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

  Lund brought his hands to my shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Apparently he was right. At least until I could get another shot of painkiller.

  “The chip. Did I get it?”

  “No.”

  I couldn’t prevent a surge of tears at the thought that I’d have to go in again.

  “But I did.” He held up something pinched between thumb and forefinger. “Tiny little bastard.”

  “Let me see.”

  He handed it to me. It was nearly the size of a dime, just like chips I’d taken from my sisters, and like those other trackers, it held a tritium battery. A nice little radioactive gift from my Uncle Sam. “We need to get rid of it.”

  “I’m sure there’s a hammer around here somewhere.”

  “No, not destroy it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Send it somewhere.”

  A slow smile spread over his lips. “So they think it’s you.”

  “Exactly. Maybe Europe.”

  “I always wanted to visit Italy.”

  I gave him a smile. “Then Italy it is. FedEx?”

  “I’ll drop it off.”

  I made another attempt to sit up, this time succeeding after much pain, groaning, and concerned looks from Lund.

  “I need another shot,” I said.

  “I already gave you one. Give it a second. You need to rest. Or better yet, go to the hospital.”

  “Don’t nag.”

  “Sorry, dear.”

  I couldn’t stop my laugh, and pain racked my midsection. “Where’s my phone, honeybuns?”

  He picked up my jacket, pulled it from my pocket, and handed it to me.

  I checked the screen. Only one text from Tequila, stating that he might have found the entrance. This had taken longer than I wanted, too long. “I need to get back.”

  “You’re working with someone?”

  “A guy is helping me.”

  Lund raised an eyebrow. “So I’m just one of many?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t let him put his fingers inside me.”

  “I guess I can’t be too jealous, then.” He handed me my sweater and jeans. “We can mail the chip, then you’ll have to let me swing by my house for my deer rifle.”

  It took me a second to realize that, like Jack, he thought he was going with me. “You don’t want to get mixed up with these people.”

  “They’ve probably already seen me checking the place out.”

  “You weren’t connected to me then. I’m serious, Lund. They’ll find out who you are and target everyone you love. Family—”

  “No family.”

  “Girlfriend.”

  A shadow of regret passed over his face. “No girlfriend, remember?”

  “Then ex-girlfriend.”

  Lund scratched the blond stubble on his chin. “She’s a cop. She can take care of herself pretty well.”

  “Not in this case. Look, I’m grateful for your help, but you’re not going anywhere near the plant. I’ll hike through the park and jump the fence there.”

  “Then how do you get out?”

  That was a good question, one Tequila and I hadn’t exactly covered. Fleming couldn’t exactly run, and I currently wasn’t in any shape to carry her. I might need a little more help from Lund after all, if he’d agree to stay far away from the action. But there was still the problem of his truck being easily traceable.

  “Can you steal a car? Meet us somewhere in the park?”

  He stared at me as if I had lost my mind. “I don’t steal cars. At least, not on the first date.”

  “You can’t use your truck.”

  Lund’s kind eyes crinkled. “I have a better idea.”

  Tequila

  Still unable to use his cramped left hand, Tequila drew just one of his .45s as the guards entered. He pulled the trigger four times, drilling each guard in the face. They were dead before their bodies hit the floor.

  Tequila checked his watch. It would be a few minutes, tops, before the base radioed in and the guards didn’t answer. After that he’d only have thirty-six more seconds for reinforcements to arrive.

  He texted Chandler, explaining the situation. Then he picked up the remote, once again guiding the helicopter out of weeds, and succeeded in aiming it into the open hatch without overshooting. The doorway led to a circular staircase, descending half a dozen meters before opening into a corridor. It was dim, lit by low-wattage bare bulbs positioned at regular intervals from wires hanging from the ceiling. The walls were damp, crumbling concrete. Using the helicopter, Tequila followed the hall to its end, an iron door.

  He memorized the coordinates on the remote, then checked them against his map of the compound. The tunnel let off at the water filtration plant, a large structure composed of four rectangular concrete retention pools.

  That had to be where the prison was.

  Tequila landed the copter behind the door, slipped the remote into his backpack, and whistled twice, once short and once long. Then he jogged to the kennel and set a small charge of Semtex-10, a yellowish plastic explosive, with a remote detonator.

  Figuring he didn’t have much time left, he jogged back to the cannon house, his cell phone in his pocket set to vibrate, ready for Chandler’s reply.

  Hammett

  “One day you’ll be forced to kill someone you know,” the Instructor said. “An ally. A friend. Maybe a family member. Don’t let your feelings for them get in the way, or else they might kill you first.”

  The truck came to a stop at the designated spot on Highway 12, a kilometer before Badger Ammo’s entrance. Hammett checked the time, knew the construction workers had gone home for the day.

  All that was left were the guards. Since this was a black site, Hammett had no doubt they’d been trained by the government. But if they were really good, they would have been in the field, not babysitting a secret prison. According to Santiago, there were three shifts of eight men, plus a spook named Malcolm who functioned as a warden of sorts. Erring on the cautious side, Hammett instructed her team to assume there were at least twenty guards at the prison.

  A challenge, but not an insurmountable one.

  She waited for Jersey to come around and open the trailer door, happy to be away from the stench of warming blood and Santiago’s body odor. The air outside smelled of forest, diesel exhaust, and a faint hint of manure spread on nearby fields. Birdsong and the occasional whoosh of traffic speeding by were the only sounds. The cool breeze on her face felt good as she strolled around to the cab to confer with Speed.

  “Thirty minutes you’re out in front. If it’s sooner or later, I’ll text you.”

  Speed nodded, but he wasn’t looking at Hammett. Instead he was looking skyward. She followed his gaze and noticed three—make that four—hot-air balloons. One red. One blue. One white. And the fourth so close she could see the star pattern on it. Flying high above the road, the trees, the world. There was a serenity to the scene that disturbed Hammett for some odd reason. Maybe it was the incongruity of it. They were here to kill a bunch of men, and bright-colored balloons floating gracefully through a tranquil sky before dusk didn’t fit.

  “Perfect northern wind,” Speed said. “Slow and easy. Probably started south at Sauk Prairie Airport, hoping to land at Thiessen Field, near the orchard.”

  “Hoping?” Hammett asked. She wasn’t sure why she cared, but the four fat dots in the sky had caught her off guard.

  “Ever been ballooning? You can’t steer those things, so you can never be sure where you’ll land. And it’s getting close to dusk. I’d rather fly a chopper in a hurricane than a hot-air balloon at night. Especially with all the power lines around.”

  “Thirty minutes,” Hammett said, tearing her eyes away from the balloons as a burner on one fired to life with a low roar. She led Jersey, Isaiah, Santiago, and Javier off road and into the grass. They double-timed it north to Badger, stopping fifty meters from the perimeter and hunkering down in
a ditch behind a five-foot chain-link fence. Isaiah broke out some field glasses while Hammett studied the map.

  “One guard at the entrance booth, one at the gate,” Isaiah said. “The main entrance has three security cameras. The booth, the driveway, the parking lot. Also spot a rover on a four-wheeler at two o’clock heading east, looks like he’s circling the perimeter. Gun mounts on the handlebars.”

  “The prison is here.” Santiago pointed to the water filtration plant.

  It would be a good hike back to the entrance, especially carrying a cripple.

  “Where are the ATVs?” she asked.

  “Never saw where they kept them, but there’s a locked garage here, off the parking lot.”

  “I’ve got keys to every lock ever made,” Jersey said.

  She shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. He’d better not be bullshitting. “OK, we go with the plan we discussed. After penetration, we secure the vehicles and do a northern buffalo-horn formation on the target. Isaiah, right horn. Javier, left. Jersey and me as the chest. Santiago the loins.”

  Hammett reached into her pack, passing out headsets and walkie-talkies. They set the frequency and did a sound check.

  “Radio silence unless needed. We want the subject alive. Let’s move out.”

  They moved.

  Chandler

  “Facing your fears is crazy,” the Instructor said. “When you have a choice, it’s better to run the hell away.”

  Lund’s better idea turned out to be horses, and I had to agree with his assessment—even though riding would be painful, it was tough to trace a horse. We took his red pickup, driving in companionable silence. He only spoke when we neared our destination.

  “It’s a private stable. I bought one of the horses when Val had to sell off a couple, and we have an arrangement that I can borrow the other two whenever I like.”

  “Sweet deal.”

  I was tempted to ask about the particulars of this relationship, but knowing them might end up making me feel guilty, either for taking the horses or—if the opportunity arose—taking Lund. So I said nothing.

  The farm was secluded and surrounded by trees. Climbing out of the truck, I smelled the usual outdoor smells, the sharp tang of horse manure and sweetness of alfalfa hay adding a new note to the mix. The afternoon was late, dangerously close to starting its slide into evening. Another V of geese honked from the sky.

  I saddled two mares, Banshee and Bo, and a gelding named Max, while Lund drove a few miles to town and mailed the GPS chip to Italy. Banshee, a striking bay with the standard dark brown coat and black mane and tail, was eager to get out of her stall and opened her mouth for the bit like she couldn’t wait to be ridden.

  Bo was a liver chestnut, and she lifted her right front leg and arched her neck strangely when I approached. I’d checked her hoof to make sure there was nothing lodged in the sole and found nothing before I finally figured out it was her way of begging for treats. I hunted around until I found some horse snacks—in this case dried apple chips from a pouch that I discovered in the feed room.

  The palomino, Max, was rather plump, and he snorted at me, pawing the ground and dancing around his stall. I spent a minute soothing him and stroking his coat before leading him out, then fed him a few apple chips until he chilled out and I could brush him down and throw on a western saddle.

  When Lund returned, we set off, me on Bo, Lund on Max, Banshee trailing on a lead rope behind us.

  It had been a long time since I’d ridden a horse, though I got into the rhythm soon enough. Normally it was a fun experience; being outdoors, sharing a single mind with the animal, the tactile sensations of the swaying gait under me and my hands on the reins. But this wasn’t a joy ride, and I was so focused on what lay ahead, I might as well have been on the El.

  By the time Lund and I had reached the park, my inner thighs were already sore, and I wished I’d taken time to buy a bra. For probably the first time in my life, I was glad I wasn’t a D cup. The incision in my belly hurt, but between the pressure of the bandage and the drugs, I was doing much better than I could have guessed. At least when I finally showed up, they wouldn’t be waiting for me. With any luck, Hammett and anyone else trying to track me would soon be busy searching Naples.

  The sun hung low in the west now, the orange hues already casting a soft glow on everything. I figured two hours before sunset, and then only a little bit of dusk light left. I had buckled on the holster Harry had included in his supply duffel. Around my waist, I’d fastened an additional Paracord S3 Cobra survival belt. I also wore a Stratofighter folder strapped to my ankle, and a Ghost Hawk neck knife on a ball-chain necklace. The extra clips for the Beretta were in my front pockets, the cell phone on my hip. The gym bag full of McGlade’s equipment was tied to the skirt of my saddle. I heaved it onto my back, fitting on the shoulder straps, then tightened a chest strap under my breasts.

  Lund had packed other equipment on his horse—first-aid supplies, water, and the ultrasound machine.

  I took in my surroundings, scanning the trees, looking for movement, and trying to hear any signs of human activity over the creak of my western saddle and hoofbeats of my mare. The flap of bird wings and hum of crickets singing their last songs before cold weather set in were the only sounds that reached me.

  Until the gunshots. Four in rapid succession.

  The sound was distant, but loud, echoing up over the trees and carrying to the lake and probably beyond.

  My horse spooked, steel shoes scraping stone, and I had to take hold of her mouth and bend her in a tight circle to bring her back under control.

  “What the hell was that?” Lund held the reins of his dancing mount in one hand, the rope tethering the third horse in the other. “Was that gunfire?”

  It was a moot question, so I didn’t respond. Shooting wasn’t part of the plan, which meant something had gone wrong.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little reckless to use firearms in a place that’s contaminated with explosive material?”

  He had a point, but I decided not to draw attention to the fact that everything about this plan was reckless.

  My hip vibrated, and I checked the text on my phone: TWO DOWN. ENTRANCE BY CANNON BUILDING. PRISON UNDER WATER FILTRATION PLANT. I’LL HOLD THEM UNTIL YOU GET HERE.

  Good to know it wasn’t Tequila who’d been shot.

  “Come on,” I said.

  We set off at a ground-covering trot. A western saddle is designed for the rider to sit the bouncy gait, which worked if the horse was moving at a slower jog. I’d done basic horseback training with the Instructor, and I’d enjoyed it so much, I’d followed up in my free time at a stable north of Chicago. That’s where I’d become hooked on jumping, and as I rose forward in my western saddle, I couldn’t help wishing for the Hermes Steinkraus I’d used while training over fences.

  When we reached the clearing where I’d first met Lund, we brought our animals to a stop.

  “I’m going on alone. We’ll meet here?”

  “I’ll be here all night if need be.”

  “Don’t let anyone see you, Lund. I’m serious. They might have cameras.”

  “I know.”

  “One good shot of your face, and they’ll track you down.”

  He swung off his horse. Holding the reins and rope in one hand, he took hold of Bo’s bridle with the other. “Don’t waste time worrying about me. I can handle myself.”

  “I kicked your ass a few hours ago.”

  “That’s only because—”

  “You let me?”

  He actually blushed a little. “Hell, no. I didn’t know what hit me until it was all over. I was going to say it was because you’re one of a kind.”

  This guy was far too nice. That was a problem, because I found nice unspeakably sexy.

  “Sorry for messing up your come-on line,” I said, lowering my voice.

  He gave me a grin. “There are more where that one came from.”

  “I hope so.�
�� I swung off and stood beside him. My pulse was elevated, my heart pumping fast. I wanted to blame the spike on the sounds of shooting in the plant below, but I suspected it was the man. And I was relieved he seemed to be noticing more than my bruises.

  This was the wrong time, wrong place, and wrong guy.

  Which naturally meant I did the wrong thing.

  “Be safe, Lund.” I grabbed one of his solid biceps, tugged him down to me, and brought my lips hard against his. He responded with equal intensity, opening his mouth, delving deep, the timing of his lips, his tongue, synced with mine, and heat washed over my skin. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but when I released him and pushed away, my legs were trembling.

  I didn’t look at him again, just marched straight down the hill and had covered a hundred feet before I remembered I needed to be invisible.

  Getting my shit together, I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet and moved with the trees, blending my silhouette with theirs. I regulated my breathing, slowed my heartbeat, focused my thoughts. I liked Lund a lot, but stumbling around with lust on my mind would get me killed. And if that happened, I’d never know if he fucked as well as he kissed.

  I checked my phone, but there was nothing new from Tequila. I keyed in BREACHING FENCE, then I shimmied up one of the trees hanging over the razor wire.

  I climbed the tree until I was on the other side of the fence, bounced on the limb, then let myself drop. The fall was about ten feet, and when I hit, I absorbed the impact with my legs, then flowed into a roll and came up on my feet.

  A road stretched in front of me, the asphalt half crumbled, weeds poking through the cracks. I crossed it in a full run, then plunged into the trees on the other side. The terrain on this side of the fence looked much the same as the park, and I moved westward quickly and silently through the trees, keeping my eyes out for landmarks.

  I’d traveled through the forest for a few minutes when I came to the corner of a concrete wall. A chain-link fence topped it, about four feet high. On one side, the forest snugged up tight to the barrier. On the other, goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace lined the base, their withered flowers reaching my waist.