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.

  Hammett scurries away, heading below-deck.

  # # #

  1:19... 1:18...

  The wave unhooked the handcuff chain from where it had been hung-up on the starboard stern cleat, and Fleming was free. She tugged her battered hand out of the folding chair and strained to grab the phone--

  --missing as it plopped into the dark water.

  Fleming quickly glanced at Chandler, and the two locked eyes.

  Chandler's eyes told her, "No, please don't."

  Fleming's answered back. "You know I have to."

  And then she pushed the anchor over the transom and sank beneath the waves.

  # # #

  Watching Fleming go after the phone, I realized what it all meant.

  All of our training. All of our sacrifices. All of the pain we'd endured.

  We were the good guys.

  Not because our government used us like pawns in some grand, worldwide espionage game.

  Not because we could kill on command.

  Not because we were unfeeling, uncaring machines, programmed to follow orders.

  We were the good guys, because we did the right thing.

  No matter the cost.

  Which is why I dove into the water after her.

  # # #

  Fleming sunk fast, the anchor dragging her down into the, cold murky depths. She managed a deep breath before she went over, and knew from experience it would last about ninety seconds.

  Ninety seconds left to live.

  Ninety seconds to save seven million.

  The water was freezing, black, and when she hit the bottom the pressure in her ears was excruciating. She pinched her nostrils with her thumb and pinky, equalizing the pressure, and figured she was perhaps thirty, thirty-five feet deep.

  Lucky. Some parts of Lake Michigan were over nine hundred feet deep.

  Fleming squinted, looking for the light of the phone, turning in a complete circle.

  Nothing. There's nothing. It's darker than a grave down here. The phone could be right next to me and I still wouldn't--

  There!

  Two meters away, three tops. She could make out the glowing red touch screen.

  0:57... 0:56... 0:55...

  Fleming begins to crawl toward it, ignoring the pain, dragging the anchor through the muck behind her.

  # # #

  I decided, right then, that I truly hated water.

  The icy, blackness fought me, not letting me in. I swam down two meters, but I couldn't get any deeper. I was too buoyant.

  It was my lungs. Filled with air, it was like trying to sink with two basketballs.

  I peered down, not knowing how deep it was, unable to see Fleming or the phone.

  And I made a choice.

  If the air in my lungs is stopping me, I need to get rid of it.

  I blew out a big breath, about half of my reserve, and then continued my descent.

  # # #

  Hammett hurries past the bridge, hearing the marine radio crackle. The coast guard is hailing the ship that shot the flare.

  Damn Fleming.

  Damn Fleming, and damn Chandler, and damn this entire op.

  It's time to cut my losses and get the hell out of here.

  But first...

  Hammett barges into the stateroom, finds the duffel bag filled with grenades.

  Four of them.

  More than enough.

  # # #

  0:11... 0:10...

  Dizzy from exertion and oxygen deprivation, Fleming reached the phone. She picked it up in her bad hand.

  0:09... 0:08...

  Bringing it over to the anchor, she used her good hand to exit the countdown screen, bringing up the manual override.

  Because the nuke had been launched from this transceiver, this transceiver was the only one that could disarm it. It was a simple, four digit code.

  Fleming accessed the keypad, finger raised.

  0:07... 0:06...

  Oh, hell. Brain fart.

  What the hell is that code?

  0:05... 0:04...

  Think! You designed the damn thing!

  Duh!

  Fleming punched it in, 5 9 3 1.

  MISSILE DISARMED.

  She smiled in the darkness. Then she turned the phone upside, looking what the numbers spelled.

  IE65

  LEGS.

  And then Fleming started to laugh.

  I did it.

  I really did it.

  Hell yeah!

  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the worthless cripple who got shoved behind a desk has saved London!

  As the air bubbled out of her lungs, Fleming felt no fear. No panic.

  Her legs and ribs and hand no longer hurt.

  All she felt was joy.

  Pure joy.

  And that was a damn good way to die.

  Then something grabbed her in the darkness.

  # # #

  Dizzy, my lungs screaming for relief, I continued to swim downward, into the deep, not knowing where the hell I was going until my face was bathed by something warm.

  Bubbles.

  I followed them, then made out the tiny spot of light only a few meters away.

  Fleming. Still handcuffed to the anchor. The transceiver in her hand.

  I fought to reach her, struggling against the water, mustering up my last bit of strength. Much as I feared what was coming--the terrible panic and unbearable pain of my lungs filling with liquid--I had to save her, or die trying.

  I grabbed her arm and tugged. Maybe the two of us, both swimming hard as we could, would be able to get her to the surface.

  Fleming shook her head, then pointed a crooked finger up, her eyebrows furrowing in the soft glow of the phone.

  She wants me to leave her.

  I pulled her again, but this time she shoved me back, shaking her head.

  We stared at each other for a moment. I watched her face relax. She showed me the phone.

  MISSILE DISARMED.

  Then she mouthed, quite clearly, "I love you."

  I threw my arms around her, hugging her, hugging her so hard and never, ever wanting to let go.

  And then I remembered my jeans.

  Hammett's jeans.

  Body shaking from lack of air, my thoughts beginning to scramble, I felt along the pants seam of the denim and found it.

  A wire.

  Even nearly dead, I could pick a handcuff lock. I popped her wrist free, thinking that maybe we actually could make it out of this--

  Then the lake exploded.

  The shock wave hit me hard, knocking the precious bit of air out of my lungs. Making my ears pop and ring, and rattling my body so hard I bit my tongue.

  Grenades.

  I covered up Fleming with my body, and another shockwave hit.

  And another.

  And another.

  By now, I had no choice. I had to breathe, and my body sucked in the lake.

  And then I was back on Victor's kitchen table.

  Back at Hydra training.

  Back in Cory's car as the water came in.

  My whole body shook in panic, and I choked and tried to cough and once again I was going to die a mindless, panicked animal.

  That's when I felt it.

  My hand.

  My sister, holding my hand.

  And for the briefest moment, I had the childhood I always wanted. A safe, caring home, and a sister who loved me.

  I clasped my fingers in hers, and let the water take me.

  "Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose," The Instructor said. "Winning is better."

  The first thing I was aware of was an antiseptic smell. Then I opened my bleary eyes to a bright light and immediately gasped for air, my heart beating like hummingbird wings.

  When I was able to focus, I realized I was in a hospital room. And I wasn't alone.

  The cop, Jack Daniels, was sitting next to my bed in a plastic folding chair. Jack held a syringe, and I realized she'd just injected something into my IV line. I tried to sit up and found I'd been handcuffed to the bed.

  "Your sister is some swimmer," Jack said.

  "Yeah," I said. "She can swim like a son of a bitch. Where is she?"

  "The coast guard saw a flare and picked both of you up. You had to be resuscitated. That's twice you drowned, isn't it?"

  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."

  end

 

 

  J.A. Konrath, Flee

 

 

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