Exposed: A Thriller Novella

An excerpt from

The next Codename: Chandler thriller by J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson.

Chandler

“During the execution of a mission, you may find yourself outnumbered and outgunned,” The Instructor said. “It will be your call whether to continue the operation, or abandon it. Always retain a cool head, and keep personal feelings in check. Once you let emotion control your decisions, you’re dead.”

The handcuffs were Smith & Wesson, gun metal black. One bracelet was locked around my left wrist. The other around the aluminum side railing of the hospital bed.

I was in bad shape.

Exhausted.

Hurting in a dozen places.

Emotionally, I felt like a broken piñata, empty, my guts spilling out.

I wanted to rest. I wanted it so badly.

But I had promises to keep.

I reached my free hand into the duffle bag on my lap, prizing out a pair of my jeans. My fingers squeezed its seams until I located the bump—a fifty dollar bill, tightly rolled around a length of wire. I teased out the money, shoved it into the front pocket, and then used the wire to open the handcuffs.

It took me fifteen seconds to dress in the jeans, a black shirt, and a black pair of Nikes. The cop who had left me my clothing, a Chicago Homicide Lieutenant by the name of Jack Daniels, had also taken some socks and underwear from my apartment, but I didn’t want to risk the extra time it would have taken to put them on. According to her, the place was crawling with people who wanted to keep me there. Highly trained government people, who worked for an agency that didn’t exist.

Just like me.

Though they worked for the same team I did, they followed a different coach. I’d become a liability. Something to be debriefed and disposed of.

I had other plans.

Jack had the smarts to also pack a baseball cap and my Ray Bans. I stuck the Cubs hat on my head, keeping the brim low, and eased the sunglasses onto my face to cover up the many bruises. I’d still be recognized by pros, but hopefully the disguise would allow me an extra half a second before they reacted.

In this business, half a second was a very long time.

The hospital had all the obvious sounds and smells. Nurses chatting at their station. Intercom calls. Various beeping and pinging machines. Soft soled shoes padding along polished tile floors. I smelled lemon bleach, antiseptic ointment, body odor, and a lingering stench of powdered eggs—I must have missed breakfast.

I peeked my head out into the hallway and didn’t see any men in black or men in uniform. Apparently the ones controlling the game had thought handcuffs and sedation were enough to keep me at bay.

Their mistake.

I imagined I was there to visit a sick friend. Someone who was very ill. I’d been up with him all night, and there wasn’t much hope he’d live. Once the character was in my head, I adopted her posture, her movements. Shoulders slumped, downtrodden gait, lips pursed to keep from crying. I kept my face pointed toward the floor and headed to the elevator, my eyes darting back and forth behind my sunglasses, checking my periphery. On my way I passed a patient’s room, caught the snoring, chanced a look and saw a glass vase filled with assorted flowers. I ducked inside, hefted the arrangement. Satisfied by the weight, I took it with me to the elevator and hit the call button.

According to Jack, my sister was being held on the sixth floor.

No doubt, they were interrogating her.

No doubt, they weren’t being nice.

I felt a flare of rage, then forced it down. My sister, whom I knew by her codename, Fleming, didn’t have the use of her legs. I’d known her voice for years but only met her face-to-face recently, not only surprised to have a sister, but surprised she was my twin.

I was also surprised to discover the depth of feelings I had for her.

The thought of them hurting her…

The rage kicked in again, and I made a fist so hard, I could feel my nails cut into my palm.

Despite my strong feelings, I had to be realistic. Attempting to rescue Fleming was a fool’s game. I’d be killed, or captured. No two ways about it.

My primary objective was to get out of there, find safe ground. The odds were against me even being able to do that much. No doubt the exits were being watched, and the only weapon I had was a vase of posies.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped into the empty lift, then eyed the buttons.

First floor.

Sixth floor.

1 or 6.

My finger hovered over the 1.

I hit 6.

Fleming

Fleming was in a wheelchair, a generic, hospital model. There were thick Velcro straps around the waist, legs, and arms. The straps hardly seemed necessary. She couldn’t run away. She couldn’t even stand. Fleming had crippled her legs years ago, while in service to her country.

Now agents from that same country were holding her prisoner, trying to get her to talk.

Talk? About what? Chandler and I just saved millions of lives. They should be giving me a medal.

“Who do you work for?” the agent asked, staring down at her. He had a long, pale face, a pointy nose, pointy widow’s peak. Fleming smelled aftershave on him. Old Spice. He wore the typical black suit of a spook, and judging by the way the other three in the room regarded him, he was obviously top man on the scene.

“We’re on the same side,” Fleming answered. “But that question is on a need to know basis.”

The agent rested his hand on Fleming’s bandaged one—earlier they’d allowed a doctor in to splint her broken fingers.

They still hurt like hell.

“I need to know,” he said.

“I take orders from two people. One is the President.”

“And the other?”

“The other one is not you.” Fleming flashed a bright smile.

The man squeezed her hand. Even though the lidocaine hadn’t fully worn off, the pain was instant and overpowering. Fleming gasped.

“You have no identification,” the man said, maintaining his grip. “No fingerprints on file. No hits on our facial recognition software. As far as our government knows, you don’t exist.” He squeezed harder. “Since you don’t exist, I can do anything I want.”

“Anything?” she grunted.

“Anything.”

“Then you might want to brush your teeth. Smells like you were licking Uncle Sam’s ass.”

The agent released Fleming.

For a few seconds, it took everything she had to control her breathing and separate herself from the pain. Since her accident, she’d been behind a desk, working operations from the intel side. But she’d secretly longed to be a field agent again. To be out in the world, where the action was.

Be careful what you wish for…

“The other woman. She’s your sister, yes?”

Fleming forced cool. “Where is she?”

“She’s talking to one of my colleagues. He plays a bit rougher than I do. Your sister is telling him everything.”

Fleming didn’t have to force the laughter. It came naturally. While everyone had a breaking point, they hadn’t had Chandler nearly long enough to reach hers.

The agent frowned. “You think I’m being funny? We’re going to take you, and your sister, someplace where you’ll never see daylight again.”

“Where no one will ever look?” Fleming asked.

“Exactly.”

“Like in your underwear?”

His frown deepened. “Prepare her for transport,” he told his men.

The other agents moved forward.

“Hold on,” Fleming said. “What’s your name?”

The agent hesitated, then answered, “Malcolm.”

Fleming looked beyond him, to the other men in the room. “Does anyone here have a mint for Malcolm? Or some gum?”

No one chuckled. Tough crowd.

Then one of them produced a syringe.

This was bad.

Very bad.

Fleming understood Malcolm’s threat all too well. The United States had dozens of secret prisons throughout the world. Being the last super power standing, those in charge had decided to wipe their asses with the Constitution. No more due process. No more trials by peers. No trials at all, in fact. US citizens could be kidnapped, tortured, and executed by their own government, all on the hush-hush.

Fleming knew what went on at these black sites. She knew that no one made it out of them alive.

“The President will have your head if you take me anywhere,” Fleming said.

“Right now the President is in the middle of a worldwide scandal. It’s a PR nightmare. I really doubt he cares what happens to you.”

Especially since he’ll probably blame me for his recent problems, Fleming thought.

She and Chandler had saved millions. But that didn’t mean much for the Commander-in-Chief’s upcoming reelection campaign.

“You’re worried,” Malcolm said. “I can tell. You have good reason to be. Are you sure you have nothing to say?”

Fleming stayed quiet.

“Who do you work for?”

“Okay, I’ll tell you. I work for M.”

“M?”

“On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. I’m Agent 007. My name is Bond.” Fleming forced herself to smile. “James Bond.”

“Sedate her,” Malcolm ordered.

The needle went in hard and the drug worked quickly.

Fleming knew this would likely be the last moment of peace she would ever have.

She was tough. But everybody breaks.

And now, Fleming realized with terrifying certainty, she was about to find out what her breaking point was.