J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson
She’s an elite spy, working for an agency so secret only three people know it exists. Trained by the best of the best, she has honed her body, her instincts, and her intellect to become the perfect weapon.
CODENAME: CHANDLER
Before special operative Chandler was forced to FLEE, she executd the most difficult missions—and most dangerous people—for the government. So when she’s tasked with saving a VIP’s daughter from human traffickers, Chandler expects the operation to be by the numbers…until she uncovers a secret that will endanger the entire population of New York City, and possibly the world.
EXPOSED
JA Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson
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 one of 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 her STD was something that could be treated with a pill.
She talked to three different doctors. They took her blood. Made her wait a long time.
And then …
A shot. They gave her a shot. She touches the spot on her arm, then notices the IV tube snaking from the back of her hand, the sensor pads stuck to her chest.
They gave her a shot, and now she’s in the hospital?
She glances around the room. White walls, no window, not even a television. This place doesn’t smell like a hospital. 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. No pain beyond the tug of the needle in her hand. No dizziness. So why is she here?
“Someone answer me!”
No answer.
She’s thirsty. She has to pee. She needs to know what’s going on.
Using her fingernails, she picks the edge of the 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 and tears the sticky pads from her skin.
The machine by her bed stops beeping, giving way to a sustained tone. Like someone just died.
Still no one comes.
There’s a drawer next to the bed, but her clothes aren’t in it.
She stands, the white tile cold under her bare feet, and pads over to the door.
Opens it.
This isn’t a hospital.
It’s a warehouse. A big warehouse, with concrete floors, steel walls, forty-foot ceilings. There are pieces of medical equipment on carts, several tables and chairs, some cages along the far wall, and …
Oh, sweet Lord.
Dead people.
Lots and lots of dead people.
Many are in white lab coats, stained with blood. Others are in what look like military fatigues, equally soaked in red.
A dozen. Maybe more. Lying on the ground. Propped against a chair. Sprawled out on a table. Two crimson figures, arms around one another, bruised faces forever frozen in agony.
Then the smell hits her.
She chokes back a sob and begins to run, past the cages, which are filled with—dead monkeys?—heading for a door at the other side of the building, praying it isn’t locked, skidding to a stop when it suddenly opens wide and an army guy stands 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 eyes quickly scan her, stopping on her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
She glances down at her hand, where the IV needle had been. A slow trickle of blood snakes down her index finger.
“It’s just—”
“Hold still,” he orders. Then he pulls something off of his belt, and before she can react he’s spraying her hand with some sort of foam. It dries almost instantly, forming a hard crust.
“What is—”
“A liquid bandage. Quickly, come with me.”
He has an accent she can’t place, but she doesn’t care where he’s from. He’s there for her, there to help her. She takes his gloved hand, and he leads her outside, into the blinding sunlight.
Water laps a shoreline to the left and to the right.
An island?
She smells salt riding the air, the scent familiar. The Atlantic Ocean.
There’s a sound, too, beating in her ears, a helicopter on a landing pad, its blades whirling. The soldier nods at the two army guys standing guard and then takes her to it.
She’s scared, confused. But she wants to get out of here, to get away from all the dead people. As they buckle their seatbelts, she’s very close to crying. Then the soldier smiles at her.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says.
His words surprise her. She thinks she must look terrible. That tacky gown. No make-up. Her hair all messed to hell. But she knows she’s pretty. She’s been getting by on her looks since she was twelve.
“I want to be a model,” she says. It’s a weird thing to say, but she doesn’t want to talk about the dead people.
He nods, appears to think it over. Then he says, “You know, I have a friend, works for a modeling agency. I bet he could help you.”
“Really?” This has to be the most surreal moment in her entire life, and she almost wonders if it’s all a dream.
“Do you have family? Someone who would be worried 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. He rescues models all the time.”
The chopper lifts off and zooms over water. A larger island unfolds beneath them, Long Island, the vague haze of New York City barely visible in the distance.
Despite not wanting to think, she wonders what’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 what the army guy said.
She came to New York to get discovered.
Now, maybe, she finally would be.
Chandler
Several years ago … before I had to FLEE …
“To a special operative like yourself,” The Instructor said, “it can be tempting to rely on your physical training and strength. But some missions will call for more than that. Many times, knowing how to fit into your surroundings, understanding human behavior, and plain old acting skills will be more effective than brute force. Learn to be a chameleon, and you have a better chance of being successful.”
I have always preferred formulating my own explosive with household chemicals to creating a smoky eye in the makeup mirror. So when I pulled the barely-there dress and four-inch Jimmy Choos out of the FedEx package the bellman had brought up to my hotel room, my stomach gave a nervous flutter.