Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson (15 page)

I put a bullet in his head to ease his
passing.

Then I went back to Pembrooke.

He was awake. And unlike Kirk, he despaired.
He complained. He cried.

He also had two last words.

“Kill me.”

“Doctor,” I said. “Heal thyself.”

I stayed until he crashed and bled out.

My phone was in Pembrooke’s office, along
with my clothing. I took a decon shower before dressing, and then
got to work. I was apparently immune to Ebola, but I didn’t want to
spread the disease to anyone else.

It took me less than an hour to do what
needed to be done.

There was only one final loose end.

Julie.

I tugged my purse over my shoulder. My purse,
with the wire garrote in the strap.

Not such a bad way to go, being strangled
while under sedation.

I went to her, stood at the foot of her
bed.

And I did the only thing I could do.

“
When an operation goes wrong, thorough
cleanup is a must,” The Instructor said. “Your value to the program
depends on few people knowing you exist. If you can’t preserve this
secrecy, others will be called in to clean up for you, and you will
be part of the mess to be cleaned.”

My phone rang when I had the MH-60M Black
Hawk helicopter in the air over the island. I connected it to my
headset and answered the call.

“May I speak to Sheila, please?”

“Sheila is visiting her sister in Pensacola.
Would you like to leave a message?”

“Jesus, Chandler. You’re okay. You scared the
hell out of me.”

I smiled at the relief evident in Jacob’s
slightly robotic tones. “Did you expect anything less?”

“I obviously shouldn’t have.”

I gave him the Cliff’s Notes version of all
that had happened since I’d last talked to him back at the West
30th Street Heliport.

After I’d finished, he was silent for several
beats. “Do you have the vaccine?”

“I am the vaccine,” I said. “From what I
could gather, Pembrooke believed he could use my blood to vaccinate
others.”

“I’ve got an eye in the sky on Plum Island.
Is that you in the chopper?”

“Affirmative.”

“The director?”

“Dead.”

“Any survivors?”

“Negative.”

“You have the medical records?”

“I destroyed them.”

“The computers?”

“Likewise. What’s left is going to burn.”

I stared down at the facility, smoke already
beginning to leak out of the roof. With all of the flammable
chemicals on the premises, the firefighters were going to have a
helluva job putting this one out.

“Ebola is a horrible weapon,” Jacob said.
“One that can’t be controlled, no matter what people like Pembrooke
believed.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” I
hesitated, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“How about the girl?”

I hesitated, feeling sick in the pit of my
stomach, unsure of what to say.

I trusted Jacob.

But more importantly, I needed him.

“She’s with me.”

“She’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“Chandler. This needs to end.”

My conscience was telling me the same thing.
As the Typhoid Mary of Ebola, Julie was too dangerous to exist.

But that didn’t mean I wanted to listen.

Silence stretched so long, I was beginning to
think he’d hung up. Finally he answered.

“There’s the ocean.”

I closed my eyes. I was a trained killer. I
lived with death every day. I dealt it out to others like a losing
hand of poker. As traumatic and horrible as Kirk’s death had been,
that was his reality, too. Kill or be killed. Every day balanced on
the edge of a knife.

It was what we did. It was who we were.

But Julie wasn’t from that world.

She’d never signed up for this. She’d had
this horror forced upon her. Did she really deserve to be cast into
the ocean for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Could I be the one who pushed her from the
aircraft?

“I won’t do it, Jacob. I won’t let them turn
her into a biological weapon, but I won’t kill her either.”

“If you don’t, I’ll have to send someone else
to do it.”

“They’ll have to kill me, too. Do you have
anyone that good?”

“She can never be a part of society.”

“I know.”

“That’s no way for a young girl to live.”

“I know.”

I stared at Julie, sleeping in the back
seat.

“The ocean may be the most humane thing to
do.”

“I know,” I said, trying to swallow the giant
lump in my throat. “I know.”

“
Sometimes,” the Instructor said, “you’ll
do things that will be hard to live with. You might never be able
to forgive yourself. There’s no advice I can give you for when this
happens. I’m sorry.”

The wind off the coast of Maine was as cold
as the water was rough. Between the blue sky, autumn leaves, gray
rock, white lighthouse, and adjoining red keeper’s house, the place
looked as colorful as an image from a postcard.

Picturesque but lonely.

Maine had over sixty lighthouses along its
shores and nearby islands, some so remote that even tourists and
photographers hadn’t discovered them.

This was one.

I hefted box after box out of the fishing
boat I’d rented and set them in the trolley next to the dock. Rails
ran to up the steep, rocky face to the lighthouse and keeper’s
house, an efficient system of delivering supplies that had been in
place for a hundred years. It took me nearly a half hour, but
finally the trolley car was full and my boat was empty.

Except for one box I would deliver
myself.

I lugged it to my hip and started up the
narrow path. The first time I’d been to the lighthouse had been the
summer night after Plum Island. Now the ocean wind carried with it
the crisp slap of fall.

I reached the crest of the hill, my back
slick with sweat and the muscles in my legs pleasantly warm. The
countless blood tests I’d had since contracting Ebola had all shown
I was virus free, and every day since I’d fully appreciated how
alive I felt, how strong.

This had been Jacob’s idea. He and I were
only two of three people in the whole world who knew about it.

The third person opened the screen door and
skipped down the steps, running toward me.

“I didn’t expect you until Saturday,” Julie
said, all smiles.

I set my box on the ground and took her in my
arms. She felt good, and when we finally ended the hug, I had to
blink back a few tears.

Julie looked me over. “Your hair looks
great.”

I raised a hand to my head, still a little
surprised that my tresses no longer reached my shoulders.

“I’m still getting used to it.”

She eyed the box. “You brought me
presents?”

“I have a whole trolley load waiting to be
hauled up.”

Her eyes widened like a little kid at
Christmas. “What did you bring?”

“Supplies, of course. Food, toiletries, that
kind of thing.”

“Anything fun?”

“Of course.”

“Movies? Books?”

I nodded. Loading up boxes of the thrillers
and romantic suspense novels Julie loved had just about broken my
back. I couldn’t wait for the time when e-readers were common and
buying a new book would be as easy as pushing a button.

“I’ve started writing, too. You wouldn’t
believe how fast time flies when I’m busy making up stories.”

It was a relief to see Julie was adapting so
well to her limited life. After our escape, I’d spent two weeks
here with her, helping her adjust. Since then, I’d spent many
sleepless nights worrying about my decision to hide her rather than
cast her into the sea. Now I felt like I could finally breathe a
little deeper.

“I can’t wait to read your stories.”

She grinned. “Maybe I’ll publish them
someday.”

A tentative scratching noise came from the
box at my feet.

“Okay, Chandler. What’s in the box?”

“You really want to know?”

She gave me a pointed look. “Duh.”

“Okay. Open it. Gently.”

She popped open the lid in two seconds
flat.

“Oh my God.” She pulled out the little brown
pup and squeezed him to her chest. “What kind is he?”

“A mutt. He’s a rescue dog.”

“Like me.” She beamed, then the smile faded.
“He won’t get sick, will he?”

“No. Dogs who have been exposed to Ebola
produce antibodies and become immune. Epidemiologists test the
blood of dogs in some areas in the world to trace areas of virus
outbreak.”

I could tell her more, having reassured
myself before bringing the pet to Julie, but she didn’t care. She
was too busy petting the little guy and keeping him from nipping
her fingers.

“I also included some puppy training
books.”

She laughed. “Good idea.”

“All that’s left is for you to name him.”

Her eyebrows bunched together. She opened her
mouth, then closed it without speaking, hugging the squirming puppy
to her chest as if he was everything. And once again I was struck
by how young she was, barely eighteen, this girl who’d seen too
much, who’d been sentenced to live the rest of her life in
isolation.

She leaned forward and kissed the pup’s
head.

“I think I’ll call him Kirk. Do you think
he’d like that?”

I had no idea. When it came to normal life
issues like whether or not he liked dogs, I knew little about
Jonathan Kirk. I had only seen slices of who he was. The brutal
part that enabled him to do unspeakable things for money. The sly
humor. The bravery in the face of death. The love of life that he
was able to reveal, and able to reveal in me. How I never really
knew him, yet missed him so terribly.

“Do you like it, Julie?”

Eyes glistening, she gave a nod.

“Then he would, too.”

An excerpt from

The next Codename: Chandler thriller by J.A.
Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson.

“
During the execution of a mission, you
may find yourself outnumbered and outgunned,” The Instructor said.
“It will be your call whether to continue the operation, or abandon
it. 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, gun
metal black. One bracelet was locked around my left wrist. The
other 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 on
my lap, prizing out a pair of my jeans. My fingers squeezed its
seams until I located the bump—a fifty dollar bill, tightly rolled
around a length of wire. I teased out the money, shoved it into the
front pocket, and then used the wire to open the handcuffs.

It took me fifteen seconds to dress in the
jeans, a black shirt, and a black pair of Nikes. The cop who had
left me my clothing, a Chicago Homicide Lieutenant by the name of
Jack Daniels, had also taken some socks and underwear from my
apartment, but I didn’t want to risk the extra time it would have
taken to put them on. According to her, the place was crawling with
people who wanted to keep me there. Highly trained government
people, 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. Something
to be debriefed and disposed of.

I had other plans.

Jack had the smarts to also pack a baseball
cap and my Ray Bans. I stuck the Cubs hat on my head, keeping the
brim low, and eased the sunglasses onto my face to cover up the
many bruises. I’d still be recognized by pros, but hopefully the
disguise would allow me an extra half a second before they
reacted.

In this business, half a second was a very
long time.

The hospital had all the obvious sounds and
smells. Nurses chatting at their station. Intercom calls. Various
beeping and pinging machines. Soft soled shoes padding along
polished tile floors. I smelled lemon bleach, antiseptic ointment,
body odor, and a lingering stench of powdered eggs—I must have
missed breakfast.

I peeked my head out into the hallway and
didn’t see any men in black or men in uniform. Apparently the ones
controlling the game had thought handcuffs and sedation were enough
to keep me at bay.

Their mistake.

I imagined I was there to visit a sick
friend. 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 my
head, I adopted her posture, her movements. Shoulders slumped,
downtrodden gait, lips pursed to keep from crying. I kept my face
pointed toward the floor and headed to the elevator, my eyes
darting back and forth behind my sunglasses, checking my periphery.
On my way I passed a patient’s room, caught the snoring, chanced a
look and saw a glass vase filled with assorted flowers. I ducked
inside, hefted the arrangement. Satisfied by the weight, I took it
with me to the elevator and hit the call button.