Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) (15 page)

My slide slowed and stopped.

Heath slowed, but not enough.

By the time he hit the pyramid’s base, hard, I could see police cars screaming into the Luxor’s entrance. Several onlookers waving their arms to direct them to his landing spot.

I turned my attention back to the laser.

My climb was tough. Story after story, slipping and making up the distance. But finally I approached the top. The last few panes soaked my hair with sweat and seared my skin where I touched the glass, and I hadn’t even reached the top.

The heat was unreal. Over two hundred degrees Fahrenheit, easily. And staring into the light was impossible. This close, it was brighter than the noonday sun in a cloudless sky.

The idea of reaching onto those lighted panes and groping around to find the ring, was comparable to sticking my hand into a blast furnace. Forty billion candlepower? No way in hell I was touching it.

But Heath had been in this spot before he’d descended the pyramid to meet me. The ring had to be close.

Squinting, I stripped down to the bikini top and brushed my silk blouse over the super-hot, illuminated glass like a windshield wiper. There was a hissing sound over the hum of the Xenon lamps—my wet blouse sizzling into steam, but there was also a faint tinkle. Like metal clinking against a window.

On my first try, my blouse had connected with the ring and swept it off the lighted pane——sending it skidding down the side of the Luxor.

I didn’t think. I reacted, reaching out, snatching it in my thumb and index finger, burning them as if I’d touched the heating element of a stove. I couldn’t hold on. Releasing the ring, I sent it rolling out of my reach, then dove face-first after it.

During training and on missions, I’d bungee jumped. I’d rappelled. I’d jumped out of helicopters and airplanes and off buildings, bridges, and cliff faces.

But nothing matched the sheer terror of body surfing down the Luxor pyramid, picking up speed crazy fast, staring down at such a steep angle it made my bladder clench.

A scream welled up in my chest, panic not far behind, but then my training kicked in and I splayed out my arms and legs to slow my descent. As I got a grip on my fear, I spotted the ring, the goddamn Precious, rolling only a meter ahead of me. Focusing on that and not the ground, I streamlined my body and picked up some speed. I was halfway down the hotel’s face, and it had only taken a matter of seconds. But now I concentrated on the goal and once it was within reach, I snatched it up, cupping it in my palm and spitting on the hot metal, feeling it burn, switching hands and spitting on it again to cool it down, and then I was spread-eagled and pushing down with my free hand, causing me to spin as I slid.

I hit the ground hard, two policemen waiting for me, but I rolled through their outstretched arms, got to my feet, and ran for it. I jumped some hedges, went quickly over a fence, and found myself in the pool area.

Tucking the ring into my pocket, I forced myself to slow down and reconnoiter. The warm night meant lots of people at the pool, and my entrance hadn’t gotten any attention. I rolled up my jeans, wrapped a hotel pool towel around my waist, and parked on a chaise lounge, getting my heart rate and breathing under control.

Cops came. Cops left. I was invisible, just another tourist.

When ten minutes passed, I picked up a pair of forgotten flip-flops, beelined into the casino, and spent an hour plugging quarter slots.

I won thirty dollars.

Then as the hubbub subsided, I walked out the front door and climbed into a taxi. “Take me to the cheapest hotel in Vegas, off the Strip.”

Chandler

“It’s best not to focus too much on the past,” The Instructor said. “Not if you want to clearly see the present.”

The Sunny Family Motel was $34 a night, and had a vacancy. After that and the cab, I had enough money left to buy some shorts and a shirt at a nearby gift shop.

I called Jacob to report, and asked him to FedEx me a passport, new ID, and cash. In Chicago and a few other states, I had rental lockers where I kept essentials like that, but didn’t have one in Vegas. So I waited sixteen hours for my package to arrive at the front desk.

I spent much of the time sleeping.

I spent some of the time thinking about Heath.

I spent more of the time trying not to.

When my package arrived, I took a cab to the airport and boarded a six pm flight to Chicago. Once I landed at O’Hare, I took the train downtown to the Grant Bark Park, a dog friendly area tucked behind the Chicago Park District Maintenance building. I placed the ring and Bratton’s wallet and water-logged and now worthless cell phone into a poop bag, as I’d arranged on the phone with Jacob, then leaving the bag on the ground outside the receptacle, I walked to the nearby tennis courts and pretended to watch two middle aged couples play doubles.

The truth was I hardly saw them. Instead I kept watch on the dog park, waiting for Jacob or someone under him to make an appearance.

I spent even more time trying not to think about Heath.

After thirty minutes ticked by, I’d seen a little tennis and a lot of people, but no one had looked remotely like the way I’d pictured my handler. I walked back into the doggy portion of the park to check my package.

The bag was gone.

Impossible.

How had I missed seeing Jacob? Or had I seen him?

I pulled out my phone and punched in his number. Glancing around the park, I waited for someone’s phone to ring, but I couldn’t detect a sound over the kids playing Frisbee and the dogs barking in the adjacent free run area.

We recited our codes and Jacob was first to speak.

“I received the package. Nice work.”

“Already?”

“I’m good at my job, Chandler.”

“So which one were you? The jogger? The kid on the skateboard?”

“You were spying on the drop site?”

“Well, I
am
a spy.”

“Funny.”

“You were watching me at the parking ramp drop site.”

“From a distance. I didn’t see your face.”

“Your loss.”

I couldn’t resist a little flirting any more than I could resist getting a glimpse of my new handler. Even if he was cute, I knew any kind of relationship with Jacob would lead to complications I didn’t need. But rolling the thought through my mind was entertaining anyway.

Anything to wipe Heath from my memory.

“The guy with the Weimaraner? No, wait. The old man in the wheelchair, right? That was you.”

“I’m a voice on the phone, Chandler. Believe me, it’s better that way.”

“You weren’t the nun, were you?”

“Chandler…”

“You were! Wow, nice job. You really looked like a woman.”

“I wasn’t the nun. I’m not talking about this anymore. And I strongly suggest you don’t try this again.”

“Or?”

The silence that followed was chilly.

“You haven’t asked about Heath Rodriguez,” he finally said.

I hadn’t. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about him now. “Did he die?”

“The ambulance never made it to the hospital. The Las Vegas PD found it a few blocks away from the Strip, everyone inside unconscious, sedated, or strapped down. And Heath, or whatever his real name is, was gone.”

I couldn’t say I was surprised, but that didn’t mean I was happy. I hadn’t wanted Heath to die, but any chance I’d run into him again at some point, made me more than a little uneasy.

“So who was he working for?”

“I don’t know. Not yet, anyway. But the two of you sure left Vegas in a mess.”

“I thought whatever happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas.”

“Some of it. You’ll be happy to know your Russian friends are either in jail or the morgue.”

“Who were they?”

“No one is talking, but several have ties to the Russian mob operating out of the Ukraine.”

“And the Venezuelan?”

“He’s in the wind. We’re doing our best to sort through the rest.”

“So what’s the whole ring thing about?”

“Don’t know yet.”

I wasn’t often eager to know the details of the fallout after a hit. But this one was different. The men at the restaurant, the Russians in the casino, I had to admit I was itching to know what these groups were after.

“Whatever you learn, let me know, okay?”

“Sure.” Jacob said, his tone not remotely convincing.

“It’s beyond my security clearance, isn’t it?”

“You know how it works.”

I did. As a field operative, it was too risky for me to know much. I could be subjected to interrogation, torture, or any number of ways they could force me to talk. Best I not have anything too important to say.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious.

“Now go home. Get some sleep. I hate to send you back to O’Hare so soon, but there will be a plane ticket waiting for you. You’re flying out Monday.”

“Where am I going?” I asked.

“Times Square. The Marriot Marquis hotel. This assignment is a bit of a rush, so I’ll have to let you know more after you check in.”

“Not even a hint?”

“After what you’ve just been through, this should feel like a vacation.”

I liked the sound of that. A vacation in the Big Apple, the real one this time, not a scooter chase through a themed casino in Las Vegas.

I could go for a little reality. Things being even remotely what they seemed would be a refreshing change of pace.

“Bring it on.”

Senator Ratzenburger

The junior senator from the great state of Arizona wasn’t a man who enjoyed attending weekly worship services. The music was too loud, the pastor too long winded, and the coffee during fellowship afterwards was almost always as weak as water. But he went nonetheless, every week like clockwork, no matter where he was. Holidays as well, of course.

His opponents liked to say his churchgoing was an election ploy, but anyone who knew him realized his motivations went much deeper than that. The senator was a holy man. He might not enjoy the service the way he enjoyed a baseball game, but he was willing to put in the time and effort to ensure his understanding of God’s will was the correct one.

Today, of course, was different.

Not only was he in church for a sparsely attended Saturday evening service, but he was alone, and he was here for more than the good word.

He took his seat in a pew three from the back and waited, looking at the backs of the few worshippers in front of him, thinking of tomorrow afternoon’s golf outing with two fellow members of the Senate Defense Committee.

He didn’t notice the man sitting in the pew behind him until he spoke.

“The item was recovered.”

The organ launched into “Am I a Soldier of the Cross”, and Ratzenburger pulled a hymnal from the back of the pew in front of him and opened it with trembling hands. “And Bratton?”

“Taken care of.”

His knees felt a little weak. He’d stuck out his neck for Dominic Bratton. When he’d learned the man was attempting to sell his research to the highest bidder, research bought and paid for by Uncle Sam and was meant for righteous things, Ratzenburger had feared the worst.

“So we have what we need?”

The organ soared, drowning out the voices of the few parishioners in attendance. The man sitting behind didn’t answer.

“Do we have what we need?” Ratzenburger repeated.

“During the recovery attempt, the blood sample set in the ring was subjected to a great deal of heat.”

“Destroyed?”

“Yes.”

Heaviness settled over Ratzenburger’s shoulders. Years had gone into his plan. For it to end when it hadn’t really had a chance to begin was hard to bear. “So it’s over then.”

“Not quite.”

Bracing himself, he waited for the man he knew as The Instructor to continue.

“We were able to get a Long Island phone number from Bratton’s phone. A microbiologist named Pembrooke. I’ll be in touch with him soon.”

Ratzenburger smiled down into his hymnal. “You’ll keep me informed?” he asked. And when no one answered, he glanced back at the empty pew.

Heath

Sitting in the dark of an apartment in the heart of Tijuana, Heath poured over his computer, sifting through a series of reports he wasn’t meant to see. There were few as good at hacking as he was, and while one of them had designed the cyber security guarding the confidential files of a secret government agency called Hydra and cost him countless hours, he had found a backdoor entrance in the end, no doubt built by the designer of security himself.

“
Soy tu dueño, cabron
.”

I own you.

Heath leaned back in his chair, enjoying the hard won victory. His head ached with a pain no pill would cure, the socket where his eye had once been covered by a bandage. He rubbed his good eye, took a healthy swig of Patron from the bottle next to him—not Burdeos or Platinum but a respectable Anejo—and focused on the report.

There was no mention of him, only of a Latino spy who had killed Bratton and stolen the items he’d been trying to sell at auction. As far as anyone could prove, he’d been at a beach house in Puerto Penasco, Mexico, also known as Rocky Point, recovering after losing his eye in an amateur bullfight.

He’d be going back there, to the housekeeper, Analisa, who was beautiful and warm and wonderfully talented with her mouth. But even though she was everything he could ask for and more, she wasn’t Simone.

Heath scanned the screen, looking for any mention of the operative who’d recovered Bratton’s ring, but there was nothing.

Not until he dug a bit deeper.

There, three quarters of the way down on a sub report issued by her handler, a man named Jacob, was a single name. It was obviously a codename. But even her codename was everything he could have hoped for.

Chandler.

He said the name out loud, caressing it with his tongue the way he had caressed the most intimate parts of her body.

His soul mate.

His nemesis.

The love of his life.

She hadn’t beaten him—he’d destroyed Bratton’s research before she’d taken it to The Instructor—but in all of his career, from the moment he agreed to be a soldier to this very second, no one had ever come as close.