Flee (14 page)

I
threw on the robe hanging on the bathroom door. Slipping into the master
bedroom, I checked on Kaufmann and rifled through Victor's closet. I pulled out
a pair of silk blouses, one teal, one royal blue. I selected the blue along
with another pair of jeans from Victor's lady friend's collection of clothing.
Pulling them on, I had the urge to ask Victor about her. Were they exclusive?
If he had a woman who stayed here, keeping clothing in his closet as if marking
her territory, why was he flirting with me online, asking me to dinner, having
sex with me on the living room sofa?

I
got dressed, finger combed my hair and let it air dry. Instead of returning to
the kitchen, I headed for Victor's office.

I
sat down at Victor's computer and pushed thoughts of him from my mind. If I
wanted to stay alive, like it or not, I had to concentrate on more than my sex
life. I accessed the Internet drop box and retrieved the fingerprint I'd taken
from the double I'd killed on my way to recover Kaufmann. I doubted I'd get any
closer to an identification than I had with the print from the woman at the
health club, but it was worth a shot. I had very few leads, I had to work them
all.

I
wasn't shocked when the database failed to provide a name. Then the computer
showed a record that I'd already scanned the fingerprint.

Something
must have gone wrong. I entered the first finger print again.

Again
the website failed to give me a match, and it reported the same print had been
entered three times.

I
stared at the screen, quieting the questions pinging through my mind. I asked
the site to compare fingerprints from the first woman I'd killed with the
second.

A
match. An exact match. According to the database, not only did the two hitwomen
look the same, they were the same.

Not
possible.

I'd
killed the woman in the health club. I'd stake my life on it. And that was no
zombie who had almost killed me outside Victor's apartment. So how could they
have the same fingerprints? Two people never had the same whorls, loops and
arches. Even identical twins each had their own prints. Theoretically, even
clones should.

I
stared at the pad of my thumb. I was conscious of time passing, a clock ticking
in the apartment. The hum of the refrigerator. Mozart's low purr as she rubbed
against my leg. Finally I scanned my own print. I hit enter and waited for the
result.

An
exact match.

The
background sounds of the apartment rose like a buzz in my ears. I checked the
results. I made a new scan and checked it again.

Not
only were the two women I'd killed the same person, but I was that person, too.

I
forced myself to breathe. In and out. Slow. Calm. The buzzing started to fade,
and I heard traffic on the street below and water rushing through pipes. I
reached down and scratched Mozart under the collar.

The
phone rang.

Victor's
answering machine picked up on the third ring. "Probably at work. Leave a
message."

Trying
not to notice the little jolt of pleasure I took from the sound of his recorded
voice, I pushed up from the chair. There had to be an explanation for the
fingerprints. I needed to focus on finding it.

The
answering machine beeped. "Chandler, it's me."

My
heartbeat stuttered and for a second, I couldn't breathe. I hadn't seen him
since I'd finished training, but his voice was always in my head.

The Instructor.

"Chandler,
I'm in a car parked out front. We need to talk."

SOME
TIME AGO

"You've been specifically chosen for Project Hydra based on a
specific set of criteria," The Instructor said. "Training will be
challenging. Once you begin, you will not be able to quit. The only way you're
leaving the training facility is in a body bag."

DAY
1

My
room is small, unfurnished except for a bed, a clock, and a dresser for
clothing, which has been provided for me. Fatigues, socks, a belt, combat boots,
green cotton underwear. I read somewhere that the military never issued any
white clothing, because it could be used as a flag to surrender. There was also
a shower, a sink, a toilet. No windows.

I
just arrived from Fort Knox, where I received infantry training after
completing basic. A man met with me the day before graduation. He had no rank
on his uniform, and didn't mention what branch of the military he worked for.
Only that I was picked out of ten thousand possible candidates for a special
branch of service, and if accepted I'd be earning over a hundred thousand
dollars a year.

Ten
minutes after graduation I was on a helicopter. We flew for sixteen hours,
stopping to refuel twice. I noticed we were heading north, but wasn't told of
our final destination. When I landed late in the evening, a man I knew only as The
Instructor met me, took my personal belongings, and showed me my room.

There
is no TV, no radio, no phone. I'm not allowed any contact with the outside
world. The Instructor gave me a pad of paper and a pen, and I was told to write
a journal, even though I won't be allowed to keep it when I leave here.

So
far, The Instructor is the only other person I've seen. He said I wasn't
allowed to tour the compound without permission, and when he left me for the
night, he locked me in.

DAY
2

When
I woke up, I was ordered on a ten kilometer run on a trail around the camp
grounds. Judging from the flat terrain and cool air, I think I'm in the Midwest,
maybe southern Illinois or Ohio. There are barracks, a mess hall, and a few
other buildings, all empty and in disrepair. The compound is split into two
parts, a fence between the halves. The Instructor and I seem to be the only two
people here.

After
the run, I was told I'll be issued a television and required to watch various
videos. After each video, tests will be given.

I
made my own breakfast in the mess hall; powdered eggs, reheated sausage, and
standard Army coffee. Only a few parts of the camp have electricity, powered by
a gas generator.

The
first class of the day was bladed weapons. The Instructor and I sparred for
eight hours, and I learned how to wield and conceal common weapons such as
folding knives and bayonets, along with uncommon ones, such as how to turn a
plastic safety razor into a lethal device. If I still had parents, they'd be
proud.

That
night, after dinner of a sandwich and more coffee, I helped set up a TV and VCR
in my room and was ordered to watch a lesson on speaking Russian.

DAY
3

Weight
training. Another run. Knife and axe throwing. Another Russian video. It's like
being at Rambo camp.

DAY
4

Six
excruciating hours on picking locks. The Instructor seems to have no
personality, no sense of humor. But unlike previous teachers I've had, he has
an infinite amount of patience. I have yet to see him get emotional about
anything.

Maybe
he's a robot.

Another
Russian video, plus a video on Zen Buddhism, of all things.

DAY
7

Too
exhausted to write for the last few days. Running 15k now daily, plus weight
training. Practiced hand-to-hand combat with The Instructor, took a test on
speaking Russian, getting more Russian video lessons.

The
food is sub-par, and it's rather lonely, but I've grown used to that.

I
like it here. 

DAY
12

Finally
met someone new. A short man, older, only spoke Russian. He didn't give his
name. He spent the day teaching me long range sniper techniques. After many
hours, I was able to hit a melon from a kilometer away.

I
wonder what they're training me for.

DAY
14

Haven't
seen The Instructor in a few days, and all of my training is indoors. Once
again I wonder if I'm the only trainee at this camp. If there are others, why
aren't I allowed to see them?

DAY
17

No
more Russian videos. Now it's Mandarin Chinese. Been practicing karate for the
past few days. The Instructor is very good, but I managed to knock him down
twice. He's still all business, completely unemotional.

I've
lost weight but am gaining muscle. My stomach is ripped. I don't think big
biceps on women are sexy, but I can do a hundred pull ups without breaking a
sweat.

DAY
18

I
almost died today.

The
Instructor had been putting me through some balance exercises, and I was told
to climb a pole and walk across a rope strung to an opposite pole. The pole
wasn't very high, only five meters, but once I was up there vertigo kicked in
and I couldn't move.

After
a minute of being frozen, I asked to come back down. The Instructor pulled his
sidearm and said he would shoot me if I didn't get across that rope within the
next ten seconds.

I
took four steps, fell off the rope, and hung onto it.

The
Instructor fired five rounds at me while I crossed to the other pole, hand over
hand. It scared me to the bone. I've never had live rounds fired at me before.
One bullet actually went through my pants cuff.

When
I got to the other side, I couldn't help it. I was crying.

He
calmly reloaded his pistol and ordered me to do it again.

I
went back and forth between those two poles nineteen times before I could
finally walk the rope.

I
think The Instructor might be psychotic.

DAY
19

No
mention was made of him shooting at me. The Russian came back and showed me how
to field strip and reassemble a ridiculous number of guns. We worked for twelve
hours, and then I had two hours of Mandarin lessons.

I'm
wondering if I'll ever get a day off.

DAY
22

Still
no day off, and when I asked The Instructor how long this training will last,
he told me, "As long as it takes."

A
new teacher arrived. This one spoke only Mandarin. No name offered. I knew
enough to understand much of what he said. We spent the day meditating, and he
showed me how to isolate my senses. That night, more Buddhism videos.

DAY
29

After
a week of espionage and surveillance techniques, I got a new teacher. A woman,
older, lacking personality just like The Instructor, whom I haven't seen in a
few days.

The
woman is a pilot. I was put in a flight simulator and taught how to fly a
helicopter.

Again
I'm wondering what I'm being trained for.

DAY
36

I
finally took a Huey up. A real live chopper! I flew over the camp, and for the
first time saw how isolated it was. Nothing but plains, for miles in all
directions.

DAY
59

Haven't
written in a while. Too tired, too busy.

I've
learned so many martial arts they've begun to blend together, though I can
regularly beat The Instructor in most of our hand-to-hand combat sessions.

I'm
an expert sniper now, and can shoot a baseball from a mile away in a crosswind.

My
Russian and Mandarin are improving, and I'm learning French and Arabic.

DAY
65

Instead
of a 20k run this morning, I was taken to a field, given a handgun, and told to
shoot a cow, laying in the nearby field. It has a broken leg, and was wailing
in pain.

I
put two rounds in its head.

Now
I'm wondering how its leg got broken.

DAY
70

Along
with weight training, I've begun to meditate every day. I've learned to slow
down my heart rate, and put my mind into a theta rhythm. This enables me to
hold my breath for over two minutes.

It
also has helped me to really focus my senses, so I have a better idea of what
is going on around me. I'm using my ears more. My nose. It's weird, like being both
tuned in and detached at the same time. I feel more aware of everything.

DAY
76

Skydiving
fucking rocks!

DAY
78

Another
cow. This one was healthy. I was told to kill it, and refused.

Using
an iron rod, The Instructor broke the cow's leg.

When
it began to scream, I put two rounds in the poor creature's head.

DAY
85

I've
been having nightmares about the cow. Other than that, training is going well.
Got a new teacher, this one a Saudi. He taught me how to make IEDs—improvised
explosive devices—out of various materials. Also taught me how to disarm them.