Flee (17 page)

"Hammett
isn't held back by the trappings of humanity. Because of that, she's willing to
do things you're unable to. She lacks the conscience you have, which makes her
a very dangerous opponent. She has all of your training and none of your
boundaries." His eyes bored into mine. "Whatever she's after, we can't
let her get it. Even if it means our deaths."

I
watched The Instructor through narrowed eyes. When I was in training, he'd
known the answer to every question, understood every motivation, seen through
every defense. Where Hammett was concerned, he seemed to be at a loss, as if he
was struggling to catch up, like me.

"So
how do I stop her when I don't even know what she's after? Kill her?"

"If
you have the opportunity, take it. But she's smart, and she's been planning for
a long time. She's also persuasive. When Hammett went rogue, she was able to
recruit her sisters to help her. So far, her only mistake has been
underestimating you. But she's learning, fast. Chandler... where is the phone
your handler gave you?"

"My
phone?" I had a guess why he was asking. "Can she track it?"

"No.
The transceiver can't be tracked or traced."

I
gave my head a little shake and thought back to the many times the assassins
were able to locate me. There had to be an explanation. "Hammett has been
one step ahead of me the whole time. If she isn't able to track the phone, how
does she keep finding me?"

"I
need to reach into the case on the passenger seat and remove a computer. Will
you let me?"

"Nice
and slow."

He
moved at half-speed, carefully opening up a leather computer satchel and
removing a touch screen tablet PC, like the one I'd taken from the assassin up
the street after I'd killed her.

"Each
of the Hydra sisters has a tracking chip, attached to the lining of their
stomachs. It was implanted to make sure we knew where you were, so we could
extract you from a dangerous situation if needed."

"Yeah,
I bet that was the reason." I resisted the urge to wrap an arm around my
middle. "I've got one in me?"

"All
of you do."

The
only way something could be planted in a person's stomach lining was through
surgery. Yet I didn't remember having any surgical procedures done. "How?"

"During
the interrogation training. While you were being waterboarded. We implanted it
through your belly button when you drowned."

I
remember the sharp pain in my stomach when I woke up from that hell, being told
it was from the punching. The bastards had chipped me like I was a family pet.

He
switched on the screen, and I noticed five blips superimposed over a map of
Chicago, condensing the city into the size of a handprint. It looked like a
satellite photo, similar to the interface Google Earth used.

"Why
five, not seven?" I asked.

The
Instructor paused, then said, "Fleming died years ago. The other is
probably two blips that are close together, reading as one."

As
outlandish as all of what he was saying seemed, it made a warped kind of sense.
But one inconsistency kept nagging at the back of my mind. "Why didn't
Hammett try to recruit me?" I asked. "She recruited the others."

"All
of you had intensive psychological profiles done. Everything you did at the
training camp was recorded. Your journals were studied, scrutinized by
professionals. Out of all your living sisters, you were the one who tested the
highest for ethics. You were the most trustworthy."

"Hold
on," I said. Back in training, I'd never been given that kind of
information, even about myself. "How did Hammett know that?"

The
Instructor paused for a moment, then said. "The same way Hammett was able
to find your sisters. She learned about the tracking devices and read all of
your files."

"How
did she do that?" Even as the words left my mouth, I knew. The clincher
was when The Instructor glanced away.

"Hammett
found me," he said, his voice getting softer. "After training, she
smuggled out a spent bullet casing with my fingerprint on it. She was able to
find out my name, where I lived. When she went rogue, she sought me out. She...
was able to make me talk."

I
narrowed my eyes. "You gave me up."

"Everyone
has a breaking point. She found mine. She... tortured my wife... my children...
in front of me. I told her everything I knew."

His
tone was still flat, but I didn't need hysterics to recognize how broken the
experience had left him, and I could guess how it ended. "She killed them
anyway."

"I
didn't talk to save them. I talked to spare them any more pain."

He
hadn't shown half this much emotion in all the time I'd spent with him. I
should probably feel more for him, for his family, but something held me back. 
"So why didn't she kill you?"

"I
don't know. Maybe because she thought I might still be useful. Maybe she knew
how much it would hurt me to leave me alive." He dropped his gaze. He
looked tired and much older than I'd previously guessed. "I'm... sorry,
Chandler."

I
knew I was being cold, hard, but after all he'd told me, keeping my emotion at
bay was the only way I could continue to function. The Instructor had taught me
well. "Is Jacob compromised?"

"I
think so. This blip here," he pointed to the screen, "is Clancy. She's
an expert sniper. Even better than you. She's camped outside Jacob's compound.
No doubt she's cut the power, and is jamming communications. Eventually she'll
find a way in."

I
nodded. Keeping my eyes riveted to his, I dropped my left hand low and shifted
my wrist. The syringe slid down to the jacket's cuff, then stopped.

"Where's
the phone, Chandler?" he asked.

Instead
of answering, I concentrated on shifting my arm, trying to shake the needle
free without moving the rest of my body. The Instructor was sharp. Any hint
that I wasn't fully listening, any tilt of my shoulders, and he would sense my
plan. The syringe didn't move.

"This
is important. We have to make sure it's safe."

"Why?"

Another
shake, and the needle slipped into my palm.

"There's
information on it. Information that can be used to compromise the security of
the United States. There are only two transceivers in existence. The President
has one. Based on your Hydra profile, you were entrusted with the other."

"Hammett
wants the phone."

"That
might be what she's after. With the proper encryption decoder, she—"

I
flicked my eyes to the right, out the front windshield, and forced my pupils to
widen as if I saw something surprising. He was watching me in the rear view
mirror, and his eyes followed mine. In that brief moment, I brought my hand up
and jabbed the hypo into his neck. He dropped the PC and reached both hands
back. I managed to depress the plunger half way before I was forced to release
it and focus on blocking his flailing wrists.

It
only took a few seconds for the amobarbital to take effect, and The Instructor's
efforts to grab me became slower, sloppier. His head tilted, and he reached to
the side, trying to get the car door open. I grabbed him by the collar, pulling
him back against the seat. My mind swirled with everything I'd just learned,
yet I was still in the moment enough to be disappointed at how easy he was to
subdue.

He
slid to the side, his face visible through the space between the bucket seats.
Finally he stopped struggling, and his glassy eyes met mine with a look of...
fear? Anger?

No,
it was softer than that. In fact, it reminded me of the look Kaufmann had when
he said he was proud of me.

Then
his lids closed, and he was asleep.

I
checked his pulse to make sure, giving him a harsh pinch on the side to see if
he flinched or his heart rate jumped. I needed for him to be out of commission
for a few hours, until I could process everything I'd just learned. A large
part of me wondered if I could trust him, and if it would be better just kill
him right now.

But
he'd given me vital intel, and so far was acting like an ally. And I had to
face the truth of the matter: my allies were few and far between.

I
climbed out of the back seat and opened the driver's door. Shoving The
Instructor over, I slipped behind the wheel. If I had a locator chip in me,
Hammett knew where I was right now. Which meant she could already be on her way
to Victor's. I needed to get Kaufmann to a safe house.

And
The Instructor had provided a convenient way to do that.

I
pulled out from the curb and drove to the parking garage entrance, my senses on
high alert. A woman emerged from Victor's building, and I nearly reached for my
gun before she made it to the curb and raised her hand to hail a cab. It wasn't
Hammett. She was too old, too plump.

A
truck's brakes squealed. Somewhere, a dog barked. Rifling through Victor's
wallet, I located a card with a real estate management company logo emblazoned
on the front. I lowered the window, swiped the card, and the garage door
opened.

I
found a vacant space near the stairwell. It wouldn't take me long to wake
Kaufmann with something from Victor's personal pharmacy and help him down to
the car. We would be gone long before Victor's neighbors were likely to arrive
home from work.

I
finished hefting The Instructor into the passenger seat. His computer fell off
his lap and bounced onto the floor, and I slid it under the seat along with the
sedan's keys. I had given him a big enough dose for him to sleep at least an
hour or two.  It was doubtful he would wake up, find the keys and drive away in
the time I'd be gone. But if he did, I still had Victor's car keys in my pocket.

I
got out of the car and scanned the area. I smelled nothing besides the ordinary
exhaust fumes and concrete. Nothing, that is, but a faint whiff of stress
coming from my own body.

I
closed the door quietly to keep the sound from echoing through the garage and
took the stairs to the third floor, bouncing on the balls of my feet, my
footfalls like kitten steps on deep carpeting, not making a sound.

When
I finally made it to Victor's door, I brought up the key and hesitated. Holding
my breath, I placed an ear to the wood and listened for any sounds from within.
I listened for a whole two minutes, and then let the air leak slowly out of my
nose as I turned the doorknob.

A
moment after stepping inside, I sensed something wrong. Movement, to my right,
alongside the doorway. I turned but not fast enough.

I'd
been electrocuted before, so I knew a stun gun when I felt it. The pain was
instant and agonizing, locking my muscles, forward momentum dropping me to the
floor.

The
jolt went on for several seconds, and I was unable to see my attacker, but I
felt a knee drive down on my back and hands quickly relieve me of my gun, Victor's
wallet, and his keys. Over the merciless, ongoing jolt of electricity, I heard
a familiar male voice purr to me in perfect Russian.

"You
should have gone with your instincts and not trusted me."

Victor.

The
pain reached a crescendo, my whole body feeling as if I was being burned alive,
and even though I fought it with everything I had, I passed out.

"Knowing how to interrogate a subject means knowing how to
withstand interrogation," The Instructor said. "Be aware of your body,
and what it is revealing. The pain will likely become unbearable, but once you
give up the information they're after, you will be killed. It will be a fine
line between how much you want to live, versus how much agony you can endure.
Also know that if you give up any secrets related to Project Hydra, past
missions, or the US Government, you will be considered an enemy of the State,
tried for treason, and executed."

When
I woke up, I was on my back, secured to a table.

No,
not a table. A backboard, like the ones used by lifeguards on the beach. My
wrists were bound to the hand-holes with zip ties, my legs and body secured by
Velcro straps. My head was similarly strapped down and held in place by a
plastic cervical collar.

Glancing
left, I saw cabinets and realized I was on Victor's kitchen counter.

I
blinked a few times, trying to determine if I'd been drugged. My head was
swimming. My heart rate was also accelerated, unusual for just waking up.
Victor must have given me something.

"Good
morning, Sunshine," said a female voice, so recognizable it made me gasp.

Because
it was
mine
.

I
let my eyes follow it, and saw one of my sisters standing next to me. She wore
the teal silk blouse from Victor's closet, the one I'd almost picked out for
myself. Her hair was short, like mine. The only difference between looking at
her and peering at myself in the mirror was a tiny scar on her chin.

"You
know what's going to happen," Hammett said. "Don't you?"