Flee (34 page)

Hammett
scurries away, heading below-deck.

#
 #  #

1:19...
1:18...

The
wave unhooked the handcuff chain from where it had been hung-up on the
starboard stern cleat, and Fleming was free. She tugged her battered hand out
of the folding chair and strained to grab the phone--

--missing
as it plopped into the dark water.

Fleming
quickly glanced at Chandler, and the two locked eyes.

Chandler's
eyes told her,
"No, please don't."

Fleming's
answered back.
"You know I have to."

And
then she pushed the anchor over the transom and sank beneath the waves.

#
 #  #

Watching
Fleming go after the phone, I realized what it all meant.

All
of our training. All of our sacrifices. All of the pain we'd endured.

We
were the good guys.

Not
because our government used us like pawns in some grand, worldwide espionage
game.

Not
because we could kill on command.

Not
because we were unfeeling, uncaring machines, programmed to follow orders.

We
were the good guys, because we did the right thing.

No
matter the cost.

Which
is why I dove into the water after her.

#
 #  #

Fleming
sunk fast, the anchor dragging her down into the, cold murky depths. She
managed a deep breath before she went over, and knew from experience it would
last about ninety seconds.

Ninety
seconds left to live.

Ninety
seconds to save seven million.

The
water was freezing, black, and when she hit the bottom the pressure in her ears
was excruciating. She pinched her nostrils with her thumb and pinky, equalizing
the pressure, and figured she was perhaps thirty, thirty-five feet deep.

Lucky.
Some parts of Lake Michigan were over nine hundred feet deep.

Fleming
squinted, looking for the light of the phone, turning in a complete circle.

Nothing. There's nothing. It's darker than a grave down here. The phone
could be right next to me and I still wouldn't--

There!

Two
meters away, three tops. She could make out the glowing red touch screen.

0:57...
0:56... 0:55...

Fleming
begins to crawl toward it, ignoring the pain, dragging the anchor through the
muck behind her.

#
 #  #

I
decided, right then, that I truly hated water.

The
icy, blackness fought me, not letting me in. I swam down two meters, but I
couldn't get any deeper. I was too buoyant.

It
was my lungs. Filled with air, it was like trying to sink with two basketballs.

I
peered down, not knowing how deep it was, unable to see Fleming or the phone.

And
I made a choice.

If the air in my lungs is stopping me, I need to get rid of it.

I
blew out a big breath, about half of my reserve, and then continued my descent.

#
 #  #

Hammett
hurries past the bridge, hearing the marine radio crackle. The coast guard is
hailing the ship that shot the flare.

Damn Fleming.

Damn Fleming, and damn Chandler, and damn this entire op.

It's time to cut my losses and get the hell out of here.

But first...

Hammett
barges into the stateroom, finds the duffel bag filled with grenades.

Four
of them.

More
than enough.

#
 #  #

0:11...
0:10...

Dizzy
from exertion and oxygen deprivation, Fleming reached the phone. She picked it
up in her bad hand.

0:09...
0:08...

Bringing
it over to the anchor, she used her good hand to exit the countdown screen,
bringing up the manual override.

Because
the nuke had been launched from this transceiver, this transceiver was the only
one that could disarm it. It was a simple, four digit code.

Fleming
accessed the keypad, finger raised.

0:07...
0:06...

Oh, hell. Brain fart.

What the hell is that code?

0:05...
0:04...

Think! You designed the damn thing!

Duh!

Fleming
punched it in, 5 9 3 1.

MISSILE DISARMED.

She
smiled in the darkness. Then she turned the phone upside, looking what the
numbers spelled.

IE65

LEGS.

And
then Fleming started to laugh.

I did it.

I really did it.

Hell yeah!

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the worthless cripple who got
shoved behind a desk has saved London!

As
the air bubbled out of her lungs, Fleming felt no fear. No panic.

Her
legs and ribs and hand no longer hurt.

All
she felt was joy.

Pure
joy.

And
that was a damn good way to die.

Then
something grabbed her in the darkness.

#
 #  #

Dizzy,
my lungs screaming for relief, I continued to swim downward, into the deep, not
knowing where the hell I was going until my face was bathed by something warm.

Bubbles.

I
followed them, then made out the tiny spot of light only a few meters away.

Fleming.
Still handcuffed to the anchor. The transceiver in her hand.

I
fought to reach her, struggling against the water, mustering up my last bit of
strength. Much as I feared what was coming--the terrible panic and unbearable
pain of my lungs filling with liquid--I had to save her, or die trying.

I
grabbed her arm and tugged. Maybe the two of us, both swimming hard as we
could, would be able to get her to the surface.

Fleming
shook her head, then pointed a crooked finger up, her eyebrows furrowing in the
soft glow of the phone.

She wants me to leave her.

I
pulled her again, but this time she shoved me back, shaking her head.

We
stared at each other for a moment. I watched her face relax. She showed me the
phone.

MISSILE
DISARMED.

Then
she mouthed, quite clearly, "I love you."

I
threw my arms around her, hugging her, hugging her so hard and never, ever
wanting to let go.

And
then I remembered my jeans.

Hammett's jeans.

Body
shaking from lack of air, my thoughts beginning to scramble, I felt along the
pants seam of the denim and found it.

A
wire.

Even
nearly dead, I could pick a handcuff lock. I popped her wrist free, thinking
that maybe we actually could make it out of this--

Then
the lake exploded.

The
shock wave hit me hard, knocking the precious bit of air out of my lungs.
Making my ears pop and ring, and rattling my body so hard I bit my tongue.

Grenades.

I
covered up Fleming with my body, and another shockwave hit.

And
another.

And
another.

By
now, I had no choice. I had to breathe, and my body sucked in the lake.

And
then I was back on Victor's kitchen table.

Back
at Hydra training.

Back
in Cory's car as the water came in.

My
whole body shook in panic, and I choked and tried to cough and once again I was
going to die a mindless, panicked animal.

That's
when I felt it.

My
hand.

My
sister, holding my hand.

And
for the briefest moment, I had the childhood I always wanted. A safe, caring
home, and a sister who loved me.

I
clasped my fingers in hers, and let the water take me.

"Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose," The
Instructor said. "Winning is better."

The
first thing I was aware of was an antiseptic smell. Then I opened my bleary
eyes to a bright light and immediately gasped for air, my heart beating like
hummingbird wings.

When
I was able to focus, I realized I was in a hospital room. And I wasn't alone.

The
cop, Jack Daniels, was sitting next to my bed in a plastic folding chair. Jack
held a syringe, and I realized she'd just injected something into my IV line. I
tried to sit up and found I'd been handcuffed to the bed.

"Your
sister is some swimmer," Jack said.

"Yeah,"
I said. "She can swim like a son of a bitch. Where is she?"

"The
coast guard saw a flare and picked both of you up. You had to be resuscitated.
That's twice you drowned, isn't it?"

Actually, more like a dozen times.
"Where's my sister?"

"She's
being debriefed by some serious-looking men in suits. They won't let me, or
anyone else, inside, not even a lawyer. Thing is, I can't tell if they're good
guys or bad guys."

I
eyed the syringe. "What'd you give me?"

"Adrenaline.
They put you under and have been keeping you drugged. I assume they'll
interrogate you next, but I wanted to talk to you first. We've got a minute,
tops, before they find out I'm in here."

I
blinked, my vision slowly sharpening. I still tasted the mucky water of Lake
Michigan. "How long have I been out?"

"About
nine hours. Long enough that you missed the breaking news."

Jack
held up a newspaper, the Tribune. The headline read: "US ACCIDENTALLY
LAUNCHES NUCLEAR STRIKE ON LONDON."

"The
President deeply apologizes for the mistake. The nuke was disarmed in midair
and no one was hurt." Jack looked up from the article to meet my eyes.
"Am I wrong, or does the world owe you and your sister a big debt?"

"Was
anyone else picked up? Someone who looks like me?"

"Just
you two."

"Did
you recover a phone?"

"I
heard something about a phone. I think the suits with your sister have
it."

I
took a shot. "We're so far off the radar, we don't even exist. They'll
send my sister and me abroad, to a CIA prison. No trial. No due process. We'll
be left there until they forget about us, or we're executed."

"Oh,
you exist. I called in a favor, got a peek at your juvie record."

And
then she called me by something I hadn't heard in a long, long time. My real
name. Then she folded over the paper and showed me another article.

TWO
KILLED IN STREETERVILLE APARTMENT.

It
was about Kaufmann, and Cory.

"Looks
like the world owes you another debt, taking out that piece of trash. I'm sorry
about your parole officer. He seemed to be a good man."

"He
was. What happened to the girl?"

"Her
name is Dione Simowicz. Runaway. Her parents have been notified."

"She'll
need counseling."

"She'll
get it. Court ordered. A local 7-11 has her on video sticking the place up with
that Cory creep. She kept going on and on about you, how you killed her
boyfriend in cold blood."

I
let that sink in. "So they know all about me."

"No.
I
know all about you. No one else does. You're listed here as Jane Doe.
"

I
raised an eyebrow.

"Your
juvie record is still sealed," Jack went on. "For as long as you've
been here, the only one who took your prints was me."

Good
think I’d had the wherewithal to wipe down Victor’s apartment before I left.
“What about Mozart?”

Jack
shot me a questioning look.

“Was
there a fat calico cat hiding in the apartment?”

“One
of the cops at the scene took it home.”

Good.
She was a sweet cat. She deserved a good home. "How about the gun? From
the roof of my apartment building?"

Jack
shrugged. "Apparently that gun with your fingerprints on it got lost in
the evidence room."

I
tried to figure out where she was going with this, and could only come to one
conclusion. "You're letting me go?"

"I
can't. I'll probably get fired just being in here. But I did bring you some of
your clothes." She looked at me, pointedly. "From your apartment.
They're in the bag, on the chair. Being executed is bad, but the real tragedy
here is that hospital gown. Now at least you'll die looking sharp."