Flee (27 page)

When
I was growing up, my wicked stepfather used to call pigeons
rats with wings
.
While I didn't share that sentiment, pigeons were undeniably scavengers, and
they had made quick work of the fingertips and the tracking devices, gobbling
them up with rat-like efficiency.

"You
know what you just did?" Fleming said, pulling the Hummer onto Columbus
and heading north.

"What?"

"You
killed two birds with one stone."

I
allowed myself a small smile, then turned my attention to the substantial armory
Fleming had in the back of the truck. I packed a rucksack with two Sig Arms
P220 Combat Pistols, loaded, and four eight-round magazines. I also added an
M18 green smoke grenade, and a Taser M26.

"Is
this Tec-9 converted?" I asked, holding up a submachine gun slightly
bigger than one of the Sigs.

"Full-auto,"
Fleming said. "Squeeze the trigger and it fires a thousand rounds a
minute."

I
didn't see any 1000 round magazines, but I found some thirty-round sticks. I
put the Tec-9 and the mags in the sack. I also strapped a wicked-looking
Mercworx VORAX double-edged combat knife to my right calf under my pants leg,
using a Velcro holster. On my left leg went a retractable police asp. It
weighed about half a kilogram, and when fully extended was over two feet long.

"You've
got a full case of M67s back here," I said, eyeing a crate of hand
grenades.

"Leave
them. If one explodes on the 96th floor, it would blow out windows, and the
cross breeze could sweep us outside. Or worse, it might cause some structural
damage."

I
left them. A moment later, Fleming hit a pothole, making the crate bounce. I
winced.

"You
sure it's safe to drive like that when you've got all of this ordnance back
here?"

"If
you're worried, you could sit up here where it's safe."

If
the Humvee blew up, I doubted anywhere within a hundred meters would be safe.
But I climbed into the passenger seat just the same.

"Maybe
I can drive on the way back?"

"Sure.
And there's an extra key in the trailer hitch in back, under the tow ball, just
in case."

I
knew what
just in case
meant. Just in case Fleming didn't make it.

I
didn't like that scenario at all.

We
arrived at the Hancock Center a few minutes later. As we drove up the spiral
ramp to the parking levels, my thoughts drifted to Kaufmann. Earlier that day,
we'd escaped the men in the black SUV on this ramp.  It seemed so long
ago.

So
much had changed since then.

And
yet, everything remained the same.

The
Instructor once told me that the game never changes, only the players.

Poor
Kaufmann. Poor goddamn Kaufmann.

The
sixth floor parking lot was closed, so Fleming parked on the fifth, the wide
Hummer taking up two spaces. She crawled into the back seat with me, opened the
rear door, and set her wheelchair onto the concrete. As she lowered herself
into it, her right foot snagged on the door handle.

"Ow..."

"You
can feel that?" I asked.

She
shot me a look. "I'm maimed, not paralyzed."

I
wondered what the true extent of her injuries were. "So, can you walk?"

"Walking
is for suckers," Fleming said. "But I can swim like a son of a bitch."

"Can
you—"

"Enough
about me. Get your mind on op. We take separate elevators. I cover them. You
get the transceiver. If things go sour we'll rendezvous in the lobby of the
Congress Hotel at oh-eleven-hundred. Oh, and I almost forgot." She pulled
something from her pocket and dropped it in my hand.

It
was a cell phone and an accompanying Bluetooth earpiece no bigger than my
pinky.

"How
far we've come," I said. "Remember those big radio headsets?"

She
nodded and pulled a matching set out of another pocket. "These are trac
phones, never used before, bought them at a drugstore. I already synced the
earpieces."

Pushing
my hair back, I screwed mine into my ear and watched Fleming call me. A moment
later I heard the ringing.

"Tap
the button to answer."

I
did. "Hello? Can you hear me?"

Fleming
made a face. "Of course I can hear you. I'm standing right in front of
you."

She
attached her earpiece and rolled a few meters away.

"What's
Hammett's position?" her voice said in my ear.

I
checked the PC blips. One was moving in a straight line toward us. "She's
seven blocks away, approaching fast. We have a few minutes at most."

"Then
let's move."

I
stuck the tablet in the rucksack, and we took the parking elevator down to the
lobby. The place still smelled like dusty marble, but now the scent was
overlaid by the odor of human stress. Several cops dotted the lobby, talking to
a handful of people, and the Best Buy was closed off.

The
building had been a hot bed of activity today, and after the mess I'd caused
earlier, I expected extra security. Of course, Hammett and Victor had just
left. I could only guess what they'd been up to.

I
circled to the tiny express elevators to the top floors, Fleming rolling behind
me. We ran into more cops before we reached them. A man with short blond hair
and the black suit of the Signature Room held up a hand, his gaze hovering
somewhere to the side of Fleming, as if too uncomfortable to look directly at
the woman in the wheelchair. "Sorry ladies. The upper floors are closed."

"But
we have a reservation," Fleming said.

"The
restaurant and lounge are closed for the evening. We are very sorry. If you'd
like, I can rebook a table for you, say for tomorrow night?"

"What
happened?" I asked, shifting the rucksack behind me and hoping he'd just
think it was the latest style of oversized handbag. I had no doubt that
whatever had closed the top floors was Hammett's doing.

"There
was a bomb threat earlier."

"Don't
worry." He shifted his gaze up to me, whether trying to be polite and
address us both or avoiding the handicapped woman, I couldn't tell. "It
seems the threat was bogus, but..." He narrowed his eyes.

Oh, hell
.

"You
look familiar."

"I
have one of those faces."

I
turned to push Fleming's chair, but she was already heading in the other
direction. I hurried to keep up.

I
remembered the women I'd followed this morning when I'd been looking for a
place to stash the phone. I was fairly certain the elevators they'd first
approached had led to residential floors, the floors immediately under the
restaurant and observation deck. I motioned to Fleming. "This way."

We
ducked behind a planter just in time to avoid two officers, then made a dash in
the direction of the residential elevators.

A
short, squat woman wearing a black vest and pants stood in front of the
elevator banks. From first glance, she seemed to be armed with a radio, a name
tag and nothing more. Noticing our approach, she glanced up. "May I help
you?"

"I
got this," Fleming said out of the side of her mouth. She tapped her right
ear, referencing the earpiece we each wore. "Meet you at the Congress."

Then
she rolled up to the security guard, hit the brakes on her chair, and flopped
onto the floor. She began to writhe around and moan, a definite Oscar-worthy
performance.

As
the guard rushed to her aid, I slipped past. I hit the up button and stepped
into an open lift. The buttons went up to 90, so that's the one I pressed.

I
caught one last glimpse of Fleming, laying on the ground, her eyes rolled back
in her head, and then the door closed. The elevator lurched, then took off on
its ascent.

I
forced myself to breathe, to concentrate. I took out the tablet PC and saw that
Hammett had arrived. Once she entered the building, I wouldn't be able to tell
which floor she was on. The computer would be all but worthless to me. I stowed
it back in my rucksack and strapped the Tec-9 across my shoulders. I stuck
extra magazines for that, and the .45s, into every available pocket of my
jeans, and then jacked a round into the Sig and held it alongside my body.

Watching
the numbers climb, I focused on slow breaths and equalizing the pressure in my
ears. This elevator was much slower than the express, and I hoped it wouldn't
stop before reaching my floor. My appearance would probably unnerve a civilian.

Luckily,
the car took me all the way to the ninetieth floor. The bell chimed, the door
parted, and I stepped into the hall, gun at the ready.

#
 #  #

"When
we get there, Chandler is mine. I don't want you messing things up."

Victor
ignores Hammett and feeds the full magazine into the Brugger & Thomet MP9.
Aware of the glitzy shops of the Magnificent Mile whizzing outside the van, he
longs to open up on unsuspecting shoppers at nine hundred rounds per minute. He's
been living in America for too long, and he's had enough. Americans are lazy,
ignorant pigs who think they are entitled to all that is good in the world.
More than anything, he has thirsted for this moment, his chance to set them
straight.

Too
bad he can't start with Hammett.

"I've
provided money and men," he says, a temple of infinite patience. "I've
done my part. You promised to deliver the transceiver."

"Your
part? What was your part? Fucking my sister?"

"She's
a better fuck than you are. Apparently she's better at everything else as well."

He
says it to get her to shut up, but realizes it is true. Hammett, sexy as she
is, didn't even seem to realize he was in the same room as her when they made
love. She used him like a piece of gym equipment. At least Chandler seemed to
want to please him.

Of
course, he doubted that would be the case now, especially after the whole
torture thing. But if she came out of this alive, he'd take her along with the
transceiver. He could have fun with her, at least for a little while.

Hammett,
he'll dump in the lake as soon as the prize is in hand.

In
the back, his men pretend they didn't hear, but Victor can feel them grin.

He
is going to enjoy killing her.

"Let
us out here," Hammett orders. She turns to Victor. "I'll go after
Chandler. You watch for the police. Try not to fuck it up."

Victor
clenches his jaw and doesn't answer. He is the one giving orders. He is the one
who found the investors. He is the one who gets the transceiver when it's all
over. Somehow the bitch always forgets she depends on him.

The
van stops. He, Hammett and his men jump out. Best case, they find Chandler,
find the transceiver, and escape without a shot being fired.

Worst
case, they'll draw attention to themselves, and people will have to die.

Victor
smiles privately, his hand gripping the MP9.

Worst
case doesn't seem bad at all.

#
 #  #

Leading
with the Sig, I stepped out of the elevator and into a wide hall.  Various
prints depicting Chicago hung on the walls, and my feet sunk into plush
carpeting. The air smelled of lavender and money. No telling how much it cost
to live in a landmark like the John Hancock building, but my nose told me the
people who made this their home rarely stooped to do something as middle class
as cook dinner.

The
sound of strings filtered into the hall from the closest condo.
The Jupiter
Symphony
, if I remembered my Mozart. No one was in the hall. Hopefully the
late hour would keep it that way, at least until I could find the stairs.

Picturing
the layout of the Signature Room above, I headed left. Sure enough, the third
door I passed was marked
Fire Exit
. I ducked inside, the alarm ringing
briefly. Springing on the balls of my feet, I started up the remaining five
flights.

I
reached the top, my heart rate slightly elevated, and pushed into the restaurant.

A
man around my age stood near the maître d’ stand. "Ma'am, I'm sorry but we're..."
His voice trailed off and mouth froze open as his stare alternated between my
face and my weaponry.

"I'm
sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. It's for your own safety."

"Again?"

It
took me a second to realize he was probably reacting to an earlier run in with
Hammett, and assumed I was her. Wouldn't he be surprised when she turned up,
which I was sure would happen soon.

"Get
the fuck out," I said, pointing my weapon at him.

He
got the fuck out.

"I'm
in on the 95th floor," I said to Fleming.

Then
I went to find my cell phone.