Flee (33 page)

She
pulls the pin on one of the grenades and throws it into the waves.

The
explosion is powerful enough for her to feel the concussion shake the hull and
vibrate in her chest. Water erupts into the air, meeting the rain falling from
above.

She
throws another off the starboard side, right where the blip should be.

The
whump
hits the ship like a slap from an angry god, causing it to pitch,
then roll. Hammett points the deck spotlight on the water, and smiles when she
sees something float to the surface.

Hell. It's a salmon. Son of a--

"Freeze!"

Hammett
glances portside, sees her disabled sister holding an anchor in one hand, and a
flare gun in the other. The image is so ludicrous, she begins to laugh.

"I
want the transceiver," Fleming says. Her hand is shaking badly.

"Or
what?" Hammett asks. "You'll signal for help?"

"How
about I shoot you with a flare instead? Magnesium burns at three thousand
degrees, and I'm aiming at your fat head."

Hammett
considers her next move. Getting hit with a flare doesn't sound like a good
time. She has a .45 in her shoulder holster, under her jacket.

"Fair
enough," Hammett says. "I'll give you the phone."

She
casually slips a hand into her coat.

"Hold
it! I saw you put the phone in your side pocket. Take your hand out slowly, and
give me the goddamn phone."

Hammett
blows a snort of air out of her nostrils, annoyed. They really don't have time
for this. But, impaired as she obviously is, Fleming is one of the Hydra
sisters. Hammett respects the training she's had, and follows her orders,
slowly holding up the phone.

"Now
toss it to me," Fleming says.

"How
about instead you toss me the flare gun," Hammett smiles wide, "or I'll
press the touch screen and destroy London?"

#
 #  #

Fleming
wasn't sure what to do. She should probably take the shot, but her aim wasn't
steady, and she had no idea how accurate flares were.

Last
she checked, there were more than seven and a half million people in London.
Their best chance at survival depended on the next decision Fleming made.

"What
the hell?"

Now
Victor was coming across the gunwale, reaching for his sidearm.

Fleming
had no choice.

She
had to take the shot.

She
aimed.

Let
out a breath.

Squeezed
the trigger.

The
flare exploded out of the gun. Hammett ducked below its arc, and it sailed out
across the water, a bright orange streak, before falling into the lake a
hundred meters away.

Then
Victor was on her, kicking the useless gun away, putting his foot on her chest,
pointing the Glock in her face.

"You
lose," Hammett said.

Fleming
glanced at her, and watched as--

Oh no.

--she
pressed the screen. "In seven minutes, London bridge is falling
down."

Tears
erupted from Fleming's eyes. She could imagine all of the people, the
innocents, the children, swallowed up by an atomic fireball. Black and white
images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki flash through her mind. The horror. The
tragedy. The misery. The senseless waste.

All because I couldn't aim a goddamn flare gun.

She
stared up at Victor, into the barrel of his pistol, trembling and broken and
beaten but still defiant.

And
then she saw something.

Something
above Victor.

Something
black and red and plummeting down to earth like Satan getting booted out of
heaven.

Chandler!

#
 #  #

Flying
an ultralight trike at night was hard enough. Especially this junker, which had
been buried on top of my parents for six years and had seen much better days. I
throttled the modified Evinrude motor, slowing down the rear prop, and took
another glance at my PC to see if I was on course. According to the blip, I was
right on target. But I couldn't see a damn thing below me, and missing would be
deadly. I was too far out to swim back to shore.

I
had to be at a high enough altitude to prevent Hammett from seeing me coming,
and so I could get the drop on them. The altimeter had some water damage, being
exacerbated by the rain coming down. It said I was at 1100 feet. I was betting
my life that it was right.

Then
I saw the flare, bright orange, my own personal landing strip.

I
killed the engine, ditched the PC because I had no way to carry it, and unbuckled
my seat belt. Beretta in hand, I rolled out of my seat, falling into open sky.

As
soon as I dropped away from the ultralight, I pulled the ripcord on my
parachute. It took about nine hundred feet for it to fully open, so I was
cutting it close.

I
quickly fell through the haze, then saw the lights below me, following them to
a white yacht. My chute deployed, making me jerk and rock in my harness. Still clutching
the gun, I snatched the brake handles. Once I had control I steered toward the
boat, sighting Victor on the bow. Victor, and Hammett, and...

Fleming!

My
aim was for shit, but I emptied my magazine at Victor, forcing him away from my
sister. He fired back, his bullets whizzing past me, and then I had my feet out
in front of me and I planted both on his chest right just as I hit my buckle
release.

Victor
went flying, and I rolled onto the bow, out of control, crashing into the
raised pulpit, the guard rails stopping me from falling out.

I
turned around, scanning for Fleming, and instead saw Hammett, drawing a gun
from her leather jacket, pointing it at my head.

I
fired at her. No rounds left. Then I reached for the extra magazine in my
pocket, and found my pocket had torn off.

#
#  #

Hammett
doesn't believe this is happening. Chandler swooped onto the deck like a bird
of prey, firing wildly, then knocked down Victor.

She
unholsters her .45 and aims carefully, anxious to put this unkillable bitch out
of her misery.

"Hey!"

Hammett
looks to the right, sees Fleming, who has crawled up next to her.

"Anchors
away, Sis!"

Then
she sees the anchor, Fleming swinging it like an Olympic hammer at Hammett's
legs. She jumps back, but not in time, and one of the pointed flukes catches
her calf, digging a bloody rent across it.

Hammett
slams into the bow, her gun falling overboard, the transceiver skipping across
the deck. She quickly pulls the Spyderco blade from her sheath, ready to gut
Fleming, then sees Chandler coming closer.

Fine. First Chandler. Then the cripple.

Hammett
stands to meet her sister.

#
 #  #

Fleming
locked eyes on the transceiver as it skittered aft, down the bow.

"The
phone!" she yelled at Chandler. "That psycho launched a nuclear
attack on London!"

Then
she crawled after it, her legs begging for mercy, her swollen hand slapping
tortuously against the teak as she dragged her broken body, and the anchor,
closer and closer.

A
wave hit, splashing over the port side, cold water spraying her in the face.
The boat tilted, and the phone slid back toward Fleming. She reached out her
broken hand, and it bounced off her screaming fingertips, sliding off the bow--

--across
the narrow gunwale--

--and
skidding onto the stern, where it came to a stop at the edge of the transom.
Two more inches, and the lake would have it.

Fleming
pushed herself harder, fighting the pain, using the hand rail to pull herself
and the anchor along the gunwale, past the deckhouse, across the starboard side
windshield, and finally flopping onto the stern next to a cheap, folding metal
deck chair.

The
boat heaved up, then down, taking Fleming’s stomach with it. She bit back the
rising gorge and got within two meters of the phone, so close she could see the
bright glow of the touch screen counting down in large, red numbers.

3:55...
3:54...

She
continued her trek toward it.

Almost there. Almost...

That's
when her anchor got snagged on a cleat, preventing her from getting any closer.

#
 #  #

I
lifted my knee and pulled the VORAX knife from its sheath, focusing on Hammett.
The boat rocked gently, back and forth, and my stance was wider than normal so
I didn't fall over. Fleming, the boat, the transceiver, the guns on the deck,
Victor--none of it mattered. The whole world was nothing but me and Hammett.

And
I was going to kill her.

She
lunged at me with her Spyderco blade, almost a fencing move. I parried
appropriately, steel clanging against steel, the impact so hard and fast it
made a spark. The bow was slippery, but there was enough space for us to circle
each other.

"You're
like a cockroach," Hammett said, her eyes venomous. "You just won't
die."

I
cut in close, slashing at her face, then back-slashing at her knife hand.
Hammett pulled back, my attack narrowly missing her, and then dropped to one
knee and cut me across the chest. But liquid body armor worked as well with
blades as it did with bullets, especially as hard as Hammett was striking. I
popped her under the chin with my left hand, making her stagger back, and then
did a quick spin kick and solidly connected with her cheek.

Hammett
fell backward onto her ass. She stared up at me with a look of shock.

"But...
I'm better than you. The Hydra reports..."

"...are
years old," I interrupted. "That was then. This is now. And now,
right now, I’m going to kick your ass, cut you into pieces, and feed you to the
fish."

I
took a step forward, and then noticed Victor, coming at me from the side.

#
 #  #

Fleming
pulled, hard as she could. No good. Her handcuff chain was wedged under the
stern cleat.

She
turned her attention to the transceiver, resting on the very edge of the
transom.

2:12...
2:11...

Fleming
reached for it, stretching out her arms as far as they could go.

Not
enough.

The
cell phone was still a foot out of her grasp.

Fleming
looked around the stern for something to extend her reach, and her eyes locked
on the deck chair. She grabbed it with her thumb and pinky, but it's a folding
model, and it snapped closed around her broken fingers.

Her
scream was drowned out in the clapping of thunder.

#
 #  #

Once
Victor gets up, the rage has overpowered him. His only goal in life to choke
the living shit out of Chandler, make her pay for all she has put him through.

She's
preoccupied with Hammett, so Victor sprints at her, grinning, already picturing
her neck breaking between his hands.

Chandler
spins around and lashes out at him--
oops, she has a knife
--and Victor
quickly dodges back.

"Ha!
You missed!" he yells.

But
the words don’t sound right.

Because
they aren't coming out of his mouth.

They're
coming out the gaping slit in his throat.

He
brings his hands up to his neck, feels something hard and wet.

That's...

That's my thoracic vertebrae.

That's
also his last thought, and then he flops over and bleeds out onto the bow.

#
 #  #

Hammett
watches Victor drop, and she stares at Chandler and feels something she hasn't
felt in a very long time.

Fear. I'm afraid of her.

The
Spyderco knife isn't enough. Hammett needs a gun. No, she needs a goddamn
bazooka.

Or some grenades.

There are grenades in the staterooms.

She
sprints aft, over the windshield and the roof of the deckhouse, dropping onto
the stern. Hammett sees Fleming, straining to reach for something.

The transceiver!

Then
Chandler is on the roof, jumping down--

--and
a swell hits the boat, making it roll starboard, so fierce it knocks Hammett
and Chandler to the deck.

Hammett
wants the transceiver.

But Chandler is in the way.

Indestructible, angry, scary-as-hell Chandler.