Flee (28 page)

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After
flailing around and looking appropriately pitiful for the time it took Chandler
to get into the elevator, Fleming allowed the security guard to help her back
into her chair. A small collection of gawkers had gathered, and even though
Fleming had been faking her helplessness, she still felt a small sting of
humiliation.

One more indignity to add to the list.

She
listened to Chandler announce her arrival, and for a brief, self-indulgent
moment Fleming pretended she was up there instead. After the fall, and the
countless surgeries and hellish failure that was rehabilitation, Fleming swore
off feeling sorry for herself. She refused to allow tragedy to limit what she
could do. As a result, she’d worked harder and accomplished more than she
probably ever would have if her legs had still functioned.

But
that was all behind-the-scenes stuff. Even the encryption code for the
transceiver—a brilliant combination of mathematics and programming—was for
someone else to use. Fleming longed to do something active. To be viable again.
But instead of taking the lead, she wheeled back into the lobby and played the
back-up role, watching for Hammett.

She
didn't have to watch long.

Hammett
strolled in, wearing an ankle-length brown duster, a beige top, and black
leather pants. Fleming had always flirted with the notion of buying leather
pants, and seeing them on Hammett, decided they were a bad idea. Hammett was
flanked by six men, walking in groups of two, looking very much like a military
unit even though they were in civvies. Slung over each of their shoulders was a
duffle bag, and judging by their weights Fleming guessed they held automatic
weapons.

Keeping
her head down, she backed around the corner and watched as they approached the
bank of express elevators. One of the men began to speak to the maître d’ they'd
run from a moment earlier.

Hammett
reached inside her duster, no doubt putting her hands on a gun.

Fleming
gripped the arms of her chair, but she didn't fire. This was not ideal. Hammett
and Victor stood between her and the cops. If she stayed in position and tried
to take Hammett out, she might hit the innocents behind her. If she did nothing,
Hammett would likely get through, and if everything went to hell, she could
kill those same innocents on her way to interfere with Chandler.

Footsteps
sounded to the side of Fleming. Two more officers.

She
took her fingers from the triggers and gripped the wheels. Where shooting at
Hammett's men didn't bother Fleming in the least, the thought of getting in a
firefight with police officers who were just doing their jobs was another
story. She'd have to find a different position, and figure out another way to
keep Hammett and the men from reaching the restaurant, at least until Chandler
had a chance to get the phone and get out.

"She's
here," Fleming whispered. "Six men with her, all armed and—"

That's
when Hammett pulled out a semi-automatic pistol and shot the maître d’ in the
head.

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After
Hammett caps the rude maître d’—and let's face it, the son of a bitch had it
coming—she sidesteps the police line and goes to the express elevators,
ignoring Victor and his shouts of rage.

A
firefight breaks out, Victor's men and the police in the lobby. Hammett slips
into the first lift that opens and hits the button for the restaurant. Then she
does a quick check of her weapons. A 9mm Beretta, loaded with hollow points. A
carbon fiber Spyderco Navaja. One of Victor's MP9s, hanging from a shoulder
sling inside her coat. And something with a bit more stopping power, in her
right pocket.

"Ready
or not, dear sister, here I come."

#
 #  #

Fleming
spoke in my ear as I was racing up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the
restaurant. "Six men with her, all armed and—" Gunfire exploded in
the background, making her words hard to hear. But reading the alarm in her
voice was easy.

"Fleming?"

More
gunshots. My stomach clenched like a fist.

As
I approached the top of the stairs, I forced all thoughts of what my sister was
going through from my mind. I needed to focus. I needed to get the phone.

After
contemplating and rejecting various hiding places, I decided to take a more
direct approach and gave the phone to the bartender, feeding him a story about
finding it in the ladies room. Then I hung around just long enough to see where
he kept the lost and found.

Now
I dashed straight for the maître d's stand on one end of the balcony.

The
top drawer was locked. Hands shaking, I started feeling along the hem of my
t-shirt before I remembered I wasn't wearing my own clothing.

Yet
my fingers hit something stiff. Wires.

Of
course. This was Hammett's shirt. Hammett, who had gone through the same
training I had.

I
ripped the stitching and removed the picks, letting the fifty dollar bill fall
to the floor. The lock was a simple one, and only took seconds. I pulled the
drawer open and stared at over a dozen cell phones jamming the small space.

How
did so many people manage to lose their phones?

I
clawed through the collection. Seven iPhones, a Droid, at least six of the old
flip models—who knew how long those had been there—and a variety of odds and
ends, including a Kindle. Finally I located mine. I dropped it in my rucksack
and zipped it up.

Just
as the elevator door chimed.

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Victor
curses that
shalava
Hammett and then fires ten rounds into a wide-eyed
cop who barely cleared leather with his weapon. He also dispatches the cop's
partner, who managed to get off two ineffective shots before doing the
machine-gun-boogie. Then Victor's men form a half-circle around him and lay
down a burst of suppressive fire. The two dozen people in the lobby who hadn't
fled or hit the floor yet got the hint. All except some cripple in a
wheelchair, who seems to be rolling their way with an expression of—

Chto za huy! I know that face!

Victor
rolls out of the way as a barrage of bullets fires from the armrests of the
wheelchair, mowing down three of his men. He slides across the tile floor on
his shoulder, bringing up his MP9, but Hammett's sister is already in motion,
barreling toward his men, who duck for cover, steering toward one who had taken
a dive and then—
what the fuck is that?
—a long, thin blade comes out of
the chair's axle and neatly slices Sergei's throat and then severs Nikolai's
hamstring.

Peter
comes up behind, spraying bullets. They clang off the back of her wheelchair,
apparently bullet-proof.

She
taps her armrest again and a long jet of fire hits the poor bastard square in
the face.

Holy shit
.

The
woman spins around, lifting up her footrest, which had concealed another blade,
and as Yuri rushes at her, she guts him.

That
leaves Victor and Karl, and Karl is backpedalling as fast as he can move his
feet, his shots flying harmlessly over the crippled woman's head as she
accelerates toward him, now brandishing a .45. She shoots Karl in the forehead,
then whirls around, seeking Victor.

But
he's already in motion, raising his weapon, stitching rounds up her legs and
across her chest.

The
woman slumps in the chair, her gun clattering to the floor.

Victor
looks at his fallen comrades, spits in disgust, and then storms over to her,
ready to put the coup de grace into her head.

#
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The
gunfire began when the elevator doors opened just a sliver. I immediately
dropped behind the maître d’ stand, crawling away as bullets chewed into the
wood and flung sawdust into the air, the tattoo of automatic weapon fire
drowning out all thought.

I
reached the stairs, flipping onto my back, freeing the Tec-9 and aiming with my
left hand while the right held my Sig.

The
shooting paused, and for a moment all I heard was the ringing in my ears.

"Where
was it?" Hammett called out.

I
kept my arms extended, fingers on the triggers. "Lost and found."

"Clever
girl. Clever, clever girl."

I
caught the movement peripherally, Hammett rushing in low to my right, the
muzzle flash of her machine gun preceding the barrage of lead pocking the floor
in front of me, coming my way to cut me in half.

Ah, hell...

I
swung the rucksack in front of me, using it as protection. The punch of a dozen
rounds peppering it, I pushed myself backward, scooting down the stairs. Still
being chased by bullets, I tucked my legs up to my chest and began to roll,
feet over head. I bumped into the railing and kept somersaulting, each step
bruising my spine, my skull. By the time the steps spit me out onto the lower
floor, my sense of balance and direction was completely gone.

My
skull ached, adding to the disorientation, and after a quick self pat-down
found I had somehow lost my Tec-9, and—

Oh, no.

My
rucksack.

My
rucksack, with the transceiver in it.

I
cast a frantic look around and saw it, sitting midway on the stairs.

I
got my legs under me, ready to make an attempt, but Hammett suddenly appeared over
the railing above, her face shiny with excitement.

Still
dizzy, I fired my Sig, and then dove to the side as more lead rained down on
me. I made it to the edge of the carpeted dining area, crawled under the
closest dinner table and upended it, sending silverware flying. Hunkering down
behind it, I replaced the magazine in my weapon and willed the world to stop
spinning.

"Please
tell me the transceiver is in that backpack." Hammett's voice carried a
teasing edge.

She'd
seen my face when I realized it was gone. She knew something important to me
was inside. I wasn't about to give her any more hints. "Why don't you go
and check?" I taunted, the Sig now loaded and ready.

In
my earpiece, more gunfire and screaming.

I
peered around the table, eyes on my rucksack, then looked left to the expansive
wine cellar, stocked to the ceiling with bottles behind glass doors. I crawled
over to it, broke the glass with the butt of my .45, and snatched a bottle of
Merlot by the neck. Hammett was no longer at the railing, but I knew if I were
up there, about to make a run at the rucksack, I'd be close to the stairs, yet
behind cover. The only thing on the balcony that qualified was the splintered
remains of the maître d’ stand.

So
that's where I threw the bottle.

As
it sailed through the air, I quickly grabbed a replacement from behind me, then
aimed and shot the Merlot. It shattered near where I guessed my sister to be,
spraying glass and wine. I tossed the second bottle, grabbed a third, shot the
second, tossed the third, grabbed a fourth, shot the third, and then I stormed
the stairs, taking them two at a time, emptying my magazine as Hammett brought
her gun up and began to blind fire. Discarding my Sig, I snatched the rucksack
strap. Bullets cut the air around me. I flew up the last three steps, leaped
past the maître d’ stand, and, just as my sister stuck out her head, I cracked
her in the face with a 2007 MacPhail Pratt Pinot Noir.

I
landed on my side and tugged the rucksack onto my shoulders. Then I pulled up
my leg and freed the asp.

Hammett
was on all fours, shaking wine, glass, and blood out of her hair like a wet
dog.

I
got my feet under me and sprinted at her, extending my telescoping baton with a
chhhht-chhhht
sound like a shotgun being racked.

Hammett
brought up her MP9, and I swung the asp with all I had. It hit hard, bending
both it and the barrel of her gun. Then I drew back a foot, aiming to kick her
in the throat.

She
twisted her body and caught my leg in her armpit. She thrust to her feet, and I
fell backward, over the broken stand. Grabbing her jacket, I pulled her with
me, and we both tumbled down the stairs.

#
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Victor
raises his weapon to the woman's head. He pauses for a moment, savoring. The
bitch destroyed his men. Only Nikolai is still alive, writhing on the floor,
whining and clutching his useless leg. But in the end, Victor took her down, and
now he will blow her goddamn face off. The fact that she looks like Hammett is
a bonus.

He
smiles.

Before
he can pull the trigger, he hears the click, feels the twin prongs jab into
him, and when the electric charge rips through his body a split second later,
there's nothing he can do.

His
teeth clench. Every muscle seizes. A guttural groan bounces off the marble,
coming from his own throat.