Extinction Machine (51 page)

The pants? Cut baggy in the crotch to allow the man to kick. So, some martial arts, too. The sneakers? They were thin-soled. Not running shoes—these were fighting shoes. The thicker the sole the more potentially damaging torque to the knees when kicking or pivoting on one leg. I’d guess almost no tread, too. Tread binds. This guy was a serious fighter and was dressed for it.

As the guy opened the small access door in the gate, I double-tapped my earbud. “Bug, get me a rundown on the security staff here. Tell me who this is.” There was a control panel on the steering wheel that allowed me to activate a set of high-def cameras mounted discreetly around the car. A holographic display appeared on the upper left of my windshield—invisible from outside. I zoomed in on the guard’s face. Immediately a series of white dots appeared on the image as the facial recognition package began identifying and cataloging unique points on his face and taking approximate measurements.

MindReader pinged before the guy could walk to where I’d stopped.

“Name’s Henry Sullivan,” said Bug. “Thirty-three years old. U.S. Special Forces, retired. Worked six years as an ‘advisor’ for Blue Diamond Security.”

“Bingo,” I said. “Martial arts?”

“Muay Thai kickboxing,” said Bug, “and boxing. Golden Gloves in Detroit where he grew up.”

“Swell,” I said. That put him in a better class than some of his MMA buddies. “Criminal record?”

“Nothing stateside, however there were some disciplinary notes in his army jacket. Doesn’t bond well with people of color. Got into several fights with black soldiers. While he was with Blue Diamond in Afghanistan he was one of four men suspected in the rape of two fifteen-year-old girls. No charges filed. Looks like the company paid off the families. Overall,” concluded Bug, “he’s a total dick.”

“Charming,” I said, and wondered if it would be out of line if I accidentally ran him over a few times.

The guard twirled his finger for me to lower my window.

I did, considering the best way to play this. I fished in my jacket pocket for NSA credentials. According to the card I was Special Agent David Paul Leonhard.

Dave Leonhard pitched for the Orioles in the late sixties.

“State your business,” said Sullivan, his voice flat and disinterested.

“I’m here to see Mr. Shelton.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to make an appointment.”

I badged him. “National Security, please open the gate and stand back.”

Sullivan gave me a four-second appraisal. “Wait here.”

He turned and walked away. Not to his guard booth, but far enough so he could make a call on a cell without me overhearing. Dumbass. I hit a locate-and-trace on the steering column and MindReader picked up his signal, kicked open a door on the right satellite, and fed the conversation in my earbud. Sometimes I think Mr. Church writes his Christmas wish list based on stuff he sees in
Mission: Impossible
films … but that means his field agents always have the best toys.

“… asshole here flashing an NSA ID.”
He walked around back and read my license plate number. I didn’t have one of those James Bond license plate flipper thingies, but I did have a great set of fake tags. Government plates, legitimate number, and when they ran them they’d come up with a Ford Explorer belonging to the NSA. While Sullivan waited for a comeback on the number, I relaxed and scratched Ghost’s head. He usually likes that, but right now he kept craning around to study all of the potential juicy places where he could bite Sullivan. Ghost is a very smart dog.

A voice on the other end of Sullivan’s call came back with the expected information.
“Let him through.”

Sullivan closed his phone and came back to the window. “Drive up to the side entrance. Turn off your engine and leave your keys in the ignition. Someone will meet you. You’ll be escorted inside.”

“Thanks, sport,” I said. People hate to be called “sport.” Ghost gave him an “I’ll eat you later” look, but Sullivan managed not to keel over from fear. Instead the guard gave us another quick two-count stare, then gave a single nod and walked away. What was he doing? Remembering my face in case we ever met again? Probably. Which was fine with me, because if we did meet again, and if that encounter was less civil than this, I wanted him to know me.

I drove through the gate and up to the house, parked where I was supposed to park, and was met by four goons dressed similarly to Sullivan. I’d switched the facial recognition from the car to the left lens of my mirrored sunglasses, and MindReader began pulling their info out of cyberspace. They were all cut from the same cloth. All ex-military—though one of them was a Brit, a former SAS shooter—and all formerly employed by Blue Diamond Security. According to Bug, their most recent tax returns listed their employer as Shelton Aeronautics.

Big surprise.

The lead guard was a thug named Burke who had a lantern jaw and shoulders you could suspend a bridge from. Bug gave me his background, and it made Sullivan look like a saint. A very violent man who wasn’t on death row because his most heinous acts were perpetrated on foreign soil in countries no one gives enough of a political shit about.

I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to take Burke behind the woodshed and explain karma to him.

He gave me a stony look and demanded to see my ID.

I showed it to him.

“Hand them to me please,” he said, pitching it as an order.

I’ve been working for the DMS long enough to have developed a useful set of government-standard expressions. One of them is the polite “go fuck yourself” not quite a sneer that’s so highly prized by the FBI and NSA.

“Now,” Burke said, snapping his fingers in my face.

I folded my ID case and tucked it inside my jacket.

“I’m here to see Mr. Shelton,” I said. “And you’re wasting my time.”

Burke stepped a little closer to me. “Here’s a news flash, asshole. You’re on private property and you haven’t produced a warrant. Hand over your credentials or hit the road.”

I shook my head. “I have a document in my pocket that says I can go wherever I want and see whomever I want, so I advise you to desist in this obfuscation and conduct me to your employer.”

I’m good at Scrabble and I liked seeing the eyes of goons like this glaze over as they tried to sort out what I’d just said.

“Yeah?” said Burke in what was for him probably a class-A comeback. “Let’s see the warrant.”

I didn’t have anything to show him. Instead I said, “You are aware, I assume, of the terrorist attack in Baltimore yesterday. And the cyber-warfare that has been targeting your employer and other key companies. Do you really want to hamper my investigation?”

“I said, show me some paperwork or turn around and drive out of here.”

Ghost didn’t like Burke’s tone and was giving him half an inch of fang in a silent snarl.

“You better keep a short leash on that mutt,” said Burke. The other three men shifted slightly to form a tighter circle. They probably thought it gave them a tactical advantage. They were mistaken.

I got up in Burke’s face. “You’re about to make a major career mistake, Mr. Burke. Push it and see what happens. Now—take me to Shelton.”

Burke grinned. “Let’s see … oh, how about kiss my—”

And his cell phone rang.

Special ring tone, two strident notes on a rising scale.

The goon squad froze. Burke stepped back from me and removed his cell phone with the speed you’d expect from someone scrambling to get a scorpion out of his boxers.

“Yes, Mr. Shelton?” he said, almost snapping to attention even though this was a phone call. Made me wonder how many cameras were on us right now.

I kept my face bland and used a subtle finger signal to prep Ghost for attack. The dog didn’t need any incentive—he had his eyes on Burke’s crotch and the hair on his back was rippling like the spine of a ridgeback.

“Right away, Mr. Shelton,” said Burke. Then he looked at me and I could actually see the guy’s blood pressure go up about twenty points. “Of course, Mr. Shelton.”

He lowered the phone, glanced at his crew, all of whom were staring into the middle distance like they were waiting for a bus. None of them looked at Burke as he took a ragged breath to steady the witches’ brew of emotions that was boiling inside his chest.

“Agent Leonhard,” he said to me, “I apologize for my rude behavior. It was wrong and I hope you can forgive my childish attitude and ill-chosen words.”

The syntax was all wrong for him, so I figured he was repeating verbatim what Shelton had told him to say. Usually I’m sympathetic with a guy who gets a two-by-four kicked up his ass by his boss; but, Burke was a total piece of shit, so fuck it.

“Well,” I said in my best officious-government-prick voice, “when you are done eating crow perhaps you’ll conduct me to your employer’s office.”

In my ear I heard Bug say, “Oh,
snap
!”

I swear to god Ghost snickered.

Burke’s blood pressure looked like it could blow bolts out of plate steel.

“This way, sir,” he said in a strangled voice.

Chapter One Hundred Seven

VanMeer Castle
Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Monday, October 21, 7:32 a.m.

Burke stepped back and held out an arm to indicate an electric golf cart. I got in the passenger side, Ghost jumped on the back. Burke hesitated for a moment before climbing behind the wheel. I saw him make brief eye contact with the other men and one of them snapped a glance toward my Explorer and back. It was clear that Burke was telling them to search my car. I smiled. Let them look. They’ll have a certain kind of fun. Or not.

Burke climbed in and we drove away.

Neither of us spoke. It wasn’t really a bonding experience. Ghost sat up and stared at the back of Burke’s neck. Every once in a while he licked his lips with a big, juicy
glup.

It was full dark now but there were enough lights on the grounds and on the exterior of the house to film a movie. We passed several guard patrols, fixed and walking. Two of the guards had dogs. Dobermans. They gave Ghost the evil eye but Ghost sneered at them. Ghost is well over a hundred pounds of solid muscle, and he was trained by the best military dog trainers in the business. The DMS trainer, Zan Rosin, put him through a few extra courses, and I’d worked with Ghost for a year and a half, teaching him every dirty trick I could think of. Ghost loved a good tussle, and if he couldn’t kick the asses of a couple of pussy Dobermans I’d trade him in for a hamster.

At the back of the castle was a ramp hidden by decorative shrubs. We rolled past them and into an arched entrance that was probably built for horses and wagons once upon a time. Beyond the arch was a large concrete room built to look like the mead hall of a Viking longhouse. Shields and crossed axes on the walls, half an authentic-looking dragon-headed longship thrust out from one wall. Rich tapestries depicting Viking raids on small villages, complete with slaughter and rapine. At the far end was a row of rough tables fashioned from dark wood, and set into the walls were doorways that I guess would probably lead to staff quarters. Almost certainly where the guards—Shelton’s Viking horde—bivouacked.

I’m a manly man and all that, but I felt like I was going to drown in a river of testosterone.

Burke parked the golf cart in a slot that had his name stenciled on it. As I got out I made sure to look completely around the room knowing that whatever I saw was being seen by my team and Bug. The mirrored glasses I wore had a superb high-def spycam built into one of the temple pieces. You could already buy this year’s version of that camera, but we had next year’s. A gift from one of Church’s friends in the industry.

I had a whole bunch of toys with me. As I followed Burke across the mess hall, I kept my hands in my pockets, unobtrusively peeling back the film on a sticky little bug. As Burke led me through a doorway into the east wing of the castle, I paused with my hand briefly on the frame, planting the little doodad. It was small and designed to gradually absorb the colors of whatever it touched. Within five seconds it would invisible. Nice.

As I followed Burke, I continued to record the layout with my glasses. We already had a schematic of the place based on the original design of the castle—which was a matter of public record from when the Sheltons bought it from a bankrupted Austrian count—but we didn’t know what modifications had been made since. The video feeds would be used to create a 3-D model for every part of the building I visited. Sure, this was still a castle and I wasn’t going to see much of it, but intel was intel. Every little bit helps.

This wing was clearly dedicated for servants and operations. There were small brass plaques on doors marked:
ELECTRICAL, SECURITY, GROUNDSKEEPING
, and others. One really caught my eye:
WRANGLERS
. When my gaze lingered on it for an extra second, Bug explained it.

“Shelton collects animals,” he said. “He has a zoo somewhere on the grounds, and he buys rare critters for a game ranch he keeps in Texas. Brings in stuff from all over and lets his rich buddies shoot them. Axis bucks, scimitar bulls, waterbucks, Ibex, Russian boar hogs, rams—who needs to stalk a sheep? I mean, I’m cool with hunting and all … but sheep? Seriously? How’s that a sport unless you like … I don’t know … kickbox it to death or something.”

I flexed my jaw muscles to send a tiny burst of squelch. One flex for “yes,” though right now it was a general acknowledgment. I don’t have any serious objection to hunting, and I don’t mind entertaining the trout every once in a while, but somehow a bunch of rich assholes in camouflage with high-power scopes and state-of-the-art rifles didn’t exactly fit my image of “sportsmen.”

Bug said, “I’ll find out what else he has on-site. Wouldn’t want you to walk into a jaguar, right?”

Two flexes. No.

We went through a series of winding halls, sharp turns, staircases, crossed an entrance hallway that you could have parked a line of F-15s in, and finally entered a wing that was clearly the domain of the master of this feudal estate. I was mildly surprised not to see the staff here dressed in doublets. Every once in a while I touched a wall, a doorframe, a bannister rail, and each time I left another of the chameleon devices. Burke never saw a thing.