Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath

by Flee - a Thriller

  Actually, more like a dozen times. “Where’s my sister?”

  “She’s being debriefed by some serious-looking men in suits. They won’t let me, or anyone else, inside, not even a lawyer. Thing is, I can’t tell if they’re good guys or bad guys.”

  I eyed the syringe. “What’d you give me?”

  “Adrenaline. They put you under and have been keeping you drugged. I assume they’ll interrogate you next, but I wanted to talk to you first. We’ve got a minute, tops, before they find out I’m in here.”

  I blinked, my vision slowly sharpening. I still tasted the mucky water of Lake Michigan. “How long have I been out?”

  “About nine hours. Long enough that you missed the breaking news.”

  Jack held up a newspaper, the Tribune. The headline read: “US ACCIDENTALLY LAUNCHES NUCLEAR STRIKE ON LONDON.”

  “The President deeply apologizes for the mistake. The nuke was disarmed in midair and no one was hurt.” Jack looked up from the article to meet my eyes. “Am I wrong, or does the world owe you and your sister a big debt?”

  “Was anyone else picked up? Someone who looks like me?”

  “Just you two.”

  “Did you recover a phone?”

  “I heard something about a phone. I think the suits with your sister have it.”

  I took a shot. “We’re so far off the radar, we don’t even exist. They’ll send my sister and me abroad, to a CIA prison. No trial. No due process. We’ll be left there until they forget about us, or we’re executed.”

  “Oh, you exist. I called in a favor, got a peek at your juvie record.”

  And then she called me by something I hadn’t heard in a long, long time. My real name. Then she folded over the paper and showed me another article.

  TWO KILLED IN STREETERVILLE APARTMENT.

  It was about Kaufmann, and Cory.

  “Looks like the world owes you another debt, taking out that piece of trash. I’m sorry about your parole officer. He seemed to be a good man.”

  “He was. What happened to the girl?”

  “Her name is Dione Simowicz. Runaway. Her parents have been notified.”

  “She’ll need counseling.”

  “She’ll get it. Court ordered. A local 7-11 has her on video sticking the place up with that Cory creep. She kept going on and on about you, how you killed her boyfriend in cold blood.”

  I let that sink in. “So they know all about me.”

  “No. I know all about you. No one else does. You’re listed here as Jane Doe. “

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Your juvie record is still sealed,” Jack went on. “For as long as you’ve been here, the only one who took your prints was me.”

  Good think I’d had the wherewithal to wipe down Victor’s apartment before I left. “What about Mozart?”

  Jack shot me a questioning look.

  “Was there a fat calico cat hiding in the apartment?”

  “One of the cops at the scene took it home.”

  Good. She was a sweet cat. She deserved a good home. “How about the gun? From the roof of my apartment building?”

  Jack shrugged. “Apparently that gun with your fingerprints on it got lost in the evidence room.”

  I tried to figure out where she was going with this, and could only come to one conclusion. “You’re letting me go?”

  “I can’t. I’ll probably get fired just being in here. But I did bring you some of your clothes.” She looked at me, pointedly. “From your apartment. They’re in the bag, on the chair. Being executed is bad, but the real tragedy here is that hospital gown. Now at least you’ll die looking sharp.”

  Jack stood up.

  “The suits have closed off the west wing on the sixth floor. That’s where your sister is.”

  “I need a gun.”

  “I’d prefer you stop killing people in my city, if you don’t mind. Besides,” her lips curled into a smile, “didn’t you say you liked to live on the edge?”

  “Thank you, Jack,” I said. And I meant it.

  The cop walked to the door, then stopped.

  “If you need a friend someday, I work out of the 26th District. Look me up.”

  “I will.”

  “And nice work saving the world, Chandler.”

  Jack left.

  I hurt in a billion places and was dog tired. No doubt the hospital was crawling with operatives, and I probably had less than a five percent chance of getting out of there alive. The odds were even worse if I tried to rescue Fleming.

  But my parents would have been proud, because even after all that had happened, after the hellish day I’d had, after all I’d done and all I’d lost, my upper lip was as stiff as can be.

  Quitting was not an option.

  I opened the bag Jack had left, found one of my shirts, and felt along the seam until I reached the fifty dollars and the lock pick.

  “Hold on, Sis,” I whispered. “I’ll be right there.”

  1

  Winter meant death in Chicago.

  Death to the homeless, turned away from overcrowded shelters and forced to stuff their ragged clothes with day-old newspaper.

  Death to the motorists, skidding on filthy, snow-covered highways into the paths of trucks and guard rails and head-crunching support posts.

  Death to the elderly, slipping on sidewalks and shattering brittle bones, and to the poor, unable to pay both the food bill and the gas bill.

  Death to Billy Chico.

  Chico was a small-time hustler and big-time loser who liked to bet the ponies and hit women. He was more successful at the latter. On his more reflective days—and there weren’t many—Chico figured he’d lost more than eighty thousand dollars in the ten or so years he’d been placing bets. He would have lost even more if the puta he married hadn’t sent the Man after him for child support. Chico knew the kid wasn’t really his. That child was bug-eyed, bare-assed ugly, and couldn’t have had any of Chico’s genes in his roly-poly body. Chico often compared himself to the ponies he loved to throw money after; sleek and muscled and hung, with a mane of gorgeous black and eyes that could stare through you, sister. A thoroughbred if there ever was.

  Unfortunately, the thoroughbred just caught a bad tip, and couldn’t cover the bet he’d made with his very connected bookie. Two thousand bucks worth of bad tip, baby, five weeks of factory wages. A debt he couldn’t pay, especially since he had to fork out cash for rent, the bills, and child support for that skank and her ugly brat.

  Chico, in a word, was powerfucked. And getting more PFed by the minute, because his marker was due and Marty the Maniac had definitely alerted his goons to begin collection proceedings.

  Collection proceedings didn’t involve friendly chit-chat over coffee. They involved hurt. Lots of hurt. And Chico was far too fine to have anything broken, scarred, burned, or severed.

  So Billy Chico took his last sixty bucks, bought a piece from a runner with gang ties, and went out to rob Teddy’s Liquors on 23rd and Cal.

  It was cold, cold enough to freeze the juice that your brain floats in. Chico wore his trademark black leather jacket with the fringes hanging from the sleeves and he looked fly, even though it kept him warm for shit. The liquor store he picked was three blocks from his apartment; one with late-night hours and a constant flow of business. Not a corner store that just sold beer by the bottle, but a classy joint that had all that expensive wine and gift packs and overpriced whiskey in ceramic jugs shaped like Corvettes. Fancy shit like that. Chico figured on one of the busiest liquor days of the year—Super Bowl Sunday—the place would have at least two k in green. He might even come out a couple bucks ahead on the deal.

  Billy Chico stopped at the front door, his skinny ass cheeks knocking together like two frozen oranges, an icy hand wrapped around the butt of the .32 in his jacket pocket. He hesitated. Having grown up on the streets, fear was something common to Chico, so fear wasn’t what gave him pause. But staring at his reflection in the heavy glass door made hi
m realize he’d forgotten to bring something to cover his face. The asshole in the store could identify him. Murder never occurred to Chico, because that was for psychos. He was too good-looking to do hard time. Prison scared him, almost more than that crazy bookie did.

  Almost.

  He considered turning back when he remembered the mesh hair net covering his wavy mane. With a nervous giggle he stretched it down over his face, staring out through fishnet.

  In and out. Should be quick. He took a deep breath of cold city air and pushed the door open, rushing in with his weapon pointed.

  “Gimme all the money! Now!”

  The proprietor was an old white dude, skinny and small with tiny little Santa Claus glasses. He held up his hands and looked appropriately terrified.

  “Move your ass, old man!”

  Chico thrust the revolver into the prune’s face, letting him see death through the half-inch hole in the barrel.

  The old man stood stock-still, not moving an inch.

  “What the hell is your problem, Grandpa? You deaf? I said get the goddamn money pronto or I’ll shoot off your head!”

  The old man remained where he was.

  Chico stole a nervous glance at the door to see if any customers were coming in, then got closer to the old man, cocking his gun to show he wasn’t playing around.

  “I can’t open the safe,” the old man said.

  “What?”

  The old man pointed to the large sign sticking to the counter. Chico backed away and read the oversized words silently, even though his lips moved.

  THE SAFE HAS A TIME LOCK AND CANNOT BE OPENED.

  “What the fuck is a time lock?”

  “Magnetic lock. Can only be opened in the morning at eight a.m.” The old man swallowed. “You’re welcome to wait around, if you want.”

  “Then gimme the cash register money!”

  He pointed to another sign.

  THE CASH REGISTER CONTAINS LESS THAN $50.

  The .32 in Chico’s hand felt heavy and foreign. His heart was beating in his throat. Even if he took the fifty, the gun cost him sixty, so he came out behind in the deal. What the hell should he do now? Leave and rob someone else? Or beat this old bastard senseless to see if he was lying?

  The answer came to him in the shape of a champagne bottle. All Chico had to do was conk him on the head a few times with a magnum of Totts, then we’d see what was up with this time lock bullshit. Chico used his free hand to grab the handy bottle neck, holding the champagne like a club.

  “You want to play rough, old man? I’ll give you a punt-shaped head!”

  A sound; the electronic bell attached to the front door, beeping when a customer left or came in. Billy Chico and the old man looked to see a short guy in a Blackhawks jacket enter.

  “Get on the floor, corto!”

  The short man gave Chico an even stare and stopped where he stood.

  “On the goddamn floor or I’ll blow your little head off!”

  The man remained standing where he was. Weren’t people afraid of guns anymore?

  “Marty sent me to collect your debt, Billy,” The short man had the low, steady voice of a talk radio jock.

  “What the hell you think I’m trying to do here?” The sweat on Chico’s body was a living thing, running over him in itchy waves.

  The short man stood calmly, hands in his pockets.

  “I’ll wait. But you’d better hurry. You’ve been in here for a minute and forty-three seconds, and the owner there tripped his silent alarm right after you pulled your gun.”

  Chico began to shake like a withdrawing junkie.

  “Give me the damn money, old man!”

  “I can’t. It’s a time lock.”

  Chico threw the champagne at the old man, but it was lefty and he threw like a girl. The old man caught the bottle.

  The short guy turned his ear to the front door, keeping both eyes on Chico. “Sirens coming this way.”

  “Shut up!”

  Chico unconsciously pushed the hairnet up off his face and rubbed his forehead to think. No thoughts came, other than maybe gambling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “Better move your ass, Billy.”

  “I said shut up!”

  The short man waited.

  The old man behind the counter stared, probably memorizing Billy Chico’s face.

  Then Billy Chico made the biggest mistake of many big mistakes throughout his miserable little life. He began to swing his gun from the shop owner over to the short guy.

  “Billy… don’t.”

  Billy Chico hesitated. It was obvious he was leaving here empty handed. But he definitely wasn’t going to leave with some broken fingers, or a busted arm or leg. He continued to bring the gun around, ready to shoot his way out of here if he had to.

  “Drop it, Billy!”

  The tone was so sudden, so commanding, that Billy Chico had to react. His brain offered three instantaneous choices: Drop the gun, wet his pants, or fire. Billy’s finger began to pull the trigger.

  He never got a chance to. In a blur the short guy whipped out two semi-automatic .45s from the pockets of his Starter jacket and fired sixteen shots into Billy Chico. His left hand put a controlled burst of eight into Billy’s chest, and his right hand punched eight more into Billy’s head and neck.

  Billy Chico ended instantly. His heart never had a chance to stop beating, because it was carved out of his chest. His brain never had a chance to realize he was dead, because it got scrambled the same instant his heart was chewed away.

  Chico’s body jerked in electrical spasms and tangled itself in a cardboard display featuring several bikini-clad women holding beers. His body landed an instant before his gun clattered to the floor where he’d been previously standing.

  The shop owner, who’d seen a few things in his day, wasn’t sure whether to cheer or scream. The skinny man with the gun was scary, but it was a familiar kind of scary. In the almost three decades he’d been in business, he’d been robbed forty-six times, half of those within the last seven years as the neighborhood continued to decline. Junkies, gang members, ex-cons, and all shades of desperate men had walked into Teddy’s Liquors looking to make a quick buck. The skinny guy wasn’t an exception. He was part of a trend.

  But this short guy with the two guns, this was something different. Something even scarier. When he killed the skinny man, his face had no expression. It didn’t even look like he blinked. How can you shoot someone a dozen times and not even blink?

  The old man forced a smile—something damn near impossible with his peripheral vision clogged red with spilled blood—and managed to sputter out, “Thanks, buddy.”

  The short man shook his head.

  “I still have to collect his debt.”

  “But the safe is on a—”

  The short guy placed the hot barrel of the .45 in front of his lips like a giant finger and said, “Shhh.”

  He pocketed the guns, and in three steps leapt the counter without touching it, jumping much higher than the old man thought possible. Within seconds he located the safe, in a cabinet under the cash register.

  The sirens grew louder. The short guy stared at the safe for a long second.

  “This isn’t a time lock safe. This thing is older than I am.”

  The old man was too afraid to shrug, but he managed to sputter, “New safe costs a few thousand dollars. Sign was only $10.99.”

  “How about you give me the combination?”

  The old man tried to swallow but he was all out of spit.

  “The owner hasn’t told it to me.”

  “Then how about give me your wallet?”

  “My wallet?”

  “Does that have a time lock too?”

  The old man dug his wallet out with trembling hands and offered it up. The short guy avoided the money inside, instead removing the Driver’s License.

  “This is Teddy’s Liquors, right?”

  The old man nodded.

 
“Your name is Theodore. Is it worth having your fingers broken, Teddy, for a few thousand dollars that are insured anyway?”

  The old man shook his head, knelt down, and opened the safe. He held up a money tray, head bowed, like an offering to the gods.

  The sirens were much closer, screaming up the street.

  The short guy quickly and efficiently counted two thousand dollars; the amount of Chico’s debt. It went into his Starter jacket. The rest of the money from the tray went into an empty Jim Beam box that was lying behind the counter. He put another box inside the box with the money, so it looked like two stacked empty boxes.

  “Hide this in back and then claim it all on your insurance. Busy night like tonight, they’ll owe you at least five or six grand. Just don’t let the police find it.”

  The old man nodded, getting it. He went from being terrified to strangely elated. The insurance company—those premium-hiking bloodsuckers—always demanded receipts and double-checked inventory to make sure his claims weren’t inflated. This would be the very first time he was robbed and actually came out ahead of the game.

  “Thanks,” the old man said, realizing as soon as he did how strange it was.

  “Remember to describe me correctly to the police. A very tall black man in a green jacket. I’d hate to have to come back here and find out you got my description wrong. Got it?”

  The old man stared into the blue eyes of the short white guy. His stare wandered down to the man’s hand, the back of which was covered with an extremely ornate tattoo of a Monarch butterfly, so realistic it appeared ready to take flight.

  “No tattoos, either.”

  “Got it,” the old man croaked.

  “Take care, Teddy,” the short guy said, and he slipped out the door into the night.

  To continue reading SHOT OF TEQUILA by J.A. Konrath, visit your library or favorite ebook retailer and pick up a copy today.

  Blake Crouch

  THE tattered windsock hangs limp against its pole. Weeds erupt through fissures in the ancient pavement of the runway where she stands, and in the distance, support beams rise from heaps of twisted metal—three hangars, long since toppled upon a half dozen single- and twin-engine airplanes. She watches the Beechcraft that brought her here lift off the ground, props screaming, and climb to clear the pines a quarter mile past the end of the runway. She walks into the field. The midmorning sun blazing down on her bare shoulders. The grass that grazes her sandaled feet still cold with dew. Someone jogs toward her, and beyond them she can see the team already at work, imagines they started the moment the light became worth a damn.