Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels)

by J. A. Konrath

  I circled his tip with my tongue and then took him into my throat again. I could imagine his hands moving over me, caressing my breasts, delving between my legs. Shivers worked over my skin at the thought of his warm mouth suckling at my nipples and scattering kisses over my belly. A small shudder took me, and I could feel his tongue delving between my legs as clearly as what I was doing to him now.

  I moved deeper between his legs and took his balls in my mouth. A shudder moved through him and another moan. I looked up at him, past the tower of his erection. His eyes were laser sights on me, drinking in what I was doing, and I felt more satisfied than I had in years. He really wasn’t going anywhere.

  “My turn,” he grunted. “Please.”

  With one last stroke of my tongue, I skimmed my body up his, his cock leaving a moist trail between my breasts and down my belly. I claimed his mouth for a moment in a rough kiss, my tongue delving into his mouth and tangling with his. Then I rose over him and positioned myself against his lips.

  His free hand snaked behind me, grabbing my ass, pressing me to his face. The first touch of his lips turned my legs into rubber. But his strong arm kept me on my feet, kept me trapped against his probing tongue. At first, it was just gentle licks, never staying in one spot too long, never allowing a rhythm to build. Then stroking became softer, quicker, darting in and out of me, gently taking my lips in his own, sucking softly.

  I grunted, deep in my chest. I felt the orgasm welling up inside me, the pressure building. I wanted more friction. More contact. I moved closer, trying to capture his flickering tongue, but he kept pulling away, kept teasing me, even as I ground against him.

  “Please,” I urged. “Please.”

  He slipped his hand between my legs, his finger penetrating me, and he began to give my clit the slow, fat licks that I needed, that I craved.

  Shudders wracked my body, doubling and redoubling. I heard a scream and somehow recognized the sound was coming from my throat. Pure sensation crashed over me, waves of pleasure ripping me to pieces and rebuilding me again. My legs shook so badly I couldn’t stand up anymore.

  I sank down. Spreading my thighs to sit astride him, I let him enter, crying out again at the delicious pressure. So full. Too full. It was almost pain, almost too much. And then he began moving, thrusting upward with his hips, filling me further, pushing me toward the edge of another crest.

  Pressure built, my body squeezing. I could smell our mingling sweat, sharp and clean, mixing with the salty tang of sex.

  His hand circled to my buttocks, grasping me, lifting me, driving upward into me. I arched my back, and he buried his face in my breasts and captured a nipple in his mouth, coaxing me, urging me to another climax.

  I shuddered, spasms tightening my body. He drove harder, faster, and I moved with him. Heat built to burning. Our flesh slapped a rhythm. Our breathing blended into one.

  I couldn’t say how long we moved like that, thrusting into each other, yet one. Dizziness spun over me. Something like happiness. I felt drugged, no longer in control, no longer even wanting to be.

  I shuddered again, and he gripped my hips, pushing me down onto him, filling the hollow inside me. He cried out then, a feeling more than a sound. A tremor shook him and held, held us both.

  The spasms slowed, then stopped. I sat still, his face in my chest, my arms wrapped around his shoulders, his neck, cradling his head, clinging to him. I wanted to soak in the feeling as long as I could, the tangible sensation of skin on skin, his cock still inside me, the certainty of our connection. But all too soon, the fighting flutter of pigeon wings erupted outside the window. The scent of a neighbor’s slow-cooked roast beef dinner teased the air. And I could feel the heat and connection and certainty ebb like a retreating tide.

  “You’re human, so you’ll want to form attachments. Once you do, it’s time to get out of the game. If you care about people, you can be manipulated and compromised. Field agents have to keep relationships superficial. Love kills.”

  I climbed off Victor’s lap. Without a word, I picked up my clothing and padded out of the room alone. I could feel him watching me, sense his unspoken questions hanging in the air, but I didn’t turn back. I needed to think about what had happened, what I wanted, what I’d felt. But my mind wouldn’t cooperate. Whatever bond might be growing between Victor and me, it was a fragile one, slight as the remnants of a dream, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I examined it too closely, it would cease to exist.

  I took a shower and then studied my injuries in the steamy bathroom mirror. I’d picked up new bruises thanks to the steps outside the John Hancock Center. My shoulder had resumed its throbbing, and I gave myself another shot to deaden the pain. A vague nausea claimed my stomach, and I wasn’t sure if the cause was physical or emotional. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t afford to rest. If my stomach settled, the best I could do was raid Victor’s fridge and hope a rise in blood sugar would do the trick.

  I threw on the robe hanging on the bathroom door. Slipping into the master bedroom, I checked on Kaufmann and rifled through Victor’s closet. I pulled out a pair of silk blouses, one teal, one royal blue. I selected the blue along with another pair of jeans from Victor’s lady friend’s collection of clothing. Pulling them on, I had the urge to ask Victor about her. Were they exclusive? If he had a woman who stayed here, keeping clothing in his closet as if marking her territory, why was he flirting with me online, asking me to dinner, having sex with me on the living room sofa?

  I got dressed, finger-combed my hair, and let it air dry. Instead of returning to the kitchen, I headed for Victor’s office.

  I sat down at Victor’s computer and pushed thoughts of him from my mind. If I wanted to stay alive, like it or not, I had to concentrate on more than my sex life. I accessed the Internet drop box and retrieved the fingerprint I’d taken from the double I’d killed on my way to recover Kaufmann. I doubted I’d get any closer to an identification than I had with the print from the woman at the health club, but it was worth a shot. I had very few leads. I had to work them all.

  I wasn’t shocked when the database failed to provide a name. Then the computer showed a record that I’d already scanned the fingerprint.

  Something must have gone wrong. I entered the first fingerprint again.

  Again the website failed to give me a match, and it reported the same print had been entered three times.

  I stared at the screen, quieting the questions pinging through my mind. I asked the site to compare fingerprints from the first woman I’d killed with the second.

  A match. An exact match. According to the database, not only did the two hit women look the same, they were the same.

  Not possible.

  I’d killed the woman in the health club. I’d stake my life on it. And that was no zombie who had almost killed me outside Victor’s apartment. So how could they have the same fingerprints? Two people never had the same whorls, loops, and arches. Even identical twins each had their own prints. Theoretically, even clones should.

  I stared at the pad of my thumb. I was conscious of time passing, a clock ticking in the apartment. The hum of the refrigerator. Mozart’s low purr as she rubbed against my leg. Finally I scanned my own print. I hit enter and waited for the result.

  An exact match.

  The background sounds of the apartment rose like a buzz in my ears. I checked the results. I made a new scan and checked it again.

  Not only were the two women I’d killed the same person, but I was that person, too.

  I forced myself to breathe. In and out. Slow. Calm. The buzzing started to fade, and I heard traffic on the street below and water rushing through pipes. I reached down and scratched Mozart under the collar.

  The phone rang.

  Victor’s answering machine picked up on the third ring. “Probably at work. Leave a message.”

  Trying not to notice the little jolt of pleasure I took from the sound of his recorded voice, I pus
hed up from the chair. There had to be an explanation for the fingerprints. I needed to focus on finding it.

  The answering machine beeped. “Chandler, it’s me.”

  My heartbeat stuttered, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t seen him since I’d finished training, but his voice was always in my head.

  The Instructor.

  “Chandler, I’m in a car parked out front. We need to talk.”

  SOME TIME AGO…

  “You’ve been specifically chosen for Project Hydra based on a specific set of criteria,” The Instructor said. “Training will be challenging. Once you begin, you will not be able to quit. The only way you’re leaving the training facility is in a body bag.”

  DAY 1

  My room is small, unfurnished except for a bed, a clock, and a dresser for clothing, which has been provided for me. Fatigues, socks, a belt, combat boots, green cotton underwear. I read somewhere that the military never issued any white clothing because it could be used as a flag to surrender. There was also a shower, a sink, a toilet. No windows.

  I just arrived from Fort Knox, where I received infantry training after completing basic. A man met with me the day before graduation. He had no rank on his uniform and didn’t mention what branch of the military he worked for. Only that I was picked out of ten thousand possible candidates for a special branch of service, and if accepted I’d be earning over a hundred thousand dollars a year.

  Ten minutes after graduation, I was on a helicopter. We flew for sixteen hours, stopping to refuel twice. I noticed we were heading north, but wasn’t told of our final destination. When I landed late in the evening, a man I knew only as The Instructor met me, took my personal belongings, and showed me my room.

  There is no TV, no radio, no phone. I’m not allowed any contact with the outside world. The Instructor gave me a pad of paper and a pen, and I was told to write a journal, even though I won’t be allowed to keep it when I leave here.

  So far, The Instructor is the only other person I’ve seen. He said I wasn’t allowed to tour the compound without permission, and when he left me for the night, he locked me in.

  DAY 2

  When I woke up, I was ordered on a ten-kilometer run on a trail around the camp grounds. Judging from the flat terrain and cool air, I think I’m in the Midwest, maybe southern Illinois, or Ohio. There are barracks, a mess hall, and a few other buildings, all empty and in disrepair. The compound is split into two parts, a fence between the halves. The Instructor and I seem to be the only two people here.

  After the run, I was told I’ll be issued a television and required to watch various videos. After each video, tests will be given.

  I made my own breakfast in the mess hall: powdered eggs, reheated sausage, and standard army coffee. Only a few parts of the camp have electricity, powered by a gas generator.

  The first class of the day was bladed weapons. The Instructor and I sparred for eight hours, and I learned how to wield and conceal common weapons such as folding knives and bayonets, along with uncommon ones, such as how to turn a plastic safety razor into a lethal device. If I still had parents, they’d be proud.

  That night, after dinner of a sandwich and more coffee, I helped set up a TV and VCR in my room and was ordered to watch a lesson on speaking Russian.

  DAY 3

  Weight training. Another run. Knife and axe throwing. Another Russian video. It’s like being at Rambo camp.

  DAY 4

  Six excruciating hours on picking locks. The Instructor seems to have no personality, no sense of humor. But unlike previous teachers I’ve had, he has an infinite amount of patience. I have yet to see him get emotional about anything.

  Maybe he’s a robot.

  Another Russian video, plus a video on Zen Buddhism, of all things.

  DAY 7

  Too exhausted to write for the last few days. Running 15 km now daily, plus weight training. Practiced hand-to-hand combat with The Instructor, took a test on speaking Russian, getting more Russian video lessons.

  The food is subpar, and it’s rather lonely, but I’ve grown used to that.

  I like it here.

  DAY 12

  Finally met someone new. A short man, older, only spoke Russian. He didn’t give his name. He spent the day teaching me long-range sniper techniques. After many hours, I was able to hit a melon from a kilometer away.

  I wonder what they’re training me for.

  DAY 14

  Haven’t seen The Instructor in a few days, and all of my training is indoors. Once again I wonder if I’m the only trainee at this camp. If there are others, why aren’t I allowed to see them?

  DAY 17

  No more Russian videos. Now it’s Mandarin Chinese. Been practicing karate for the past few days. The Instructor is very good, but I managed to knock him down twice. He’s still all business, completely unemotional.

  I’ve lost weight but am gaining muscle. My stomach is ripped. I don’t think big biceps on women are sexy, but I can do a hundred pull-ups without breaking a sweat.

  DAY 18

  I almost died today.

  The Instructor had been putting me through some balance exercises, and I was told to climb a pole and walk across a rope strung to an opposite pole. The pole wasn’t very high, only five meters, but once I was up there, vertigo kicked in and I couldn’t move.

  After a minute of being frozen, I asked to come back down. The Instructor pulled his sidearm and said he would shoot me if I didn’t get across that rope within the next ten seconds.

  I took four steps, fell off the rope, and hung onto it.

  The Instructor fired five rounds at me while I crossed to the other pole, hand over hand. It scared me to the bone. I’ve never had live rounds fired at me before. One bullet actually went through my pants cuff.

  When I got to the other side, I couldn’t help it. I was crying.

  He calmly reloaded his pistol and ordered me to do it again.

  I went back and forth between those two poles nineteen times before I could finally walk the rope.

  I think The Instructor might be psychotic.

  DAY 19

  No mention was made of him shooting at me. The Russian came back and showed me how to field strip and reassemble a ridiculous number of guns. We worked for twelve hours, and then I had two hours of Mandarin lessons.

  I’m wondering if I’ll ever get a day off.

  DAY 22

  Still no day off, and when I asked The Instructor how long this training will last, he told me, “As long as it takes.”

  A new teacher arrived. This one spoke only Mandarin. No name offered. I knew enough to understand much of what he said. We spent the day meditating, and he showed me how to isolate my senses. That night, more Buddhism videos.

  DAY 29

  After a week of espionage and surveillance techniques, I got a new teacher. A woman, older, lacking personality just like The Instructor, whom I haven’t seen in a few days.

  The woman is a pilot. I was put in a flight simulator and taught how to fly a helicopter.

  Again I’m wondering what I’m being trained for.

  DAY 36

  I finally took a Huey up. A real live chopper! I flew over the camp, and for the first time saw how isolated it was. Nothing but plains for miles in all directions.

  DAY 59

  Haven’t written in a while. Too tired, too busy.

  I’ve learned so many martial arts they’ve begun to blend together, though I can regularly beat The Instructor in most of our hand-to-hand combat sessions.

  I’m an expert sniper now and can shoot a baseball from a mile away in a crosswind.

  My Russian and Mandarin are improving, and I’m learning French and Arabic.

  DAY 65

  Instead of a 20 km run this morning, I was taken to a field, given a handgun, and told to shoot a cow, lying in the nearby field. It had a broken leg and was wailing in pain.

  I put two rounds in its head.

  Now I’m wond
ering how its leg got broken.

  DAY 70

  Along with weight training, I’ve begun to meditate every day. I’ve learned to slow down my heart rate and put my mind into a theta rhythm. This enables me to hold my breath for over two minutes.

  It also has helped me to really focus my senses, so I have a better idea of what is going on around me. I’m using my ears more. My nose. It’s weird, like being both tuned in and detached at the same time. I feel more aware of everything.

  DAY 76

  Skydiving fucking rocks!

  DAY 78

  Another cow. This one was healthy. I was told to kill it, and refused.

  Using an iron rod, The Instructor broke the cow’s leg.

  When it began to scream, I put two rounds in the poor creature’s head.

  DAY 85

  I’ve been having nightmares about the cow. Other than that, training is going well. Got a new teacher, this one a Saudi. He taught me how to make IEDs—improvised explosive devices—out of various materials. Also taught me how to disarm them.

  DAY 91

  Another cow. Completely healthy.

  I shot it dead two seconds after being ordered to.

  DAY 101

  Balance is improving. I can get through an obstacle course while walking on my hands. I stood on top of a pole on one leg for six hours in a strong breeze. I can walk fifty meters on a high wire.

  The other day, I was taken to one of the closed-off rooms of the compound and shown an autopsy in progress. I had to participate, putting on gloves, using the scalpel.

  It didn’t bother me like I felt it should have.

  Later, I had to take a test on various organs and bodily systems. I learned eight different killing blows and why they worked. Human beings are more fragile than I thought.

  DAY 121

  I think I’m starting to crack.

  I’m learning so much, so fast. I feel parts of my personality slipping away. Who I am. Who I want to be. Instead, they’re being replaced by cold, impersonal training.

  Maybe I’m becoming a robot, like The Instructor.

  DAY 130

  Another cow.

  This time, I wasn’t ordered to shoot it. I was given the iron bar and ordered to beat it to death.