Just a little longer. I can do this.
She’d flown many aircraft before, but never a blimp. But the controls weren’t too hard to figure out. The pedals moved the rudder, which steered port and starboard. A wheel on either side of the chair controlled the angle of descent. The throttle controlled the twin engines. And the various buttons were self-explanatory.
Hammett shook off the encroaching drowsiness, then checked her direction, leveled off her altitude at five hundred meters, and then headed south toward Lake Ontario, using the famous CN Tower piercing the clouds in the distance as a compass point. She needed to make it to the water. Once she did…
That’s when she passed out from loss of blood.
The White House
“The op went sour in Mexico,” The Instructor told him.
Raztenberger felt his blood pressure surge. He gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles turned ghost white.
“How?”
“Chandler.”
“Goddammit! I told you to corral those bitches.”
“They had help, sir.”
“Help? Who could possibly be helping them?”
“According to the security cameras at Plaza de Toros, it was Heathcliff.”
The president wasn’t sure how to respond. Disbelief? Rage? Disappointment? “You gave me assurances concerning Heathcliff.”
“I had another operative covering him,” The Instructor said. “She was killed. But I know their location. I’ll have another team in place shortly.”
“Black ops?”
“Locals. But they’re good.”
“And the Canadian theater?”
“Satellite photos show the blimp is…off course.”
Ratzenberger closed his eyes, seeing red. “These are your rogue operatives. If you want that vice presidency, you’ll fix this.”
The Instructor hung up. The president set the phone down, almost tenderly.
Chaz rubbed up against his leg, purring, and Ratzenberger scooped the cat up into his lap. Then his eyes scanned the Resolute desk, locking on a Montblanc pen he didn’t recognize.
He picked it up—
—holding it to the kitty’s neck.
It was tempting. So tempting. He could vent his frustrations, while also getting rid of something he hated. And then…
Then, what? Dump it in the waste bin? Hide it under his coat and try to smuggle it out of the White House? And how would he explain the bloodstains?
Ratzenberger pushed the damn cat off his lap, unharmed. He was the most powerful man in the world, but he couldn’t even get away with killing a stupid animal.
He absently tucked the pen into his jacket pocket, and then said a short prayer, asking God to help The Instructor make this right.
Chandler
“In any operation, it’s important to have a clear objective going in,” The Instructor said. “As long as you know the ends, you can improvise on the means. It’s when you allow black and white to blend into gray that you are in danger of losing your way.”
We drove for miles through mountains and skirted the coastal plains of the Gulf of California, one hour stretching into the next, and the entire time, all I could think about was the little boy I’d seen climb out from under the cardboard box in Nuevo Laredo. I’d thought about Heath over the years, mostly about how much I hated him, how he’d managed to beat me at my own game, but I’d never given much consideration to who he was or where he’d come from.
I shouldn’t be letting myself think about that now.
My mission was clear. I had to destroy the virus. If that meant I needed to destroy Heath first, then that was what must be done. He was right: killing him and dumping his body would be a convenient solution to all my problems. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be easy for a multitude of reasons.
We stopped for gas at a Pemex station along Highway 15, close enough to the gulf to smell salt riding the air. The station was fairly modern. A bright green canopy stretched over the pumps, a concrete apron beneath. On the other side of an empty dirt lot sat a convenience store, still open. A single rig parked in the back, probably some camionero getting a few hours of shut-eye before again hitting the road. Save for him, the gas station attendant, and the young man behind the convenience store cash register, Heath and I were alone.
After the attendant filled the tank, Heath paid and pulled the truck into the dirt lot and out of the bright, overhead light. He slipped the keys from the ignition and into his pocket and then got out. “Stay here. I will get us something to eat.”
I got out, too.
“You know I have a gun, querida.”
“Just stretching my legs.”
“And what fine legs they are. I would hate for anything to happen to them.”
I’d expected a warning or a threat, but despite his words, the lilt in his voice didn’t suggest either. “Do you flirt with every woman you see?”
“Only the ones who want to kill me. It turns me on.”
“So every woman wants to kill you?”
He gave me a grin. “Just you, mamacita. That must be why only you can truly turn me on.”
I shook my head. The man had a line for every occasion.
We entered the store and picked up a couple of tortas. We reached the counter, and Heath pulled a wad of pesos from his pocket, peeling off the appropriate amount, the whole time never taking his eyes from me.
Upon leaving the store, we walked side by side, watching each other, our steps synchronized as if part of a dance.
I thought of the short dossiers Fleming had obtained on Hydra Deux. Heath had many skills, but the one I was reminded of now was his prowess in the martial art capoeira. Brazilian in origin, the fighting style began as a means for African slaves to train in combat without their Portuguese masters’ knowledge. A combination of attacks, defense, and mobility, capoeira resembles a dance, a careful orchestration of movement flowing with precision and speed. It was actually about outsmarting your opponent with tricks, feints, and deception. Once you realized it was no dance, it was usually too late.
I’d trained in capoeira as well, and as I fell in beside him and matched my steps to his, it felt as if we were participating in a roda, training disguised as a game. In a roda, the combat starts with the chamada or call, where a more experienced capoeirista tests an opponent through a side-by-side walk. It’s a test of awareness, where each is vulnerable to attack, and each attempts to read the other’s hidden intentions. Any breach of focus and you leave yourself open to a takedown or a strike.
Ten meters from the truck, I attacked.
I extended my right leg behind him while striking my right arm back into the center of his chest. Execution of the move, called a vingativa, was critical, and mine was a touch off. Instead of being knocked off his feet and laid out on his back, he was able to flip backward onto his hands and cartwheel out of range with an au compasso.
Movement fluid, he tossed our sandwiches to the ground and settled into a ginga, the swinging footwork of capoeira. The smile on his face was broad and irritating.
“You want to play, bonita?”
“Playing isn’t foremost on my mind, no.”
“Then you aren’t enjoying your work as much as you should.”
He threw a queixada at me, a high, fast kick aiming at my chin. I lunged to the side—a lateral esquiva—then launched an answering kick.
He ducked, my kick flowing over his head, then from his position close to the ground, he countered with a tessoura, standing on his hands and scissoring me with his legs, pushing my feet out from underneath. I escaped with an au compasso, cartwheeling as he had, but by the time I was back on my feet, he was too. And we shifted and rolled in the ginga, sizing each other up, looking for the next opportunity to strike.
Capoeira in roda is performed to music. But although we had only swirls of dust and sounds of the night, and the stakes of our game were higher than most, we settled into effortless rhythm, not a constant barrage of attack, but footw
ork, moves, and feints intended to test the other’s weaknesses, to deceive, and to trap.
He would try my defenses with a kick, and I would evade with an esquiva. I would throw a series of high strikes at him, and he would counter by moving low, going for my feet. We landed some blows, but both of us were skilled at countering the moves, at ducking and rolling away from the force, and the strikes didn’t fully connect. He focused on my every move, even when he didn’t appear to be looking at me, and I did the same with him, trying to read his body as well as his mind.
“We are evenly matched, querida,” he said, “though you possess a sexiness I lack.”
I doubted that. Serious as our fight was, I had to admit he looked disturbingly good, and I wasn’t just talking about his capoeira skills.
Heath launched at me with an armada, a fast, spinning kick. I evaded the kick, but before I had a chance to counterstrike, he came at me again, this time with one meia lua de compasso after another, a rotating kick that packed a huge wallop.
Caught unbalanced, I bent backward into a ponte to avoid his attack, then walked over onto my feet.
“Maravilloso.”
“You expected less?”
“From you?” He shot me one of his smirks. “I expect nothing but the best.”
I tied a series of kicks together, quiexada to armada to meia lua de compasso, but he evaded them smoothly, turning on his hands. I moved back into the sway of ginga before trying one more kick, a roundhouse off my back foot. The kick is called martelo de estalo, or cracking hammer, and until it’s delivered, it’s a hard kick to read, especially when hidden among the more dramatic spinning kicks. The top of my foot connected with Heath’s ribs, and I could hear the breath rush from his lungs.
Heath dropped to the ground, and for a second, I thought I had him. I shot out with another martelo de estalo, this time going for his head, but as soon as I was on one leg, he countered with a rasteira, cutting my legs out from under me like wheat surrendering to the blade of a scythe.
I hit the ground, now my turn to gasp for air, and before I could spring to my feet, Heath was on top of me, pinning me to the dirt.
He leaned in close, his breath tickling my ear. “You are so hot, bonita. You’re on fire.” He nibbled on my ear, his body bearing down on mine, hard and unyielding.
I decided to play along until he let down his guard, then turn the tables. If sex was on the menu, it was difficult for the male of the species to pay attention to anything else. As soon as he lost his focus, I’d put him down.
He shifted on top of me, fitting the evidence of his arousal snug between my thighs. He kissed my ear, then trailed along my hairline to the side of my neck, then my throat.
I could feel his heart thumping against my ribs, echoing through my chest. He smelled of leather and sweat, earthy and real, and before I knew what I was doing, I was kissing him back. It started with a brush of my lips against his cheek, the light rasp of stubble sending chills over my skin. He tilted his face toward me and then brought his mouth to mine.
The kiss wasn’t tender, but hard and urgent, and what he gave me, I gave back. Our tongues tangled, stroking in time with our lips one moment, struggling for dominance the next. I pulled my right hand free of his grip and tangled my fingers in his hair, forcing his mouth harder against mine.
And all thoughts of me kicking his ass melted away.
I couldn’t remember a time I’d needed anything so desperately, his kiss, his heat, his touch. Still pinning my left wrist to the dirt, he slipped his free hand under my shirt and clawed one cup of my bra aside. His fingers found my nipple, and I gasped as he pinched and teased.
I spread my legs apart, and he nestled deeper, denim against denim, moving in time with our kiss, the friction building until I was breathless with it, my back arching and hips bucking, beyond my control.
God help me, I wanted him, needed him, skin against skin.
I skimmed my hand down his shoulder, his back, until I reached his belt. Working my fingers between our bodies, I fumbled with the buckle.
A chuckle rumbled through his chest and tickled my lips.
“Right now, querida? Here in the dirt?”
I answered with a tug, pulling the belt loose. Another few yanks and the button fly of his jeans was open. I thrust my hand inside.
Heath was hot and hard, and he surged into my palm. I slid my fingers down his length, and his chuckle turned to a moan.
He deepened the kiss, devouring me, and even though his erection was no longer rubbing against me, I felt the delicious pressure again building between my legs. I ripped my left hand free of his and shoved his jeans farther down his hips, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to be naked. I wanted him inside me.
More than wanted. Craved. An aching and mindless need.
“I have a better idea,” he said.
He lifted himself off me, hitched up his pants a touch, then offered me a hand.
I could have flipped him right then, thrown him to the ground, and judging by the smirk curling one side of his lips, he knew it. But I couldn’t make myself care about that now.
I grasped his hand and let him pull me to my feet. A few steps, and we were beside the truck, but instead of opening the door, Heath pressed my back against the warm steel, grasped my shirt, and pulled it over my head. My bra came next, and then he unfastened my jeans. I pushed his jeans back down his thighs and took him in both hands, cradling him from below.
In the back of my mind, I realized the attendant in the gas station was likely watching in the light bleeding from the gas pump canopy, but I didn’t care about that either. Let him gawk. All I could focus on was Heath. The smell of his skin, the feel of him in my hands, his urgency as he stripped off my cargo pants and pushed them down to my ankles.
After guiding the fabric over my feet, he skimmed back up my body, littering hot kisses until he reached the apex of my thighs. He parted my legs, moving his mouth between them, giving me sucking kisses and long, fat licks until I thought I’d go insane.
Tremors rippled through me again, but it wasn’t enough. I grasped his shoulders, lifting him to his feet.
“Now,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse and desperate.
For once in his life, Heath didn’t throw me a querida or bonita or even a mamacita. In fact, he said nothing at all. He grasped my hips and lifted me, then leaning me back against the truck, he fitted me onto his length.
I took him inside, wrapping my legs around his waist, holding tight to his shoulders as he thrust into me. He buried his face in my breasts, first claiming one nipple then the other with lips, tongue, and teeth. Again a wave built and crashed over me in pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. I threw my head back, gasping for air, crying out, and Heath met me, bucking and shuddering as he bellowed my name.
¡Dios Mío!
We clung to each other for several moments, sweating, breathing hard, still joined, Heath holding me up. I couldn’t quite understand what I was feeling. It wasn’t love. It was no longer simple lust. Instead, I felt strangely whole. As if a part of me had been missing for a very long time, and I’d finally found it.
Eventually, too soon, he lowered me down, and we dressed and recovered the tortas, neither of us saying a word.
When we climbed back into the truck, Heath handed me the Paragon SEAL knife he’d taken from me in Mexico City, along with my cell phone.
“We are equally matched, querida. In more ways than one.”
I nodded, but although he’d just handed me the means to kill him, I no longer wanted to. In fact, I was beginning to think he was right. Maybe I had met my match.
And although I knew it couldn’t last, not with that tank of Ebola on the back of the truck, maybe I wanted to hold on as long as I could.
Hammett
“Don’t go down with a sinking ship,” The Instructor said.
When Hammett opened her bleary eyes, the needle of the CN Tower was a hundred meters away, and the blimp was heading straight for
it in a collision course.
Shot through with adrenaline, she pressed her numb leg against the rudder pedal, pushing on her knee with her good hand, while simultaneously throttling down and changing the prop pitch.
It was going to be close. Damn close.
The blimp got so close to the tower, Hammett could see a wide-eyed man standing on the upper observation deck, a mop in his hand and his jaw hanging open. She waved at him as the airship floated past, narrowly missing the building by a few meters.
Sighting Lake Ontario ahead of her, Hammett began a rapid descent. No doubt being watched by thousands of people, she’d have to execute this next part perfectly for her plan to work.
She left the captain’s chair and inched her way to the passenger area of the gondola. After finding her bag, Hammett went through it and pulled out her Mateba autorevolver. She raised the rear window, and fired four times at the chains holding the aerosol tank, careful not to hit the tank itself. The armor-piercing rounds cut through the heavy chain as advertised, and the tank dropped away from the gondola, splashing into the lake only fifty meters above the waves. She threw the Mateba, her shotgun, and the duffel back out the window and fished the TracFone out of her pocket.
Hammett called two numbers from memory. The first one, she got a machine, and she quickly spit out, “It’s done.” She got a machine the second time as well, and had time to blurt, “Toronto Inukshuk. I need you to—”
Then the blimp crashed into Lake Ontario.
The impact knocked Hammett off her feet, and water rushed into the gondola, assaulting her with a freezing, bracing slap. She managed to pull up a seat cushion, finding the strap underneath that told her it could be used as a floatation device, then waited for the cockpit to fill up. Once it did, she kicked feebly out the window, popping to the surface alongside the collapsing blimp envelope.
The shore was five hundred meters to the north.
Hammett was pretty sure she wouldn’t make it.
But she tried her damnedest.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 96