Chaser

by J. A. Konrath

  You’re welcome.

  Now let’s see what that a-hole, Harry McGlade, is up to…

  JACK

  Sam didn’t want to swim. Consuela had introduced her to the GameMaster 2, and Sam was lost in a world where unicorns controlled giant battle robots who raced on roller skates.

  You can’t make shit like that up.

  So I forced myself into my ugly grandma one-piece suit and limped into the pool that Harry said had a lesser chance of venereal disease, thinking about my daughter, my husband, my family, my life choices, my future.

  The infinity pool had no edge to it, and the water seemed to stretch out and touch the setting sun.

  Beautiful.

  I considered that. How something as commonplace as a sunset could lift my spirits.

  But maybe sunsets weren’t so common.

  We all only had so many.

  And of all we had, how many did we watch? How many did we stop to appreciate?

  I felt my eyes well up.

  Watched the sun.

  Considered my place in the world.

  I’d had a tough few years, by my own admittedly hard standards.

  Blamed myself. Loathed myself.

  Wasted so much time trying to solve things. Fix things. Get things done.

  How many sunsets did I miss?

  Sunrises?

  How many drinks with friends had I passed on to wallow in responsibility? Or self-pity?

  How many nights were my thoughts occupied with catching bad guys, rather than appreciation of the people I loved?

  How could I bring my daughter somewhere she had to wear a bulletproof vest?

  That was the threshold. That was the breaking point.

  Something had to give.

  I needed to flip a switch.

  And here I was, crippled and floating in a rich man’s pool. A rich man who indulged himself to excess. A rich man who made terrible choices on a regular basis, yet somehow still wound up ahead of the game.

  I’ve spent years clenching my fists when I should have been shaking hands and giving high-fives.

  “I’m an asshole,” I said to the universe.

  “You’re my asshole.”

  Phin, wearing boxer-briefs, slid into the side of the pool like a knife and glided over to me.

  “I’m your asshole?” I asked. It was kind of funny.

  Maybe everything was kind of funny.

  Maybe pain is just a perspective.

  Maybe life is good and I’ve just been so caught up in navel-gazing I forgot how to live.

  “That didn’t come out right. I meant, no matter how you feel about yourself, you’re the love of my life. You’ll always be.”

  “I’ve been terrible to you, Phin. And to Sam. And to myself.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “And you’ll wait for me until I do?”

  He put his hands on my waist, holding me suspended in the water, making me feel like I was nothing, making me feel like I was the most important person in the world.

  “You’re Jack Fucking Daniels. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

  And just like that, all the self-pity vanished, and for the first time in a long time I felt like the person my husband thought I was. I saw myself through his eyes, and saw someone worthy.

  “We need to get out of California,” I told him.

  “Agreed.”

  “And we need to find a bed because I want to fuck you in half.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

  “This is your wife. I’ve just been away for a while.”

  “But you’re back?”

  “I’m back.”

  I kissed him, meeting his tongue, fitting my legs around him.

  I wanted to make up for all the time I lost.

  I wanted to make love and laugh and see things and do things and have fun.

  I wanted to get the hell away from violence and death and crazy people and go someplace safe and beautiful.

  I didn’t want to miss any more sunsets.

  Phin, being Phin, scooped me up out of the pool and carried me into the air-conditioned mansion. He held me close, found the nearest bedroom, and closed the door while I kissed his neck and tried to free him from his wet shorts.

  Then I was on a bed, Phin’s face between my thighs, his hands ripping through my cheap swimsuit and finding my nipples and going too fast and not fast enough.

  I pushed his head away, turning onto my side, pulling him onto me, my mouth on his as he tore away the rest of my suit.

  When was the last time a guy tore my clothes off?

  Why are his so goddamn hard to rip?

  Phin helped out, hiking down his shorts, and I grabbed him and stroked him, thrilled by how excited he was, which made me more excited.

  Easy, Jack. You aren’t 100%.

  But I didn’t care. I wanted him, I needed him, inside me, and I hooked my leg over his abs and he held my hips, pulling me lower, and when he entered me I ground against him and arched my back and felt deliciously wicked and full and loved and ridiculously close to coming.

  Then I moved the wrong way and pain screamed through my spine and I yelped.

  Phin instantly froze.

  “You okay?”

  Tears were already coming, and the slight shake of my head was agony.

  Phin sat up, wrapped his arms around me, and gently eased me off of him, setting me down on the bed.

  “Should I call 911?”

  He looked so concerned that laughter momentarily overrode my pain. “You can tell them I broke my back having wild sex.”

  “Is it broken?”

  “I pinched something.”

  “One to ten?”

  I considered our pain scale. “Was an eight. Now a four.”

  “Meds?”

  “I didn’t bring anything stronger than ibuprofen.”

  “I’m sure Harry has something.”

  I laughed again. “Yeah. All the best orthopedic surgeons prescribe meth.”

  “He smokes. I can get weed. Edibles.”

  “Just lie next to me.”

  He did, his face on my cheek as I stared at the ceiling.

  “Want me to…” his hand trailed across my belly, between my legs.

  “No. It’s okay. How about you?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I’m sorry, Phin.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m over fifty years old. Do you know how many times I’ve heard guys complain about the unrelenting agony of blue balls?”

  “Have I ever complained?”

  “No. But others have said it’s worse than childbirth. Or tooth pain. Or breaking a leg.”

  Phin smiled. “If you’re worried, I can call an escort.”

  “An escort? I was going to call McGlade. I bet he’d gobble you up.”

  We giggled at that, until the giggling hurt and I stopped.

  “Dammit, Phin. I just want to be okay.”

  “I know.”

  “I want us to be okay.”

  “I know.”

  “Just climb on. Give me a belt to bite down on.”

  “Tempting. But I can wait.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded.

  I loved him so much.

  “I’ll go find you a robe, and some painkillers. You sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “Everything seems in place. I just turned the wrong way. Can you put a blanket over me?”

  “Sure. After I post my Facebook update.”

  Jackass.

  He pulled the comforter over me, gently stuck a pillow under my head, and pulled on his wet shorts. Then my man left the bedroom to tend to my needs.

  I felt old.

  Worse than old.

  I felt useless.

  Someone knocked at the door, then came in without invitation.

  “Hey, Jackie. You decent?”

  McGlade was staring right
at me, so I guessed the question to be rhetorical.

  “I’m not in the mood, Harry.”

  “I know. Bad back.”

  “Phin told you?”

  “I’ve got some Tylenol 3 if you need it. Or Vicodin. I also have a TENS unit. You know; with the electrode pads, it zaps you and stimulates muscles. I should probably wash that off first, though.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He sat on the corner of the bed, uninvited. “I don’t want you to leave California.”

  “Phin told you that, too?”

  “Phin didn’t tell me anything. Tom and Roy left, Sam is with Consuela, and I was looking through my home security cameras on my smartphone. I heard you guys out at the pool.”

  I glanced around the room, feeling a little freaked out. “Where else do you have cameras, McGlade?”

  “Everywhere. I did tell you I had them everywhere, remember?”

  “So you saw us in here?”

  “Saw you hurt your back doing cowgirl? Yeah. Pretty sad.”

  “You watched us have sex.”

  “No. I watched you try to have sex, then fail.”

  “You’re gross.”

  “I figured you were putting on a show for me.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  He held up his cell phone, which showed us all in the great room from earlier. On the screen, Harry said, “Every square foot of the property, inside and out, every room and every corner, covered by hidden cameras with infrared.”

  He hit pause. “I figured you were doing some kinky voyeur thing.”

  “I want that recording erased, McGlade.”

  “I would, too. Pretty embarrassing. Worst sex I’ve ever seen in this house, and that includes the Amputee Indica Palooza, where everyone got so stoned the orgy looked like a potato field.”

  “McGlade…”

  “It records over itself every 24 hours. I don’t save anything. I wouldn’t risk the lawsuits. Besides, you’re dead to me. And to the rest of the world. You think I’d put you in danger, Jackie? You’re practically family. Hell, you are family.”

  I folded my arms across my chest, which hurt enough to make me wince. “We’re not staying.”

  “I need you.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Tom needs you.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “My Big Dick needs you.”

  “Your Big Dick can take care of himself. We’re leaving.”

  “I’ll double what I’m paying you.”

  “No way.”

  “Triple.”

  That amount was so big I hesitated. Harry pressed it.

  “Triple, I’ll hire some full time bodyguards, and I’ll get you an exoskeleton.”

  “What?”

  He held up his prosthetic hand. “This is cutting edge. But even I’m behind in the latest tech advances. I know the best guy in the biz. He’s worked with a ton of spinal cord injury patients. He makes bodysuits. Carbon nanofibers with cutting-edge computer-assist mechs. You’d be like RoboCop, but not as young. And saggier. And no penis. Did RoboCop have a penis? Or did the dad from That 70’s Show shoot it off? Hey, Alexa! Did RoboCop have a dick?”

  The Alexa speaker on the desk said, “Hmm. I’m not sure.”

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is the exosuit is crazy awesome. And you won’t be tottering around like FDR, making everyone uncomfortable.”

  “Not interested,” I said, barely hiding my interest.

  “It can help you walk, help with the healing and the pain, waiting list is like seven years, but I could have one shipped here overnight.”

  “We’re leaving, Harry.”

  “You can fuck in it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The mech suit. It can hold any position you want. Russian. Reverse cowgirl. Wheelbarrow. Magic Mountain. Flatiron. Even the Butter Churn.”

  “Butter Churn?”

  “Hey, Alexa—”

  I held up my hand and cut him off. “I’ll Google it later.”

  “Triple the money, as many bodyguards as you want, and an exosuit for your SCI. You make some cash, help some friends while being completely safe, and get laid without your hubby treating you like a porcelain doll he’s worried he’ll break.”

  Shit. He had me. And he knew it, because he was already on the phone dialing someone.

  “Two bodyguards,” I said. “No. Three. And not over-the-hill rent-a-cops.”

  “You mean like we are? I’m offended.”

  “Young. Ex-military. Hard asses. People who have seen some shit. You do all that, I’ll give you four days of my time.”

  “A week.”

  “Five days.”

  “Six.”

  “Five.”

  “Deal.”

  He reached out his hand and we shook. Then he held up his phone.

  “That’s the Butter Churn.”

  Hmm. Looked kind of fun.

  “And no more recording.”

  “No way. You know what happens if I do that. The one place in the house without a camera is the one place where evil swoops in.”

  “What about the bathrooms, McGlade?”

  “Bathroom cams are pixelated. Can’t see anything graphic. Plus, yuck. Your mind is a cesspool, Lieutenant Daniels. To think we were partners for years.”

  He walked out, nose in the air, mock-offended.

  What the hell did I just do?

  I was out. And he pulled me back in.

  But only for five days.

  How much trouble could I get into in five days?

  THE COWBOY

  The merc whose codename is Hammett looks unassuming at first glance. Average height, thin, non-descript face, bottle brunette.

  But her wrists are thick, and her forearm bulges when she shakes hands. She also has jaw muscles that look as if she could bite through a football.

  “How do I know you’re worth what you’re charging, and not some wannabe trolling darknet for lulz?”

  Hammett has a voice like a steak simmering. “You want a resume?”

  The Cowboy waits.

  “You got two men in the lobby. Twins. Tech geeks, probably speak fluent Vulcan.”

  “How do you know they’re with me?”

  “Shoes. All three of you have the same color dirt on them. Not Chicago. Somewhere west.”

  “That makes you Miss Marple, not James Bond.”

  “The twins were looking for me, but didn’t see me. That’s why you didn’t get a call before I knocked on your hotel room door. I knew you were alone in the room because I did a thermal scan first. Stuck cardboard in the door lock when I came in so I can push it open in case I need to make a quick exit.”

  “Can I get up and check that?”

  “You can check it when I leave.”

  “What if I want to check it now?”

  “When we shook hands, I put something in your front pocket. A thermite charge. I press my zipper, it immediately ignites and burns at four thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Not enough to kill you, but enough to distract you while I snap your neck.”

  That all sounds like total BS. The Cowboy almost laughs.

  But…

  Hammett doesn’t appear to be joking. She sits perched on the edge of her seat, hands on her knees, unnaturally still.

  The pull tab on Hammett’s zipper is large, doesn’t match the hoodie.

  And she might have touched my hip when we shook hands.

  Okay, then. Let’s see where this leads.

  “I want to break a man out of Cofferdale Supermax in central Illinois.”

  No reaction. “That’s why you want the M577.”

  The Cowboy nods. “Is the vehicle nearby?”

  “When you give me the word, I can have it there in sixteen hours. And to be clear, you’re renting, not buying.”

  “They’re likely to pursue.”

  Hammett smiles, completely without mirth. She looks like a pit viper. “I hope they try. Are you hiring me?”

 
“I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Is that Vaquero for show, or do you know what you’re doing?”

  Before Hammett arrived, the Cowboy strapped on her hip holster. Part intimidation. Part comfort. Part fashion statement.

  A girl has to accessorize.

  “Do you know Gunslinger Showdown?” the Cowboy asks.

  “I do. What are you? Fast, or accurate?”

  Good question. “Both. Do you shoot?”

  “On occasion.”

  “What are you? Fast, or accurate?”

  “Both.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I don’t like to show off.”

  Bullshit. I’ve known Hammett all of two minutes, and this bitch lives to show off. She’s flexing her pecs as we’re talking, like a bodybuilder hitting a pose.

  “In GS there’s a contest called High Noon. It’s an Old West style quickdraw shootout. One shot. Wax bullets.”

  “You have wax bullets and more than one weapon?”

  The Cowboy nods. “Are you left-handed or right handed?”

  “Both.”

  The Cowboy considers it. Discharging a firearm in a hotel suite could be problematic. But wax is only about as loud as a child’s cap gun, and that sound could be blamed on a dozen different things; the TV, plumbing, dropping something.

  It’s risky as hell.

  But…

  When was the last time I’ve done something risky?

  When was the last time I had a challenge?

  When was the last time I did something just plain fun?

  “Okay,” the Cowboy says. “But first I’m going to slowly reach into my pocket and check on that thermite you mentioned.”

  “If you want to do that, first reach into your holster and place the .45 on the floor.”

  “Fair enough. I’m going slow.”

  The Cowboy carefully removes her firearm, placing it at her feet. She then sticks two fingers into her pocket.

  Son of a bitch. There’s something in there.

  She scissors out the object; a zip top plastic nickel bag containing orange powder and a miniature circuit board.

  “This is real?”

  “We can light it off in the bathtub, watch it burn down to the first floor. But you won’t get your security deposit back.”

  “Who the hell are you, Hammett?”

  “You ever hear stories about covert government assassins trained to be the most dangerous people alive?”

  “You’re one of those people?”