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

  If the air in my lungs is stopping me, I need to get rid of it.

  I blew out a big breath, about half of my reserve, and then continued my descent.

  Hammett hurries past the bridge, hearing the marine radio crackle. The coast guard is hailing the ship that shot the flare.

  Damn Fleming.

  Damn Fleming, and damn Chandler, and damn this entire op.

  It’s time to cut my losses and get the hell out of here.

  But first…

  Hammett barges into the stateroom, finds the duffel bag filled with grenades.

  Four of them.

  More than enough.

  0:11…0:10…

  Dizzy from exertion and oxygen deprivation, Fleming reached the phone. She picked it up in her bad hand.

  0:09…0:08…

  Bringing it over to the anchor, she used her good hand to exit the countdown screen, bringing up the manual override.

  Because the nuke had been launched from this transceiver, this transceiver was the only one that could disarm it. It was a simple, four-digit code.

  Fleming accessed the keypad, finger raised.

  0:07…0:06…

  Oh, hell. Brain fart.

  What the hell is that code?

  0:05…0:04…

  Think! You designed the damn thing!

  Duh!

  Fleming punched it in: 5-9-3-1.

  Missile disarmed.

  She smiled in the darkness. Then she turned the phone upside down, looking what the numbers spelled.

  IE65

  LEGS.

  And then Fleming started to laugh.

  I did it.

  I really did it.

  Hell yeah!

  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the worthless cripple who got shoved behind a desk has saved London!

  As the air bubbled out of her lungs, Fleming felt no fear. No panic.

  Her legs and ribs and hand no longer hurt.

  All she felt was joy.

  Pure joy.

  And that was a damn good way to die.

  Then something grabbed her in the darkness.

  Dizzy, my lungs screaming for relief, I continued to swim downward, into the deep, not knowing where the hell I was going until my face was bathed by something warm.

  Bubbles.

  I followed them, then made out the tiny spot of light only a few meters away.

  Fleming. Still handcuffed to the anchor. The transceiver in her hand.

  I fought to reach her, struggling against the water, mustering up my last bit of strength. Much as I feared what was coming—the terrible panic and unbearable pain of my lungs filling with liquid—I had to save her, or die trying.

  I grabbed her arm and tugged. Maybe the two of us, both swimming hard as we could, would be able to get her to the surface.

  Fleming shook her head, then pointed a crooked finger up, her eyebrows furrowing in the soft glow of the phone.

  She wants me to leave her.

  I pulled her again, but this time she shoved me back, shaking her head.

  We stared at each other for a moment. I watched her face relax. She showed me the phone.

  MISSILE DISARMED.

  Then she mouthed, quite clearly, “I love you.”

  I threw my arms around her, hugging her, hugging her so hard and never, ever wanting to let go.

  And then I remembered my jeans.

  Hammett’s jeans.

  Body shaking from lack of air, my thoughts beginning to scramble, I felt along the pants seam of the denim and found it.

  A wire.

  Even nearly dead, I could pick a handcuff lock. I popped her wrist free, thinking that maybe we actually could make it out of this—

  Then the lake exploded.

  The shock wave hit me hard, knocking the precious bit of air out of my lungs. Making my ears pop and ring, and rattling my body so hard I bit my tongue.

  Grenades.

  I covered up Fleming with my body, and another shockwave hit.

  And another.

  And another.

  By now, I had no choice. I had to breathe, and my body sucked in the lake.

  And then I was back on Victor’s kitchen table.

  Back at Hydra training.

  Back in Cory’s car as the water came in.

  My whole body shook in panic, and I choked and tried to cough, and once again I was going to die a mindless, panicked animal.

  That’s when I felt it.

  My hand.

  My sister, holding my hand.

  And for the briefest moment, I had the childhood I had always wanted. A safe, caring home and a sister who loved me.

  I clasped my fingers in hers and let the water take me.

  “Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose,” The Instructor said. “Winning is better.”

  The first thing I was aware of was an antiseptic smell. Then I opened my bleary eyes to a bright light and immediately gasped for air, my heart beating like hummingbird wings.

  When I was able to focus, I realized I was in a hospital room. And I wasn’t alone.

  The cop, Jack Daniels, was sitting next to my bed in a plastic folding chair. Jack held a syringe, and I realized she’d just injected something into my IV line. I tried to sit up and found I’d been handcuffed to the bed.

  “Your sister is some swimmer,” Jack said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “She can swim like a son of a bitch. Where is she?”

  “The coast guard saw a flare and picked both of you up. You had to be resuscitated. That’s twice you drowned, isn’t it?”

  Actually, more like a dozen times.

  “She’s being debriefed by some serious-looking men in suits. They won’t let me, or anyone else, inside, not even a lawyer. Thing is, I can’t tell if they’re good guys or bad guys.”

  I eyed the syringe. “What’d you give me?”

  “Adrenaline. They put you under and have been keeping you drugged. I assume they’ll interrogate you next, but I wanted to talk to you first. We’ve got a minute, tops, before they find out I’m in here.”

  I blinked, my vision slowly sharpening. I still tasted the mucky water of Lake Michigan. “How long have I been out?”

  “About nine hours. Long enough that you missed the breaking news.”

  Jack held up a newspaper, the Tribune. The headline read: “US ACCIDENTALLY LAUNCHES NUCLEAR STRIKE ON LONDON.”

  “The president deeply apologizes for the mistake. The nuke was disarmed in midair and no one was hurt.” Jack looked up from the article to meet my eyes. “Am I wrong, or does the world owe you and your sister a big debt?”

  “Was anyone else picked up? Someone who looks like me?”

  “Just you two.”

  “Did you recover a phone?”

  “I heard something about a phone. I think the suits with your sister have it.”

  I took a shot. “We’re so far off the radar, we don’t even exist. They’ll send my sister and me abroad, to a CIA prison. No trial. No due process. We’ll be left there until they forget about us or we’re executed.”

  “Oh, you exist. I called in a favor, got a peek at your juvie record.”

  And then she called me by something I hadn’t heard in a long, long time. My real name. Then she folded over the paper and showed me another article.

  TWO KILLED IN STREETERVILLE APARTMENT.

  It was about Kaufmann and Cory.

  “Looks like the world owes you another debt, taking out that piece of trash. I’m sorry about your parole officer. He seemed to be a good man.”

  “He was. What happened to the girl?”

  “Her name is Dione Simowicz. Runaway. Her parents have been notified.”

  “She’ll need counseling.”

  “She’ll get it. Court ordered. A local 7-Eleven has her on video sticking the place up with that Cory creep. She kept going on and on about you, how you killed her boyfriend in cold blood.”

  I let that sink in. “So they know all about me.�
�

  “No. I know all about you. No one else does. You’re listed here as Jane Doe.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Your juvie record is still sealed,” Jack went on. “For as long as you’ve been here, the only one who took your prints was me.”

  Good thing I’d had the wherewithal to wipe down Victor’s apartment before I left. “What about Mozart?”

  Jack shot me a questioning look.

  “Was there a fat calico cat hiding in the apartment?”

  “One of the cops at the scene took it home.”

  Good. She was a sweet cat. She deserved a good home. “How about the gun? From the roof of my apartment building?”

  Jack shrugged. “Apparently that gun with your fingerprints on it got lost in the evidence room.”

  I tried to figure out where she was going with this and could only come to one conclusion. “You’re letting me go?”

  “I can’t. I’ll probably get fired just being in here. But I did bring you some of your clothes.” She looked at me, pointedly. “From your apartment. They’re in the bag, on the chair. Being executed is bad, but the real tragedy here is that hospital gown. Now at least you’ll die looking sharp.”

  Jack stood up.

  “The suits have closed off the west wing on the sixth floor. That’s where your sister is.”

  “I need a gun.”

  “I’d prefer you stop killing people in my city, if you don’t mind. Besides,” her lips curled into a smile, “didn’t you say you liked to live on the edge?”

  “Thank you, Jack,” I said. And I meant it.

  The cop walked to the door, then stopped.

  “If you need a friend someday, I work out of the Twenty-Sixth District. Look me up.”

  “I will.”

  “And nice work saving the world, Chandler.”

  Jack left.

  I hurt in a billion places and was dog tired. No doubt the hospital was crawling with operatives, and I probably had less than a five percent chance of getting out of there alive. The odds were even worse if I tried to rescue Fleming.

  But my parents would have been proud, because even after all that had happened, after the hellish day I’d had, after all I’d done and all I’d lost, my upper lip was as stiff as could be.

  Quitting was not an option.

  I opened the bag Jack had left, found one of my shirts, and felt along the seam until I reached the fifty dollars and the lock pick.

  “Hold on, Sis,” I whispered. “I’ll be right there.”

  THE END

  Chandler, Fleming, and Hammett will return in Spree.

  Authors’ Note

  We truly hoped you enjoyed Flee. While it can be read as a standalone thriller, this is the first part of a trilogy featuring Chandler, Hammett, and Fleming. If you like to read things in order, it is: Flee, Spree, Three. Chandler also appears in the short novel Exposed and in the short novel Hit. Hammett appears in the short novel Naughty, all of which take place prior to Flee.

  The characters of Jack Daniels and Harry McGlade appear in Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, Dirty Martini, Fuzzy Navel, Cherry Bomb, and Shaken, written by J. A. Konrath. They also appear in Stirred and Serial Killers Uncut, written by J. A. Konrath and Blake Crouch.

  Harry McGlade also appears in Babe On Board, written by J. A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  CHANDLER is an elite spy, working for an agency so secret only three people know it exists. Trained by the best of the best, she has honed her body, her instincts, and her intellect to become the perfect weapon. Return to character’s first appearance.

  VICTOR CORMACK meets Chandler online and wants to date her. Return to character’s first appearance.

  JACOB is Chandler’s handler and speaks to her in an electronically altered voice over the phone. They have never met face-to-face. Return to character’s first appearance.

  CORY is a psychopath from Chandler’s past. He has a penchant for girls who have just reached puberty and cutting off the body parts of others, though not necessarily in that order. Return to character’s first appearance.

  MURRAY KAUFMANN works as a parole officer and is the only man Chandler trusts. After her arrest at age fourteen, Kaufmann helped her pull herself together and make something of her life. Return to character’s first appearance.

  HAMMETT is a dangerous psychopath with all the training of Chandler and none of the moral fabric. She’s a superassassin, and she loves it. Unsympathetic to her fellow human beings, she has a soft spot only for animals. Return to character’s first appearance.

  JACQUELINE “JACK” DANIELS is a Chicago cop who appears in Shot of Tequila, Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, Dirty Martini, Fuzzy Navel, Cherry Bomb, Shaken, and Stirred. Flee, Spree, and Three take place between Dirty Martini and Fuzzy Navel. Return to character’s first appearance.

  HARRY MCGLADE runs a private investigating firm with Jack Daniels. McGlade is possibly the most offensive human being of all time. Return to character’s first appearance.

  THE INSTRUCTOR trained Chandler to be a superassassin. He admits that in his thirty-eight years in the military, she was the second best spy he’s ever trained. Return to character’s first appearance.

  The Code Name: Chandler Series

  By J. A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

  In chronological order

  Exposed

  Naughty

  Hit

  Flee

  Spree

  AUTHORS’ INTRODUCTION

  Spree was written as a standalone thriller and requires no prior knowledge of either Peterson’s or Konrath’s bodies of work. But it is the second novel in the Codename: Chandler trilogy. It is also preceded by several other works featuring many of the characters who inhabit this novel.

  In the e-book edition of Spree, the reader will come across occasional hyperlinks when a character first appears. Clicking on this underscored text will take the reader to a brief description of the character and the work he or she appears in, for those interested in getting more information, clarity, or explanations of past events. However, these links are in no way necessary to understanding and enjoying the Spree storyline.

  Our goal is to provide the reader with a complete picture of the many novellas and novels that comprise our interconnected body of fiction, and the e-book format has given us the opportunity to unify our works in a way that has been impossible in the print world.

  We hope this state-of-the-art feature enhances your enjoyment of Spree.

  Chandler

  “During the execution of a mission, you may find yourself outnumbered and outgunned,” the Instructor said. “It will be your call whether to continue the operation, or abandon it. Always retain a cool head, and keep personal feelings in check. Once you let emotion control your decisions, you’re dead.”

  The handcuffs were Smith & Wesson, gunmetal black. One bracelet was locked around my left wrist, the other around the aluminum side railing of the hospital bed.

  I was in bad shape.

  Exhausted.

  Hurting in a dozen places.

  Emotionally, I felt like a broken piñata, empty, my guts spilling out.

  I wanted to rest. I wanted it so badly.

  But I had promises to keep.

  I reached my free hand into the duffel bag on my lap, prying out a pair of my jeans. My fingers squeezed the bag’s seams until I located the bump—a fifty-dollar bill, tightly rolled around a length of wire. I teased out the money, shoved it into the front pocket, and then used the wire to open the handcuffs.

  It took me fifteen seconds to dress in the jeans, a black shirt, and a black pair of Nikes. The cop who had left me my clothing, a Chicago homicide lieutenant by the name of Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels, had also provided some socks and underwear from my apartment, but I didn’t want to risk the extra time it would have taken to put them on. According to her, the place was crawling with people who wanted to keep me there. High
ly trained government people, who worked for an agency that didn’t exist.

  Just like me.

  Though they worked for the same team I did, they followed a different coach. I’d become a liability. Something to be debriefed and disposed of.

  I had other plans.

  Jack had the smarts to also pack a baseball cap and my Ray-Bans. I stuck the Cubs hat on my head, keeping the brim low, and eased the sunglasses onto my face to cover up the many bruises. I’d still be recognized by pros, but hopefully the disguise would allow me an extra half a second before they reacted.

  In the spy business, half a second was a very long time.

  The hospital had all the obvious sounds and smells. Nurses chatting at their station. Intercom calls. Various beeping and pinging machines. Soft-soled shoes padding along polished tile floors. Down the hall a television was tuned to news of an accidental and aborted nuclear strike on England, and I tried not to listen too closely to the countless “facts,” ranging from inaccuracies to blatant lies. I smelled lemon bleach, antiseptic ointment, body odor, and a lingering stench of powdered eggs—I must have missed breakfast.

  I peeked out into the hallway and didn’t see any men in black or men in uniform. Apparently the ones controlling the game had thought handcuffs and sedation were enough to keep me at bay.

  Their mistake.

  I imagined I was there to visit a sick friend. Someone who was very ill. I’d been up with him all night, and there wasn’t much hope he’d live. Once the character was in my head, I adopted her posture, her movements. Shoulders slumped, downtrodden gait, lips pursed to keep from crying. I kept my face pointed toward the floor and headed to the elevator, my eyes darting back and forth behind my sunglasses, checking my periphery. On my way I passed a patient’s room, caught the snoring, chanced a look, and saw a glass vase filled with assorted flowers. I ducked inside, hefted the arrangement. Satisfied by the weight, I took it with me to the elevator and hit the call button.

  According to Jack, my sister was being held on the sixth floor.

  No doubt they were interrogating her.

  No doubt they weren’t being nice.

  I felt a flare of rage, then forced it down. My sister, whom I knew by her codename, Fleming, didn’t have the use of her legs. I’d been talking to her for years but only met her face-to-face a few days ago, surprised not only that I had a sister but that there were seven of us, all identical.