Flee (26 page)

Well,
deeper
shit. Things were pretty dire already.

I
finished up with Ludlam, then got to work on Follett. She only had seven
fingers, the explosion apparently having taken care of the other three.

"Found
her," Fleming called out. Less than a minute later it was followed by, "Someone's
coming."

I
snipped off the last digit and placed it in a plastic baggie. Then I scanned
the nearby table, looking for paperwork. Jack had said one of my sisters had
been printed. I needed to find the card and—

"Well...
look at what we have here."

I
spun, looking at the cop who had just walked into the autopsy suite. He was
mid-forties, unshaven, his uniform a bit too tight around his belly and badly
in need of ironing. He wore a leer normally reserved for striptease venues.

"Can
I help you, Officer?" I asked, using my polite voice.

"You've
got to be one of the cutest doctors I've ever seen. I may have to call heaven,
see if Jesus filled an MAR." He winked. "A Missing Angel Report."

Normally
I didn't tolerate the loud, obnoxious type. But seeing as how I was
impersonating a doctor, it wasn't in my best interest to piss off a cop.

"Looks
like we're both working late," I said. "You here for take-out or
delivery?"

He
smiled wide. "Neither. Just needed to check up on a case."

"Don't
let me keep you." I  gave him a quick, saccharine grin, then stuck a
scalpel into Ludlam's Y incision with more verve than I felt.

Horny
Cop didn't take the hint. "Say, that's some hottie you got there on the
table. You know who she looks like?"

I
tensed, waiting for the obvious, pre-thinking my next move.

"That
chick who played in
Tomb Raider
," he continued. "Smaller tits,
though. And paler. And not nearly as active. You don't mind if I observe, do
you?"

"Be
my guest." I offered a crocodile smile and yanked out Ludlam's stomach by
the esophagus.

"Hey,
lookie here, another cutie. Nice wheels, Doc."

I
glanced up and noticed Fleming had her hands on her armrests, right on top of
the rifle barrels. I gave her a discreet head shake, imploring her not to shoot
him.

"You
guys related? You look kinda alike. Except for the wheelchair thing."

"We're
sisters," I said, palpating Ludlum's duodenum.

"Sisters.
That's hot. So would it be out of line if I asked you guys out?"

Is he serious?

"Are
you serious?" Fleming asked.

"Yeah.
It would be like a double date, but just me and you two. I've always wanted to
date sisters. It's on my checklist of things to do before I die."

"I'm
afraid you're not going to be able to check that one off," Fleming said,
eyes mean and hands squeezing her rails.

I
needed to diffuse this fast, before we had to dispose of another body.

"You're
ten kinds of sexy," the cop said to Fleming. "I like a woman who can't
run away."

Then
again, a morgue was a pretty good place for body disposal.

"You
are the biggest, rudest—"

"Let's
cut the crap here, ladies," the cop said, interrupting her. "I know
you two aren't doctors. You, Wheels, were snipping off someone's fingers when I
came in. And you, Dr. Incompetent, you're apparently practicing for the movie
World's
Worst Autopsies
. You hold that scalpel like it's some guy's johnson. Which,
I admit, is arousing, but not very effective."

Shit.
Now we probably had to kill him.

"But
all that is none of my business," he went on, "and I certainly wouldn't
use my authority to force you both to go out with me. On Thursday night, say
eightish. I have tickets to the game. Box seats. That means I give you the
seat, you show me the box."

"Look,
Officer..." I squinted at the name on his shirt, "
McGlade.
We
really have a lot of work to do here and—"

"Your
badge is plastic," Fleming said.

McGlade
nodded. "Yeah. They took my real one when they kicked me off the force.
The uniform still fits, though. Mostly. I'm in the private sector now." He
gave me what he probably thought was his serious face. In reality, he looked
constipated. "I'm here to check on a teenager. Suicide. Parents suspect
foul play. I snuck in to take a look. So what's your story? Some sort of creepy,
sister-on-sister necrophilia stuff? Because that's hot."

I
glanced at Fleming, who mouthed,
Let me shoot him
.

"Here's
the thing, McGlade..."

"Call
me Harry."

"...I
know I speak for both me and my sister when I say we don't find you attractive."

"I'm
also rich. They made a TV series about me."

"And
we're so very happy for you. But we've got some shit that needs to get done,
you've got that suicide thing to work on, and the chances of us ever hooking up
are less than zero."

"That's
cool," he said. "So how about I pay you each two hundred bucks to
French kiss?"

"You
can leave now, McGlade."

He
threw a salute. "Message received. And if you change your mind, just
Google me. Reference this morgue thing, though, so I remember. I ask a lot of
women out."

He
shot me with his index finger, did the same to Fleming, and then strutted out
of there like a delusional peacock.

"I
almost killed him about four different times," Fleming said. "You
know, I actually saw his TV show.
Fatal Autonomy
. I don't even know what
that title means."

"Did
you get the chip from Forsyth?" I asked, getting us back on track.

"Not
yet."

"I'll
do Follett and meet you there."

When
I was finished, I tucked both trackers in the plastic bag, then helped Fleming
remove the third from Forsyth. We dodged a winking Harry McGlade and got the
hell out of the morgue.

Our
next stop was the Hancock Building, to retrieve my phone.

But…

I
checked my PC and saw two blips. Me, Fleming, and my dead sisters constituted
one of them. The other, Hammett, was a mile distant and heading this way.  If
she was still after me, it was a good indicator she hadn't found the
transceiver yet. I guessed she was with Victor, and who knew how many of his men.

Fortunately,
I had a plan to throw them off our trail.

"Have
you ever been to Buckingham Fountain?" I asked Fleming.

"When defeating the enemy isn't possible," The Instructor
said, "confusing the enemy is the next best thing."

Hammett
stares at the screen of her tablet PC, unsure of what is happening. Normally,
depending on how closely she zooms into the map, there are anywhere from five
to seven blips, each representing one of the sisters.

But
now there are only two. Hers, and another.

Hammett
has no idea what this means. But she's about to find out. Driving in a cargo
van with Victor and his thugs, she's closing in on the mysterious second blip. "Turn
here," she orders.

When
she gets within ten blocks, the blip begins to move east. They fall into
pursuit.

So
far, this op has been a catastrophe. One fuck-up after another. It had all been
so eloquently planned, too. Thought-out down to the smallest detail. The only wild
card was Chandler.

And
what a wild card that turned out to be.

Hammett
hasn't heard from Clancy, and can only assume she's the latest casualty.

It's
a shame. The Hydra Project had been a wonderful idea, and might have still had
a few good years left. Hammett easily imagined controlling a crime syndicate
with her sisters. Or staging a coup and running a small country. But their
deaths put an end to any future plans.

Fortunately
those plans paled in comparison to acquiring the transceiver.

Victor
believes his people will have access to the phone. He even has a team of
scientists lined up to reverse-engineer it. They care less about its nuclear capabilities
and more about its encryption, which is supposedly unbreakable. At least that's
his story. Hammett assumes Victor will kill her as soon as the transceiver's
delivery is assured.

She
assumes this, because she plans to do the same to him. Him and his tiny prick.

Hammett
allows herself a smile. For now she and Victor are the best of allies, joining
forces to reach a mutually beneficial end.

Victor
takes the PC from her. He is so keyed up, he's nearly vibrating.

"It
appears they've stopped," he says. "At the Buckingham Fountain."

"Let
me see."

He
tilts the screen toward her, offering a glimpse. She grabs the PC from his
hands, eyes on the now stationary blip.

Victor
orders his man to turn onto Columbus Avenue, the street flanking Grant Park.
The night is cool and only a couple dozen people mill around the fountain to
watch its nightly light show. Classical music jangles through the air,
accompanying the dance of water lighted from all sides, turning the fountain
into a rainbow of color. Vapor rises into the cold night, giving the Chicago
landmark a dream-like quality.

"What's
happening?" Victor asks, leaning close to Hammett and eyeing the tablet
PC.

In
front of their eyes, the single blip becomes four distinct blips, separating in
different directions.

Victor
gestures to the driver. "Pull over."

They
pull the van up onto the sidewalk and quickly pour out onto the park grounds,
guns concealed in jackets, eyes alert for anyone who looks like Hammett. The
gravel on the path around the fountain crunches under combat boots, pigeons
scattering at their approach, and Hammett holds the PC in front of her like a
talisman, tracking the nearest blip. It's close, moving slowly, erratically.
The other three have dispersed, fleeing to other parts of the city.

 Hammett
zooms in to the maximum resolution of the tracking map, wondering why the
powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, gave each of the Hydra sisters an
identical chip, rather than a unique one that could be linked to a specific
identity. Of course, that was years ago, and technology wasn't as advanced as—

"There!"

Victor,
the fool, whips out his gun in public. Several spectators turn and stare at
them with wide eyes. Hammett combs the small crowd, trying to focus into the
darkness and pick out the familiar shape of a sister. But there's nothing
there. Nothing but—

"Pigeons,"
Hammett says. She checks the tablet, then confirms it with a forward glance. There's
a loft of pigeons ahead, dozens of them, feasting on what appears to be small,
bloody pieces of steak.

Correction.
She spies a bird with something in its beak. Something that is quite obviously
a piece of a human finger.  

Hammett
laughs, so loudly and profusely that she disturbs the loft, which takes flight
and spreads out over Chicago.

"What's
going on?" Victor asks.

"This
bird has flown," Hammett says.

"What?"

"Your
piece of ass. She played us. Played us good."

"What
are you talking about?"

Hammett
realizes her laughter has attracted even more attention, people backing away as
if afraid she has lost her mind. She turns to Victor, her mood suddenly souring.
"Put your gun away, you idiot."

He
tucks it back inside his jacket. Hammett folds her arms, tries to concentrate,
but anger clouds her thoughts. Staring at the PC again, she resists the urge to
throw it into the dancing waters of Buckingham Fountain. Instead she looks at
the blip moving north on the screen, and then gazes in at the Magnificent Mile,
all lit up along Michigan Avenue. Chandler had been telling the truth about the
Hancock Building. They hadn't found the transceiver, but that didn't mean it
wasn't there.

"Call
your men. We're going back to the 96th Floor."

Victor's
brow furrowed. "My superiors—"

"Fuck
your superiors," Hammett said. "You either come with me, or you go
back to them empty-handed. Now move your ass,
comrade
."

Hammett
strides back to the van, indulging in a private smile. It has been so long
since she's faced any sort of challenge. Tragic as the current events have
been, she has to admit, she's having fun.

Almost
as much fun as it will be to launch one of those nukes on some unsuspecting
country, once she gets the transceiver.

After
all, what's the point of having ultimate power, unless you exercise it?

"Always prepare for the worst," The Instructor said. "Because
the worst is usually what happens."