Wild Night is Calling, by J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

Excerpt from FLEE, by J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

Also by the Authors

Part 1

The red Grand Am crossed two lanes of traffic. Tires buzzing across rumble strips, it made for the off ramp. “Where is he going?” Caitlin jolted forward, nearly hugging the wheel. She swung in the direction Josh’s car had darted, trying to follow.

A loud horn blared through her open windows and rattled the frame of her Subaru.

A semi roared up beside her, cutting off the right lane, and she swerved back to avoid a collision. Caitlin couldn’t see the exit on the other side of the truck, but she felt them streak past.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, jostling her stomach. Her whole body trembled. She glanced at Zach sitting in the passenger seat and prayed she wouldn’t be sick.

He looked a little queasy himself. Bracing against the door and dash, he stared at her, eyes wide. “What was that?”

“Josh just…” She gestured to the right, where the semi still blocked the next lane. “He veered off. I tried to follow. I—”

“Almost got us killed.”

He was right. She hadn’t looked over her shoulder. She hadn’t even used her mirrors. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

Zach shook his head and relaxed his death grip. “It’s okay. I was watching Josh’s car, too. I don’t know why in the hell he did that. I didn’t see it coming.”

“But you aren’t driving.”

He let out a laugh. “Good thing. I am way too wasted to drive.”

Caitlin had thought she was okay. Not old enough to buy beer in Milwaukee’s Summerfest grounds, she’d only had a couple in the parking lot. She hadn’t felt drunk. She’d been sure she could make it. Zach and Josh had said it wasn’t too far. But now she had to wonder if letting Hannah talk her into going to a party with guys they barely knew was a mistake, no matter how nice the guys had seemed. If Caitlin hadn’t promised to help Hannah celebrate how far she’d come in the last year, she would have said no.

She pulled in a breath and let it out in shuddering puffs. Still sweaty after a long day in the sun, now she felt downright clammy; her palms slick on the steering wheel, her legs sticking to the seat. She adjusted her mini skirt and tried to smooth her frizzed and windblown hair.

“Okay. So it might take us a little longer to get to the party. We’ll deal. So where do I go?”

“Go?”

“The party. Where is it?”

“I…I don’t know.”

He couldn’t be serious. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” She pulled her focus from the road and glanced into his sincere green eyes. Eyes that had given her a shiver—the good kind—the moment they’d met hers.

Zach shrugged one shoulder, as if none of it was a big deal. “I don’t know where he lives.”

“I thought you two shared a house.”

“Josh and me?”

“You don’t live together?”

“I’ve only known him for a couple weeks.”

“What’s his last name?”

Another shrug. “I told you. I don’t know him very well.”

“You don’t even know his last name? But you drove to Summerfest together.”

Just as she and Hannah had. And when Hannah had gotten in the Grand Am with Josh and she’d agreed to give Zach a lift back to their house, to the party they were throwing, it had made sense. Or at the very least, it was spontaneous, adventurous and wild. Just what she and Hannah had decided tonight would be. Just what they needed after working so hard these past months.

“Didn’t you guys drive together?”

“Yeah. But he picked me up. He knows where I live.”

She had to stay calm. She would find Hannah. Everything would be all right. It had to be.

“So where’s the party?”

“Josh’s place, I guess. I have roommates.”

“How did you think we would get there?”

“I thought we were following him.”

“Clearly we aren’t anymore.” One hand gripping the wheel, she dug blindly in her bag for her iPhone. The next question was obvious, not that she’d thought to ask it back in the parking lot. “What was the plan if we got separated?”

“I was…hoping you’d just want to come to my place.”

If Zach hadn’t seemed as surprised as she was by Josh’s sudden exit, she would have to wonder if splitting up was their strategy all along. She had to admit that under different circumstances, she might have gone for the idea. Zach was cute; great smile, blondish hair just a little too long. She’d gotten a jitter in her chest the moment she’d met him. The kind of jitter she wanted to hold onto, to explore where it could go. And she and Hannah had decided they were going to be wild, hadn’t they? Spontaneous. To celebrate.

Some celebration. Caitlin had no idea where her best friend was, and Hannah was alone with a strange guy…

Alone with a strange guy.

Oh, God.

Now Caitlin didn’t want to go anywhere. Not to Zach’s. Not to a party. Not anywhere except home, with Hannah belted into the passenger seat beside her.

Her fingers closed over the phone. She pulled it out and called up Hannah’s number, trying to keep her eyes on the road.

The phone rang three times before going to voice mail. “Why aren’t you answering?” Caitlin’s voice sounded as panicked and choked as she felt. “You guys turned off too fast for me to follow, and Zach says he doesn’t know where you’re going. Call me back right away.” She ended the call and tossed the phone back into her purse.

“I’m sorry this happened, Caitlin. Really, I am. I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Sorry doesn’t help.”

“No, it doesn’t. We need to find your friend.”

She glanced at the side of his face, and for a second, what Hannah and she had done crashed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Wild? Spontaneous? More like profoundly stupid. And she wasn’t sure that she could get them out of it this time. At least not on her own. “Are you serious about the we?”

“Of course. Don’t you think I feel bad about this?” He stared straight ahead, the green glow of the dash highlighting the line of his jaw.

A strong jaw. A hero’s jaw, that’s what it was. At least she needed him to be a hero tonight. “What are you thinking?”

“That I shouldn’t have drunk so many beers.”

She wished none of them had. Especially Hannah. Especially her. Sure, Caitlin hadn’t had as much to drink, since she was driving. But obviously it had been too much; otherwise, she’d never have let Hannah get in the car with Josh. No matter how good looking he was or how spontaneous they’d decided to be tonight, it hadn’t been worth the risk. Even if Caitlin fixed this mistake, after all Hannah had been through, this might be too much for her.

Jesus, what could be going through Hannah’s head right now? Did she know Caitlin had lost her?

Please, please, please let it be okay.

“Take the next exit.” Zach’s voice rang with conviction, taking charge.

Caitlin wanted to trust him. Wanted to be able to rely on his help to find her friend. She took a deep breath and zoomed down the off ramp. “You thought of something?”

“He talked about work. A place in Lake Hubbard.”

Caitlin recognized the name of the small, southeastern Wisconsin burg she’d visited once as a kid. “You think he lives there?”

“It’s a start.”

A start. The name of a town. And the scary thing was that she felt relieved they had something, anything. That she and Hannah, after all this, just might come out of this mess okay.

“What does Josh do?” she asked.

“He’s a mechanic or something. As I said, we’re not that tight. We just started hanging.”

“Is he…okay?”

“Yeah. He’s cool.”

“I mean, do you think he’ll try anything with Hannah?”

Zach was silent.

“Zach…?”

“I said, he’s cool. But I saw him shove a girl once. It was no big deal, really. She was acting like a bitch. But he knocked her down.”

Caitlin jumped on the highway heading for Janesville. Miles spun under tires. Summer wind whipped through the car, carrying the scent of moist earth, green plants and manure. Rolling hills and the yard lights of farms gave way to the illuminated slashes of strip malls then faded back to dark stretches of burgeoning corn. Neither one of them spoke. Caitlin couldn’t really hear Zach’s breathing, but she could sense it. In and out. In and out. She found herself listening for it, straining to hear over the whoosh of the highway outside. As if it was the only thing she had to hold onto. The one thing that could see her through this nightmare.

“How are you doing?” he asked, as if sensing her tenuous hold on control.

“Okay.” It was a reflexive answer. And not a bit true. “Actually, I’m scared. Hannah’s had some trouble in the past.”

“Trouble?”

She kept her focus on the road. She knew she shouldn’t be telling him her friend’s secrets. Hannah wouldn’t forgive her. “Her stepfather.”

“He beat her up or something?”

“That was only the start of it. It was bad. The whole thing was bad. I’m afraid…” She couldn’t say more. Hannah trusted her. She couldn’t tell the rest. She couldn’t betray her friend.

“We’ll find her,” Zach said.

It didn’t take long before they were in Lake Hubbard, yet Caitlin still had no clue where to start searching. The town wasn’t large, but it was certainly too big to find one woman, when they had nothing to go on but the first name Josh.

She looked to Zach. He was so cute with his hair curling around the collar of his polo shirt. Clean cut. Nice. The kind of guy she could rely on to help. At least she had that going for her. “Now what?”

“Now we go to the police station.”

A quiver seated itself in Caitlin’s stomach. She drove two blocks and stopped for a red light before she was ready to speak. “Are you sure we need the cops?”

“Any other ideas?”

She didn’t have a single one.

“Me, either.” Zach reached out and patted her arm. The gesture was awkward, as if he was trying to be reassuring and didn’t quite know how. “So we go to the police. Maybe they can help us figure out where Josh lives.”

“Why would they know? Has he been in trouble with the law?” Possible scenarios sprouted and bloomed in her mind.

“I have no idea,” he said. “Except for that one thing with the girl, every time I hung out with him, he seemed perfectly normal.”

“A lot of people seem normal. Seeming normal doesn’t mean he hasn’t been in trouble before.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Her throat pinched. A sob jerked deep in her gut. This whole thing was seeming more hopeless all the time. Maybe Zach was right. Maybe going to the police was their best choice. Maybe it was their only choice. And if Hannah hated her as a result, she would just have to live with that.

The light turned green, and Caitlin continued through the outskirts of Lake Hubbard. The bright colored signs of fast food restaurants, bowling alleys and big box stores shimmered in the humidity. The scent of burgers and deep fried grease wafted in through the windows. Caitlin hadn’t eaten since she’d scarfed down a cream puff right before they left the park, but the last thing she wanted was food. She just wanted to be on her way home with Hannah. She just wanted everything to be back to normal. And if it took going to the police to make that happen, maybe that’s what she’d have to do.

“We’ll find her. It’s all going to be all right.”

“You keep saying that. But…” The horrors of the past battled at the wall she built in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to remember the details. Didn’t want to think it was possible such terrible events could happen again. “It was bad enough with Hannah’s stepfather, but there was another guy, too. Just last year.”

“Sounds like your friend has gone through hell.”

“She has.” And Caitlin had, too. Everyone had.

“I know you’re afraid for Hannah, but Josh will be cool.”

“You don’t know…”

“No. You’re right. I don’t. We don’t know anything for sure.” Zach covered her hand with his and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Listen, we don’t have to go to the cops. If you want me to go door to door, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes. We’ll make sure she’s okay.”

The street ahead blurred in a mosaic of streetlights and shadow. She opened her eyes wide so tears wouldn’t spill over. She’d never had anyone promise to do whatever it takes. Not for her. And although she suspected guilt might have something to do with Zach’s kindness, she soaked it in all the same. “No. You’re right. Let’s go to the police.”

Caitlin’s iPhone gave a chirp. A new text message.

She clawed at her bag with a shaking hand, trying to keep her eyes on the road.

“Here.” Zach pushed the phone into her palm.

She flicked it to the new text. It was from Hannah.

Need help. 315 Bransheer Court, Lake Hubbard.

A wave of dizziness swirled around Caitlin. Forcing herself to breathe, she managed to pull off the street and find a spot on the curb. She shifted into park and tapped the screen with shaking fingers, redialing Hannah’s number. “Please pick up. Please.”

Hannah’s phone rang on the other end. Two rings. Four. When it transferred over to voice mail, Caitlin cut off the call.

She switched back to Hannah’s text and stared at the screen, as if she might be able to see more between the letters if she just stared hard enough. For a second, she almost punched in 911, but she couldn’t do it. Not until she knew what had happened. Not until she was sure it was her only option.

Caitlin looked up to find Zach staring at her. His eyebrows canted downward with worry, but he looked downright Zen compared with the panic racing through her mind and jangling every nerve in her body.

He was a nice guy. He’d promised to help.

She flashed Zach a look at the screen. “Do you know how to get to this address?”

He pressed his lips into a slight smile and nodded. “It’s not too far from here.” In a steady voice, he told her what turns to make. Before she was sure she was ready, they were pulling into the driveway of a green, two-story Victorian.

They were both out of the car in a second and racing for the door across the expansive front lawn. Caitlin stabbed the bell with a finger. Zach banged the door with a fist.

No one answered.

“Oh God, we’re too late.” Caitlin cupped her hands over her mouth holding in the sob that threatened to erupt from her chest.

Zach raced back to the car. When he returned, he brandished a tire iron in one fist. “Stand back. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She did and he swung. It hit the monitor window with the force of an explosion. Glass shattered, shards flying into the hall and skittering over the tile floor. He reached through, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

A sound echoed down the hall, something guttural, like the dying groans of an animal. Caitlin stifled a scream. She was going to be sick.

Zach spun to face her. “Stay behind me.” He raised the tire iron and charged deeper into the house.

Caitlin reached out to grab him, to stop him, but her hand grasped nothing but air. He wasn’t prepared for what he might see, what he might interrupt. But then, neither was she. No one could have been.

She ran down the hall after him. A cloying odor hung thick in the air. Strong and visceral, it made Caitlin cover her mouth to keep from gagging. A light shone from a bedroom at the top of the stairs. Caitlin focused on it, raced for it. She almost smacked into Zach, standing in the doorway.

Why had he stopped?

She opened her mouth to ask, but the question shriveled and died in her throat.

Peering over his shoulder, she could see a body on the bed. Spread-eagled. Wrists and ankles tied. Blood everywhere. So many cuts. Some so deep, the flesh gaped open. Some so deep Caitlin could see bone.

Oh…sweet lord…no…

Another gut-wrenching moan shuddered through the room.

“No no no no no…” The words thrust from Caitlin’s chest on a wisp of breath. She focused on her friend.

From the bed, Hannah glanced up and looked straight through her. A smile curved one corner of her lips. She held up the knife, its blade dulled with poor Josh’s blood. “We said we were going to have a wild night, right? To celebrate? I’ve been doing so well.”

Next to Caitlin, Zach made a strangled noise deep in his throat. Shock widened his eyes and slacked his jaw.

Caitlin knew what he was feeling. Like it was a dream. Like nothing he was seeing was real. But it was real. Too real. No one knew that more than she did. And seeing the faraway look in Hannah’s eyes, so much like the last time, Caitlin recognized that once again she was the only one who could set this right.

She reached into her bag. Her fingers brushed the iPhone, and then dipped into the zipped pouch sewn into the purse’s lining. She pulled out the loaded .22, buried the barrel among Zach’s soft blondish curls, and squeezed the trigger.

Part 2

Officer Dettwiller pulled up into the driveway and parked his cruiser. Thompson at Dispatch has gotten the 911 call, and it had taken Dettwiller four minutes to get from the other side of town to this sleepy, tucked-away residential area.

Lake Hubbard had a population of less than forty thousand, and as a result, serious crimes were usually few and far between. But in the last eighteen months there had been more murders than in the past twenty years combined. Nasty ones, too. Some of them even had parts missing—parts the coroner theorized had been consumed by the perpetrator. Or perpetrators; some of the crime scenes pointed to a pair of killers, working together.

This quaint little Wisconsin town had become quite the dangerous place to live.

Dettwiller picked up the radio and brought the mike to his face. It smelled like the chili-cheese dog he had for lunch, reminding him he hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

“This is car six-fiver. I’ve arrived at the four-four-two. Over.”

“Proceed with caution, six-fiver.”

Caution indeed.

Dettwiller hung up the mike, unsnapped the top button on his holster, and extracted himself from the patrol car. There were two other vehicles in the driveway, and Dettwiller unclipped the Maglite from his belt and directed the beam through their windows. One had its doors still open. Both were empty.

The night was still, quiet except for the ever-present buzz of mosquitoes. He slapped at one that had begun feasting on his neck, and then aimed the flashlight at the house.

A two-story Victorian. Green. Pretty, but just your regular single family dwelling, not unlike the one Dettwiller had grown up in. Wholesome, white bread, small town.

But Dettwiller knew from experience that things that looked normal on the outside often hid terrible secrets.

Like crazy cannibal killers, he thought.

He played the light over the front door, saw it was halfway open.

Thompson had said the call was from a distraught teenage girl. If the teen could be believed, there were two dead boys inside.

The chances of that were slim. A more plausible explanation was the caller had taken drugs or had been drinking, especially with Summerfest in full swing. Either that or this was some sort of joke or prank. Dettwiller had done a few things as a teen he hadn’t been proud of. Hell, he’d done things as an adult that shamed him. Things he’d never tell Molly, or his kids. Why, just last month, he’d been getting off his shift and—

Dettwiller’s flashlight beam caught some sparkly, jagged glass. A broken window. His apprehension kicked up a notch. Was this a B & E? Or could there actually be some bodies on the premises?

The front door swung inward. Dettwiller quickly drew his sidearm—a 9mm Sig Sauer—and thumbed off the safety while lifting the weapon. When his Maglite illuminated the person opening the door, Dettwiller knew this was no prank call, no regular old breaking and entering.

The girl in the doorway was covered, head to toe, with blood.

She was Caucasian, five-six, late teens, in jeans and a tight tank top. Her blond hair was matted and clung to her round face. Bits of tissue peppered her top. The girl’s jeans were so soaked with blood they looked black. Dettwiller couldn’t tell if the blood was hers or not.

After the preliminary shock, training took over and Dettwiller covered her with his weapon.

“Police! Hands where I can see them, Miss! Now!”

Despite her appearance, the girl seemed extremely calm. She slowly tilted her head to the side, and then raised her hands.

Empty.

Then another girl appeared beside the first one. Same race, same age, a bit heavier and taller and wearing a short skirt. She also had blood on her, but only a few splotches. When Dettwiller saw what the second girl held, his adrenalin spiked.

“Drop the weapon! Now!”

The new girl flinched, and then immediately tossed the gun onto the grass beyond the porch.

“Keep your hands up! And both of you walk to me! Slowly!”

They complied, though as they walked, the girls clasped hands, their bloody fingers intertwined above their heads. When they were a few feet away, Dettwiller ordered them face-first onto the lawn. He holstered his gun and gave each a thorough pat-down. Neither seemed injured. No weapons, and no ID. But these were girls and girls had purses, and Dettwiller would bet a weeks’ worth of donuts their purses were inside.

“It was self-defense,” said the less bloody one, her cheek in the grass. “They attacked us.”

“You the one that called 911?”

“Yes.”

“There are two dead boys inside the house?”

“Yes, we didn’t have a choice and—”

“Was that your gun?”

“My daddy gave it to me, for protection.” Her voice had begun to crack. Dettwiller figured she was barely keeping it together.

“Okay, Miss. What are your names?”

“I’m Caitlin Olendorff. She’s Hannah Freese.”

“Can you talk, Hannah?”

“I want to change my clothes.” Unlike Caitlin, Hannah’s voice was emotionless. Dettwiller wondered if shock was setting in. If it hadn’t yet, it would be soon. For both of them.

“Caitlin, I’m going to put you and Hannah in my squad car, where it’s safe. I need to go inside the house and look around.”

“Please don’t leave us,” Caitlin said.

“It’s okay. I won’t be long.”

He helped them up, getting blood on his hands in the process. Putting them into the backseat of his cruiser resulted in more blood, everywhere. Dettwiller wondered about the DNA evidence, but figured it would be okay. The thing he needed to worry about right now was securing the scene.

He left the girls locked in his back seat, and then opened his trunk. In a kit he had alcohol wipes. After getting the blood off his hands, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed some evidence bags and shoe guards, closed the trunk, un-holstered his Sig, and went to go do his job.

Dettwiller’s first stop was the gun Caitlin had tossed onto the lawn. He picked it up, weighing it in his palm. A .22 Taurus, small enough to fit in a purse. He made sure the safety was on, dropped it into a plastic bag, and shoved it into his pocket. Then he began to approach the house.

In his seven years on the force, Dettwiller had only worked four murder scenes. He was patrol, not a detective. Rather than be assigned cases, one had to fall into his lap during his shift. The first two were murder-suicides: one an unemployed husband taking out his frustrations on his wife; the other a known drug addict who apparently had had enough of her children complaining they were hungry. The third was a tavern brawl that had gone too far. In the movies, actors got up after being hit with a bar stool. In real life, not so much.

The last murder Dettwiller had worked had been one of the slasher vics. Technically it was the secondary scene; where the victim had been dumped, rather than where the victim had been killed. Dettwiller had been lucky—or rather unlucky—to have gotten the Dispatch call when he was only two blocks from the discovery. If Dettwiller lived to a hundred twenty, he’d never forget walking onto that open field, looking at that naked, dead boy, cut from his crotch to his throat. It had been the single most surreal moment in Dettwiller’s life.

Weapon extended, he approached the front door with trepidation. Dettwiller kept his finger alongside the trigger, rather than on it. He’d never been forced to fire at a human target while on the job and didn’t want to accidentally kill someone because of nerves. And he was definitely nervous. Going into a strange house, alone, one that two blood-drenched girls came out of minutes before, was a scene from a horror movie. But he didn’t want to let his edginess lead to a mistake. So he took it slow, safe, and by-the-book.

He peeked through the broken window, checking to make sure the entryway was clear before slipping through the door. The foyer was well lit. Bloody, smeared footprints formed a path across the tile.

“This is the police!” Dettwiller yelled. “Is anyone on the premises?”

There was no answer.

Using one hand, Dettwiller removed a shoe guard—a plastic cover that went on like a shower cap—and stretched it over his right foot. He tugged another guard from his pocket and repeated the process with his left, keeping his eyes on his surroundings and his gun out the entire time. He found one of the girls’ purses and picked it up, winding the strap over his shoulder. Then he cautiously followed the trail of blood spatters, walking down the hall to a carpeted staircase.

“This is the police!” Dettwiller repeated. “We are armed! Is anyone upstairs?”

He waited a moment, got no reply, and took the stairs slowly.

That’s when the odor hit him.

The smell wasn’t dissimilar to a butcher shop. But sharper, more acrid. The stench intensified with each step Dettwiller took.

He knew that odor. It was the reek of violent death.

When he reached the second floor, Dettwiller’s stomach was jumping all over. He wiped his mouth, swallowed, and walked to the bedroom. It was the source of the smell, and where the blood trail ended.

The first thing Dettwiller noticed was a boy, dead on the floor. There was a bullet exit wound where his right eye used to be.

The next thing Dettwiller noticed was the bed. He hadn’t known a human being could bleed that much.

Dettwiller didn’t get close enough to see which of the multiple knife wounds had been the killing cut. From his cursory look, it could have been any of the few dozen that turned this young man into something that more closely resembled a gigantic lasagna than a human being. He noted the position of the body, spread-eagled, and scrutinized the victim’s arms and legs.

Taking a step away, Dettwiller felt something squish underfoot. He looked down. Though his expertise in human anatomy was limited, he recognized the object to be a kidney.

Shuddering, Dettwiller crouched down, used a gloved hand to place the organ in an evidence bag. He also found the other girl’s purse, and wound that over his head. Then he got the hell out of there.

When he made it back to the squad car, he was out of breath, and his heart was beating like a heavy metal drum solo. The girls stared at him, wide-eyed and fearful, still clutching hands.

How could two sweet little things like this have done something like that?

Dettwiller stripped off his gloves and shoe guards and put them in a bag in the trunk. After getting a bit of composure back, he settled into the car on the driver side and closed the door.

“You want to tell me exactly what happened?” he asked through the steel mesh partition separating the front and back seats.

Caitlin launched into it. “We were out partying, and we went home with these two guys. Hannah was in the bedroom with Josh, and he attacked her. Right, Hannah?”

Hannah stared straight ahead, her expression blank. She managed a slight nod.

“She started screaming. I tried to go to her, but the other boy, Zach, wouldn’t let me. When I finally got away from Zach, I ran to find Hannah, and she’d gotten the knife away from Josh and… um… you saw. Then Josh attacked me, but I had my gun by then and I shot him.”

Dettwiller rifled through their purses and found their driver’s licenses. They’d told the truth about their names.

But he was sure that was the only thing they’d told the truth about.

“I counted over two dozen stab wounds. That’s quite a lot of self-defense.”

Caitlin returned Dettwiller’s stare. “Hannah has had some trouble in the past. She’d been attacked before. When it happened again, she did whatever was necessary.”

“Where’s the rope she used to tie his arms and legs to the bed?”

Caitlin didn’t answer. But she blinked several times.

“He had ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. I’m guessing the rope is somewhere on the property. Maybe the garbage. Maybe you threw it in the trees out back.”

“I think we need to speak to a lawyer,” Caitlin said.

“I think so, too. Especially since that boy Zach was shot in the back of the head. That doesn’t look much like self-defense, either.”

Dettwiller picked up the radio mike. “This is car six-fiver. Finished with the four-four-two. Going to hang out on Milton, see if I can’t catch some speeders. Over.”

He set down the mike, and then dug his cell phone out of his pants. “Thompson, this is Dettwiller. Can you talk? I got the girls. Good move, sending me here. Did you erase the call? Good. I’m taking them to the shed now. I’ll save one of them for you, for when you get off your shift. Let me tell you, these are some foxy little ladies. We’re going to have a lot of fun with them.”

Caitlin banged her fist on the mesh partition.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Dettwiller smiled. “Same thing you girls just finished doing. ‘Cept me and Thompson are planning on taking our time.”

He started the car.

“But you’re a cop!” Caitlin yelled.

“I am. And that’s why this is such a sweet set up. Thompson at Dispatch filters the calls and sends me to ones where I can pick up some sweet young thing. If everything checks out, I pick her up, we have our fun, and discard the body.”

“You’ll get caught,” Caitlin said. “There’s evidence.”

“I don’t leave evidence. And I can remove all traces of your being in my car in ten minutes with a spray bottle of bleach. I’m not nearly as stupid as you two. Which of you braniacs decided to call 911? Why didn’t you just flee the scene?”

“Caitlin called,” Hannah said, her voice flat. “She helps me.”

Dettwiller shook his head. Amateurs.

“Let me take a guess. Hannah’s prints are on file, and the gun can be traced back to you. Rather than run, you thought you could bullshit the cops. Christ, girls, don’t either of you watch CSI?”

“But you called about a four-four-two!” Caitlin said. She was close to hysterical. Which was good. Dettwiller liked the hysterical ones.

“I called in a four-four-two. That’s a break for food. Which was a little white lie. I picked up some food, but I didn’t eat it yet.”

Dettwiller pulled the evidence bag from his pocket and opened in, taking a sniff of the fresh kidney. His mouth began to water.

“Beats the hell out of donuts.”

As Caitlin screamed, Dettwiller backed out of the parking lot. He wondered, obliquely, where he’d dump the bodies when he and Thompson were finished with them.

Then he settled in to eat.

EXCERPT from FLEE, a thriller novel by J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson, coming soon.

“Whenever possible, avoid engaging the enemy,” the Instructor said. “If engaged, run. Fighting should be your last resort. Patriotism has its place, but it costs millions of dollars to train people like you. You’re more valuable than the mission. If things go sour, flee.”

This is fun I typed. Then I hit enter and waited for the reply. It popped up on my computer screen a moment later.

No pressure, but are we ever going to meet IRL?

I took the last sip from my bottled water and tried to ignore the jitter under my rib cage. In real life. He assumes I have one.

I tossed the empty over my shoulder without looking. The sound it made confirmed I’d hit the garbage can.

How do I know you’re not some lunatic stalker? Or even worse, weigh eighty pounds more than your jpg?

I’d been chatting with Victor9904 almost daily for the past two weeks. I liked him, and he was the first guy I had ever hooked up with online that I wanted to meet in real life. Dating, for me, was complicated. Except for stretches of time when I was abroad, I kept to a tight routine. Cruising bars looking for men wasn’t part of that routine.

Do you have a webcam? he typed.

Another jitter, this time tougher to ignore. Chatting online was one thing. Letting him see me was riskier.

Yes. But I haven’t showered yet this morning.

&lt;grin&gt; Neither have I. You chicken?

I smiled. I don’t scare easily.

OK. I’ll set up a private webcam chat room and send you the URL. Give me a minute…

Sounds good.

I didn’t rush to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror, but I may have moved a little quicker than normal. My dark hair was shorter than I would have preferred, but it never got in my face and was easy to manage and conceal. I finger combed it, deemed it fine, and wiped a toast crumb from the corner of my mouth. I was wearing what I’d slept in, an old tee and some baggy sweat pants. Since I’d already told him I hadn’t showered, changing into nice clothes and putting on make-up would be disingenuous.

Besides, if a guy couldn’t accept the way a woman looked when she woke up, he wasn’t worth waking up next to.

Not that I was planning any sleepovers. Sex, on the other hand… it had been too long.

I wandered back to my computer, sat down, and noted my pulse was a tiny bit faster than normal. My webcam was built into the monitor. I switched on the application, and a few seconds later Victor IM’ed me the address. I typed in the URL, and then there he was, filling my computer screen, smiling boyishly.

He was actually cuter than his jpg. Blond hair. Strong chin, covered in stubble. Broad shoulders. Around my age, early thirties, and his blue eyes were several shades lighter than mine.

He said something, which I lip-read to be, Good morning, Carmen. Nice to finally see you. Are you wearing a Cubs T-shirt?

I unmuted the picture and adjusted the volume.

“Yes, I am.” I smiled. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Victor stood up, revealing the White Sox logo on his jersey. Behind him I could make out a sofa, but the room details were blurry beyond that. With the sound level up, I heard his cat, a calico named Mozart, meow in the background.

“I’m a season ticket holder.” His voice was deep, rich, pure Chicago south-side. He sat down, grinning. “But I’m willing to work through this if you are.”

I shook my head, feigning disapproval. “I dunno. Season tickets? I’m not sure I could get over something like that.”

“Are you asking me to give up the Sox when we haven’t even had a first date yet?”

“If I did ask, what would you say?”

He rubbed his chin. “On one hand, I don’t want you to think I’m a pushover. On the other hand, if this is what you look like before a shower, giving up the Sox doesn’t seem like that big a sacrifice.”

I granted him a smile for that one. “You’re not hard to look at either, Victor. The Sox shirt notwithstanding.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds.

“This is the first time I’ve ever used a webcam for something other than business.” He leaned forward, like we were talking over a coffee table. “It’s weird. Intimate, but distant at the same time.”

“I agree.” I took a breath and a plunge. “Dinner would be better, I think.”

“Are you free tonight?”

I pretended to consider it. “Yes.”

“I could pick you up. Have we reached a level of trust where you’re willing to tell me where you live?”

“Let’s meet someplace.” Only one person in the world actually knew where I lived, and I wanted to keep it that way.

“You like German food, right?”

I nodded, remembering I’d mentioned that during our very first text chat.

“How about Mirabel’s on Addison?” he said. “Six o’clock?”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me, too. But now it’s almost nine, and I’m on call. Gotta get ready for work.”

“Off to save some lives?”

“I’m hoping for a slow day. Maybe I’ll get lucky and no one in Chi-town will dial 911 during my shift. But if I do have to heroically spring into action,” he winked at me, “I’ll be ready.”

“See you later, Victor.”

“See you, Carmen.”

He switched off the camera. I initiated my tracking software, locating his IP address. It was the same one he always used. Previously, I’d hacked his ISP and gotten his billing information, and from there it had been easy to run a background check. Victor Cormack, as far as I could research using both public and private records, had been telling me the truth about his job, his education, his past. On the surface, he was a normal, average person.

But anyone checking out my identity would assume the same about me.

I erased my Internet footsteps, deleting cookies, clearing the cache, and reformatting the C drive. A pain in the ass to do every time I went online, but a necessary one. Then I began my morning work-out.

Halfway into it, my encrypted cell phone rang. I finished my two hundred thirty-ninth push-up, slid the sweaty bangs off my eyebrows with my forearm, and padded over to the breakfast bar to answer it. Only one person—the same person who knew my address—had this number. A call meant work. And work couldn’t be refused. The phone was even waterproof so I could take it into the shower.

I hit the connect button and waited, habit making me tune in to my surroundings. I could smell traces of the green pepper omelet and wheat toast I’d had for breakfast, along with a slightly sour odor coming from the sink telling me dishes needed to be done. The ambient sounds were unremarkable; the thermostat kicking on, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of a wall clock hanging over my computer, pigeons warbling outside.

“Is Velma there?” The familiar voice was digitally altered and sounded slightly robotic. I’ve never heard his real voice, never met the man it belonged to.

I closed my eyes, shutting off part of me. The part that had just chatted with Victor. The part that was going to go shopping for a new pair of running shoes. The part that read books and watched television and was normal as normal could be.

Then I slipped into the other part.

“Velma’s on vacation in Milan, can I take a message?”

A pause, then, “It’s over, Chandler.”

“Jacob? What’s over?”

Jacob wasn’t his real name any more than mine was Chandler.

“We’re over. Blown.”

I processed this. “I thought no one knew—”

“Things have gotten ugly, fast. You need to go to ground. I’ll contact you at oh ten thirty hours.”

My skin prickled. Go to ground. This was bad.

“How long do I have?”

“Five minutes. Maybe less. And… I assume you know about Cory.”

That’s a name I hadn’t heard in a while. The fact that I’d never discussed Cory with Jacob, or pretty much anyone else, didn’t faze me. Jacob knew everything about everyone.

“I know that two weeks ago he killed four guards and escaped maximum security,” I said, wondering if there was more to know. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for him, but he doesn’t know where I live or my current name. You think he’s behind this?”

“No. I’m looking at a satellite image of your building. A black sedan just double parked in front. Two people, a man and a woman. Infrared coming back… they’re both armed. Get out, now. And don’t answer your phone, it’s about to ring.”

My normal phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Kauffman, calling three days before his scheduled time.

“Oh ten-thirty,” I said to Jacob, hanging up.

Kauffman would have to wait.

Training took over, sparing me the indecisiveness inherently brought on by panic. The innumerable days of practicing insertion and extraction, fight and flight, and the prep work necessary to execute flawlessly, constituted ninety percent of my job.

The other ten percent involved action; the implementation of what I’d learned and planned for.

The assassins would split up, one taking the elevator, one the stairs. If they had intel—and they must have to know where I lived—they’d be aware of the fire escape outside my window, and a second team would be covering it.

I made an instant mental checklist, the things I needed in the order I needed them. Weapon, then shoes, then purse. The house was clean; nothing to burn me here. I wore sweats and an old tee. I pinched the waistband, felt the ever-present strip of wire. Then I leaned over the sink, reached behind the refrigerator, and yanked the Glock 19 off the Velcro strip that held it there.

The phone rang a final time, the answering machine picking up.

“You’ve reached Carmen Saywer’s phone.” That wasn’t my real name either. “I’m not available right now, so please leave a message.”

“Hiya, babe. It’s been a while,” a male voice said on the machine. A voice I’d hoped to never hear again. “We’ve got your Mr. Kauffman. If you don’t do exactly what I say, he dies.”

My concentration fizzled, interrupted by a mental picture of Kauffman’s kind eyes, smiling at me. That image was replaced by Cory’s face.

The fucker had found me.

“Pick up the phone, babe.” The tone was soft, almost seductive. I could tell the bastard was smiling. “If you don’t pick up within three seconds, I’m cutting Kauffman’s—”

His voice was drowned out by my proximity alarm, beeping like crazy on my countertop next to the Mr. Coffee. I hit the button, and the flatscreen TV—actually a video monitor—blinked on, my hallway camera showing a man with a shotgun at the door. Too soon for the duo from the sedan to have gotten up to the eighth floor, so this was someone new.

“One…” Cory said.

The door was reinforced, solid. But I no longer had time to grab my shoes and purse. I switched my encrypted cell to silent mode and clipped it to the inside of my panties, on my hip, then reached for the cordless handset.

“Two…”

A shotgun blast, from the hall. I felt the vibration in the soles of my bare feet. The door held. I didn’t stick around to see if it would withstand a second salvo.

“Three…”

I pressed the talk button while sprinting for the window.

“It’s me.” My breath was even, voice calm, though I could feel my pulse spiking. I smelled gunpowder, and my own sweat. Background noise on the phone was standard static and hum. “Let me speak to Kauffman.”

My blinds were drawn. They always were. I put my back against the wall next to the window and twisted the rod, levering them open. A shot punched through the pane, making a small hole without shattering the glass. Sniper round, high velocity. The fire escape wasn’t an option.

“What’s the rush?” Cory said, his deep voice oozing. “We got a lot to catch up on. It’s been twenty years.”

“Put him on, Cory, or I swear I’m hanging up right now.

Kauffman spoke, making my feelings temporarily override my brain. His words came out in a rush. “I’m near the lake he’s not alone he has—”

A slapping sound. Kauffman being hit. It was repeated, and he grunted in pain.

I pushed back the emotion welling up in me, killed it before it could erupt, and pictured myself encased in a block of ice. Cold. Calculating. Hard.

“You ready to talk to me now?” Cory said.

“Yes.”

Another shotgun blast. The door shook and one of the hinges twisted off, shedding a screw onto the carpeting.

“What was that sound?” Cory demanded.

Focus. Stay focused. Too much happening at once.

I let out a slow breath, falling back on what I was taught.

Process. Evaluate. Segregate. Then take control of the situation.

“I’m having phone problems. I may need to call you back.”

“If you hang up this phone, bitch, I’ll take some tin snips and—”

I tuned Cory out, crawling on my knees and elbows under the window, over to the front door, squatting alongside it.

A third shot rocked the apartment, making the wall shake. As the door fell inward I watched the vid monitor on my kitchen counter. The man was hiding on the right side of the doorway, opposite me. While the door was reinforced steel, the wall was plain old wood and plaster. Using the video monitor as a guide, I placed the barrel of my Glock an inch from the surface and fired twice. My loads were beryillium copper, and penetrated both the wall and the assassin’s right knee. As he fell forward I was already aiming through the doorway where his head would appear. My third shot ended him.

“—horrible pain. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said into the phone.

I went through the doorway, low. My assailant was Caucasian, in his forties, muscular, dressed in a trench coat, jeans, and black leather gloves. His face was hard to make out under the damage my bullet had done, but I noticed a scar trailing from the right corner of his mouth down to his neck. I memorized it.

No use patting the guy down—he wouldn’t be carrying ID. The shotgun wouldn’t be traceable either. I took it anyway, a Remington 11-87, tucking the warm stock under my armpit and moving in a crouch to the stairwell door. Underneath the gunpowder haze the hallway smelled faintly of cigarettes. Mrs. Coursey in Apartment 912. Someone, probably the elderly man in 914, had burned toast earlier. Animal scents, a dog, from the woman in the apartment above. The pungent stench of blood as the hitman soaked the floor.

“What the hell is going on?”

I whirled, aiming the Glock at my neighbor, Mr. Grant, sticking his head out of 907. This was Chicago, and most people knew when they heard gunfire to not open their doors.

He looked at me, looked at my gun, and slid back inside the imaginary safety of his home. I heard his lock snick into place. Then I held my breath, listening for other sounds. Mr. Knoll in 910 was watching CNN. I was able to make out the words dramatic prison escape. From the stairwell, muted sounds of footsteps nearing. One set, heavy, probably the man from the sedan. From behind me—

“Here are the instructions,” Cory said. “I’ll only give these to you once.”

—the elevator reaching my floor.

I pinched the receiver between my ear and shoulder, freed the shotgun, and held it by the hot barrel.

The stairwell footsteps echoed closer, the man jogging up the last flight. Both of the assassins had to have heard the gunfire, and would alter the strategy accordingly. That made me alter mine, and I ran to the right, out of the line of sight of the elevator.

“We want thirty thousand dollars in US currency. Hundred dollar bills, unmarked.”

“Money? You want ransom for Kauffman?”

“That’s just for starters.”

The lift doors opened and a familiar green pineapple shape arced out and rolled into the hallway. Which is what I would have done. Which is why I was ready.

I stretched the shotgun out. Using it like a mini-golf putter, I swung the stock, tapping the grenade and rolling it back into the elevator as the doors were closing.

I flipped the shotgun, grabbing the grip in the air just as the elevator exploded and the man came charging low out of the stairwell.

Ears ringing from the grenade, I didn’t hear the next thing the kidnapper said over the phone, nor did I hear the shotgun go off when I pulled the trigger.

JA Konrath’s Works Available on Kindle

Whiskey Sour

Bloody Mary

Rusty Nail

Dirty Martini

Fuzzy Navel

Cherry Bomb

Afraid

Origin

The List

Disturb

Shot of Tequila

65 Proof (Short Story Omnibus)

Jack Daniels Stories (Collected Stories)

Crime Stories (Collected Stories)

Horror Stories (Collected Stories)

Truck Stop

Suckers by JA Konrath and Jeff Strand

SERIAL UNCUT by Blake Crouch and Jack Kilborn

Floaters by JA Konrath and Henry Perez

Dumb Jokes & Vulgar Poems

Endurance

Trapped

Shaken

Draculas by JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, Jeff Strand, and F. Paul Wilson

Banana Hammock

Ann Voss Peterson’s Works Available on Kindle

Wyoming Manhunt

Christmas Awakening

Priceless Newborn Prince

Covert Cootchie-Cootchie-Coo

Rocky Mountain Fugitive

A Rancher’s Brand of Justice

Compilation copyright © 2011 Joe Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson

Flee excerpt © 2011 Joe Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson

Cover art copyright by © Carl Graves

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Joe Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson.

The formatting and interior design of this ebook was done by Rob Siders at http://www.52Novels.com. The cover art was done by Carl Graves at http://extendedimagery.blogspot.com.