Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 42
“Do it,” she ordered herself.
For all the people she’d killed, both directly and indirectly, Fleming still considered herself a humanitarian. On the surface, that seemed to indicate a lack of self-awareness at best, psychotic delusion at worst. But the assignments Fleming had taken as a field agent, and those where she’d been Chandler’s handler, ultimately benefited mankind. Certain people were harmful to society, as cancer harmed a body. Corrupt politicos, fanatical jihadists, murderous traitors, human traffickers, genocidal scientists, mad dictators, sexual predators—these were bad people. Fleming cut them out of the world as a surgeon excised a malignant tumor.
There had been missions in which Fleming had weighed her personal safety against the safety of the innocent, and she always protected the innocent over her own skin.
Now, locked in her head, was information that could kill millions of innocent people. Strong as Fleming was, that information would eventually be forced from her. And those who had the information would use it.
Suicide was the right thing to do. Fleming’s death would protect many.
She closed her eyes.
She put more pressure on the blade.
She let her final breath hiss through her clenched teeth.
There was a genuine fear of death—only psychos didn’t fear death. But Fleming’s resolve was stronger than her fear. It wasn’t even a real choice. One woman’s life for millions.
Except…
It wasn’t one woman’s life.
It was two women’s lives.
There was a possibility Malcolm hadn’t been lying. That Chandler was on-site.
Chandler didn’t know what Fleming knew. Chandler would be tortured, and killed. But she had nothing to reveal, no secrets to share. The world would be safe.
So it would be OK if Chandler died.
It would be OK.
Right?
Fleming opened her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the blood on her neck. She thought about her sister.
A sister who would never give up on her.
A sister who would never desert her.
A sister who would never choose the easy way out.
A sister she loved.
If there was a chance to save Chandler, Fleming had to take it. No matter how many lives it risked.
Because that’s what love is.
Fleming opened her fingers and let the scalpel clatter to the floor. She turned to the tray and picked out weapons small enough to carry: a fillet knife with a good-sized blade, a rectangular pack of double-edged razor blades, and an ice pick. She tossed them all to the floor, then swung her legs over the gurney’s edge.
“Hold on, Sis,” she whispered. “I’ll be right there.”
Taking a deep breath, Fleming pushed off. She hit the floor with a hard smack, fire shooting up her legs and through her hips, a cry breaking her lips. For a few seconds she lay there, trying to gather her strength, hoping nothing was broken, willing the ache to be merely bruises layered on bruises. Refusing to give in to the pain, Fleming rolled to her stomach, her arms straight, holding her torso erect in a pose a yoga instructor would call upward-facing dog. Then, using her arms and hands, she started walking forward, her useless legs trailing behind.
The concrete was cold and rasped her wounds like sixty-grit sandpaper on raw skin. Her muscles seized with shivers, probably the combination of hypothermia and the aftereffects of adrenaline. She picked up the knife and pick with her good hand and wedged the package of razor blades under the palm end of one of her finger splints. The ice pick handle went into her mouth.
Focusing on the door, she concentrated on moving inch by inch, foot by foot, until she’d cleared the heavy steel portal. The room where she’d been held was at the end of a narrow dead-end hall, half a dozen doors on either side, the far end elbowing to the right. She couldn’t hear anything but the distant hum of an electric fan and her own breathing. The space smelled strongly of Malcolm’s burned flesh, with an undernote of the same dank mildew of the room where Fleming had been imprisoned.
She eyed the bastard’s body. Fleming wasn’t sure if he was dead or not and realized with disgust that she hoped he wasn’t. Let him live with the pain of burned flesh, the probable blindness from the cattle prod to his eyes. The only thing she regretted was that his clothing was so scorched, she couldn’t strip it off him. It would be nice to not have to drag herself around this hellhole naked.
She briefly considered going back into the room and taking the guard’s clothing, but she couldn’t make herself cross back over that threshold. Fleming had gotten out of that cell, the place she was sure she’d die, and she couldn’t face going back. Not for any reason. So instead, she concentrated on the rooms branching off the hall.
She doubted she’d find a map lying around, with a key showing which cell might hold Chandler, but she might be able to score some keys.
Fleming inched up to Malcolm, the knife ready in her fist in case he made a move, not willing to risk even the remote possibility that something would go wrong and she’d fall under his control again.
He was breathing, labored and ragged. But an unpleasant glance at the burns on his chest proved he didn’t have much longer to live. His injuries were too severe.
Fleming found the keys on his belt. Taking them in hand along with her weapons, she dragged herself past him, along the dirt floor, and to the first heavy, steel door. Reaching up, she unlocked it, and pulled.
The sucker didn’t move.
She tried again, but it was no use. The thing was too heavy, and not only did she have no leverage but, after all she’d been through, her strength was lacking, even in her upper body.
When she’d been in her cell, Fleming had been able to hear sounds—the recorded screams, the movement outside the door. The doors were heavy as hell, but they weren’t soundproof.
The guards would be coming. If she was sitting here silently in the hall, she would be captured again.
But if she could find her sister…
Fleming had to risk it. She spit the ice pick onto the floor and yelled, “Chandler!”
Silence answered.
She put all her strength into the yell. “Chandler, I have keys! Where are you?”
Nothing.
Fleming propped herself up on her hip, shivering in the bright light and dank chill, her mind racing. There was a chance her sister wasn’t here, that Malcolm had been lying about capturing her. There was also a chance that Chandler was already dead.
“Chandler!” she screamed again, as loud as she could manage.
“Fleming!”
But it wasn’t Chandler. This voice belonged to someone else.
Someone Fleming knew intimately.
And it originated just a few doors away.
Lund
Lund checked his watch for what had to be the eightieth time in the past twenty minutes. Still not time to meet Chandler, but the crack of gunfire—and worse, several explosions—made his pulse accelerate and sweat coat his back. Max and Bo jigged a little, picking up his nervousness, ready to bolt.
He patted his gelding and crooned to Bo, but it did no good. How could it? His voice sounded tight even to his own ears. To the sensitive horses, he must have seemed in a full-bore panic.
Lund forced his breath to slow and rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen up. He’d only known Chandler for a short time, but it was obvious she knew what she was doing and was used to handling this type of danger. He recognized the confident calm in her, the same vibe given off by veteran firefighters and cops. Hell, usually given off by him, too.
Lund had to trust she knew what she was doing. But he kept seeing the stubborn woman willing to stick a scalpel into her own belly. Recklessness didn’t inspire confidence.
“Good evening, sir.”
The voice came from behind him, several yards away. He turned to see the tan button-down and dark jacket and pants of a state park ranger.
Shit.
Lund faced the ranger. “Nice night, isn’t it? Although I hear it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”
“Sir, horses aren’t allowed in this park.”
Lund knew that, but feigned surprise. “Oh. I guess I didn’t realize…”
“You’ll have to take them out immediately. And if you parked a white—”
A spurt of gunfire erupted below. The ranger reached for the radio on his belt.
“It’s a training drill,” Lund said.
The man’s eyebrows arched, as if he didn’t believe a word.
“That’s why I’m here. With the horses. I’m an observer. I should have stayed near the fence line, I know, but the view is better up here. And the blanks they’re shooting were making the horses nervous.”
The ranger squinted into the sun, low in the western sky. Hair silver and face lined, he looked like he’d been on the job for a while, maybe nearing retirement. Lund would like to think those extra years would make him willing to let a training drill pass. But judging from the skepticism etched into the man’s expression, it seemed those years had simply made him harder to fool.
“Was this reported to local authorities?”
“I’m not sure. You know the army. They report to their superiors, and the rest of us might as well not exist.”
“Do you have some identification?”
Lund reached for his wallet and offered the man his driver’s license and card identifying him as a fire inspector for the county.
“You’re not with the army.”
“I’m here on behalf of the county, making sure things don’t get out of hand.”
The ranger paused, glanced out at the ammo plant, and then back to Lund. “Why wasn’t my office notified of this?”
Lund forced a shrug he hoped looked casual. “Like I said, you know the army. They’re in their own little world sometimes.”
“Does the county sheriff know?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why don’t I give them a call, find out?”
Not the response Lund was hoping for. “I did talk to the police chief of Lake Loyal, Valerie Ryker. She knew about the drill. Since it’s Sunday, you might be able to reach her more easily than the sheriff.”
He was taking a leap on that one. Val didn’t know anything about what was going on. He just hoped she would back him up.
The ranger seemed to consider the idea. Then he pulled out a cell phone out of a case on his belt.
“I doubt she’ll be in the office this late,” Lund said. “But I, uh, have her home number, if it’s really necessary.”
“It’s necessary.”
Double shit.
Lund pulled out his phone. He called up his directory and selected Val’s number, trying not to focus on the fact that his finger was shaking.
He and Val had been through a lot, and more than anything, he wanted to believe she’d trust him and wait until later for his explanation. But there were a lot of things he wanted to believe about Val. A lot of things he wanted, period. And if he’d learned anything over recent months, it was that he couldn’t control the choices another person made.
All he could do was make his own decisions accordingly and hope things worked out.
Two rings, and Val’s voice came on the line. “Lund? Do you have the horses?”
Of course her first question would be about the horses.
“Yeah. I’m at Badger Ammo, observing the training exercises. A park ranger here wants to know that local law enforcement is aware of what’s going on.”
“What is going on?”
“I made the mistake of riding too far into the park instead of staying at the fence line.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know. They should have told the park rangers. Someone could think there’s a dangerous situation and call the authorities for no reason, waste time and taxpayer money. Someone could even get hurt, as a result.”
“Have you been drinking?”
Dammit, Val. Figure out what I need. “He just wants to confirm with you that everything is all right.”
“Everything better be all right. What are you doing with the horses?”
“Here’s the ranger.” Lund handed the man his cell and held his breath.
The ranger brought the phone to his ear, his eyes still narrowed, still focused on Lund. “Chief Ryker?”
Lund tried to read his expressions, but the guy had a face like a mannequin. He made a mental note that if he ever ran into this guy at the Doghouse Tavern, he should never play him in a game of poker.
The moment stretched. Lund patted his mount, for his own nerves as well as the horse’s.
“All right. Yes. Absolutely.” The ranger clapped the phone shut and handed it back to Lund.
Lund swallowed, throat dry. Either Val had backed him up, or the shit was about to hit an industrial-strength fan. Either way, he needed to know. “So now you see, they did notify someone, at least.”
The man offered the same narrow stare. “Yeah, I see. I see plenty.”
Chandler
“Fear is a gift,” the Instructor said. “Use it.”
Hours ago—though it seemed much longer—I’d been gripped and shaken by raw animal panic when my arm was stuck between railroad ties as a train approached and a nut named Rochester tried to kill me.
I might have said that ranked as the worst fear I’d ever experienced, until the moment I fell into an industrial construction grinder as a nut named Javier tried to kill me.
The drop onto the flatbed of the truck was a tiny bunny hop, and we’d both been dropped onto the spinning screws that stretched out twelve meters in length and five meters side to side. Four metal walls kept us, and the debris, from spilling off the edges, trapping us in a giant hopper.
The screws themselves were long spinners, segmented with dozens of thick steel flywheels—high-torque, low-speed shredders that spun in opposite directions. Bladed, intersecting rollers. They caught debris, pinching it together, then forced it through the floor of the chipper. Once they grabbed something—steel, fabric, leather, wood, flesh—they shredded it to hamburger.
I landed feet first onto a small, churning pile of concrete, and the blades spun under the soles of my feet.
Luckily, they were wide enough to stand on.
Unluckily, they were turning in opposite directions.
During training at Hydra, I’d once had to play lumberjack and balance on a floating log. This was like balancing on two logs at once, one going clockwise and one going counter.
I pulled up my left foot, bringing it to my right, trying to find my balance. A piece of rebar sacked me in my leg, then got pulled down into the churning morass. I almost tipped over, dropping the butterfly knife, watching it bounce once, twice, on the blades and then get crunched into pieces and disappear.
Movement, to my side.
Javier had also adopted my log-rolling technique, hips swaying and feet moving in rhythm, looking oddly like a meringue dancer. He was facing me, less than a two meters away.
And he hadn’t dropped his knife.
Some plywood floated across the bed between us, then the blades caught it and chewed it up, spitting splinters and sawdust. I chanced a quick look behind me, saw that the wall of the hopper was two steps—two rows—back. It was as high as my shoulders. On a flat surface, I could vault right over it. That would be trickier while balancing on spinning, bladed wheels. If I tripped, or fell, or missed, then anything at all—a
bit of clothing, an edge of rubber sole, a finger, a lock of hair—could get caught in the blades and pull me through a moment later.
My breath coming out in sprinter puffs, I eyed my jump to the next roller, trying to work out the landing in my head, since it was going in the opposite direction and would mess up my momentum.
Javier, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be focused on escaping this swirling death pit. Proving himself every bit of the psychopath I guessed he was, Javier chose to go after me rather than save himself. He jumped in my direction, feet hitting off-center, arms pinwheeling wildly before he found his footing.
He was now close enough to stab me.
Javier’s eyes locked on mine, and he knew I knew, and that brought out his snakelike grin.
He slashed with his balisong.
I blocked with the Ghost Hawk, then caught his wrist with my free hand and tugged, hoping to yank him off his feet.
Instead I pulled him onto the same roller I was balancing on.
I backed up, my feet in constant motion, hoping I didn’t step on anything that would trip me up but unwilling to look because I was concentrating on Javier. I had a fleeting racist thought: if Javier were white, he’d be dead by now. White guys are clumsy. But Latinos seem to have some kind of inner rhythm and balance, and his footwork was fancy enough to get him on Dancing with the Stars, assuming the show accepted sadistic mercs.
Face sweating, he edged closer to me, looking more like a bullfighter than a hoofer. Unsteady as we both were, we each kept our knife hands extended and more or less unwavering.
“You are something special, señorita. You move very well. In different circumstances, I would have enjoyed a sensual bachata with you.”
“I could see doing that with you,” I said, “if I’d swallowed poison and needed to vomit.”
He took three quick steps toward me, and I went backward, losing my balance and falling to the side. I managed to place my other foot on a swirling mound of hard clay, and was able to spring off it just enough to land on a flywheel a meter away from Javier, and right next to the hopper edge.