Flee

Copyright © 2010 by Joe Konrath & Ann
Voss Peterson

Cover and art copyright © 2010 by Carl
Graves

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's
imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part
of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the
authors.

January 2011

Not
too long ago...

"Whenever possible, avoid engaging the enemy," The
Instructor said. "If engaged, run. Fighting should be your last resort.
Patriotism has its place, but it costs millions of dollars to train people like
you. You're more valuable than the mission. If things go sour, flee."

This is fun
I typed. Then I hit enter and waited for the reply. It popped up on
my computer screen a moment later.

No pressure,
but are
we ever going to meet IRL?

I
took the last sip from my bottled water and tried to ignore the jitter under my
rib cage.
In real life. He assumes I have one.

I
tossed the empty over my shoulder without looking. The sound it made confirmed
I'd hit the garbage can.

How do I know
you're not some lunatic stalker? Or even worse, weigh eighty pounds more than
your jpg?

I'd
been chatting with Victor9904 almost daily for the past two weeks. I liked him,
and he was the first guy I had ever hooked up with online that I wanted to meet
in person. That alone made me a little nervous. Dating, for me, was
complicated. Except for stretches of time when I was abroad, I kept to a tight
routine. Cruising bars looking for men wasn't part of that routine.

Do you have a
webcam?
he typed.

Another
jitter, this time tougher to ignore. Chatting online was one thing. Letting him
see me was riskier.

Yes. But I haven't
showered yet this morning.

Neither have I. You chicken?

I
smiled.
I don't scare easily.

OK. I'll set up
a private webcam chat room and send you the URL. Give me a minute...

Sounds good.

I
didn't rush to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror, but I may have moved
a little quicker than normal. My dark hair was shorter than I would have preferred,
but it never got in my face and was easy to manage and conceal. I finger combed
it, deemed it fine, and wiped a toast crumb from the corner of my mouth. I was
wearing what I'd slept in, an old tee and some baggy sweat pants. Since I'd
already told him I hadn't showered, changing into nice clothes and putting on
make-up would be disingenuous.

Besides,
if a guy couldn't accept the way a woman looked when she woke up, he wasn't
worth waking up next to.

Not
that I was planning any sleepovers.

Sex,
on the other hand… it had been too long.

I
wandered back to my computer, sat down, and noted my pulse was a tiny bit faster
than normal. My webcam was built into the monitor. I switched on the
application, and a few seconds later Victor IMed me the address. I typed in the
URL, and then there he was, filling my computer screen, smiling boyishly.

He
was actually cuter than his jpg. Blond hair. Strong chin, covered in stubble.
Broad shoulders. Around my age, early thirties, and his blue eyes were several
shades lighter than mine.

He
said something, which I lip-read to be,
Good morning, Carmen. Nice to
finally see you. Are you wearing a Cubs t-shirt?

I
unmuted the picture and adjusted the volume.

"Yes,
I am." I smiled. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Victor
stood up, revealing the White Sox logo on his jersey. Behind him I could make
out a sofa, but the room details were blurry beyond that. With the sound level
up, I heard his cat, a calico named Mozart, meow in the background.

"I'm
a season ticket holder." His voice was deep, rich, pure Chicago
south-side. He sat down, grinning. "But I'm willing to work through this
if you are."

I
shook my head, feigning disapproval. "I dunno. Season tickets? I'm not
sure I could get over something like that."

"Are
you asking me to give up the Sox when we haven't even had a first date yet?"

"If
I did ask, what would you say?"

He
rubbed his chin. "On one hand, I don't want you to think I'm a pushover.
On the other hand, if this is what you look like before a shower, giving up the
Sox doesn't seem like that big a sacrifice."

I
granted him a smile for that one. "You should see me juggle."

We
stared at each other for a few seconds.

"This
is the first time I've ever used a webcam for something other than business."
He leaned forward, like we were talking over a coffee table. "It's weird. Intimate,
but distant at the same time."

"I
agree." I took a breath and a plunge. "Dinner would be better, I
think."

"Are
you free tonight?"

I
pretended to consider it. "Yes."

"I
could pick you up. Have we reached a level of trust where you're willing to
tell me where you live?"

"Let's
meet someplace." Only one person in the world actually knew where I lived,
and I wanted to keep it that way.

"You
like German food, right?"

I
nodded, remembering I'd mentioned that during our very first text chat.

"How
about Mirabel's on Addison?" he said. "Six o'clock?"

"Looking
forward to it."

"Me,
too. But now it's almost nine, and I'm on call. Gotta get ready for work."

"Off
to save some lives?"

"I'm
hoping for a slow day. Maybe I'll get lucky and no one in Chi-town will dial
911 during my shift. But if I do have to heroically spring into action,"
he winked at me, "I'll be ready."

"See
you later, Victor."

"See
you, Carmen."

He
switched off the camera. I initiated my tracking software, locating his IP
address. It was the same one he always used. Previously, I'd hacked his ISP and
gotten his billing information, and from there it had been easy to run a
background check. Victor Cormack, as far as I could research using both public
and private records, had been telling me the truth about his job, his education,
his past. On the surface, he was a normal, average person.

But
anyone checking out my identity would assume the same about me.

I
erased my Internet footsteps, deleting cookies, clearing the cache, and
reformatting the C drive. A pain in the ass to do every time I went online, but
a necessary one. Then I wiped the keyboard clean with a spritz of Windex and began
my morning work-out.

Halfway
into it, my encrypted cell phone rang. I finished my two-hundred thirty-ninth
push-up, slid the sweaty bangs off my eyebrows with my forearm, and padded over
to the breakfast bar to answer it. Only one person—the same person who knew my
address—had this number. A call meant work. And work couldn't be refused. The
phone was even waterproof so I could take it into the shower.

I
hit the connect button on the touch screen and waited, habit making me tune in
to my surroundings. I could smell traces of the green pepper omelet and wheat
toast I'd had for breakfast, along with a slightly sour odor coming from the sink
telling me dishes needed to be done. The ambient sounds were unremarkable; the
thermostat kicking on, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of a wall clock hanging
over my computer, pigeons warbling outside.

"Is
Velma there?" The familiar voice was digitally altered and sounded
slightly robotic. I've never heard his real voice, never met the man it
belonged to.

I
closed my eyes, shutting off part of me. The part that had just chatted with
Victor. The part that was going to go shopping later for a new pair of running
shoes. The part that read books and watched television and was normal as normal
could be.

Then
I slipped into the other part.

"Velma's
on vacation in Milan, can I take a message?"

A
pause, then, "It's over, Chandler."

"Jacob?
What's over?"

Jacob
wasn't his real name any more than mine was Chandler.

"We're
over. Blown."

I
processed this. "I thought no one knew—"

"Things
have gotten ugly, fast. You need to go to ground. I'll contact you at oh ten
thirty hours."

My
skin prickled.
Go to ground.
This was bad.

"How
long do I have?"

"Five
minutes. Maybe less. And… I assume you know about Cory."

That's
a name I hadn't heard in a while. The fact that I'd never discussed Cory with
Jacob, or pretty much anyone else, didn't faze me. Jacob knew everything about
everyone.

"I
know that two weeks ago he killed four guards and escaped maximum security,"
I said, reflexively checking the front door. "I've been keeping an eye out
for him, but he doesn't know where I live or my current name."

"I'm
looking at a satellite image of your building. A black sedan just double parked
in front. Two people, a man and a woman. Infrared coming back… they're both
armed. Get out, now. And don't answer your phone, it's about to ring."

My
normal phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Kaufmann, calling three days
before his scheduled time.

"Oh
ten-thirty," I said to Jacob, hanging up.

Kaufmann
would have to wait.

Training
took over, sparing me the indecisiveness inherently brought on by panic. The
innumerable days of practicing insertion and extraction, fight and flight, and
the prep work necessary to execute flawlessly, constituted ninety percent of my
job.

The
other ten percent involved action; the implementation of what I'd learned and
planned for.

The
pair would split up, one taking the elevator, one the stairs. If they had
intel—and they must have to know where I lived—they'd be aware of the fire escape
outside my window, and a second team would be covering it.

I
made an instant mental checklist, the things I needed in the order I needed
them. Weapon, then shoes, then purse. The house was clean; nothing to burn me
here. I wore sweats and an old tee. I pinched the waistband, felt the
ever-present strip of wire. Then I leaned over the sink, reached behind the
refrigerator, and yanked the Glock 19 off the Velcro strip that held it there.

The
phone rang a final time, the answering machine picking up.

"You've reached Carmen Sawyer's phone."
That wasn't my real name either.
"I'm not available right
now, so please leave a message."

"Hiya,
babe. It's been a while." The voice on my machine was male, deep, predatory.
A voice I'd hoped to never hear again. "Carmen, huh? That's cute. Well,
Carmen
,
I got your buddy, Mr. Kaufmann, with me. If you don't do exactly what I say, he
dies."

My
concentration fizzled, interrupted by a mental picture of Kaufmann's kind face.
That image was replaced by Cory's cruel sneer.

Somehow
the bastard had found me.

"Pick
up the phone, babe." The tone was soft, almost seductive. I could tell the
bastard was grinning. "If you don't pick up within three seconds, I'm
cutting Kaufmann's—"