Flee (2 page)

His
voice was drowned out by my proximity alarm, beeping like crazy on my
countertop next to the Mr. Coffee. I hit the button, and the flatscreen
TV—actually a video monitor—blinked on, my hallway camera showing a man with a
shotgun at the door. Too soon for the duo from the sedan to have gotten up to
the eighth floor, so this was someone new.

 "One…"
Cory said.

The
door was reinforced, solid. But I no longer had time to grab my shoes and
purse. I switched my encrypted cell to silent mode and clipped it to the inside
of my panties, on my hip, then reached for the cordless handset, grabbing it
with my palm, not my fingertips.

"Two…"

A
shotgun blast, from the hall. I felt the vibration in the soles of my bare
feet. The door held. I didn't stick around to see if it would withstand a
second salvo.

"Three…"

 I
pressed the talk button while sprinting for the window.

"It's
me." My breath was even, voice calm, though I could feel my pulse spiking.
I smelled gunpowder, and my own sweat. Background noise on the phone was
standard static and hum. "Let me speak to Kaufmann."

My
blinds were drawn. They always were. I put my back against the wall next to the
window and twisted the rod, levering them open. A shot punched through the pane,
making a small hole without shattering the glass. Sniper round, high velocity.
The fire escape wasn't an option.

"What's
the rush?" Cory said, his deep voice oozing. "We got a lot to catch
up on. It's been twenty years."

"Put
him on, Cory, or I swear I'm hanging up right now.

Kaufmann
spoke, making my feelings temporarily override my brain. His words came out in
a rush. "I'm near the lake he's not alone he has—"

A
slapping sound. Kaufmann being hit. It was repeated, and I heard a grunt of
pain.

I
pushed back the emotion welling up in me, killed it before it could erupt, and
pictured myself encased in a block of ice. Cold. Hard.

"You
ready to talk to me now?" Cory said.

"Yes."

Another
shotgun blast. The door shook and one of the hinges twisted off, shedding a
screw onto the carpeting.

"What
was that sound?" Cory demanded.

Focus.
Stay focused. Too much happening at once.

I
let out a slow breath, falling back on what I was taught.

Process.
Evaluate. Segregate. Then take control of the situation.

"I'm
having phone problems. I may need to call you back."

"If
you hang up this phone, bitch, I'll take some tin snips and—"

I
tuned Cory out, crawling on my knees and elbows under the window, over to the
front door, squatting alongside it.

A
third shot rocked the apartment, making the wall shake. As the door fell inward
I watched the vid monitor on my kitchen counter. The man was hiding on the
right side of the doorway, opposite me, his back pressed to the wall. While the
door was reinforced steel, the wall was plain old wood and plaster. Using the
video monitor as a guide, I placed the barrel of my Glock an inch from the
surface and fired twice. My loads were beryllium copper, and penetrated both
the wall and the assassin's right knee. As he fell forward I was already aiming
through the doorway where his head would appear.

My
third shot ended him.

"—horrible
pain. Do you understand?"

"Yes,"
I said into the phone.

I
went through the doorway, low. My assailant was Caucasian, in his forties,
muscular, dressed in a trench coat, jeans, and black leather gloves. His face
was hard to make out under the damage my bullet had done, but I noticed a scar
trailing from the right corner of his mouth down to his neck. I memorized it.

No
use patting the guy down—he wouldn't be carrying ID. The shotgun wouldn't be
traceable either. I took it anyway, a Remington 11-87, tucking the warm stock
under my armpit and moving in a crouch to the stairwell door. Underneath the
gunpowder haze the hallway smelled faintly of cigarettes. Mrs. Coursey in
Apartment 912. Someone, probably the elderly man in 914, had burned toast
earlier. Animal scents, a dog, from the woman in the apartment above. The
pungent stench of blood as the hitman soaked the floor.

"What
the hell is going on?"

I
whirled, aiming the Glock at my neighbor, Mr. Grant, sticking his head out of
907. This was Chicago, and most people knew when they heard gunfire to not open
their doors.

He
looked at me, looked at my gun, and slid back inside the imaginary safety of
his home. I heard his lock snick into place. Then I held my breath, listening
for other sounds. Mr. Knoll in 910 was watching CNN. I was able to make out the
words
dramatic prison escape
. From the stairwell, muted sounds of
footsteps nearing. One set, heavy, probably the man from the sedan. From behind
me—

"Here
are the instructions," Cory said. "I'll only give these to you once."

—the
elevator reaching my floor.

I
pinched the receiver between my ear and shoulder, freed the shotgun, and held
it by the hot barrel.

The
stairwell footsteps echoed closer, the man jogging up the last flight. Both of
the assassins had to have heard the gunfire, and would alter the strategy
accordingly. That made me alter mine, and I ran to the right, out of the line
of sight of the elevator.

"We
want thirty thousand dollars in US currency. Hundred dollar bills, unmarked."

"Money?
You want ransom for Kaufmann?"

"That's
just for starters."

The
lift doors opened and a familiar green pineapple shape arced out and rolled
into the hallway. Which is what I would have done. Which is why I was ready.

I
stretched the shotgun out. Using it like a mini-golf putter, I swung the stock,
tapping the grenade and rolling it back into the elevator as the doors were
closing.

I
flipped the shotgun, grabbing the grip in the air just as the elevator exploded
and the man came charging low out of the stairwell.

Ears
ringing from the grenade, I didn't hear the next thing Cory said over the phone,
nor did I hear the shotgun go off when I pulled the trigger.

The
buckshot tore off much of the stairwell man's face. I never saw the woman in
the elevator, but this one was dressed in blue coveralls and white latex
gloves. His dead hand still clenched a semi-auto with a suppressor screwed on.

I
did a quick wipe down of the shotgun with my shirt, then discarded it. Spent
gunpowder clogged my throat. I pinched my nose, held my lips closed, and tried
to breathe out, forcing my ears to equalize. I still couldn't hear very well.

"This
connection is terrible," I said into the phone. "You're breaking up."

My
hip buzzed. I startled, whirling around, then remembered my encrypted cell. I
dug it out of my panties.

Now
I had no choice. I couldn't talk to Jacob while listening to Cory's ransom
demands. And Jacob had priority over everything else. I squeezed my eyes shut,
hands shaking, and hit the disconnect button on my land line with my knuckle. I'd
know in a few seconds how Kaufmann suffered for my decision.

"Is
Wanda there?' Jacob asked. I could barely hear him.

I'd
already used the Milan code phrase, so I used the follow-up. "She's
visiting her cousin in Nebraska. Can I take a message?"

"Are
you out of the building yet? The Carmen Sawyer ID is burned. Word from the
Chicago PD is that there are state and federal warrants out on you. I count at
least ten squad cars heading toward your apartment. Two of them are pulling up
right now."

Standard
operating procedure. Someone higher-up trumped up some fake charges so the feds
and local law enforcement brought me in. But were they trying to save me, or
bury me?

I
shook my head. Think. I needed to think. Kaufmann first.

"I
need you to triangulate that call made to my home phone. It's a..." I
groped for the word, "
friend's
cell. Cory kidnapped him. I also
need a DoD backdoor and a direct uplink to an ICU satellite in sync orbit over
Chicago."

"Opening
backdoor…now.
Diciassettesimo papa.
You don't have time to mess around
with Cory right now, Chandler. Wait…what the hell?" Jacob paused, then
said, "How did they find me?"

My
heart rate jumped up an extra twenty beats per minute, and it was already
hovering around 130. "Who found you? What's happening there?"

"Chandler,
they're blowing the main…"

The
phone went dead.
Jacob.
I let out a breath. Nothing I could do about it
at the moment. I hopped over the corpse, tucked away the cell, and stepped into
the hallway. My house handset rang. Cory.

"It
wasn't my fault," I said, trying to keep my breathing steady. "This
damn phone connection."

Kaufmann's
voice was faint, and my hearing still hadn't fully returned, but his words felt
as if they were fired into my head with a machine gun.

"He
cut off one of my fingers."

Everything
I've been taught—all of my training, all of my experience—slipped away. For a
second, I couldn't breathe. I shuddered, rooted to the spot, alone and afraid. "Kaufmann?
Talk to me!"

Cory
came on. "Do your best not to lose the connection again, Carmen. Next time
I'm not going to bother with a finger. I'll take the whole hand. You know I'll
do it. Shit, I'll
enjoy
doing it."

Ice,
I reminded myself. I was ice. So cool I had antifreeze for blood. I unbunched
my jaw, forced back the tears and looked around the stairwell.

Focus.

No
heat in there, making it at least ten degrees cooler than the hallway. Brick
walls, metal stairs, eight steps per flight, two flights between floors. Below,
I heard footfalls. At least five sets, coming up in a hurry. "I'll give
you the money. Whatever you want. Just don't hurt him again."

"Listen
closely, babe. I'll only say this once."

If
that many cops were coming in after me, they must have the exits covered. Getting
arrested meant Kaufmann would die. No doubt Cory was planning on killing him
even if I paid—Cory wasn't known for leaving survivors. But I couldn't help Kaufmann
if I was in custody.

Assuming
whoever set me up would let me live long enough to be taken into custody.

Down
wasn't an option. So I had to go up.

"I'm
listening," I said, controlling my breathing. The steps were cold under my
feet, and I took them two at a time. I could smell stale beer and vomit, probably
courtesy of the college kids from the floor below, and the lemon-scented bleach
John the custodian used to clean it up. The footsteps got louder, more
numerous. Eight cops…no,
nine
…coming up fast. I increased my pace.

"The
sidewalk at eight seventy…"

The
phone hissed static at me.

I'd
gone out of range.

I
stopped, went back down a few steps.

"Please
repeat that. I couldn't hear you." My voice went up an octave, a little
acting but also some real emotion getting out. "Please don't hurt him
again, Cory This goddamn phone—"

"Eight-seventy-five
North Michigan Avenue," he said, irritation in his tone.

I
didn't want Cory to be irritated. I knew what he was capable of.

The
cops were less than three floors down from me. They'd check my apartment first.
But it wouldn't take long to search, and when they didn't find me they'd send a
team upstairs. Could I kill innocent police officers to save Kaufmann?

"Got
it," I whispered. "Eight-seventy-five North Michigan. What time?"

"You'll
have the money in a yellow shoulder bag. Wait there for—"

Static
again. I wanted to smash the phone against the wall, but instead crept down
five more stairs until his voice returned.

"—exactly
three hours from now. If you go to the police, I'll kill him."

Less
than fifteen vertical feet separated me from the police. I could smell the
aftershave on one of them—Lagerfeld—and their body heat and movement had raised
the stairwell temperature two or three degrees.

"Don't
hurt him again," I said, low and firm.

Yelling,
from my floor below. They'd discovered the bodies.

"Miller!
Casey! Check the stairwell!"

Their
footsteps tap-tap-tapped up the stairs, about to round the corner and see me.

"That's
up to you, babe." Cory disconnected.

I
wiped the phone off with my shirt, dropped it, and bolted, moving fast as I
could, bouncing on the balls of my feet, ascending four flights in seven seconds,
coming to the roof access door. I tried the knob. Locked, as expected, and no
time to pick it. On the wall was a fire alarm. I pulled it, the siren filling
the stairwell, then fired my Glock three times at the lock mechanism.