She had found the lab where they were manufacturing the Ebola virus.
Scarlett
“Always fight back, even when you’re injured,” The Instructor said. “Especially when you’re injured.”
The Instructor had done a very good job setting up the laboratory. It had all the safeguards of a P4 containment lab, ensuring the virus wouldn’t get out. But the security—four cameras and a dozen private sector half-wits—was severely lacking. Granted, no one ever expected this location to be breached, but they could have at least had a plan in place if it was.
With The Instructor gone for the day, and Scarlett and Rhett guests of the facility, they had no authorization to order them around, and could only watch the monitors as one after another died senselessly.
It wasn’t until the little armored vehicle opened up its front hatch that they knew who was driving it.
“It’s the cripple,” Scarlett said, amazed. “How did she find us?”
Rhett frowned, uncharacteristic of him. “Keep an eye on the boy. I’ll take care of this little filly. I owe her one.”
Isolde
“Remember the mission,” The Instructor said. “Plans may change, but always keep the objective in mind.”
Izzy had no idea what was taking Tristan so long. She’d once seen him take on an entire motorcycle gang. One of those first-round Hydra whores shouldn’t have been a problem. Even if he was having some fun with the girl and getting his freak on, Izzy knew from experience he finished pretty fast. Something had to be up. She unclipped her walkie-talkie and spoke.
“What’s the situation, over?”
No response.
“We’re ready to land. I need you to grab the mooring line, over.”
Nothing but static.
“Fine, if you like riding up there, I’m going to make a pass over the festival. Looks like about fifty thousand people have shown up so far. I’m going to give them a little spray.”
Tristan stayed silent. Izzy wondered if somehow the woman had gotten the better of him. But she instantly dismissed the notion and headed for the crowd.
Let the big lug screw around up there. She had people to kill.
Hammett
“Sometimes the will to live might be all you have left,” The Instructor said. “And sometimes it is all you need.”
Hammett groped in the darkness for the flashlight, gripped it, and swept it around the envelope interior looking for the ballonets. There was one a few meters away, half inflated, and she lunged at it, dropping the light, opening Tristan’s pocketknife with her teeth, and attacking the rubber as her senses began to fade to blackness.
Faintly aware she made a slit and seconds away from passing out, Hammett pressed her face to the hole and sucked in cold air.
Good old oxygen, used as ballast in the ballonets to control the ascent and decent of the airship. She gulped in the air greedily, clearing her head, gaining control over her body once again.
Hammett smiled, despite the pain still racking every inch of her body. If she’d been born a cat, she would have to wonder how many of her nine lives she’d already used up. At least six. But there was still work left to do.
She filled her lungs, pulled herself away, picked up the flashlight, and began to search for her dropped duffel bag. She found it quickly, looped it over her shoulder, filled her pockets with supplies, pulled out the shotgun, and emptied it beneath her feet where she guessed the gondola to be.
The piranhas punched through easily, and Hammett quickly reloaded with armor-piercing rounds, shooting in a circle around her feet, connecting the holes until she fell through and into the passenger compartment.
She landed on top of a chair, stood there for an instant, and immediately collapsed as Izzy pumped bullets into both of Hammett’s legs.
Heath
“You are smart and lethal and have had the best training in the world,” said The Instructor. “But there will come a point when you’ve met your match.”
Chandler scrunched up her nose ever so slightly, and a crease dug between her eyebrows. “Change the world, Heath? How?”
Heath took his eyes off the highway and glanced her way. He found it hard to take his eyes off her. Just riding in the truck with her fired his blood. Add that to the adrenaline rush of escaping the bullring, and he could barely keep his hands to himself.
She must have put some kind of love hex on him.
Heath smiled, chuckling to himself at the idea.
“Is something funny?”
He eyed her bloody arm and motioned to the space behind the seat. “Your backpack. You should take care of that arm. You’ll find everything there, except the weapons, of course.”
She fished out the pack and started cleaning and bandaging the knife wound on her forearm. As she worked, he noted her pull something from one of the pockets of her cargo pants and slip it into the pack, but he didn’t say a word.
She pulled a bottle of water from the pack, drank about half, and offered the rest to him.
“Gracias.” He downed the rest.
“Answer me, Heath. How do you expect to change the world? With the stuff in that tank? It can change the world, all right. It can cause a pandemic.”
“You’re not thinking creatively enough, bonita.”
“You’re going to use it for leverage.”
“Of course.”
“To do what?”
“To restore justice. So few people have so much, and do you know why? Because they take it. They buy politicians and change laws to benefit themselves. All the while, others starve.”
“And you’re going to reverse this.”
“I have the power now, so I call the shots.”
“And who are you planning to shake down?”
“The United States government, the Mexican government, the cartels and crime bosses and billionaire bankers.”
“So where do you think you’re going to hide while you threaten the most powerful man in the world?”
“Most powerful?”
“President Ratzenberger.”
He made a face, as if he’d just eaten something rotten. “Most powerful? I think not.”
“OK then, where are you going to hide while you threaten The Instructor?”
Heath couldn’t help but smile. His Chandler was smart, all right. Just one more thing that made her irresistible. “Where I grew up. A place where a man can get lost.”
“And where is that?”
“Tijuana.”
“I thought you were American.”
“My father was, and I was born in the USA. But my spirit, and madre, are Mexicano. When my father left, and my mother was deported, she brought me to the only place she could find a living. El dompe.”
“The landfill?”
“My American blood gave me a way out. But others, they have no way out. Poverty crushes their souls, kills them every day, steals their dignity. This”—he gestured to the back of the truck—“will let me change that.”
“Have you ever seen someone die from the virus?”
“Have you ever spent time along the Mexican border?”
“You won’t be able to hide, Heath.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“No, you’re the one who will be surprised.”
Heath glanced Chandler’s way. It had occurred to him that she would make a play for the virus, try to remove him, even in the face of the many times he’d spared her. Assassins were unpredictable that way.
Just one more reason they were made for one another.
“And why will I be surprised, bonita?”
“Remember asking me how I found you?”
“You mean it wasn’t my love of the bullfight?” Not that he’d ever believed that line.
“You have a tracking chip right below your belly button. So does Earnshaw. So did I.”
He frowned. It sounded like something The Instructor would do. “Tell me about this chip.”
“Hydra training. The Instruc
tor implanted it on my duodenum when I was being waterboarded. I assume that’s where yours is, too.”
“And how did you use it to track me?”
“Fleming gave herself a back door into Hydra’s computer system. Once we knew Hydra Deux existed, she used it to see where the six of you were.”
He brightened again. “So you came to Mexico to be with me. I knew you felt the same.”
“I’m serious, Heath. You should be, too. The Instructor is tracking you right now.”
That was one thing Chandler never understood. He was always serious. “What makes you think he isn’t tracking you?”
“I removed mine, and I can remove yours, too, if you’ll let me.”
“And why would you do that?”
“The Instructor will know precisely where we are if I don’t.”
“I mean, why would you do that when killing me would be much more convenient?”
Her lips tensed ever so slightly, betraying her thoughts. “I can’t let you keep the virus, Heath.”
“I know. And I can’t let you take it, bonita. So where does that leave us?”
Isolde
“When you have to shoot, shoot,” The Instructor said. “Don’t talk.”
Izzy’s first indication something was wrong was hearing the thump above her. It was followed by the bellow of a shotgun. By the time the woman fell into the cockpit, Izzy was waiting with her 9mm, and shot her legs out from under her.
“Shotgun. Drop it.”
The operative tossed the shotgun aside.
“Which one are you? Chandler or Hammett?”
The woman looked like shit, but still managed a smirk. “Does it matter?”
“I like to know who I’m killing.”
“Betsy.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Betsy. But I go by Rebecca. She’s the strong one.”
Izzy had no idea what that meant, but she didn’t really care. Chandler or Hammett or Betsy or Rebecca, whoever this was didn’t have long to live. And Izzy wanted to make sure her last moments were memorable.
“How did you get past Tristan?”
“My sex appeal. It was like he’d never seen boobs before. And looking at you, that might be the case.”
Izzy scowled. She’d never really liked Tristan, but he was her partner, and he knew how to hurt a girl, which she’d miss.
“Doesn’t matter. You still lose. I’m about to spray the festival right now. With Ebola.”
“Lame,” the woman said. “I almost nuked London.”
“So, you’re Hammett. I heard you were a real badass. You don’t look so bad now.”
“And you look like a preteen boy who needs a sandwich.”
Izzy bared her forearm. “Do you know what these marks are?”
“Men who have rejected you?”
“People I’ve killed. I’m going to add you in just a few minutes.”
Hammett sighed. “By shooting me? Lame. I’ve got bullets in both legs, my arm is broken, and you still need a gun.”
Izzy offered one of her rare smiles. “Oh, I’m not going to use a gun. I’m going to do you with this.”
She pulled out her razor with her other hand.
Hammett laughed. “What are you going to do with that, little girl? Give me a Brazilian?”
“I’m going to cut your face off.”
“Cut my tits off, too. You could use a pair.”
Izzy walked slowly over to Hammett, savoring the moment. Supposedly, this woman was The Instructor’s favorite. The one all others were measured against. And although Izzy had to give her credit for talking trash while facing certain, painful death, it was going to be a delight killing her. Maybe she’d use a different color ink for this one, since she was so special. Perhaps blue. Or red.
She pressed the gun to Hammett’s forehead, then lowered the razor to the woman’s chin.
Hammett’s smile didn’t waver. Even as Izzy began to cut.
Fleming
“When opportunities arise,” The Instructor said, “improvise.”
Looking around the makeshift laboratory, Fleming realized her mission had just gotten a whole lot more important. She needed to raze this place, making sure nothing survived. And the best tool for that was fire.
Much of the equipment in the lab was metal or glass, immune to flames, so Fleming headed for the indoor parking lot. On her way, Fleming reached into the bag she had resting on her feet and took out the jar of goop she’d concocted earlier by dissolving Styrofoam pellets in gasoline. Homemade napalm. Sticks to anything, and burns hot, even underwater. She reached the first line of cars, opened her hatch, and dumped a gooey blob onto the hood of a Volkswagen. As she did the same with a Honda, a stocky, older woman ran up to her. Dressed in scrubs, she had an orange-tinted mole on her face that resembled an Asian beetle. Her expression was sour.
“That’s my car, you bitch!”
Bug lady threw something. It hit the side of Fleming’s tank, the sound of shattering glass and a splash of liquid. Fleming glanced down at the shell of her enclosure. Blood—probably infected with Ebola—dripped down the side, the glass of the broken test tube sparkling from the concrete.
While these scientists and lab folks were unarmed, Fleming had no sympathy for people who created biological weapons. Especially when they threw them around like infectious water balloons. Fleming shot the woman with an armor-piercing round, which punched through her and the car she was trying to protect.
Speeding past the body, Fleming began shooting other cars in their gas tanks, creating a huge gasoline slick across the floor that reached the plastic of the inflatable containment lab. After wheeling a safe distance away, she reloaded with dragon’s breath and fired at the puddle of fuel.
It ignited with a whump! that damn near knocked her chair over.
Fleming’s lap was cold and wet, due to the bag of melting ice, but sweat still broke out on her face and shoulders. She hadn’t had time to install proper ventilation in her enclosed vehicle, and with the engine and her own body heat she’d anticipated things to get toasty.
But now that she’d set the place on fire, raising the ambient temperature, her tank was quickly becoming an oven.
She continued to cross the warehouse, another guard appearing in front of her, more interested in finding the exit than fighting back. Fleming would need to consider that option herself, and soon.
But not without Bradley. She’d come here to find him, and even though it was paramount to destroy the virus, she wasn’t leaving without her recently deflowered nerd.
She wheeled through a burning tear in the plastic tarp, and saw the interior had been designed like a hospital. Rooms and hallway and offices and lab, complete with tile floor and overhead lighting.
“Bradley!” she called out.
Then someone attacked from the side, leaping out from behind a water cooler and wrenching the shotgun from her hands. All Fleming saw was a blur in a cowboy hat.
Rhett.
And he’d taken Fleming’s last gun.
Hammett
“Pain is temporary,” The Instructor said. “Death is forever. At least, when in pain, you know you’re still alive.”
The hard part was not flinching when the razor blade bit into her cheek. Hammett had to wait for Isolde to let her guard down, and not moving while she was being cut would be something the skinny little emo had never seen before. She’d be expecting screaming and begging and flinching and fighting. Defiance would be alien to her, and hopefully Isolde would be so surprised she’d give Hammett an opening.
So as the girl worked the razor around Hammett’s jawline, Hammett kept perfectly still, the smile frozen on her face, her eyes locked to Isolde’s. Part of Hammett’s mind forced the pain away. The other part made her good hand creep toward the karmabit knife she’d tucked into her pocket.
“I’ve got to admit, I’m impressed,” Isolde said. “You have amazing control over your body. But tell me, Hammett, can you stay compl
etely still when I carve out one of your eyes?”
Hammett winked.
Then, in a fluid motion, she thrust her broken arm upward, knocking away the suppressed pistol, while her right hand brought up the karambit and ripped Isolde from crotch to sternum, opening her up like a zipper.
The emo looked down, her face pure shock as her insides came out.
Isolde dropped the gun, then fell to her knees, making a squishy sound as she knelt on top of internal parts that were no longer internal.
“I’m sorry,” Hammett said, reaching to the side and opening the cockpit door, “but you’re not big enough to ride this attraction. I’m afraid you’re going to have to get off.”
The blimp continued its quick descent, ready to crash into an approaching golf course. Hammett grabbed Isolde by the hair and jerked her out of the aircraft, watching as she splashed into a water hazard, her intestines trailing behind her. Then Hammett quickly located the ballast compartment in the rear of the gondola and began throwing out twenty-five pound bags of lead shot.
The blimp came within ten meters of hitting land and then quickly rose. Which was good, because Hammett couldn’t let the authorities get ahold of the virus. That wasn’t part of the plan.
She began to crawl to the instrument panel, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Hammett gave them a cursory glance, and saw the bright red blood pumping out of her left thigh.
Shit. An artery. Bad, too.
It never rains but it pours.
Her vision blurring, Hammett looked around for something to make a tourniquet. She cut a seat belt off one of the seats, and tied that above the wound as tight as she could. Then, with some inner reservoir of strength Hammett didn’t know she had left, she managed to pull herself into the pilot’s seat.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 95