Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson

J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson


She’s an elite spy, working for an agency sosecret only three people know it exists. Trained by the best of thebest, she has honed her body, her instincts, and her intellect tobecome the perfect weapon.
CODENAME: CHANDLER
Before special operative Chandler was forcedto FLEE, sheexecutd the most difficult missions—and most dangerous people—forthe government. So when she’s tasked with saving a VIP’s daughterfrom human traffickers, Chandler expects the operation to be by thenumbers…until she uncovers a secret that will endanger the entirepopulation of New York City, and possibly the world.
EXPOSED
JA Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson


About EXPOSED and CODENAME: CHANDLER
Epigraph
EXPOSED
Excerpt: SPREE, the next CODENAME: CHANDLER thriller byJ.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson
Also by the Authors
FLEE, by J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson
WILD NIGHT IS CALLING, by J.A. Konrath and Ann VossPeterson
RUN, by Blake Crouch
PARIS IS A BITCH, by Barry Eisler
Copyright


Don’t blame her. It’s in her blood.


Prologue
Her eyes open to the steady beep … beep …beep of a heart monitor machine.
She’s in a hospital bed. Alone. Wearing oneof those flimsy gowns.
She has no idea how she got here.
An overdose? Did she take too many downs?
She concentrates, tries to remember.
Her last memory is of …
Of what?
Walking somewhere. To the dealer?
No. To the free clinic. Ashamed, hoping herSTD was something that could be treated with a pill.
She talked to three different doctors. Theytook her blood. Made her wait a long time.
And then …
A shot. They gave her a shot. She touches thespot on her arm, then notices the IV tube snaking from the back ofher hand, the sensor pads stuck to her chest.
They gave her a shot, and now she’s in thehospital?
She glances around the room. White walls, nowindow, not even a television. This place doesn’t smell like ahospital. It smells like a garage.
Where is she?
She looks for a call button, can’t find one,and then begins to yell for the nurse.
She yells several times.
No one comes.
Was anyone there at all?
Beep … beep … beep …
She sits up, feeling absolutely normal. Nopain beyond the tug of the needle in her hand. No dizziness. So whyis she here?
“Someone answer me!”
No answer.
She’s thirsty. She has to pee. She needs toknow what’s going on.
Using her fingernails, she picks the edge ofthe tape on her hand, then peels it back and tugs out the IV,wincing as the blood beads up. Then she reaches under her gown andtears the sticky pads from her skin.
The machine by her bed stops beeping, givingway to a sustained tone. Like someone just died.
Still no one comes.
There’s a drawer next to the bed, but herclothes aren’t in it.
She stands, the white tile cold under herbare feet, and pads over to the door.
Opens it.
This isn’t a hospital.
It’s a warehouse. A big warehouse, withconcrete floors, steel walls, forty-foot ceilings. There are piecesof medical equipment on carts, several tables and chairs, somecages along the far wall, and …
Oh, sweet Lord.
Dead people.
Lots and lots of dead people.
Many are in white lab coats, stained withblood. Others are in what look like military fatigues, equallysoaked in red.
A dozen. Maybe more. Lying on the ground.Propped against a chair. Sprawled out on a table. Two crimsonfigures, arms around one another, bruised faces forever frozen inagony.
Then the smell hits her.
She chokes back a sob and begins to run, pastthe cages, which are filled with—dead monkeys?—heading for a doorat the other side of the building, praying it isn’t locked,skidding to a stop when it suddenly opens wide and an army guystands there with a big rifle pointed her way.
“Help me. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“There’s been an attack,” he says. His eyesquickly scan her, stopping on her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
She glances down at her hand, where the IVneedle had been. A slow trickle of blood snakes down her indexfinger.
“It’s just—”
“Hold still,” he orders. Then he pullssomething off of his belt, and before she can react he’s sprayingher hand with some sort of foam. It dries almost instantly, forminga hard crust.
“What is—”
“A liquid bandage. Quickly, come withme.”
He has an accent she can’t place, but shedoesn’t care where he’s from. He’s there for her, there to helpher. She takes his gloved hand, and he leads her outside, into theblinding sunlight.
Water laps a shoreline to the left and to theright.
An island?
She smells salt riding the air, the scentfamiliar. The Atlantic Ocean.
There’s a sound, too, beating in her ears, ahelicopter on a landing pad, its blades whirling. The soldier nodsat the two army guys standing guard and then takes her to it.
She’s scared, confused. But she wants to getout of here, to get away from all the dead people. As they buckletheir seatbelts, she’s very close to crying. Then the soldiersmiles at her.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says.
His words surprise her. She thinks she mustlook terrible. That tacky gown. No make-up. Her hair all messed tohell. But she knows she’s pretty. She’s been getting by on herlooks since she was twelve.
“I want to be a model,” she says. It’s aweird thing to say, but she doesn’t want to talk about the deadpeople.
He nods, appears to think it over. Then hesays, “You know, I have a friend, works for a modeling agency. Ibet he could help you.”
“Really?” This has to be the most surrealmoment in her entire life, and she almost wonders if it’s all adream.
“Do you have family? Someone who would beworried about you?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head.
“I’ll call my friend. You can stay with him.He’s very famous. Did covers for Vogue and Elle. Herescues models all the time.”
The chopper lifts off and zooms over water. Alarger island unfolds beneath them, Long Island, the vague haze ofNew York City barely visible in the distance.
Despite not wanting to think, she wonderswhat’s going on. Why she’s here. Why all those people are dead.
She wonders if they cured her STD.
But all of that pales in comparison to whatthe army guy said.
She came to New