This had been Jacob’s idea. He and I were only two of three people in the whole world who knew about it.
The third person opened the screen door and skipped down the steps, running toward me.
“I didn’t expect you until Saturday,” Julie said, all smiles.
I set my box on the ground and took her in my arms. She felt good, and when we finally ended the hug, I had to blink back a few tears.
Julie looked me over. “Your hair looks great.”
I raised a hand to my head, still a little surprised that my tresses no longer reached my shoulders.
“I’m still getting used to it.”
She eyed the box. “You brought me presents?”
“I have a whole trolley load waiting to be hauled up.”
Her eyes widened like a little kid at Christmas. “What did you bring?”
“Supplies, of course. Food, toiletries, that kind of thing.”
“Anything fun?”
“Of course.”
“Movies? Books?”
I nodded. Loading up boxes of the thrillers and romantic suspense novels Julie loved had just about broken my back. I couldn’t wait for the time when e-readers were common and buying a new book would be as easy as pushing a button.
“I’ve started writing, too. You wouldn’t believe how fast time flies when I’m busy making up stories.”
It was a relief to see Julie was adapting so well to her limited life. After our escape, I’d spent two weeks here with her, helping her adjust. Since then, I’d spent many sleepless nights worrying about my decision to hide her rather than cast her into the sea. Now I felt like I could finally breathe a little deeper.
“I can’t wait to read your stories.”
She grinned. “Maybe I’ll publish them someday.”
A tentative scratching noise came from the box at my feet.
“Okay, Chandler. What’s in the box?”
“You really want to know?”
She gave me a pointed look. “Duh.”
“Okay. Open it. Gently.”
She popped open the lid in two seconds flat.
“Oh my God.” She pulled out the little brown pup and squeezed him to her chest. “What kind is he?”
“A mutt. He’s a rescue dog.”
“Like me.” She beamed, then the smile faded. “He won’t get sick, will he?”
“No. Dogs who have been exposed to Ebola produce antibodies and become immune. Epidemiologists test the blood of dogs in some areas in the world to trace areas of virus outbreak.”
I could tell her more, having reassured myself before bringing the pet to Julie, but she didn’t care. She was too busy petting the little guy and keeping him from nipping her fingers.
“I also included some puppy training books.”
She laughed. “Good idea.”
“All that’s left is for you to name him.”
Her eyebrows bunched together. She opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking, hugging the squirming puppy to her chest as if he was everything. And once again I was struck by how young she was, barely eighteen, this girl who’d seen too much, who’d been sentenced to live the rest of her life in isolation.
She leaned forward and kissed the pup’s head.
“I think I’ll call him Kirk. Do you think he’d like that?”
I had no idea. When it came to normal life issues like whether or not he liked dogs, I knew little about Jonathan Kirk. I had only seen slices of who he was. The brutal part that enabled him to do unspeakable things for money. The sly humor. The bravery in the face of death. The love of life that he was able to reveal, and able to reveal in me. How I never really knew him, yet missed him so terribly.
“Do you like it, Julie?”
Eyes glistening, she gave a nod.
“Then he would, too.”
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.