Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 5

  I loaded the program, which began by filling the screen with the familiar round and blue view of the earth from space, conveniently facing North America. I used the mouse scroll wheel to zoom in, each revolution bringing the world closer and closer, first over Illinois, then over Chicago, streets and buildings and eventually cars and people coming into detailed focus.

  Instead of degrees, I punched in the street address and got a close-up satellite picture of 875 N. Michigan, revealing a familiar Chicago landmark. Google Earth also let me superimpose street names and store locations over the picture. Then I clicked on a camera icon at street level and got a full, 360-degree panoramic view of the whole area, dated from ten minutes ago. I quickly figured out a route, entry and exit points, and visualized how Cory would run it.

  If his plan followed my assumptions, and I knew him well enough to be sure it would, neither Kaufmann nor I would live through this.

  Steering my thoughts away from Kaufmann’s fate for a moment, I pinged Victor’s router, got the URL, and quickly synced my phone to his Wi-Fi. A minute later, I was uploading my doppelganger’s fingerprint to Jacob’s database. I wasn’t at all surprised I didn’t get a hit. I saved the search offline, then spent two minutes erasing all of my tracks from Victor’s hard drive.

  I checked my watch, saw I only had fifty-two minutes remaining, and went to the dryer for my shoes and socks. I locked the door behind me when I left the apartment, using the keys I’d found on Victor’s kitchen table. I took the alley exit, pausing for a moment to get my bearings. I smelled garbage and car exhaust. The wind had picked up a bit, chilling my still-damp gym shoes. The alley was quiet, vacant, and I took it south, holding the duffel bag full of ten thousand dollars in my bad arm, keeping my right thumb hitched in my rear pocket, near the weapon nestled against the small of my back.

  Fourteen steps out of the alley, I spotted a tail.

  She was standing at a bus stop, a stylish wool cap on her head, staring intently at a tablet PC no bigger than a paperback novel. Her large sunglasses broke up the contour of her face, making her anonymous and unidentifiable as an agent.

  Except to me.

  The woman was doing isometric calf exercises. First flexing the left calf, then the right, then lifting the left toes, then the right.

  I knew she’d lift the left heel next, then slightly bend the knee. I knew this because it was the same exercise The Instructor had taught me during training.

  This woman proved me correct, following the sequence exactly. I was too far away to tell if this was another lookalike. But I would know soon enough.

  I crossed the street quickly, keeping an eye on her, then approaching from the side at an angle beyond her peripheral vision. She kept her nose in the tablet, legs still twitching, oblivious to my presence.

  I wanted to interrogate her, to know how she’d found me so quickly, to learn who she was and what she wanted. But I was short on time, and leaving her here to try my luck later could lead to her interfering with the Cory meeting. Contrary to the movies, subduing and capturing someone was incredibly difficult, especially without preparation and the proper equipment. A thousand things could go wrong.

  Murder, however, was pretty straightforward.

  My best bet was a quick shot right behind the ear. I did a discreet check for cops, then reached for my weapon.

  The move was so fast I almost missed it. While keeping both eyes on the computer screen, she yanked a pistol from under her sweater and pointed it right at me. I jerked sideways, two shots zipping through the space I’d occupied a nanosecond ago, bringing my suppressed .22 around and catching her in the chest.

  Unlike the jacketed rounds for my Glock, which were for penetration, the .22 was loaded with star frags—special bullets shaped like a pointed king’s crown. When they hit a target, the crown opened up like flower petals, allowing for maximum energy transfer and creating an internal wound up to three inches in diameter. For a small caliber, they packed a big punch.

  So big, my stalker went down instantly, glasses spinning off her face, dropping both her gun and the tablet, then slumping to the sidewalk like a length of cut rope.

  The whole thing was over in less than a second, all the shots fired blending together like a car backfiring. Once again I checked the street for any witnesses, then hurried to the body, keeping my weapon alongside my thigh.

  When I got close enough, several things struck me at once. The first was her face. Eyes closed, lips parted, undeniably my features. While her chest didn’t seem to be moving, there also wasn’t any blood. Her blouse and bra beneath were shredded by the star frags, and there wasn’t a vest under them. Rather, her skin showing between the fabric tears was brownish and lumpy, almost as if it had been slathered with peanut butter.

  Bringing up my gun again, I pressed it under her neck while I touched her sternum. The brown goop was moist and sticky, and her heart thrummed under my fingertips.

  I pulled the trigger the moment I realized what the paste on her skin was. But my doppelganger had anticipated the move. She swept my gun to the side. My round hit the sidewalk. She brought up the heel of her hand and clipped me clean under the jaw.

  I toppled backward, my teeth crunching together so hard it rattled my brain, the sparkly motes in my vision quadrupling in size when my coccyx hit the street. I blindly brought the gun up, reflex squeezing the trigger even as I felt a foot connect with my knuckles, knowing I hit her somewhere in the legs, knowing it didn’t matter if she had that stuff smeared all over her body. Liquid body armor. I might as well have been shooting case-hardened steel.

  My gun went flying—a testament to the power of her kick. During training, I’d had to hold onto a gun for a week straight without ever putting it down, but she knew right where to hit me to make me lose my grip.

  Then I was on my back, and she was on me, and I knew she’d had the same training I’d had, meaning I’d likely be dead within the next two seconds.

  “Your body is a weapon,” The Instructor said. “Hands, feet, elbows, knees, head. In close combat, commit immediately and fully, aim for your opponent’s vital points and nerve points, and hit and stick to deliver maximum damage. Strike fast, strike hard, and try to strike first.”

  I struck, going for her eyes. My fingers hit their target, jabbing the cheekbones and sliding upward into the soft tissue. I could feel her grunt of pain in my own chest. I thrust harder, trying to gouge her eyes out, or better yet, penetrate the thin bone behind the optic nerve and plunge into her brain.

  I wasn’t so lucky.

  She moved her head to the side and brought the edge of her hand hard against the front of my good shoulder, connecting with the large bundle of nerves that passes in front of the joint. My fingers buckled. My arm slumped, numb and useless.

  She brought her hands to my throat, her thumbs pressing right below my larynx, aiming to crush my trachea. I clawed at her with my other hand, still tingly from the Demerol. My vision blurred. But through the motes I could see her eyes were half closed, tears and some blood glistening on her cheeks.

  Flexing my stomach muscles, I lunged upward, smacking my forehead straight into her nose. She released her grip, stunned for a moment, reflex bringing her hands to her face.

  A moment was all I needed. I bucked my body, tossing her to the sidewalk. One move and I was on my feet. My balance lagged behind, and I had to pause half a second to adjust.

  Too long. Barely a moment passed and she was up too, striking fast and hard with a cut to the jaw.

  I blocked her blow and drove my elbow into the side of her head. Still unsteady on my feet, I couldn’t muster enough force to do real damage, and she came back at me with a palm-heel strike to my solar plexus.

  Breath fled from my lungs. I gasped, sucking in air. I managed to block her next blow, still wheezing when she landed a knee jab to the stomach that doubled me over.

  She grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, searing pain ripping along the cut in my scalp. I struggled t
o twist to the side, throw her off balance. No good. She shoved my head down, smacking my forehead hard against her knee.

  Flashes of light exploded in front of my eyes. I staggered to the side, somehow keeping myself from going down.

  My injuries were making me sluggish. After the morning I’d had, she was faster, fitter. If I hadn’t impaired her vision, there would be no way I could keep up. I wasn’t sure I could now. I needed to end this. Quickly.

  Before she ended me.

  She struck again, fast, as I knew she would, coming in too close, too certain of my defeat. She attacked from the right, trying for a strike to my carotid artery.

  I managed to block with my left elbow then straighten, bringing my right elbow up under her jaw. I clipped her hard, driving her head back. I followed with a strike to her throat from the other side.

  As she staggered back, I grabbed her, my right arm over her chest, my left under her thighs. I straightened my legs, pressing her against my torso and lifting her like a barbell.

  She wasn’t ready to give up yet. She found my face with her hand, trying to land a stunning blow to the sensitive spots behind my ear and the base of my skull, and failing that, jabbing for my eyes.

  I tucked in my chin, keeping my balance. A grunt rasped in my throat, an aggressive and guttural sound. I managed a short lunge forward with my right foot. Using that momentum, I brought her body down hard and smashed her back against my knee.

  I felt her spine break just as I collapsed forward, my legs crumbling, unable to hold her any longer. Both of us hit the sidewalk. For a second, I half-expected her to throw another move at me, a move I wouldn’t be able to handle.

  But she didn’t stir, didn’t even twitch.

  Witnesses? I could feel people watching, no doubt calling 911. A guy across the street. A taxi parked on the corner. But no one was stupid enough to approach. Tuning in to sounds, I heard traffic, a bus, the distant cry of a siren, the crackling of leaves blowing across the sidewalk.

  I willed my mind clear. I had to move.

  I struggled upright and started frisking my dead double. I didn’t find anything compromising, didn’t expect to, but the job took only seconds, since I knew precisely where to look. Like the woman at the health club, she had cash and wires sewn into her clothing precisely the way I did.

  I took her weapon, her sunglasses, her tablet computer, and stuffed them into my duffel alongside the money. Hands shaking, I tugged out my cell phone, took a quick picture of her thumbprint, and sent it to a secure Internet drop box where Jacob could access it, if he was still able.

  I left her body on the sidewalk, not bothering to hide it. With the police on their way and with eyewitnesses peppering the street, the extra time and energy it would cost to conceal her corpse wouldn’t get me much.

  My stomach roiling, I staggered away, taking fifteen steps before I was able to balance enough to break into a jog. I rounded the corner with my fist pressed to my stomach so I didn’t throw up—the nausea, as well as the almost uncontrollable trembling of nearly every muscle in my body, was a side effect of too much adrenaline.

  I’d put two blocks between me and my lifeless double before I was able to calm my jitters, settle my thoughts, and fully focus on what I had to do next. It took another two to locate a drugstore. The scream of a siren pierced the ambient traffic sounds just before I ducked inside the revolving door.

  Inside I could still hear the cop car’s wail mixed with the hum of voices, the whir of the register printing out a receipt, and background music, a bland rendition of a Simon and Garfunkel classic. Perfume tinged the air, something cheap that carried a harsh citrus note. A woman behind the cosmetics counter eyed me as if she thought I could desperately use the Shimmer Face Primer on display.

  Fighting techniques were only one of my trained skills. I had also studied facial expressions and body language, and I could read the intentions of others as well as I could disguise my own. The woman seemed to be what she appeared, an employee trying to sell makeup, but after all the surprises I’d had, I couldn’t be too sure. And even a well-meaning employee could cause me problems if she noticed my injuries and decided it was her business to help.

  I gave her a fleeting don’t-try-to-sell-me smile and hurried past like a normal busy woman doing errands on my lunch hour. She offered a polite nod and turned to an older woman in a tracksuit.

  I scanned the rest of the store, including the wide-angle mirrors positioned around the ceiling’s perimeter, keeping my head low so my face didn’t register on the cameras behind them. I didn’t see any other Walgreens shoppers who flagged my attention. And miraculously, for what seemed like the first time all day, I was the only one in the store bearing my exact features.

  I made quick work of my shopping, picking up a yellow canvas book bag (which sat next to a display of eReaders—who really needed a book bag anymore?), a bottle of niacin, a utility knife, and a blue knit cap. Once out the door, I pulled on the cap and the sunglasses I’d taken off my double and continued down the street. The only sirens were distant now, their screams partially drowned by the rumble of the El several blocks away, the usual traffic noise, and the whoosh of wind. The breeze carried the snap of fall and scent of pizza—oregano and cooked sausage—from a nearby deep-dish restaurant.

  I turned my head to the side as I walked, as if simply taking in the day. Several people dotted the sidewalk behind me, the foot traffic picking up as people stepped out to get a bite to eat. I took a right turn, ducked into a doorway for a moment, transferred the cash from my duffel to the yellow bag, then stepped back out onto the street. After crossing the side street, I rejoined the first street I’d been walking and noted the traffic patterns of those behind. No one appeared to be following.

  I stopped on the next corner and hailed a cab. I collapsed into the backseat. “The Shedd Aquarium, please.”

  The odor of stale menthol cigarettes hovered around the driver. “Sure thing.” He accelerated and blended into traffic.

  We headed in the direction of the lake. I cracked the window and let exhaust dilute the smoke stench. A few minutes later, we swung onto Michigan Avenue’s Magnificent Mile. I glanced out the window and pretended to take in the glitzy stores, the Tribune Tower, the ornate architecture of the Wrigley Building, all the while checking for tails. We crossed the Chicago River and moved south. By the time my cab had reached Millennium Park, I was as certain as I could be that I was alone.

  We took Roosevelt Drive to Lake Shore, turned at Soldier Field, and wound past the Field Museum. As we approached the aquarium, I made a visual sweep of the area. School busses clogged the parking lot. A mother dragged two dawdling children up the steps to the main entrance. Wind whipped flags and raised whitecaps on the lake.

  “We’re here,” the cabbie said, reaching for the meter.

  “No, wait.”

  His hand stopped midair. “This is the Shedd Aquarium.”

  “I know. I’m waiting for someone. Can you sit here and let the meter run for now?”

  “Sure thing.” He sounded less than enthused.

  I pulled the tablet computer I had taken from my most recent dead doppelganger out of the duffel. If there was anything on the woman that might give me a clue who she was and what was going on, this was it. The problem was getting past whatever security measures were in place.

  Three minutes later, I hadn’t made much progress. The computer was encrypted. I would need more time to work on it. Time I didn’t have. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me to Macy’s on State Street.”

  The cabbie glanced in the rearview and arched his brows. “Whatever you want.” He was an older guy with a square face, salt-and-pepper hair, and an expression that plainly said he didn’t care about anything. He wove his way out of the parking area and started retracing the route we’d just traveled. I looked down at my watch.

  Soon I would be face-to-face with Cory again.

  I spotted the black SUV a block from Macy’s. It turned out from
Pearson and fell into traffic four cars behind my cab. It was a slick move. One executed by someone with experience, and at first I wasn’t sure why it drew my attention. But I’d been taught to trust my instincts, and right now they were jumping. “Can you drive around the block? I’d like to see if my friend is here.”

  A disinterested grunt from the front seat, but the driver took the next right.

  Four cars behind us, the SUV did the same. The next turn brought similar results. By the time my cabbie had orbited the entire block, I’d long since gotten the confirmation I needed and was working on figuring out who was behind the wheel.

  It wasn’t Cory. I couldn’t see the driver well, but I could see enough to know it wasn’t a face I knew. So who was it? And how did they find me?

  No one had followed me from the drugstore. No one had tailed my cab to the aquarium. And except for the last few blocks, no one had picked us up on the drive to Macy’s. That left only one explanation.

  I was being tracked.

  I felt for the slight bulge at my waist. A cell phone signal could be tracked by different service towers and then triangulated to find its location. I’d turned my encrypted phone off. No one should be able to pick up a signal that wasn’t there, but maybe with this phone, on or off didn’t matter. Jacob was compromised. Maybe that meant my phone had been compromised as well.

  I fought the urge to toss the damn thing out the window. The phone was vital. Jacob had stressed that more times than I could remember. I couldn’t simply ditch the thing. I had to figure out some other solution.

  And whatever it was, I had to come up with it fast.

  “Take me to 875 North Michigan.”

  “You sure about that? Or you gonna change your mind again?”

  “The meter is running, right?”

  He held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Shut up and drive.”

  I twisted in my seat and looked straight at the SUV.

  It took the next right turn, as I had guessed it would. The driver realized I’d gone around the block for a reason and knew he’d been made. Not that it really mattered. If they were tracking my cell phone, and that was the only thing that made sense, the SUV didn’t have to be riding the cab’s bumper in order to keep tabs on me. He’d catch up soon enough.