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

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Flee – Text copyright © 2013 J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

  Spree – Text copyright © 2012 J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

  Three – Text copyright © 2012 J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  eISBN: 9781477859728

  Contents

  FLEE

  If the adrenaline…

  Not too long ago…

  3 DEAD IN NORTH SIDE KILLING SPREE

  SOME TIME AGO…

  Authors’ Note

  SPREE

  AUTHORS’ INTRODUCTION

  Chandler

  Fleming

  The White House

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Chandler

  The White House

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Chandler

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Chandler

  The White House

  Tequila

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Hammett

  Tequila

  Chandler

  Tequila

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Fleming

  The White House

  Tequila

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Tequila

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Tequila

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Lund

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Tequila

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Tequila

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Tequila

  Hammett

  Tequila

  Chandler

  Lund

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Lund

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Lund

  Chandler

  Fleming

  The White House

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Lund

  Chandler

  Fleming

  The White House

  Chandler

  Lund

  Fleming

  Lund

  Chandler

  Lund

  Chandler

  Fleming

  The White House

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  AFTERWORD…

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  THREE

  The only thing…

  AUTHORS’ INTRODUCTION

  Chandler

  The White House

  Fleming

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Years Ago…

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Julie

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Julie

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Heath

  Years Ago…

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Julie

  Fleming

  Scarlett

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Years Ago…

  The White House

  Fleming

  Julie

  Scarlett

  Chandler

  Heath

  Fleming

  Chandler

  The White House

  Fleming

  Years Ago…

  Isolde

  Chandler

  Julie

  Fleming

  Hammett

  Scarlett

  Julie

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Julie

  Isolde

  Fleming

  Scarlett

  Fleming

  Scarlett

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Fleming

  Scarlett

  Heath

  Years Ago…

  Hammett

  Fleming

  Hammett

  The White House

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Julie

  Fleming

  Julie

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Isolde

  Julie

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Heath

  Julie

  Fleming

  Isolde

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Fleming

  Scarlett

  Isolde

  Hammett

  Heath

  Isolde

  Fleming

  Hammett

  The White House

  Chandler

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Julie

  Heath

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Years Ago…

  Fleming

  Heath

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Hammett

  Chandler

  Fleming

  The White House

  Chandler

  Julie

  Chandler

  Chandler

  Fleming

  Chandler

  Heath

  The White House

  Toronto

  EPILOGUE Hammet

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  THE CODENAME: CHANDLER SERIES

  J.A. Konrath’s/Jack Kilborn’s Works Available Now

  Ann Voss Peterson’s Works Available Now

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  If the adrenaline doesn’t kill you, she will

  Not too long ago…

  “Whenever possible, avoid engaging the enemy,” The Instructor said. “If engaged, run. Fighting should be your last resort. Patriotism has its place, but it costs millions of dollars to train people like you. You’re more valuable than the mission. If things go sour, flee.”

  This is fun I typed. Then I hit enter and waited for the reply. It popped up on my computer screen a moment later.

  No pressure, but are we ever going to meet IRL?

  I took the last sip from my bottled water and tried to ignore the jitter under my rib cage. In real life. He assumes I have one.

  I tossed the empty over my shoulder without looking. The sound it made confirmed I’d hit the garbage can.

  How do I know you’re not some lunatic stalker? Or even worse, weigh eighty pounds more than your jpg?

  I�
�d been chatting with Victor9904 almost daily for the past two weeks. I liked him, and he was the first guy I had ever hooked up with online that I wanted to meet in person. That alone made me a little nervous. Dating, for me, was complicated. Except for stretches of time when I was abroad, I kept to a tight routine. Cruising bars looking for men wasn’t part of that routine.

  Do you have a webcam? he typed.

  Another jitter, this time tougher to ignore. Chatting online was one thing. Letting him see me was riskier.

  Yes. But I haven’t showered yet this morning.

  Neither have I. You chicken?

  I smiled. I don’t scare easily.

  OK. I’ll set up a private webcam chat room and send you the URL. Give me a minute…

  Sounds good.

  I didn’t rush to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror, but I may have moved a little quicker than normal. My dark hair was shorter than I would have preferred, but it never got in my face and was easy to manage and conceal. I finger-combed it, deemed it fine, and wiped a toast crumb from the corner of my mouth. I was wearing what I’d slept in, an old tee and some baggy sweatpants. Since I’d already told him I hadn’t showered, changing into nice clothes and putting on makeup would be disingenuous.

  Besides, if a guy couldn’t accept the way a woman looked when she woke up, he wasn’t worth waking up next to.

  Not that I was planning any sleepovers.

  Sex, on the other hand…it had been too long.

  I wandered back to my computer, sat down, and noted my pulse was a tiny bit faster than normal. My webcam was built into the monitor. I switched on the application, and a few seconds later, Victor IMed me the address. I typed in the URL, and then there he was, filling my computer screen, smiling boyishly.

  He was actually cuter than his JPG. Blond hair. Strong chin, covered in stubble. Broad shoulders. Around my age, early thirties, and his blue eyes were several shades lighter than mine.

  He said something, which I lip-read to be, Good morning, Carmen. Nice to finally see you. Are you wearing a Cubs T-shirt?

  I unmuted the picture and adjusted the volume.

  “Yes, I am.” I smiled. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  Victor stood up, revealing the White Sox logo on his jersey. Behind him I could make out a sofa, but the room details were blurry beyond that. With the sound level up, I heard his cat, a calico named Mozart, meow in the background.

  “I’m a season ticket holder.” His voice was deep, rich, pure Chicago South Side. He sat down, grinning. “But I’m willing to work through this if you are.”

  I shook my head, feigning disapproval. “I dunno. Season tickets? I’m not sure I could get over something like that.”

  “Are you asking me to give up the Sox when we haven’t even had a first date yet?”

  “If I did ask, what would you say?”

  He rubbed his chin. “On one hand, I don’t want you to think I’m a pushover. On the other hand, if this is what you look like before a shower, giving up the Sox doesn’t seem like that big a sacrifice.”

  I granted him a smile for that one. “You should see me juggle.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever used a webcam for something other than business.” He leaned forward, like we were talking over a coffee table. “It’s weird. Intimate, but distant at the same time.”

  “I agree.” I took a breath and a plunge. “Dinner would be better, I think.”

  “Are you free tonight?”

  I pretended to consider it. “Yes.”

  “I could pick you up. Have we reached a level of trust where you’re willing to tell me where you live?”

  “Let’s meet someplace.” Only one person in the world actually knew where I lived, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “You like German food, right?”

  I nodded, remembering I’d mentioned that during our very first text chat.

  “How about Mirabel’s on Addison?” he said. “Six o’clock?”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Me too. But now it’s almost nine, and I’m on call. Gotta get ready for work.”

  “Off to save some lives?”

  “I’m hoping for a slow day. Maybe I’ll get lucky and no one in Chi-town will dial nine-one-one during my shift. But if I do have to heroically spring into action,” he winked at me, “I’ll be ready.”

  “See you later, Victor.”

  “See you, Carmen.”

  He switched off the camera. I initiated my tracking software, locating his IP address. It was the same one he always used. Previously, I’d hacked his ISP and gotten his billing information, and from there it had been easy to run a background check. Victor Cormack, as far as I could research using both public and private records, had been telling me the truth about his job, his education, his past. On the surface, he was a normal, average person.

  But anyone checking out my identity would assume the same about me.

  I erased my Internet footsteps, deleting cookies, clearing the cache, and reformatting the C drive. A pain in the ass to do every time I went online, but a necessary one. Then I wiped the keyboard clean with a spritz of Windex and began my morning workout.

  Halfway into it, my encrypted cell phone rang. I finished my 239th push-up, slid the sweaty bangs off my eyebrows with my forearm, and padded over to the breakfast bar to answer it. Only one person—the same person who knew my address—had this number. A call meant work. And work couldn’t be refused. The phone was even waterproof so I could take it into the shower.

  I hit the connect button on the touch screen and waited, habit making me tune in to my surroundings. I could smell traces of the green pepper omelet and wheat toast I’d had for breakfast, along with a slightly sour odor coming from the sink telling me dishes needed to be done. The ambient sounds were unremarkable; the thermostat kicking on, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of a wall clock hanging over my computer, pigeons warbling outside.

  “Is Velma there?” The familiar voice was digitally altered and sounded slightly robotic. I’d never heard his real voice, never met the man it belonged to.

  I closed my eyes, shutting off part of me. The part that had just chatted with Victor. The part that was going to go shopping later for a new pair of running shoes. The part that read books and watched television and was normal as normal could be.

  Then I slipped into the other part.

  “Velma’s on vacation in Milan, can I take a message?”

  A pause, then, “It’s over, Chandler.”

  “Jacob? What’s over?”

  Jacob wasn’t his real name any more than mine was Chandler.

  “We’re over. Blown.”

  I processed this. “I thought no one knew—”

  “Things have gotten ugly, fast. You need to go to ground. I’ll contact you at ten thirty hours.”

  My skin prickled. Go to ground. This was bad.

  “How long do I have?”

  “Five minutes. Maybe less. And…I assume you know about Cory.”

  That was a name I hadn’t heard in a while. The fact that I’d never discussed Cory with Jacob, or pretty much anyone else, didn’t faze me. Jacob knew everything about everyone.

  “I know that two weeks ago he killed four guards and escaped maximum security,” I said, reflexively checking the front door. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for him, but he doesn’t know where I live or my current name.”

  “I’m looking at a satellite image of your building. A black sedan just double-parked in front. Two people, a man and a woman. Infrared coming back…they’re both armed. Get out, now. And don’t answer your phone, it’s about to ring.”

  My normal phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Kaufmann, calling three days before his scheduled time.

  “Ten thirty,” I said to Jacob, hanging up.

  Kaufmann would have to wait.

  Training took over, sparing me the indecisivenes
s inherently brought on by panic. The innumerable days of practicing insertion and extraction, fight and flight, and the prep work necessary to execute flawlessly constituted ninety percent of my job.

  The other ten percent involved action; the implementation of what I’d learned and planned for.

  The pair would split up, one taking the elevator, one the stairs. If they had intel—and they must have to know where I lived—they’d be aware of the fire escape outside my window, and a second team would be covering it.

  I made an instant mental checklist, the things I needed in the order I needed them. Weapon, then shoes, then purse. The house was clean; nothing to burn me here. I wore sweats and an old tee. I pinched the waistband, felt the ever-present strip of wire. Then I leaned over the sink, reached behind the refrigerator, and yanked the Glock 19 off the Velcro strip that held it there.

  The phone rang a final time, the answering machine picking up.

  “You’ve reached Carmen Sawyer’s phone.” That wasn’t my real name either. “I’m not available right now, so please leave a message.”

  “Hiya, babe. It’s been a while.” The voice on my machine was male, deep, predatory. A voice I’d hoped to never hear again. “Carmen, huh? That’s cute. Well, Carmen, I got your buddy, Mr. Kaufmann, with me. If you don’t do exactly what I say, he dies.”

  My concentration fizzled, interrupted by a mental picture of Kaufmann’s kind face. That image was replaced by Cory’s cruel sneer.

  Somehow the bastard had found me.

  “Pick up the phone, babe.” The tone was soft, almost seductive. I could tell the bastard was grinning. “If you don’t pick up within three seconds, I’m cutting Kaufmann’s—”

  His voice was drowned out by my proximity alarm, beeping like crazy on my countertop next to the Mr. Coffee. I hit the button, and the flat-screen TV—actually a video monitor—blinked on, my hallway camera showing a man with a shotgun at the door. Too soon for the duo from the sedan to have gotten up to the eighth floor, so this was someone new.

  “One…” Cory said.

  The door was reinforced, solid. But I no longer had time to grab my shoes and purse. I switched my encrypted cell to silent mode and clipped it to the inside of my panties, on my hip, then reached for the cordless handset, grabbing it with my palm, not my fingertips.

  “Two…”

  A shotgun blast, from the hall. I felt the vibration in the soles of my bare feet. The door held. I didn’t stick around to see if it would withstand a second salvo.

  “Three…”

  I pressed the talk button while sprinting for the window.

  “It’s me.” My breath was even, voice calm, though I could feel my pulse spiking. I smelled gunpowder and my own sweat. Background noise on the phone was standard static and hum. “Let me speak to Kaufmann.”

  My blinds were drawn. They always were. I put my back against the wall next to the window and twisted the rod, levering them open. A shot punched through the pane, making a small hole without shattering the glass. Sniper round, high velocity. The fire escape wasn’t an option.