”
“That happened to me on a one-night stand. The chick threw up in my mouth. It was disgusting. I could barely finish.”
Fleming began to head back to her van, the laptop almost fully closed. It was cool out, plenty of people walking around, some locals, some sightseers. No one looked out of place or seemed to take an interest in her. Fleming didn’t see anyone else in wheelchairs, but she rarely did.
She tried not to think about Bradley.
“Well, that sure is a lot of books. So, when do we get to see the West Wing?” Harry asked.
“I’m not sure we’re allowed. I believe the president is in the Oval Office right now.”
“Cool! Do you mind if we bug him in the Oval Office? I really want to bug him.”
Jesus, Harry. Fleming closed her eyes, wondering how Chandler could have picked this guy.
“Let me check with the Secret Service. Pardon me a moment.”
Jack whispered, “Harry, when we’re done here
, I never want to see you again.”
“You’re just saying that. Deep down, you know you like me.”
“I don’t go that deep.”
“After all we’ve been through, partner? You’re mean.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
“And you look fat in that outfit.”
“And you can’t get laid without paying for it.”
“Not true. Your mom didn’t charge me.”
“That’s because your dick is so small she couldn’t find it.”
Fleming shook her head. They sounded like bickering siblings. Except for the mom comment. She crossed the street with the light, tuning in to her surroundings, looking for anything out of the ordinary, and came up to her parked vehicle. Then began the painstaking process of using the chair lift to get into the van. It was made less laborious by Sasha bounding out and hopping into her lap.
Fleming shifted her computer, then petted the fox, who yipped in appreciation. Then it jumped off her lap and bounded into the street.
“No! Sasha!”
She watched, feeling helpless, as the vixen stepped into oncoming traffic, sniffing the air. Fleming set her computer aside and leaned forward in her chair—to do what? Throw herself into the street to save an animal?
But Fleming didn’t need to, because Sasha turned at the sound of her name and pranced back toward the van. She stared up at Fleming, as if expecting an order.
“Get back in here,” Fleming said.
The fox squatted, peed, then leaped safely inside.
Fleming blew out a big sigh of relief. If anything happened to that fox, Bradley would…
Bradley. Who was now being tortured, while Fleming ignored him.
She was ready to dive into traffic to save an animal, but unwilling to help a man she really liked? What kind of person did that make her?
Fleming looked at the cell phone Scarlett had left her, resting on the dashboard, still off, when her earbud came to life.
“This way. We’ll take the West Wing colonnade.”
“Colonnade?” McGlade said. “Is that like lemonade, made out of colons?”
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 84