Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 23

  Fleming made it to the deck, lifting the anchor, placing it in front of her, then dragging her body after.

  Lift, place, drag.

  Lift, place, drag.

  Voices carried on the wind, over music and waves.

  She tucked herself behind a small beverage fridge and strained to hear.

  “No, Victor! I love Paris!” Hammett. Her tone was a mock whine.

  “You women and Paris.” A man. The Russian, Victor.

  “How about London?” Hammett said. “Rains all the damn time.”

  “I can live without London. Do it.”

  A chill ran the length of Fleming’s body. The transceiver. Hammett had figured out the launching sequence.

  And she was launching a nuclear strike on London.

  She struggled to breathe. Please, let me be wrong. Let it not be true.

  Once again, the boat rolled hard to the side, and she held on to the side of the refrigerator.

  If they were indeed launching a strike, Fleming had to find a way to stop them. No doubt they were armed. The cheap plastic flare gun in her crooked hand suddenly seemed like a cruel joke.

  “Why don’t you try to steady this damn boat? I’ll look up the latitude and longitude.” The heels of Hammett’s boots clicked across teak. A second later, she let out a startled noise. “Oh, hell. That bitch.”

  Fleming gripped the flare gun. She was almost certain the refrigerator blocked her from their view. Hammett couldn’t have seen her. But if not her, who could she be talking about?

  “What is it?” A second set of shoes scuffed over the floor, Victor joining Hammett at the cockpit’s control panel.

  “Look for yourself.”

  “Chandler!” Victor shouted.

  Fleming’s heart stuttered.

  “It can’t be her. It has to be one of those pigeons.”

  “You really think a pigeon is going to fly out over the lake, Victor? It’s Chandler, and she’s coming right at us.”

  Hammett grabs a set of binoculars from the cockpit and races out of the deckhouse.

  “Hold her steady!” she yells at Victor through the side windshield. Then she grips the guardrail and walks along the narrow port gunwale, stepping onto the yacht’s expansive, twelve-meter bow. It’s a perfect place to sunbathe, but not a perfect place to stand during choppy water. Especially when it’s wet, and the rain had begun to fall. She plants her feet and scans the horizon.

  The water churns white behind them, the Chicago skyline barely visible through the storm clouds rolling east over the lake. She searches the waves in the direction of the blip, but sees nothing.

  Impossible.

  She looks again, sweeping slower this time. Lightning flashes, and the rain kicks up.

  “Where in the hell is she?”

  As soon as the question leaves her lips, Hammett knows the answer. The tracking devices don’t show height…and they don’t show depth, either.

  Chandler is coming at them from under the water. She’s using scuba gear. Or, considering her speed, a submersible.

  No problem. I can deal with that.

  She makes her way back into the cockpit and grabs a duffel.

  Victor glances at her and raises his brows.

  “She’s underwater,” Hammett tells him. “Kill the engine, and let her come.” She pulls two grenades from the bag. “Are there more in the staterooms?”

  “Yes,” he answers, but the lazy bastard doesn’t move his ass off the swivel chair.

  “Then get them, damn it.”

  She grabs the tablet PC out of the duffel before she spins around and returns to the boat’s bow. Chandler’s blip is nearly below them now. Time for Hammett to give her sister the welcome she deserves.

  She pulls the pin on one of the grenades and throws it into the waves.

  The explosion is powerful enough for her to feel the concussion shake the hull and vibrate in her chest. Water erupts into the air, meeting the rain falling from above.

  She throws another off the starboard side, right where the blip should be.

  The whump hits the ship like a slap from an angry god, causing it to pitch, then roll. Hammett points the deck spotlight on the water and smiles when she sees something float to the surface.

  Hell. It’s a salmon. Son of a—

  “Freeze!”

  Hammett glances portside, sees her disabled sister holding an anchor in one hand and a flare gun in the other. The image is so ludicrous, she begins to laugh.

  “I want the transceiver,” Fleming says. Her hand is shaking badly.

  “Or what?” Hammett asks. “You’ll signal for help?”

  “How about I shoot you with a flare instead? Magnesium burns at three thousand degrees, and I’m aiming at your fat head.”

  Hammett considers her next move. Getting hit with a flare doesn’t sound like a good time. She has a .45 in her shoulder holster, under her jacket.

  “Fair enough,” Hammett says. “I’ll give you the phone.”

  She casually slips a hand into her coat.

  “Hold it! I saw you put the phone in your side pocket. Take your hand out slowly, and give me the goddamn phone.”

  Hammett blows a snort of air out of her nostrils, annoyed. They really don’t have time for this. But, impaired as she obviously is, Fleming is one of the Hydra sisters. Hammett respects the training she’s had and follows her orders, slowly holding up the phone.

  “Now toss it to me,” Fleming says.

  “How about instead you toss me the flare gun,” Hammett smiles wide, “or I’ll press the touch screen and destroy London?”

  Fleming wasn’t sure what to do. She should probably take the shot, but her aim wasn’t steady, and she had no idea how accurate flares were.

  Last she checked, there were more than seven and a half million people in London. Their best chance at survival depended on the next decision Fleming made.

  “What the hell?”

  Now Victor was coming across the gunwale, reaching for his sidearm.

  Fleming had no choice.

  She had to take the shot.

  She aimed.

  Let out a breath.

  Squeezed the trigger.

  The flare exploded out of the gun. Hammett ducked below its arc, and it sailed out across the water, a bright orange streak, before falling into the lake a hundred meters away.

  Then Victor was on her, kicking the useless gun away, putting his foot on her chest, pointing the Glock in her face.

  “You lose,” Hammett said.

  Fleming glanced at her, and watched as—

  Oh no.

  —she pressed the screen. “In seven minutes, London bridge is falling down.”

  Tears erupted from Fleming’s eyes. She could imagine all of the people, the innocents, the children, swallowed up by an atomic fireball. Black-and-white images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki flashed through her mind. The horror. The tragedy. The misery. The senseless waste.

  All because I couldn’t aim a goddamn flare gun.

  She stared up at Victor, into the barrel of his pistol, trembling and broken and beaten but still defiant.

  And then she saw something.

  Something above Victor.

  Something black and red and plummeting down to earth like Satan getting booted out of heaven.

  Chandler!

  Flying an ultralight trike at night was hard enough. Especially this junker, which had been buried on top of my parents for six years and had seen much better days. I throttled the modified Evinrude motor, slowing down the rear prop, and took another glance at my PC to see if I was on course. According to the blip, I was right on target. But I couldn’t see a damn thing below me, and missing would be deadly. I was too far out to swim back to shore.

  I had to be at a high enough altitude to prevent Hammett from seeing me coming and so I could get the drop on them. The altimeter had some water damage, being exacerbated by the rain coming down. It said I was at eleven thousand feet. I was betting my li
fe that it was right.

  Then I saw the flare, bright orange, my own personal landing strip.

  I killed the engine, ditched the PC because I had no way to carry it, and unbuckled my seat belt. Beretta in hand, I rolled out of my seat, falling into open sky.

  As soon as I dropped away from the ultralight, I pulled the ripcord on my parachute. It took about nine hundred feet for it to fully open, so I was cutting it close.

  I quickly fell through the haze, then saw the lights below me, following them to a white yacht. My chute deployed, making me jerk and rock in my harness. Still clutching the gun, I snatched the brake handles. Once I had control I steered toward the boat, sighting Victor on the bow. Victor, Hammett, and…

  Fleming!

  My aim was for shit, but I emptied my magazine at Victor, forcing him away from my sister. He fired back, his bullets whizzing past me, and then I had my feet out in front of me, and I planted both on his chest just as I hit my buckle release.

  Victor went flying, and I rolled onto the bow, out of control, crashing into the raised pulpit, the guardrails stopping me from falling out.

  I turned around, scanning for Fleming, and instead saw Hammett, drawing a gun from her leather jacket, pointing it at my head.

  I fired at her. No rounds left. Then I reached for the extra magazine in my pocket and found my pocket had torn off.

  Hammett doesn’t believe this is happening. Chandler swoops onto the deck like a bird of prey, firing wildly, then knocks down Victor.

  She unholsters her .45 and aims carefully, anxious to put this unkillable bitch out of her misery.

  “Hey!”

  Hammett looks to the right, sees Fleming, who has crawled up next to her.

  “Anchors away, Sis!”

  Then she sees the anchor, Fleming swinging it like an Olympic hammer at Hammett’s legs. She jumps back, but not in time, and one of the pointed flukes catches her calf, digging a bloody rent across it.

  Hammett slams into the bow, her gun falling overboard, the transceiver skipping across the deck. She quickly pulls the Spyderco blade from her sheath, ready to gut Fleming, then sees Chandler coming closer.

  Fine. First Chandler. Then the cripple.

  Hammett stands to meet her sister.

  Fleming locked eyes on the transceiver as it skittered aft, down the bow.

  “The phone!” she yelled at Chandler. “That psycho launched a nuclear attack on London!”

  Then she crawled after it, her legs begging for mercy, her swollen hand slapping torturously against the teak as she dragged her broken body, and the anchor, closer and closer.

  A wave hit, splashing over the port side, cold water spraying her in the face. The boat tilted, and the phone slid back toward Fleming. She reached out her broken hand, and it bounced off her screaming fingertips, sliding off the bow—

  —across the narrow gunwale—

  —and skidding onto the stern, where it came to a stop at the edge of the transom. Two more inches and the lake would have it.

  Fleming pushed herself harder, fighting the pain, using the handrail to pull herself and the anchor along the gunwale, past the deckhouse, across the starboard-side windshield, and finally flopping onto the stern next to a cheap, folding metal deck chair.

  The boat heaved up, then down, taking Fleming’s stomach with it. She bit back the rising gorge and got within two meters of the phone, so close she could see the bright glow of the touch screen counting down in large, red numbers.

  3:55…3:54…

  She continued her trek toward it.

  Almost there. Almost…

  That’s when her anchor got snagged on a cleat, preventing her from getting any closer.

  I lifted my knee and pulled the VORAX knife from its sheath, focusing on Hammett. The boat rocked gently, back and forth, and my stance was wider than normal so I didn’t fall over. Fleming, the boat, the transceiver, the guns on the deck, Victor—none of it mattered. The whole world was nothing but me and Hammett.

  And I was going to kill her.

  She lunged at me with her Spyderco blade, almost a fencing move. I parried appropriately, steel clanging against steel, the impact so hard and fast it made a spark. The bow was slippery, but there was enough space for us to circle each other.

  “You’re like a cockroach,” Hammett said, her eyes venomous. “You just won’t die.”

  I cut in close, slashing at her face, then back-slashing at her knife hand. Hammett pulled back, my attack narrowly missing her, and then dropped to one knee and cut me across the chest. But liquid body armor worked as well with blades as it did with bullets, especially as hard as Hammett was striking. I popped her under the chin with my left hand, making her stagger back, and then did a quick spin kick and solidly connected with her cheek.

  Hammett fell backward onto her ass. She stared up at me with a look of shock.

  “But…I’m better than you. The Hydra reports…”

  “…are years old,” I interrupted. “That was then. This is now. And now, right now, I’m going to kick your ass, cut you into pieces, and feed you to the fish.”

  I took a step forward and then noticed Victor, coming at me from the side.

  Fleming pulled, hard as she could. No good. Her handcuff chain was wedged under the stern cleat.

  She turned her attention to the transceiver, resting on the very edge of the transom.

  2:12…2:11…

  Fleming reached for it, stretching out her arms as far as they could go.

  Not enough.

  The cell phone was still a foot out of her grasp.

  Fleming looked around the stern for something to extend her reach, and her eyes locked on the deck chair. She grabbed it with her thumb and pinky, but it was a folding model, and it snapped closed around her broken fingers.

  Her scream was drowned out in the clapping of thunder.

  Once Victor gets up, the rage overpowers him. His only goal in life to choke the living shit out of Chandler, make her pay for all she has put him through.

  She’s preoccupied with Hammett, so Victor sprints at her, grinning, already picturing her neck breaking between his hands.

  Chandler spins around and lashes out at him—oops, she has a knife—and Victor quickly dodges back.

  “Ha! You missed!” he yells.

  But the words don’t sound right.

  Because they aren’t coming out of his mouth.

  They’re coming out the gaping slit in his throat.

  He brings his hands up to his neck, feels something hard and wet.

  That’s…

  That’s my thoracic vertebra.

  That’s also his last thought, and then he flops over and bleeds out onto the bow.

  Hammett watches Victor drop, and she stares at Chandler and feels something she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

  Fear. I’m afraid of her.

  The Spyderco knife isn’t enough. Hammett needs a gun. No, she needs a goddamn bazooka.

  Or some grenades.

  There are grenades in the staterooms.

  She sprints aft, over the windshield and the roof of the deckhouse, dropping onto the stern. Hammett sees Fleming, straining to reach for something.

  The transceiver!

  Then Chandler is on the roof, jumping down—

  —and a swell hits the boat, making it roll starboard, so fierce it knocks Hammett and Chandler to the deck.

  Hammett wants the transceiver.

  But Chandler is in the way.

  Indestructible, angry, scary-as-hell Chandler.

  Hammett scurries away, heading belowdecks.

  1:19…1:18…

  The wave unhooked the handcuff chain from where it had been hung up on the starboard stern cleat, and Fleming was free. She tugged her battered hand out of the folding chair and strained to grab the phone—

  —missing as it plopped into the dark water.

  Fleming quickly glanced at Chandler, and the two locked eyes.

  Chandler’s e
yes told her, “No, please don’t.”

  Fleming’s answered back. “You know I have to.”

  And then she pushed the anchor over the transom and sank beneath the waves.

  Watching Fleming go after the phone, I realized what it all meant.

  All of our training. All of our sacrifices. All of the pain we’d endured.

  We were the good guys.

  Not because our government used us like pawns in some grand, worldwide espionage game.

  Not because we could kill on command.

  Not because we were unfeeling, uncaring machines, programmed to follow orders.

  We were the good guys because we did the right thing.

  No matter the cost.

  Which was why I dived into the water after her.

  Fleming sank fast, the anchor dragging her down into the cold, murky depths. She managed a deep breath before she went over and knew from experience it would last about ninety seconds.

  Ninety seconds left to live.

  Ninety seconds to save more than seven million.

  The water was freezing, black, and when she hit the bottom, the pressure in her ears was excruciating. She pinched her nostrils with her thumb and pinky, equalizing the pressure, and figured she was perhaps thirty, thirty-five feet deep.

  Lucky. Some parts of Lake Michigan were over nine hundred feet deep.

  Fleming squinted, looking for the light of the phone, turning in a complete circle.

  Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s darker than a grave down here. The phone could be right next to me and I still wouldn’t—

  There!

  Two meters away, three, tops. She could make out the glowing red touch screen.

  0:57…0:56…0:55…

  Fleming began to crawl toward it, ignoring the pain, dragging the anchor through the muck behind her.

  I decided, right then, that I truly hated water.

  The icy blackness fought me, not letting me in. I swam down two meters, but I couldn’t get any deeper. I was too buoyant.

  It was my lungs. Filled with air, it was like trying to sink with two basketballs.

  I peered down, not knowing how deep it was, unable to see Fleming or the phone.

  And I made a choice.