Flee (32 page)

In
her condition, it may as well have been four hundred.

Using
her unbroken thumb, she gingerly prodded at her legs. They were bandaged, but
only to control the bleeding. The wounds were open, some slugs still lodged in
her flesh. They obviously didn’t intend for her to live long enough to heal.

The
last she remembered, she’d been in the restaurant at the top of the Hancock
building. Hammett was shooting her, kicking her. And the Russian, Victor...

Victor
had thrown Chandler from the window.

Fleming
closed her eyes once more. That image was burned onto her retinas, and ten times
worse than any physical pain. Chandler had been everything to Fleming these
last years. Unable to be in the field after her accident, she’d lived through
Chandler. She’d gotten to know her sister better than she’d known anyone.

Fleming
loved her.

And
now she was gone.

Fleming
let the tears come, not even trying to check their flow. But even in her
anguish, she held on to a certainty. If she was the one who'd died, Chandler
would never let those responsible walk away.

And neither will I.

Fleming
had wanted another chance in the field, and she’d gotten it. Now it was up to
her to make Hammett and her Russian stooge pay.

You're an operative. Use your training.

She
continued her exploration of the space. One of the sides of the enclosure
moved--the door... and it wasn’t locked.

Oh, so I'm so harmless you don't even have to lock me in?

Big mistake.

Big fucking mistake.

#
 #  #

Victor
reclines in a white leather swivel chair at the helm, one hand on the wheel,
and navigates the Sea Ray 610 Sundancer across the expansive darkness of Lake
Michigan. The water is choppy, the pickup in wind and rumble in the distance
signaling a storm. Suddenly he’s glad to have the nineteen meter yacht, even if
it is too big for his current needs.

Of
course when he’d arranged for it, he’d assumed he'd be traveling with six more
men. Such a waste, dying so badly.

That's what they get for being incompetent.

He
pulls in a deep breath, double checks his GPS coordinates, and turns up the
state-of-the-art sound system. Rachmaninoff swells through the room.
Passionate. Powerful. Russian. And loud enough to rattle the instrument panel.

This is the life.

He
still wants to kill Hammett and knows she aims to kill him. As he stares
through the windshield and out over the black, undulating water, he imagines
how he’ll do it. A knife would be fun, carving her up, bit by bit, until she
begs him to end it. He’d like to hear Hammett beg. That would be the ultimate
turn-on. And he always had a thing for knives.

Of
course, since it’s Hammett he’s plotting to kill, he’ll probably just shoot
her. He reflexively checks the Glock on his hip.

Yes, shooting is best. Anything else is too risky. I've seen what
she can do.

However
Victor does it, he’s content to leave her alive for now. Now that they have the
transceiver, things are a little more relaxed between them. She did as he told
her, bringing her sister along, and for the past hour, she’s been on the phone
with his tech team, figuring out how the transceiver works, leaving him to
relax and think about what he’ll do next.

He's
a rich man now. He can do whatever he wants.

Hell,
maybe he’ll start off by getting laid.

He
smiles, liking that idea. The only question is which sister does he have a
taste for? Hammett? Or her crippled lookalike below deck?

As
if on cue, Hammett saunters into the cockpit, clad in silk and leather. She is
sexy despite her battered face, or maybe because of it. Her cheeks are flushed
and her eyes gleaming, and for a moment he half-expects her to start stripping
right there. Instead she holds up the transceiver.

He
turns down the music.

"I've
figured out the launch application." Her tongue flicks out, running across
her lower lip. "Let's nuke a city."

#
 #  #

How much did it cost to put teak flooring in a boat?

Fleming
shook her head, hoping to rid herself of inane thoughts. The pain was messing
with her mind. She focused on her senses, trying to concentrate.

She
was in a cabin, a platform bed to her left, stairs to the right. Classical
music came from above deck, Rachmaninoff, no doubt the Russian’s choice, and
she could hear the slap of waves against the bow. Fleming also detected a growl
of thunder, but no rain. At least not yet. She could smell a hint of it on the
air.

Before
she went any further, Fleming had something to do. Something awful. She sucked
up her courage, then took a look at her hand.

Oh... boy.

Two
of her fingers were bent at crazy, unnatural angles and swollen like overcooked
hot dogs. Her thumb, pinky, and ring finger remained unscathed, and if Fleming
bit her lower lip to stop from crying out, she could pinch them together like a
lobster claw.

But
that wouldn't be enough. For her to have a chance, she needed to have a greater
range of motion in her hand.

She
started with her index finger. That one appeared to be in slightly better
shape. At the second knuckle, it bent backward at almost a ninety degree angle.
Fleming moved her hand to the anchor, gripping the digit tightly, squeezing her
eyes shut--

--
this
is going to be bad
--

--and
then bent it the right way.

There
was a sound like a walnut being cracked, and then the wave of pain hit. She had
to turn her head and bite her left biceps to keep from howling. When the worst
of it faded, she peaked a teary eye at her middle finger.

Two
bends in this one, each in opposite directions. It looked like a bruised,
misshapen Z. Fleming knew the thing to do was pull on it to align the bones,
then snap them back into place. But neither of her hands moved.

All pain is temporary. Bad as it gets, I can get through it.

Her
body still refused to obey.

Do it. Just do it, goddamnit.

Such
a small part of the body, a finger. Yet when she tugged it straight, the entire
essence of Fleming's being was reduced to white-hot agony. Her vision swirled,
and then the darkness came in from all sides, making her already-aching head
vibrate like a church bell being rung. The little bones inside her middle
finger were so shattered it reminded Fleming of a beanbag.

She
chanced a look, both hands quivering. Her middle finger was more or less back
into position, but it still needed a lot of work.

There's no way I'm touching that again. I'll make do.

Fleming
dragged herself through the closet door, going from teak flooring to thick
carpet. She sank into the pile like it was deep sand, fighting the weight of
the anchor for every inch. It was slow going, and she needed to be quick. If
Hammett or the Russian discovered she’d escaped the closet, there wasn’t much
she could do to protect herself, let alone bring the hurt to them.

And
she wanted to deliver some hurt.

What
Fleming needed was a weapon.

She
struggled past between the galley and a seating area and stopped at the base of
the stairs, struggling to catch her breath. The seven small steps loomed above
her like Mount Everest. As she sized up the challenge ahead, her gaze rested on
the large cabinet seated into the wall. It was marked Emergency.

Gritting
her teeth, she plopped the anchor on the first step, then dragged her body up
after it. The steps were wood, hard, making her miss the thick pile carpet on the
floor. A chrome handrail framed one side, the perfect height if she’d been
standing. But as things were, it was as good as worthless.

She
mounted the second the same way, then the third and fourth. When she reached
the fifth, she could reach the emergency cabinet. Leaning on one hip, she
gripped the latch.

The
boat rolled hard to the starboard side, almost sending her careening down the
steps. She clung to the anchor with her good hand and tried to quiet her
stomach before reaching for the box again.

This
time she managed to get it open before another heave from the waves. And as she
clung, her eyes locked onto a silver blanket, a waterproof radio and a bright
orange, plastic gun.

That
would do.

She
pulled out the signal gun and loaded a magnesium flare. Fleming had never fired
one before, but the mechanism was simple. Point and shoot.

She
tucked the gun in her waistband and turned her attention to the remaining two
steps. The boat continued to pitch and sway, and the climb seemed to take
forever. With each sound, she braced herself, expecting Hammett or Victor to
suddenly appear and put a bullet in her, ending it all.

Fleming
made it to the deck, lifting the anchor, placing it in front of her, then
dragging her body after.

Lift,
place, drag.

Lift,
place, drag.

Voices
carried on the wind, over music and waves.

She
tucked herself behind a small beverage fridge and strained to hear.

“No,
Victor! I love Paris!” Hammett. Her tone was a mock-whine.

“You
women and Paris.” A man. The Russian, Victor.

“How
about London?” Hammett said. "Rains all the damn time."

“I
can live without London. Do it.”

A
chill ran the length of Fleming’s body. The transceiver. Hammett had figured
out the launching sequence.

And she was launching a nuclear strike on London.

She
struggled to breath.
Please, let me be wrong. Let it not be true.

Once
again, the boat rolled hard to the side, and she held on to the side of the
refrigerator.

If
they were indeed launching a strike, Fleming had to find a way to stop them. No
doubt they were armed. The cheap plastic flare gun in her crooked hand suddenly
seemed like a cruel joke.

“Why
don’t you try to steady this damn boat? I’ll look up the latitude and
longitude.” The heels of Hammett's boots clicked across teak. A second later,
she let out a startled noise. “Oh, hell. That bitch.”

Fleming
gripped the flare gun. She was almost certain the refrigerator blocked her from
their view. Hammett couldn’t have seen her. But if not her, who could she be
talking about?

“What
is it?” A second set of shoes scuffed over the floor, Victor joining Hammett at
the cockpit’s control panel.

“Look
for yourself.”

“Chandler!”
Victor shouted.

Fleming’s
heart stuttered.

“It
can’t be her. It has to be one of those pigeons.”

“You
really think a pigeon is going to fly out over the lake, Victor? It’s Chandler,
and she’s coming right at us.”

#
 #  #

Hammett
grabs a set of binoculars from the cockpit and races out of the deckhouse.

"Hold
her steady!" she yells at Victor through the side windshield. Then she
grips the guardrail and walks along the narrow, port gunwale, stepping onto the
yacht's expansive, twelve meter bow. It's a perfect place to sunbathe, but not
a perfect place to stand during choppy water. Especially wet, and the rain had
begun to fall. She plants her feet and scans the horizon.

The
water churns white behind them, the Chicago skyline barely visible through the
storm clouds rolling east over the lake. She searches the waves in the
direction of the blip, but sees nothing.

Impossible.

She
looks again, sweeping slower this time. Lightning flashes and the rain kicks
up.

“Where
in the hell is she?”

As
soon as the question leaves her lips, Hammett knows the answer. The tracking
devices don’t show height... and they don’t show depth either.

Chandler
is coming at them from under the water. She’s using SCUBA gear. Or, considering
her speed, a submersible.

No problem. I can deal with that.

She
makes her way back into the cockpit and grabs a duffel.

Victor
glanced at her and raises his brows.

“She's
under water,” Hammett tells him. "Kill the engine and let her come."
She pulls two grenades from the bag. “Are there more in the staterooms?”

“Yes,”
he answers, but the lazy bastard doesn’t move his ass off the swivel chair.

“Then
get them, damn it.”

She
grabs the tablet PC out of the duffel before she spins around and returns to
the boat's bow. Chandler’s blip is nearly below them now. Time for Hammett to
give her sister the welcome she deserves.