Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 45

  “Help?” Fleming prodded.

  “He’s a firefighter. He has horses. He also has a shot of Demerol with your name on it.”

  “Oh, I could use a little of that kind of help.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is he cute?”

  “Like George Clooney if you took a little steel wool and roughed him up around the edges.”

  “Ooo.”

  “I need to warn him about the sniper.”

  Tequila pointed with his chin into the woods. “I think they’re both aware of each other.”

  Then I heard it. Galloping hooves and breaking twigs. Lund was close enough to have heard the shots. If the thrashing coming through the trees were any louder, it would be echoing off the quartzite bluffs like the explosions and gunshots had.

  I sprang to my feet to stop him before he broke the tree line and became a target.

  Big mistake.

  The first sharp report jangled my nerves, kicking up dead leaves a meter to my right. The second was closer, the sound cracking through my ear and jaw, the bullet whizzing so close I could almost feel it.

  I hit the ground, flattening to my belly.

  “We need to get deeper in the trees.”

  I nodded, not sure my voice would work. Fleming was already moving, dragging herself faster than some people walked. To my relief, the thrashing in the trees had stopped, and seeing how close the round had come to me, I was guessing the gunshot hadn’t killed Lund, but frozen him in his tracks.

  One of the horses snorted.

  “Lund, stay there. We’ll come to you,” I exchanged looks with Tequila but couldn’t read his eyes. “Ready?”

  “Horses?” he said.

  I nodded, thinking about how I thought he looked like the Marlboro Man. “It’s time to ride.”

  Tequila

  Tequila eyed the animals. The only horse he’d ever ridden was the pommel variety, and although he could perform some mean kehrswings, wendeswings, flops, and scissors, he doubted the experience translated.

  Chandler crossed to the lighter of the two brown horses and started digging into a pack secured to the back of the saddle. Her new recruit, the man she called Lund, sat astride a palomino. That left the dark brown beauty.

  “Ever ride before?” Lund asked.

  “Not this type.”

  The man frowned. “Quarter horses are pretty easygoing, and this one gets ridden every day. Banshee is bombproof.”

  Tequila wasn’t sure what that meant in horse jargon, but he figured it would probably come in handy in light of the circumstances.

  “I’m David Lund.”

  “Tequila.”

  “Unusual name.”

  Tequila nodded and turned away. In a glance, he could tell Lund was one of those people set on saving the world, like his altruistic friend Jack Daniels. And although he wasn’t about to trust the man, he figured he wasn’t likely to pull a gun on him either, at least not at the moment. But that didn’t mean Tequila was interested in trading small talk.

  He stepped to his mount’s side and ran his fingers over her silky neck. Her skin shuddered beneath his touch.

  “Lift me up on the saddle,” Fleming said, having pulled herself to sit on a purple rock. “I’ll ride behind you.”

  “Take the front. I’ve never ridden before.”

  I can’t manage it. You’re going to have to learn fast. I’ll ride on the skirt, behind the cantle. You’re going to have to take the reins.

  He was struck again by what a good-looking woman Fleming was, identical to her sister in most ways, except for a certain aura of stillness that Chandler didn’t possess. As if, while her sister was still hungry to prove something, Fleming had already been through the fire and had emerged on the other side. But despite her strength, he could see she was in pain.

  “Wait. Chandler? Got that Demerol?” Tequila asked, keeping his eyes on Fleming.

  “I got it,” Chandler said, approaching with a syringe. She administered the dose, and the lines smoothed from Fleming’s forehead.

  “Better?” Tequila asked.

  Fleming nodded. “How about your ear? Chandler, do you have something for Tequila’s ear? He’s still bleeding.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t look fine.”

  He smiled slightly. It felt odd, because he didn’t do it too often. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “OK.” But Fleming kept staring, the look of concern on her face making his ear hot in response. Both ears, actually.

  “Really, I’ve been hurt worse.”

  She nodded as if finally satisfied. “You and me both.”

  For a second they just looked at each other, Tequila in no particular hurry to break the moment, then Chandler swung onto her horse. “We’d better get a move on.”

  Tequila looked at Fleming, wearing nothing but his jacket, and then eyed the saddle.

  Oh, hell.

  Tequila pulled off his boots and stripped his jeans down his legs. “You’re not sitting on the back of that saddle bare-assed.” Pulling the boots back on, he handed the pants to her and stood there in his black boxer briefs.

  She gave him a slightly loopy smile, and he wasn’t sure if she was amused or just enjoying the Demerol. After she’d pulled on the jeans, he lifted her into the saddle, then, placing his hands as if it really was a pommel horse, sprang on board.

  His feet didn’t reach the stirrups.

  This just kept getting better and better.

  “Should these be…adjusted somehow?”

  “The stirrups? Sure.” Fleming leaned to the side, and for a second he thought she was going to topple off.

  He twisted in the saddle to steady her. “Never mind. Not important.”

  “It’s not all that hard to—”

  The sound of an engine buzzed in the distance.

  “ATVs,” Chandler called from her horse. “Go, go, go.”

  “My car.” Tequila raised a hand to point. “That way.”

  Chandler nodded and laid a heel into her horse’s side. Chandler and Lund took off. Tequila’s horse followed without any encouragement from him.

  It was a miracle Tequila stayed on. He grabbed the saddle horn, the hard leather seat smacking his ass and sending him bouncing three inches in the air with each stride.

  “Pick up the reins,” Fleming said, the warmth of her breath fanning his ear.

  Reins…reins…

  Tequila found them crossed over the horse’s shoulders, right in front of the saddle. He took one in each hand, still gripping the saddle. Most of his life he’d prided himself on the fact that he could balance on anything, but now his sense of equilibrium seemed to have totally deserted him.

  “OK, sit up on your seat bones and drive your weight through your heels. You don’t have to hold on with your legs. Head up, heels down, that’s the key to balance.”

  Balance…balance…

  He did as she said, not that it was at all comfortable while wearing boxers. It seemed as if the animal fought against him, refusing to keep a steady rhythm. Just as he started wondering if he’d ever get the motion right, the horse broke into a much smoother, rolling gait.

  “Good.” Fleming crooned. “You got it.”

  He released his hold on the saddle, moving with the horse, finding the groove, letting his posture and balance take over.

  “OK, the reins. Hold them in your left hand.”

  He gathered them. Reaching around his body, Fleming folded her hand over his, positioning the strips of leather so they ran into his hand through his fingertips and out through his palm. She moved his index finger between the two reins and adjusted them so they dropped in a loose loop before reaching the horse’s bit, then she kept her hand on his. Tequila had been carrying this woman for the better part of ten minutes, but this touch was more intimate by tenfold.

  The horse didn’t speed up or slow down, just kept up her steady pace, following the others. Fleming moved her hands to either side of his waist, holding on. Her body was close
enough to feel her softness against his back, and warmth spread over his skin.

  “Now, just move your hand in the direction you want to turn. Think of it as the rein pushing against the horse’s neck, and she’ll turn away from the pressure.”

  He tried it, and Banshee responded so fast, he nearly fell off. “She handles like a sports car.”

  “To stop, raise your rein hand and shift your weight back toward the cantle.”

  “What if I push you off?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Fleming said, tightening her grip on him.

  They reached the wheel rut path he’d followed part of the way into the ammo plant. Chandler glanced back over her shoulder, and he gave her a nod.

  Behind them, the ATV engines grew louder, gaining ground.

  “Squeeze her with both legs.” Fleming started to make a kissing sound in his ear, a phenomenon that both confused and aroused him until he realized she was doing it to encourage the horse.

  He pushed his heels into Banshee’s sides and she bolted forward.

  The ATVs still sounded like they were gaining.

  Tequila liked nature, and he liked Fleming holding him, and he was even warming up to this riding thing, but he still couldn’t wait to get off the horse and into his car, the way people were meant to travel.

  They reached the spot where he’d parked, just off the paved road, and Tequila raised his rein hand, as Fleming had instructed. He leaned back into her, lightly.

  “Harder,” she said. “I won’t fall.”

  Tequila sat back into the cantle. The horse took a few strides to slow, but she eventually came to a halt.

  The SUV. Where the hell was it?

  It was the right spot. He was sure of that. But the vehicle he’d so carefully hidden with leaves and branches was gone.

  Lund turned back and stopped his horse beside them. “Was it a white SUV?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I ran into a park ranger. That’s why I was detained. He said he had it towed.”

  Hammett

  “If at first you don’t succeed,” said the Instructor, “do it again, and this time you damn well better get it right.”

  “I thought your nickname was Speed,” Hammett yelled over the racket of the ATV. She swore that if he didn’t move this machine faster, she’d throw the fat bastard under the tires and take over the driving herself.

  The Supergrade was in her right hand, her left arm snaked around Speed’s generous middle. Javier drove behind her. They had taken too long to get out of the tunnel, too long to cut through the fence, and they needed to push it to catch up with Fleming and her munchkin bodyguard before they got away.

  Isaiah had been too far away on his sniper’s perch to join the chase, so he stayed with Santiago at the site. He was searching for the videos of Fleming’s interrogation, on the off chance she’d spilled something, while Santiago interrogated the prisoner, with strict orders not to kill him.

  Damn Isaiah for not stopping them at the fence. Damn Javier for failing to capture Chandler. Damn Santiago for being a psycho. Damn Speed for his shitty driving. And most of all, damn that loser Jersey for getting himself killed.

  It was impossible to get good help these days.

  Hammett punched Speed in the side with her knee. “Faster.”

  He accelerated. The jumbled path over rock and brush smoothed out into an unpaved road, tire ruts in long grass. As the road straightened and they drew closer, Hammett spotted Chandler ahead and understood why she and her little group had made such good time while Hammett had been struggling to get her shit together. Where she’d managed to scrounge up horses, Hammett didn’t know. But there were three of them. Chandler and a man Hammett didn’t recognize each had their own mounts. Fleming rode behind the blond shrimp.

  None of them would be riding long. Not if Hammett had something to say about it.

  And Hammett always had plenty to say.

  They closed the distance. As fast as the horses could move, the ATVs were faster, especially over even ground. But even though they were bearing down on Fleming’s horse, who was bringing up the rear, shooting while driving over uneven terrain was never a sure thing, even for Hammett, and she couldn’t take out the short prick without risking hitting her crippled sis. Dead Fleming would be no good to them.

  Chandler was an easier target, though Hammett preferred her alive. And shooting at her legs carried the risk of hitting the horse, which was senseless. Hammett had no compunctions about killing a human being, and she enjoyed a good steak or pork loin, but she did feel compassion for dogs and horses. And cats. And those domesticated Siberian foxes.

  A target of hers in Chernogolovka had a silver fox named Fyodor, and she played fetch with the cute little guy for over half an hour after she slit his owner’s throat. He had the most adorable bark, a cross between a Chihuahua yipping and a cat purring.

  If she didn’t have to leave her home all the time to travel around the world, killing people, Hammett could easily imagine having a few foxes. And a doggie and a horsie.

  “Speed!” Hammett pointed at the fallen tree branch on the path ahead of them.

  Apparently Speed didn’t notice it. Or he noticed, and didn’t care. The front wheels hit hard, the vehicle shuddering, then taking flight, giving a buck that almost sent Hammett cartwheeling across the forest floor. She managed to hold on, her teeth clapping together hard enough to make her whole head ache.

  If Speed made another move like that, she really was going to have to kill him.

  Ahead, the horses had reached the paved road leading out of the park and were racing alongside in the ditch. She and Speed bounced onto the asphalt, and he cranked the engine, gaining fast. Beside her, Javier fired a burst from his mounted machine gun, making the horses swerve into the woods.

  “I want them alive,” she snarled into the radio. “Watch your fire.”

  “I’m aiming for the horse,” Javier said.

  “Don’t.”

  Hammett directed Speed to follow, and they cut through the front yard of a small farm and raced across a field stubbled with shorn corn stalks.

  The farmland was heavily rutted from a muddy harvest, and the rough terrain slowed them down. Able to move more nimbly, the horses gained, and by the time they broke into an alfalfa field, Hammett was considering abandoning the mission and her principles and just gunning down everyone and everything.

  A roar erupted overhead, louder than the ATV’s engine. Hammett looked up, surprised to see one of the balloons they’d noticed earlier, now closer to the ground. The sound had been a blast of flame from the propane burner. Two more balloons were up ahead on a distant hill, hovering over an airstrip half surrounded by rows of stunted apple trees.

  Hammett knew where Chandler was headed.

  Good thing she hadn’t killed Speed, the man who could drive anything.

  She scanned the area, looking for a way to circle, to cut off Chandler, but the underbrush streaking past on one side and the pitted field on the other left no options, not until they reached the hay.

  But she had a better idea.

  Hammett focused on the shrimpy bastard riding with Fleming. Take him out, and her crippled sister would be easy pickings. Then Chandler would be the one scrambling to catch up.

  And to do it, she would have to get up close and personal. Just the way Hammett liked to make her kills.

  Tequila

  Tequila hadn’t had time to mourn his truck or lament the fact that he would have to buy a new one for cash because he didn’t believe in insurance. He squeezed Banshee’s sides, urging her to run faster, her hooves thundering over the cornfield’s uneven dirt. The ATV was hard on his mare’s heels, and although he kept waiting for the bullet to hit, the shot never came.

  They must want Fleming alive.

  Ahead, Lund had taken the lead. He charged into a field of alfalfa, Chandler on his gelding’s right flank. Beyond him, Tequila could see a red hot-air balloon hovering low, and a blue one loom
ing in the sky to the west.

  The ATV roared closer, the sound grating at the back of his neck and throbbing through his injured ear. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Hammett rising up behind a heavy guy in an old black T-shirt, a pistol in her hand, the barrel leveled on him.

  Tequila had to do something.

  When he’d told Lund the only horse he’d ridden was the pommel horse, he hadn’t been kidding. The event was considered one of the most difficult in men’s gymnastics, and while he’d never medaled with his routine, he’d been pretty good.

  Tequila glanced back at Fleming. “Duck.”

  She folded forward against the back of the cantle, clenching the stirrup flaps.

  Trying not to think too hard about what he was doing, he gripped the fork of the saddle, one palm on either side of the horn, and shifted his weight onto his hands, raising himself out of the seat. He started with a circle. The horse’s rhythm made the movement more difficult, but she was as bombproof as Lund had promised, and it only took moments for Tequila to adapt to her stride. Splitting his legs in a flair, he spun over Fleming’s head and drilled his right heel into Hammett’s forearms.

  The gun fired, her shot flying harmlessly into the air. The ATV swerved, and so did the horse, but somehow Tequila kept his balance, his movement unhindered.

  Hammett stayed on too, kept her grip on her weapon, and brought it back up.

  Tequila completed another circle and nailed the driver this time, connecting with the fat man’s shoulder, the force shuddering up Tequila’s legs but only slightly slowing his circle. The ATV veered off course, up the other side of the ditch.

  “Tequila, the fence!” Fleming yelled.

  He piked into a handstand, then lowered his chest and split his legs on either side of the horse, his ass smacking back in the saddle.

  A three-board fence stretched in front of them, barring them from the airstrip where the balloons were touching down.

  “I don’t have stirrups.”

  “You’re really worried about that after what you just did?”