Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels)

by J. A. Konrath

  His hand touched the Sig just as the door clanged open.

  Gripping the pistol, he swung around, his finger squeezing the trigger just as he lined up the barrel on a cabrón with an AK.

  Two shots and the man staggered back against the wall and then slid to the floor.

  Heath wasn’t so lucky with the second man. The ranchero wannabe ditched to one side, taking cover. Also armed with an AK-47, he wouldn’t be easy to get around. Heath had to make his move before the man regrouped.

  He forced himself to his feet and grabbed the pair of jeans he hadn’t yet slipped on. Sig in his left hand and pants in the right, he moved behind the door.

  It only took a few seconds until the barrel of the assault rifle poked through the opening, shooting a few rounds at the bed. The bottle of tequila shattered.

  Pinche buey!

  Shooting some of the best tequila Heath had ever had. Obviously he lacked the cojones to poke his head far enough inside to see what he was shooting.

  Gran error, cabrón.

  Heath whipped the denim around the door, trapping the rifle barrel between the pant legs. Yanking it to the side, he plowed into the door with his shoulder at the same time, trapping the man against the jamb.

  The rifle fired two more times, the rounds flying wide, the blasts ringing in Heath’s head. Keeping up the pressure on the door and his hold of the rifle, he brought his pistol around and squeezed off three rounds.

  The man’s body sagged. Heath let him fall to the floor. Up-close kills were messy, and up close with a firearm was even worse.

  He gave the man only a cursory glance to verify he was dead, focusing instead on the rest of the room. Filena sat on the chair in the mess she called a kitchen, still tied. She was the only one in the small space, the door securely closed.

  “Chandler left?” he asked in Spanish, even though he knew the answer.

  “A while ago. I heard shooting.” She had the gall to smile.

  Heath focused on lowering his gun before he did something rash.

  Ducking back in the bedroom, he pulled on the jeans and shirt, shoved his Sig into his waistband, and slung his duffel over one shoulder. He knelt beside the men, grabbing one of their rifles and finding a set of keys in the first man’s pocket. Then he stepped back into the room and untied her, trying not to show Filena how much pain he was in now that the drugs Chandler had given him were wearing off.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” Filena said, rubbing her wrists and gesturing to the pair of men messing up the floor.

  “What you always do,” Heath said. “Sell out your dignity.”

  He knew he shouldn’t be so harsh, but the fact that she’d gotten involved with the cartel still grated on him like a rasp against an exposed nerve.

  “You’re bleeding,” Filena said.

  Heath expected to find her staring at his gut, but instead she focused on his forehead. Reaching up, he found sticky heat along his hairline. “Chinga’o.”

  He must have been hit by a sliver of stucco or concrete chipped off by one of the cartel hombre’s bullets. He felt the wound; it was bloody, as most head wounds were, but the cut itself was superficial.

  “Are you going to tend to it?”

  The concern coming from Filena was surprising. “No time.”

  “Chandler left too long ago. You’re not going to catch her.”

  “Maybe not. But I have an idea of how I might find her.” He rifled in his duffel, pulled out a thick wad of pesos, and tossed them Filena’s way.

  She let them fall to the floor at her feet. “I can make my own money.”

  Heath frowned. “I see how you make your money.”

  “You are no better. I fuck. I make drugs. I help smuggle people. But you kill. And you look down your nose at me?”

  “You don’t have to do any of those things. I’ve sent you thousands of dollars, and what do you do with it? Buy expensive tequila for gangsters?”

  “I use it. But not for me.”

  He wanted to demand to know exactly what she used it for, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him. She’d refused every time he’d asked. He couldn’t even fault her for that. Long ago he’d told her to find her own money, and she had. Now that he had money to give, she wouldn’t let him take back his words.

  “Take it now. Use it to leave this place. The cartel won’t believe a word you tell them, not with two dead cabrónes lying on your floor.”

  “So you finally care?”

  “Take it and clear out. I’m serious, Filena.” He grabbed a pen from the countertop and took ahold of her wrist.

  She pulled against him. “Let me go!”

  “Be still.” He flipped her hand up and wrote an address on the heel of her palm, and then he released her.

  She glanced at what he’d written. “I am not going back to Tijuana.”

  “You’ll be safe there, mi hermana.”

  “I am only your half-sister, American bastard. And I haven’t been your sister at all since you abandoned me all those years ago, without a peso to my name.”

  He could remind her he’d needed the money to bury their mother, that he hadn’t a peso left for himself either, but what was the point?

  “Fine. You don’t like mi hermana? I will call you puta then. Something you’re more accustomed to hearing from the scum you hang around with. But hate me or not, go to that address anyway. People will be looking for me, Filena. Powerful people. And they might be so desperate they will try to reach me through you. You need to disappear, whether you want to take your big brother’s advice or not.”

  He opened the door, then pausing on the threshold, he glanced back.

  “Please,” he said, then closed the door behind him and headed for the Sinaloa soldiers’ sweet black Ford dually parked outside the house.

  Heath could never control Filena, not since she was born, and that wasn’t going to change now. But she was always good at saving her own skin, so he had to trust she would do so.

  He had to focus on finding Chandler. Now that she’d destroyed the virus, he needed her more than ever if he was going to continue with his plan.

  Chandler

  “Survival in the wilderness depends on your knowledge of your surroundings,” said The Instructor. “And when that isn’t enough, you’ll have to rely on sheer doggedness.”

  I watched the fire burn for several minutes, throwing on more wood as the first turned to ash.

  If I’d thought the desert was hot earlier, I’d been mistaken. Sun beating down from a cloudless sky combined with the fire, wrapping me in sweaty misery. After the fire had raged for over an hour, I pulled out my phaser-like thermometer gun and checked the temp.

  The tank itself was well over one hundred degrees Celsius, more than enough to do the job. But still, I checked every fifteen minutes for the next two hours, keeping the fire stocked with brush.

  I kept checking even as the fire died down, until I was sure there was no chance a single cell of Ebola was left alive.

  By the time the flame was spent, tires melted and burned, only smoldering wreckage left of what used to be the truck, the sun was dipping close to the horizon. I stepped away from the fire, and the air actually felt cool in comparison; although my thermometer gun read thirty-nine degrees Celsius, still above one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

  It was hard to cool off at that kind of temp. Hopefully when the sun went down, the heat would follow.

  I tucked the thermometer in my tattered backpack and pulled out my night-vision monocular, staring at the shattered lens.

  Damn.

  Throwing the worthless equipment into the dirt, I fished out my flashlight and my compass. Then I stuffed my shotgun in the pack and strapped it on my shoulders. I carried the jug of water in one hand, not wanting to risk the last of the precious liquid leaking out in the backpack, then I started to walk.

  The hike was difficult from the first step. My body was so battered, every muscle and joint and bone hurt, my cracked ribs screaming
with each breath, and all I could think about was how much I wished I was still lying in bed next to Heath.

  Sunset splashed red, orange, and pink across the western sky, dramatic behind the spindly arms of saguaro cactus and the mountains’ rugged outline. The colors faded to twilight, then twilight gave way to darkness.

  The air temperature continued to hover around body temperature, not giving me much relief. Sweat pooled under my armpits and slicked my back. I walked on.

  When most people think of the desert, they picture sand dunes and dry rock. The Sonoran Desert had its share of both, but this time of year, just after the end of monsoon season, plants abound. Cactus and creosote bush. Desert broom and ocotillo. In spots, the plants make walking difficult to impossible. But even though rain falls during monsoon season, once the dry winds of fall start flowing from the west, the earth grows parched quickly.

  I cursed that hot wind now, but kept trudging.

  Now and then I encountered evidence of the people who had traveled this path before me. Bits of trash, plastic bottles drained of water, food wrappers, a pair of threadbare underwear that must have been chafing its owner.

  I could see no lights twinkling save for the stars above. I heard nothing but the normal desert night sounds: the chirping and buzzing of bugs swarming around me, the scratching of rodents in the stony soil, the howl of coyotes.

  Eventually I came to a streak of desert so smooth that barely a track showed in the earth. Stopping at the swath’s edge, I surveyed the area in my flashlight beam.

  This was a trap, laid by the border patrol. Simple, but effective.

  Every few days, agents would chain a set of tires to the back of a truck and drag the ground smooth. The drags would be arranged in parallel stripes, each cutting east and west, forcing walkers moving north to cross the path. Much too wide to jump over, wire crossers would leave prints that were easy for the sign cutters—those experienced in tracking—to read.

  And the drags weren’t the only traps waiting for me.

  Inground sensors called Oscars were also buried through this stretch of desert, transmitting a radio signal whenever something of size came within its range. Although I hadn’t spotted any of their telltale antennas among the bramble of creosote bushes, I suspected they were here somewhere.

  If my footprints were discovered or the Oscars were tripped, the border patrol would follow up, radioing other units to check at the next drag and the next, trying to head me off. Once they had me trapped between one drag and the next, they would close in.

  I pulled out my knife and cut a branch from a creosote bush. Walking across the drag path, I swept it back and forth over the ground behind me, erasing my tracks. With the US government searching for me, the footprints of a female traveling alone might attract attention. Even with my brush-out trick the sign cutters would know someone had passed this way, but at least they wouldn’t have reason to believe it might be me.

  Better safe than caught.

  Regardless of my precautions, though, the border patrol would follow up. I had to get away from the drags.

  Which meant I had to head for the mountains and cross the most brutal terrain of all.

  Fleming

  “If you want to be invisible, stay solo,” said The Instructor. “Trying to take others with you, for any reason, will only give you away. Better they die than you fail your mission.”

  When they reached the van, Sasha was still tied outside.

  “Sasha!” Bradley fell to his knees beside the wiggling fox and gathered her into his arms.

  “Inside,” Fleming directed. “Hurry.”

  Smoke billowed into the sky, the air around them hazy and hard to breathe. They’d stayed long enough to ensure the warehouse was completely destroyed, and luckily the local first responders had been slow to intervene in this area of the city. Whether that was due to abandoned warehouses being low on the priority list or a special arrangement The Instructor had made to keep them out of his business, Fleming couldn’t say. But although smoke was still heavy, the fire was already dying down when the first sound of sirens ricocheted off the boarded-up buildings surrounding them.

  Fleming loaded her passengers into the van, Bradley in the front seat with Sasha curled on his lap. Julie far in the back, a safe distance away. Then Fleming loaded her chair and settled behind the wheel.

  “You OK back there?” Fleming asked.

  Julie nodded.

  Bradley petted the little vixen. He still looked as if he was in pain, even after the shot Fleming had given him, but with his hand stroking the little fox’s fur, he seemed to be on the mend. “Where are we going?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “You both could stay at my condo,” Bradley said.

  Fleming couldn’t help but smile. Even after all he’d been through, Bradley was ready to invite them into his home—Ebola girl and all. His generosity humbled her.

  “The Instructor will be watching your condo. We need to find a place that he can’t tie to any of us. Any ideas welcome, at this point.”

  “I’m sorry,” Julie said. “The lighthouse is the only place I know, and…”

  “It’s OK.” Fleming still wondered if she was crazy to not kill the girl and burn her with the lab. All of her training dictated that was exactly what she should do. But although it might come down to that, she couldn’t tie up that loose end until she knew if Chandler was still alive.

  Good thing she was no longer listening to that damned Instructor voice in her head. He would be squealing all sorts of reasons why waiting was a bad idea.

  She shifted into gear and started down the road. She’d stick to side roads until she could figure out which direction would be the best bet.

  “We’re looking for something secluded?” Bradley asked.

  Fleming nodded. “This time of year, a beach house might be a good bet. Know of anything on Cape Cod?”

  “We’re in Massachusetts?” Julie said.

  “How about the Hamptons?”

  Fleming glanced at Bradley. “That might work. We can’t have the location lead back to you, though.”

  “It won’t. It shouldn’t, anyway. It belongs to friends of my aunt, who is really my second cousin once removed, or something like that. They let me stay there one summer back when my uncle was still alive.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Six or seven years? But my aunt goes there all the time. She and her friend are both widowed, and…”

  “You’re sure the place is vacant?”

  “My aunt is with the owner in Paris right now. They travel together now that both their husbands have passed. If you want, I can call, ask if it’s OK to stay there.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He looked disappointed. “It’s a really nice place. I think you’d like it.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to stay there, Bradley, I just don’t want you to let anyone know that’s where we’re going.”

  Bradley nodded. “Yeah, right. Sorry. I’m not thinking like a spy, am I?”

  “I like the way you think just fine.”

  He grinned, and Fleming wanted to kiss him so badly she almost stopped the van. How she resisted, she wasn’t sure, but she managed to turn around, hop on I-90, then take I-395 south into Connecticut.

  Bradley fell asleep in the seat beside her with Sasha curled on his lap.

  They reached New London in good time, with no one on their heels. Fleming bought tickets to the Cross Sound Ferry, running to Orient Point on Long Island’s tip, and when the Cape Henlopen Ferry was ready to depart, they drove aboard.

  Fleming checked Bradley, still sleeping soundly after his ordeal, then glanced into the back. “Julie? Want to take a walk to the upper deck with me? Get some air?”

  “Sure.”

  After scribbling a note telling Bradley where they were in case he woke up, Fleming and Julie climbed out. Afraid her chair would gain unwanted attention in its current state, Fleming
resorted to her crutches and leg braces.

  The ship was old, World War II era, fitted with new diesel engines and modified for its current use, now accommodating ninety cars and nine hundred passengers. Fleming would wager that in the summer, the fleet of ferries had all they could handle, shuttling passengers back and forth to the Hamptons. But now, cool weather and fall winds had chased many summer tourists from the island, and the ship was only using a fraction of its capacity.

  Fine with her. She could use a little alone time.

  After a painfully slow walk, she and Julie reached the deck. The sound stretched around them, steely waves tipped with the reflected orange of sunset. They stood on the side facing east, and Fleming noticed an island looming ahead.

  “Do you know what that is?” Fleming asked, pointing.

  Julie shook her head.

  “Plum Island.”

  Almost a minute passed before Julie replied. “That’s the lab where I was the first time. When all this started.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you drove this way?”

  “This is the fastest route.”

  “Then why are you showing this to me?”

  Why was she doing this to the poor girl? Did she hope Julie suddenly felt inspired to dive into the sound, erasing any need for Fleming to take action to protect the world’s population?

  “What is it? You might as well be honest.”

  “I’m worried about you, Julie.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll stay away from Bradley. Believe me, I don’t want to be the cause of any more death.”

  “I know.”

  “But that might not be in my control.”

  The girl got it. She understood exactly what she was, what destruction her blood could cause. Fleming wasn’t sure why she ever thought Julie needed a reminder.

  “I know you’re doing the best you can, Julie.”

  The girl stared out at the waves, her hair tossed by the breeze. “Do you think Chandler is still alive?”

  “Chandler is particularly hard to kill.”

  It was a lame answer, but that seemed to be all that was currently in supply. Fleming stared into the waves, leaning against the cold rail, and wished she could come up with better assurances than that, for Julie and for herself.