Flee (21 page)

"Can
you do a turnaround and show me?"

I
lifted my shirt up over my belly and did an easy three-sixty.

"Pants
too, if you don't mind."

I
hiked up my jeans on both sides, showing my socks.

"Isn't
this the part where you tell me to get down on my knees, hands behind my head,
and read me my rights?" I asked. I knew ten different ways to disarm a cop
who tried to arrest me.

"I
haven't decided yet. Right now I just want to talk."

"Tough
to talk with a gun pointed at you."

"If
I lowered the gun, would you relax a bit?"

I
nodded. She lowered the gun. I made myself appear more relaxed, but I was still
a coiled spring, waiting to pounce.

"I've
had to deal with a lot of dead bodies on this shift," Daniels said. Though
her weapon was at her side, she still had her finger in the trigger guard. "Not
just here at your place, but all around the city. I'd really appreciate your
help sorting this out."

"You're
being awfully polite."

"Don't
confuse that with weakness." She gave me a hard look, as if to illustrate
her point. "Now please tell me what's going on."

"I've
had one heck of a day, Lieutenant, and I'm sort of in a time crunch."

"Call
me Jack. What can I call you? There are no public records of Carmen Sawyer. No
history at all. Your ID is bogus. We had a team in this room for three hours,
couldn't find a single thing about you. No pictures. No personal documents.
Computer is clean. Not even a fingerprint in the place. What kind of person
lives in an apartment for over a year and doesn't leave her prints?"

"Maybe
I'm just exceptionally tidy."

Jack's
eyes crinkled a bit, but the smile didn't reach her mouth. "You're very
much in demand right now, Carmen. My superiors want you. The Feds want you.
Some guys in black suits who won't say who they work for want you. There are so
many charges against you, you'll need a busload of lawyers just to sort them
all out. You also seem to be drawing the attention of a certain criminal
element." She paused, as if for dramatic effect. "Some of them look a
helluva lot like you."

I
gave her a one-shouldered shrug. "I have one of those faces."

"Actually,
you have four of those faces. Three of them are currently in Cook County
Morgue."

I
took a careful step forward, trying not to appear threatening.

Jack
instantly raised her gun back up, aiming at my center mass. Her hand was
remarkably steady. "Please stay where you are, Carmen. I don't want to
shoot you, but people have a tendency to die in your presence, and I don't want
to be one of them."

Contrary
to the adversarial nature of our current relationship, I was starting to like
this woman. "So what
do
you want, Jack?"

"To
take you in."

I
gave my head a small shake. "I can't allow that."

"I
can promise you protection."

"No.
you can't. They'll kill me."

"I
won't let them."

"Then
they'll kill you, too. Besides, I have things I need to do."

"Who
do you work for?" Jack asked.

I
let out a short, abrupt laugh. "Seriously?"

Jack
shrugged her shoulders, but her aim didn't waver. "It was worth a shot."

"Let's
just say I'm a public employee, like you."

"That's
what I figured. And it's the only reason you aren't in handcuffs right now. Are
you CIA? NSA?"

I
didn't say anything.

"So
far every corpse we've found appears to be a case of self-defense," Jack
said. "I could be wrong, of course. According to the FBI, you're a
dangerous terrorist, hell bent on overthrowing the government. But to me it
looks more like you're being pursued. So why come back here? No one thought you
would."

"Why
are you here?"

"I
had a hunch."

"Don't
you Homicide cops travel in twos?" I asked.

"My
partner is close by. So why did you come back here, Carmen?"

I
didn't answer, watching as Jack sorted it out.

"There's
still something here," she eventually said. "Something you need. What
is it?"

"Floorboards,
beneath you." I hoped she would look down. She didn't.

"What's
there? Top secret documents? Or are the fibs right, and it's a plan to
assassinate the President?"

"Just
my sniper rifle."

"What
do you need that for?"

My
turn to shrug. "Sniping."

We
stared at each other for a minute, then Jack lowered her gun again. "I
want to help you, Carmen. But to do that, you're going to have to trust—"

On
Jack's last word I rushed her, coming up underneath the .38, chopping at her
wrist with the heel of my hand. Either fatigue and pain had slowed me down, or
the cop was faster than she should have been, because Jack dodged the move and
brought an elbow down on my shoulder, driving me to the left. I took an extra
step to correct my balance and found myself looking at the wrong end of a
spin-kick. I raised up my hands, taking the hit in the forearms instead of my
head, and then Jack was dancing around my other side, raising the gun again.
But I anticipated the move, striking the back of her hand. The gun went flying,
and for a brief, eternal moment we watched it arc through the air, then land on
the sofa on the other side of the room.

Jack
backpedalled, getting between me and the sofa, and then kicked off her shoes
and struck a Dwi Koobi stance—a defensive posture used in taekwondo, with one
foot in front of the other and both fists raised.

"I
just want my rifle," I said, blinking away some spinning motes.

"You've
killed enough people for the day," Jack said. "I'm taking you in."

Since
my days with The Instructor, I'd kept up with my combat training. I had black
belts or equivalents in half a dozen martial arts. But more importantly, I also
knew all of the restricted moves banned from competition. In a fight for your
life, points didn't matter. That was something the majority of YMCA
practitioners didn't understand, but something that Jack was about to learn the
hard way.

I
leapt at her, figuring a taekwondo practitioner wouldn't know what the hell to
do against a Muay Thai attack known as a
hanuman thayarn
—a flying knee.

She
leaned sideways, my leg catching her shoulder, and her footing was strong
enough that I bounced off rather than took her down. I tried to clinch her leg,
do a quick judo reversal, but she punched me in the side of the head hard
enough to bring the stars out. I brought up a quick elbow and hit her in the
crotch—decidedly not taekwondo—and when she grunted and doubled over I gave her
a head butt in the chin, pulling it so I didn't shatter her jaw.

Jack
stumbled away, fists still up but knees wobbly. It's actually harder to knock
someone out than it is to kill them, and I didn't want to kill her, so I wasn't
quite sure what to do next.

My
hesitation cost me. The cop apparently wasn't as hurt as she seemed, because
she charged me with a flurry of punches and kicks. I deflected the first four,
then had to take a step back and cover up because they were coming so fast.
Expending that much energy usually wore a fighter out, leading to an opening,
and when the punches started getting weaker I stuck my stance and began to push
forward, waiting for them to stop so I could unleash.

When
a second went by without getting hit, I opened up, ready to jab.

She
tagged me under the chin with an uppercut.

It
knocked me backward, and doubly surprised me. First, because I hadn't expected
it and thought she'd punched herself out. Second, because she'd pulled it.

"You
held back," I said after finding my center and planting my feet.

Jack
was breathing heavily, but still seemed strong. "So did you."

I
spat blood from a cut in my upper lip. "Any chance you're a crooked cop? I've
got about twenty-five thousand bucks nearby. You let me have my gun, I let you
have the money."

"Sorry,
I don't—"

I
launched again, another flying knee, but reversing it in the air to avoid her
counter. I connected with ribs, basically hugging her body in a reverse
piggy-back. Then I brought my arms down, grabbing her around the neck, pulling
her forward and flipping her over, onto her back.

While
she was stunned, I scooted around on my butt, and went for the grapple. The
move was known as an armbar, where I got my hips and legs under her, and tugged
her arm back by the wrist until it was fully extended, putting pressure on both
the elbow and the shoulder. If I forced it, I could both break and dislocate
her arm with only a minimal application of force.

Finally
I had her.

Jack
groaned. "How do I tap out?"

"Do
you have handcuffs?"

"My
purse. The Gucci bag in the kitchen."

"How
does a Homicide cop afford Gucci?"

"Got
a discount on the Home Shopping Network."

I
applied a bit more pressure to her arm, prompting a high-pitched squeal.

"I
need to incapacitate you while I get my rifle," I said. "I'd prefer
using the handcuffs to do that, but snapping your arm in half would work, too."

"I
vote for the handcuffs," Jack squeaked.

"I'm
going to walk you into the kitchen. Any sudden moves, you wind up in a cast.
And you know how long bones take to heal with older women."

"You
beat me already. You gotta be mean about it, too?"

I
really did like her, and hoped I didn't have to blow her elbow out. Moving
slowly, I released my legs and switched the armbar to a wristlock. Jack stayed
compliant, letting me get behind her, not trying to fight as we both got onto
our knees.

"Stand
up on three," I told her. "One...two...three."

The
move was smooth, and then it was just a question of leading her into the
kitchen.

"Grab
your purse by the bottom, dump it onto the counter."

She
did, and I watched, somewhat amused at all the crap regular women kept in their
purses. Besides the obligatory make-up, tissues, cell phone, mints, brush,
wallet, loose change, there was a bottle of calcium pills. I smiled.

"Those
are for indigestion," Jack said.

"Really?
The bottle says they help to fight against osteoporosis."

"The
handcuffs are in the side pocket."

I
knew it was mean, but I couldn't resist. "It has one of those easy
twist-off caps, for the elderly."

"It
was the only bottle the store had, all right? You want to cuff me or talk about
supplements?"

I
fished the pair out, Smith & Wesson, gunmetal black. I flicked a bracelet
open, locked it around her wrist, and connected the other end to the handle of
my refrigerator. Then I took two quick steps away.

Jack
looked annoyed and humiliated. She straightened up and said, "I'll give
you one last chance to surrender."

I
had to smile at that. "You said your partner is nearby."

"He's
across the street, getting a meatball sub with extra cheese. And meatballs. And
bread. It's actually two subs he eats at the same time, one on top of the
other."

"Is
he going to burst in here and shoot me?"

"With
the elevator out? If he bursts in here, he won't be holding a gun. He'll be
clutching his heart with a myocardial infarction. Herb and stairs are old
enemies."

She
didn't give me any cues that she was lying, vocal or non-verbal.

"You
said you came back here on a hunch," I said. I didn't need to know, but I
was curious. "What caused it?"

"I
saw your wardrobe. It's lacking, and that's being kind, but I found the money
and wires sewn into the hems. I thought anyone who took the time to do that
might have other things hidden around the place. Figured I'd poke around, see
if I could find anything."

"Did
you?"

Jack
frowned. "Yeah. I found a pain-in-the-ass spy who doesn't respect those
who came before her."

I
went to the kitchen closet, took out my box of tools, careful to hold the
handle by the palm so I didn't leave prints.

"I
respect all of that old school, old fogey stuff," I told Jack. "Black
and white TVs. Those huge computers with floppy disks. Paper books."

"Paper
books aren't old school."

"Give
me a break. They're so 2008. Get an ereader, Jack."

Her
gaze flicked down to my hand. "No need to hold the box like that, Carmen.
I already lifted one of your prints."

I
paused, a spike of adrenaline shooting up my spine. It was bad enough being
wanted by different agencies and authorities. As long as they didn't have my
name, they wouldn't find me. But once my prints were on file...