J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson
She’s an elite spy, working for an agency so secret only three people know it exists. Trained by the best of the best, she has honed her body, her instincts, and her intellect to become the perfect weapon.
CODENAME: CHANDLER
Before special operative Chandler was forced to FLEE, she executd the most difficult missions—and most dangerous people—for the government. So when she’s tasked with saving a VIP’s daughter from human traffickers, Chandler expects the operation to be by the numbers…until she uncovers a secret that will endanger the entire population of New York City, and possibly the world.
EXPOSED
JA Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson
Her eyes open to the steady
She’s in a hospital bed. Alone. Wearing one of those flimsy gowns.
She has no idea how she got here.
An overdose? Did she take too many downs?
She concentrates, tries to remember.
Her last memory is of …
Of what?
Walking somewhere. To the dealer?
No. To the free clinic. Ashamed, hoping her STD was something that could be treated with a pill.
She talked to three different doctors. They took her blood. Made her wait a long time.
And then …
A shot. They gave her a shot. She touches the spot on her arm, then notices the IV tube snaking from the back of her hand, the sensor pads stuck to her chest.
They gave her a shot, and now she’s in the hospital?
She glances around the room. White walls, no window, not even a television. This place doesn’t smell like a hospital. It smells like a garage.
Where is she?
She looks for a call button, can’t find one, and then begins to yell for the nurse.
She yells several times.
No one comes.
Was anyone there at all?
She sits up, feeling absolutely normal. No pain beyond the tug of the needle in her hand. No dizziness. So why is she here?
“Someone answer me!”
No answer.
She’s thirsty. She has to pee. She needs to know what’s going on.
Using her fingernails, she picks the edge of the tape on her hand, then peels it back and tugs out the IV, wincing as the blood beads up. Then she reaches under her gown and tears the sticky pads from her skin.
The machine by her bed stops beeping, giving way to a sustained tone. Like someone just died.
Still no one comes.
There’s a drawer next to the bed, but her clothes aren’t in it.
She stands, the white tile cold under her bare feet, and pads over to the door.
Opens it.
This isn’t a hospital.
It’s a warehouse. A big warehouse, with concrete floors, steel walls, forty-foot ceilings. There are pieces of medical equipment on carts, several tables and chairs, some cages along the far wall, and …
Oh, sweet Lord.
Dead people.
Lots and lots of dead people.
Many are in white lab coats, stained with blood. Others are in what look like military fatigues, equally soaked in red.
A dozen. Maybe more. Lying on the ground. Propped against a chair. Sprawled out on a table. Two crimson figures, arms around one another, bruised faces forever frozen in agony.
Then the smell hits her.
She chokes back a sob and begins to run, past the cages, which are filled with—dead monkeys?—heading for a door at the other side of the building, praying it isn’t locked, skidding to a stop when it suddenly opens wide and
