“Then he would, too.”
An excerpt from
The next Codename: Chandler thriller by J.A.Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson.
Chandler
“During the execution of a mission, youmay find yourself outnumbered and outgunned,” The Instructor said.“It will be your call whether to continue the operation, or abandonit. Always retain a cool head, and keep personal feelings in check.Once you let emotion control your decisions, you’re dead.”
The handcuffs were Smith & Wesson, gunmetal black. One bracelet was locked around my left wrist. Theother around the aluminum side railing of the hospital bed.
I was in bad shape.
Exhausted.
Hurting in a dozen places.
Emotionally, I felt like a broken piñata,empty, my guts spilling out.
I wanted to rest. I wanted it so badly.
But I had promises to keep.
I reached my free hand into the duffle bag onmy lap, prizing out a pair of my jeans. My fingers squeezed itsseams until I located the bump—a fifty dollar bill, tightly rolledaround a length of wire. I teased out the money, shoved it into thefront pocket, and then used the wire to open the handcuffs.
It took me fifteen seconds to dress in thejeans, a black shirt, and a black pair of Nikes. The cop who hadleft me my clothing, a Chicago Homicide Lieutenant by the name ofJack Daniels, had also taken some socks and underwear from myapartment, but I didn’t want to risk the extra time it would havetaken to put them on. According to her, the place was crawling withpeople who wanted to keep me there. Highly trained governmentpeople, who worked for an agency that didn’t exist.
Just like me.
Though they worked for the same team I did,they followed a different coach. I’d become a liability. Somethingto be debriefed and disposed of.
I had other plans.
Jack had the smarts to also pack a baseballcap and my Ray Bans. I stuck the Cubs hat on my head, keeping thebrim low, and eased the sunglasses onto my face to cover up themany bruises. I’d still be recognized by pros, but hopefully thedisguise would allow me an extra half a second before theyreacted.
In this business, half a second was a verylong time.
The hospital had all the obvious sounds andsmells. Nurses chatting at their station. Intercom calls. Variousbeeping and pinging machines. Soft soled shoes padding alongpolished tile floors. I smelled lemon bleach, antiseptic ointment,body odor, and a lingering stench of powdered eggs—I must havemissed breakfast.
I peeked my head out into the hallway anddidn’t see any men in black or men in uniform. Apparently the onescontrolling the game had thought handcuffs and sedation were enoughto keep me at bay.
Their mistake.
I imagined I was there to visit a sickfriend. Someone who was very ill. I’d been up with him all night,and there wasn’t much hope he’d live. Once the character was in myhead, I adopted her posture, her movements. Shoulders slumped,downtrodden gait, lips pursed to keep from crying. I kept my facepointed toward the floor and headed to the elevator, my eyesdarting back and forth behind my sunglasses, checking my periphery.On my way I passed a patient’s room, caught the snoring, chanced alook and saw a glass vase filled with assorted flowers. I duckedinside, hefted the arrangement. Satisfied by the weight, I took itwith me to the elevator and hit the call button.
According to Jack, my sister was being heldon the sixth floor.
No doubt, they were interrogating her.
No doubt, they weren’t being nice.
I felt a flare of rage, then forced it down.My sister, whom I knew by her codename, Fleming, didn’t have theuse of her legs. I’d known her voice for years but only met herface-to-face recently, not only surprised to have a sister, butsurprised she was my twin.
I was also surprised to discover the depth offeelings I had for her.
The thought of them hurting her…
The rage kicked in again, and I made a fistso hard, I could feel my nails cut into my palm.
Despite my strong feelings, I had to berealistic. Attempting to rescue Fleming was a fool’s game. I’d bekilled, or captured. No two ways about it.
My primary objective was to get out of there,find safe ground. The odds were against me even being able to dothat much. No doubt the exits were being watched, and the onlyweapon I had was a vase of posies.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped into theempty lift, then eyed the buttons.
First floor.
Sixth floor.
1 or 6.
My finger hovered over the 1.
I hit 6.
Fleming
Fleming was in a wheelchair, a generic,hospital model. There were thick Velcro straps around the waist,legs, and arms. The straps hardly seemed necessary. She couldn’trun away. She couldn’t even stand. Fleming had crippled her legsyears ago, while in service to her country.
Now agents from that same country wereholding her prisoner, trying to get her to talk.
Talk? About what? Chandler and I just savedmillions of lives. They should be giving me a medal.
“Who do you work for?” the agent asked,staring down at her. He had a long, pale face, a pointy nose,pointy widow’s peak. Fleming smelled aftershave on him. Old Spice.He wore the typical black suit of a spook, and judging by the waythe other three in the room regarded him, he was obviously top manon the scene.
“We’re on the same side,” Fleming answered.“But that question is on a need to know basis.”
The agent rested his hand on Fleming’sbandaged one—earlier they’d allowed a doctor in to splint herbroken fingers.
They still hurt like hell.
“I need to know,” he said.
“I take orders from two people. One is thePresident.”
“And the other?”
“The other one is not you.” Fleming flashed abright smile.
The man squeezed her hand. Even though thelidocaine hadn’t fully worn off, the pain was instant andoverpowering. Fleming gasped.
“You have no identification,” the man said,maintaining his grip. “No fingerprints on file. No hits on ourfacial recognition software. As far as our government knows, youdon’t exist.” He squeezed harder. “Since you don’t exist, I can doanything I want.”
“Anything?” she grunted.
“Anything.”
“Then you might want to brush your teeth.Smells like you were licking Uncle Sam’s ass.”
The agent released Fleming.
For a few seconds, it
