Flee (4 page)

As
my body recovered from fight or flight mode and the adrenaline ebbed, the pain
started becoming a problem, interrupting my focus. I took three aspirin, and
three decongestants. The latter contained a stimulant, pseudoephedrine, and
would keep me alert even though I felt like crashing. I tucked four more of
each pill into my sports bra, then ditched the bottles.

I
was nauseous—a side effect of adrenalin and pain. I waited in line and bought
two double cheeseburgers and two bottles of water, not hungry but uncertain
when I'd have a chance to eat again. I forced everything down while walking
north and figuring out my priorities.

My
disguise was fine for the moment, but it wouldn't hold up to close scrutiny. In
order of importance I needed a weapon, a safe house, a new disguise, and intel.
Then I could start dealing with my problems, which were evading the police and
FBI, figuring out who set me up and was trying to kill me and rescuing Kaufmann.
That meant confronting Cory.

Much
as I wanted to, I couldn't forget I would have to deal with Cory.

I
doubted Cory had anything to do with the hit out on me. First off, he didn't
play well with anyone, other than malleable young girls he'd trained to do
whatever he asked. But even if Cory and I didn't have a history, I'd come to
the same conclusion. If he'd been working with the people who wanted to kill me,
he would have tried to keep me in my apartment. But he got off the phone too
fast and didn't even seem to know I was being shot at. I'd believed Cory couldn't
find me, but I'd forgotten how smart and observant he was. And although it had
been almost twenty years since his trial, he obviously remembered seeing Kaufmann
there the day I'd testified.

There
wasn't a chance I would let Kaufmann's act of support and kindness lead to a
horrible death at Cory's hands.

But
first things first. A weapon, and a safe house.

The
gun would be relatively straightforward. The safe house would be tougher. Both
the cops and the assassins had found my apartment, when only Jacob was supposed
to know where I lived. My name wasn't on the lease, my bills were paid through
various dummy corporations, and if anyone traced the phone they'd get a fake
address in Mundelein. That I'd been found meant a serious breach in security,
and I had no idea how far it went.

The
Carmen Sawyer ID was blown, and so were the bank account and credit cards associated
with it. If the counter-intel went deep enough, my back-up persona might also
be compromised. Most hotels required a driver's license and credit card for
incidentals, and both the good guys and the bad guys had systems in place to
track check-ins.

I
crossed the street and waited for the bus, the burgers dead weight in my
stomach, the aspirin doing shit. My focus cracked and splintered, leaving me
aching, tired, and not thinking about my objectives as I should have been.
Instead images of Kaufmann assaulted me, bleeding and scared with arguably only
two hours and thirty-three minutes left to live.

"Pain means you're alive," The Instructor said. "It's
your body informing you of damage. Attend to the damage when you're able to.
Then, forget the pain. It isn't helpful to you anymore. You're going to learn
some techniques to work through pain, but I'd be lying if I said you'll become
immune. We can teach you to cope with a lot of things. But we can't teach you
to stop hurting. Hurt stops on its own, when you're either healed, or dead."

The
bus dropped me off a block from the
Stretchers
on Laramie
.
It was
the nearest in a chain of women-only fitness clubs. I rented lockers at ten of
their locations, four in the city, three in the suburbs, and three in other
states. The padlocks I used were all a distinctive red color, making them easy
to spot. I didn't have the key, but sewn into every pair of pants, skirt, and
dress I owned was a lock pick and a tension wrench. I didn't invent this system,
and never had to use it before, but now that I was on the run all of this prep
work made me understand how smart it was.

 I
cased the place first, watching for three full minutes from across the street
before approaching. Then I walked past, getting a good look inside the
storefront window. The actual gym was deeper in the building, so I couldn't
check it out. But the lobby was clear except for an employee I recognized as
the one who signed me up. I doubled-back, checking for tails. Finding none, I
went in.

The
interior was cool, the air conditioning humming. I heard faint rock music
coming from the workout area. The Stones,
Paint it Black
. I smelled
lavender air freshener, and cinnamon gum from the woman behind the desk.

"I'm
sorry," I said, twisting my mouth into a smile I wasn't close to feeling. "I
just realized I left my pass at home."

I'd
cut up and thrown away the laminated member pass four minutes after receiving
it.

"Your
name and the last four digits of your social," the woman said without
looking up from her magazine. No doubt half the membership regularly left their
passes at home.

"Darla
Thompson. Seven seven eight eight."

Darla
Thompson wasn't my real name either. It was an unestablished ID used only for
Stretchers
.
Darla didn't have any credit cards, no real address, and since I got the driver's
license out-of-state from a private dealer it lacked the realism of my Carmen
Sawyer and my Betty Richards identities. I paid for the membership and the rental
lockers by money order every six months.

The
woman punched my data into her computer, then checked my face against the archived
photo that appeared on her monitor. I didn't bother taking off my hat or
sunglasses, and she didn't bother to ask. It made me wonder how much money this
place lost from sisters or similar-looking friends sharing memberships.

"Welcome
back, Darla," she smiled, her mouth crooked. "It's been a while."

I
recognized her because I was trained to memorize faces. But for her to have
remembered me out of thousands of members when I hadn't been there for months,
that
was impressive.

Then
I realized my onscreen data probably listed the last time I'd been there, and I
wasn't impressed anymore.

She
pushed a button under the desk, buzzing me through the frosted glass doors.
When I opened them the music tripled in volume, pumping through speakers
embedded in the ceiling. I walked past a Pilates class in progress, the free
weight room, and the circuit training section, and stopped in front of the
locker room.

It
had no door—no men allowed, so one wasn't needed. For the sake of modesty the
entrance turned at a right angle after you walked in, so no one could see
inside. I inhaled, smelling citrus shampoo, sweat, and hairspray. Heard one of
the showers running, but no other sounds.

I
went in with heightened awareness. It was a longshot anyone knew about my
locker here. Supposedly Jacob didn't even know. But it's impossible to be
surprised if you're expecting something to happen.

When
I walked around the privacy wall I stopped again, letting my senses report. Warmer.
Steamier. Bleach and disinfectant mingling with the previous odors. Other than
the woman in shower, it didn't feel like anyone else was around. A quick look
confirmed my guess. No people. No open lockers. No unattended bags or clothes.

I
circled twice to make sure, then discreetly peeked into the bathroom. Someone
was in the shower stall, her feet visible beneath the plastic curtain. The
shampoo scent was stronger and there were suds swirling down the drain between
her toes.

I
quietly found my locker and was taking the picks off my neck when the obvious
hit me.

Where were the showering woman's clothes?

Some
women arrive in their workout gear, so they don't have to change. But those
ladies don't shower here, because it would mean putting on their sweaty clothes
when they finished. Those who changed here usually stripped out of their gear,
showered, then dressed. But they didn't lock up their soiled clothes before
showering. No one was going to steal a stinky tee and pair of yoga pants, and they
were usually left in a heap on the bench or on the sink.

Maybe
this woman was an exception, unlocking her locker, locking up her gear,
showering, then unlocking her locker again.

But
why bother locking up your gear in an empty locker room?

Movement
to my right.

I
dove left just as three shots punched into the wall behind me, catching a faint
glimpse of a wet woman in a black swimsuit holding a suppressed semi-auto.

Silencers
are a myth. Gunpowder explodes, and explosions are loud; too loud for a metal
tube to contain them. What laypeople call silencers are actually suppressors,
which are able to reduce the sound considerably, but it's still louder than a person
clapping their hands together. The rock music, however, coupled with the shower
noise, effectively covered the shots.

Since
I'd acted on instinct and not forethought, I rolled onto my bad shoulder. Agony
stormed through my body, snatching away my breath. My vision blurred. Bright firefly
motes darted and swirled in front of my eyes. I pushed myself onto all fours.
Not able to hold weight, my arm gave way, leaving me to scurry on three limbs.
Sight compromised, I used the shower sound as a compass, imagining the layout
of the room in my head.

The
hitwoman was between me and the exit. An aisle of lockers were to my left. I
guessed I was three yards away from them, and I crossed the distance in less
than three seconds, scooting onto my butt with my back pressed against the cool
metal, a handle jamming into my shoulder and bringing out fresh stars. I shook
my head, willing my sight to return, and noticed peripheral movement on my
right.

I
pushed myself to my feet, half-staggering/half-sprinting into the shower,
hearing two suppressed shots clang into lockers behind me. The temperature went
up a few degrees, water vapor coating my face. My throat was closing up from
fear, but I forced air through it, filling my lungs with steam. My heart rate
was off the charts. I had nowhere else to go, and in a moment the assassin
would corner and kill me.

Bathrooms
don't offer much in the way of weapons. If this had been a private residence, I
could have grabbed the porcelain toilet tank cover to use as a bludgeon, or
smash a mirror and attack with a shard. But public toilets had no tank covers,
and the mirrors were safety glass. The doors to the stall hung on heavy-duty
hinges, impossible for me to remove. Going hand-to-hand against someone with a
gun was a last resort, and even then I only had a five percent chance of success.
With my injured arm, and my spotty vision, I cut those odds to two percent.

That
left one alternative. And a weak one at that.

I
sensed movement behind me but didn't bother to check. The tile floor was wet
with soapy footprints, and I dove forward onto my belly, momentum taking me
past the towel bin and into the shower stall. I snatched a fallen towel as I slid
by, going under the shower curtain, the spurting nozzle drenching my head and
back and compromising my hearing even further.

I
flipped over, onto my butt, onto my knees, the towel getting soaked. Then I was
back on my feet, swirling the towel in my good hand, bursting through the curtain
and raising the dripping cloth like a whip.

I
struck where I assumed the hitwoman would be, at face-level as she was coming
around the corner. It was my best and only chance.

The
towel snapped, cracking like a gunshot… on empty air. She had anticipated my
attack and was already backing out of range, her gun up, the head shot
inevitable.

But
she hesitated.

Just
what I needed. I whipped the towel around again, tossing it at her face and
going in low. I jammed her in the chest with my good shoulder and drove with my
legs.

Her
shot went off over my head, the sound cracking loud in my ears despite the
suppressor.

I
kept moving, forcing her backward two steps—three—four—half on her feet, half
falling. Blood rushed to my ears. I pushed harder, fighting not to slip on the
tile floor.

 Her
backward movement shuddered to an abrupt stop. Her body went limp, sagging in
my grasp. We hit the floor.

I
wound up on top of her, my face pressed to her chest, my arm around her back. I
shifted my arm, snaking her neck under my armpit, ready lean back and snap her
neck, but her head was surprisingly limp. I disengaged, staring at the wet
towel still on her face, a towel that was quickly turning pink. Glancing up, I
realized why—I'd bashed her head into the corner of the sink.

I
kneeled, prying the gun out of her fingers, feeling her wrist as her pulse weakened
and ceased. For a few seconds, I simply panted, waiting for my breathing to
catch up, my heartbeat to slow down. The bright motes swimming in my vision
faded, and I was able to study her body. She was about my height, my size. Her
black bathing suit was a simple one piece, worn for function not flattery. Not
that she needed fashion tricks to look thin and fit. Her body was as honed as
mine.