Point of Impact (28 page)

That would take care of the basics. When Tad got home, he could do the other part, the hired muscle. A few armed bodyguards could buy them enough time to haul ass if somebody came calling, especially if Drayne gave them the right story.
"Somebody yells 'Police!' they are lying,
" he'd tell the shooters.
"It's guys trying to rip us off."
Tad knew people who wouldn't care if whoever hired them were dope dealers or gunrunners, long as they got paid. Guys who'd shoot it out with cops anyhow, if the pay was rich enough.

Maybe he ought to get a gun, too. He'd never had much use for those, but after the Zee-ster bought it, the thought had popped up. He didn't have any training, but you didn't have to be a rocket scientist, now did you? Any fuzz-brained gangbanger in East L.A. could use a gun, how hard could it be? Point it and pull the trigger, it went bang. Wave it, and it was like a magic wand; people sat up and paid attention. Something that looked cool, one of those stainless steel movie guns the action adventure guys used, pearl handles or something.

Of course, all this would tap into his money pretty good, forty grand for the house, probably fifty or sixty more for five bodyguards, just to get started. But it had to be done. He'd been lax before, but not anymore. All this had been a wake-up call, and he didn't want to be caught by surprise. It had been a big game, really, but when customers started getting cooked by feds, the seriousness factor went way up. He hadn't really believed he'd ever be caught, not really, and the idea of spending years in a federal prison somewhere fending off some big horny con named Bubba did not appeal at all. So it would cost, big deal. Money was the easiest part. If he put the word out, he could move fifty or sixty hits of the Hammer a week, easy. Couple, three months of doing that every week or two, he'd make expenses and a whole lot more. Clear, say, half a million in the next few months, then take a break?

Cross that bridge when he got to it. It had been a close call, that business with the Zee-ster. He would not get that involved with the customers again. He was smarter than most people, he knew that, and he knew he could see things better, but when you were moving in a hurry, you had to watch your step. All kinds of things out there that could trip you up.

The "office" com number went off. He frowned at it. Saw there was no caller ID sig lit. He knew who it had to be.

"Polymers, Drayne."

"Robert. This is your father."

Jesus. Didn't the old man think he could recognize his fucking
voice
after all these years? "Hey, Dad. What's up?" .

"I'm leaving your aunt's to go back to Arizona tomorrow. I thought we might get together for breakfast before I go."

Drayne felt a cold finger along his spine. His father wanted to see him? That was very strange. "Sure. I know a couple of places near Edwina's that are pretty good."

"Give me the name, and I'll get directions from Edwina."

"Sure."

"We'll meet at seven A.M.," his father said. It was not a question.

"Seven sharp," Drayne said. Which, when speaking to his father, was redundant. He gave him the name of a good breakfast place just off the Coast Highway.

Drayne frowned again as he severed the connection. Well. His father was leaving town, and it might be a year or two before they saw each other again. Breakfast was not such a big deal. Except that his old man had not invited him to such an event in what, ten years?

Maybe he just wants me to help Edwina out,
Drayne reasoned.
Or maybe he felt the clammy hand of death touch him while he sat in the church and wants to tell me about his will.

Drayne laughed aloud at that thought.
That would be the fucking day.

Washington, D.C.

Toni, feeling better after an afternoon mostly spent sleeping, listened to Alex's day. At least he thought her brain was working well enough to ask her advice about work. Of course, she had been his assistant for a long time, she knew the game.

"So that's what we've got on our friends at the DEA and NSA," he finished. "What do you think?"

She considered what he'd said. "Well, you know the classic motives for crime: passion, thrills, revenge, psychosis, personal gain. On the face of it, Lee wouldn't have any particular reason to want Zeigler dead for any kind of personal vendetta, unless maybe he
really
hated his movies. I don't think he was that bad an actor. From what you've said, he doesn't seem like a thrill-seeker or a psycho. So what's the personal gain?"

"I don't see any right off," he admitted. "Killing a big movie star doesn't win you friends or money."

She said, "You remember those calls you got offering you work with the pharmaceutical companies?"

He chuckled. "Yeah."

"Well. From what you've said, there seems to be a lot of interest in this drug. We're talking about big money. Maybe somebody convinced Mr. Lee he could cash in big time if he got the dealer and delivered him--or his formula--to the right party. He wouldn't want Net Force getting to the guy first, so he wouldn't want John to know the dealer's name, right?"

He stared at her. "Wow."

"Don't you
dare
sound so surprised, Alex Michaels," she said. "My mind does still work from time to time, when my hormones aren't blowing my head apart."

"You said that, not me." He grinned.

She pretended to glare but couldn't hold onto it. She smiled in return.

"Anyway, it's a good theory. Maybe Jay can make a connection, some record of contact or something."

"These guys would be pretty good at covering their tracks," she said, "if they've had years to practice it like Jay thinks."

"Still, it's a place to look. Even though it is all moot if we can't run the dealer down."

"You'll find him," she said. "I have great faith in you."

"You'd be the only one."

"How many do you need?"

He smiled again. "Why, ma'am, I do believe one will be just exactly enough."

Chapter
29.

Quantico, Virginia

Howard was tired of running scenarios, more tired of sitting around. He was itchy to do something, and he was considering running some real-world field exercises just to clear the cobwebs from his brain. Get the troops sharpened up; even though there was nothing to get sharp about now, there would be, eventually. He hoped.

"Love to see a man hard at work."

Howard looked up and saw Julio standing in the doorway of his office. "Lieutenant Fernandez. What brings you here?"

"I believe that would be my size-eleven combat boots, sir."

"And is there a purpose for this visit?"

"Why, good news, General Howard, sir."

"Come on in, then. I can use some news. Any news, good or bad, would be a change."

"I think you're gonna like this."

Howard looked at the flat-black hard case Julio held. It was about three feet long, half that wide. "You have my attention, Lieutenant."

"Sir. You might recall the Thousand-Meter Special Teams Match for United States Military Services held at Camp Perry every November?"

"Oh, I recall it, all right. That would be the match where Net Force's sharpshooters always come in last place ... behind the Marines, the Army, and even the
Navy?"

"Only because you won't order Gunny to enter. He'd beat 'em. And we did beat the Navy that one year," Julio allowed.

"Because their shooter lost his hearing protection in a freak accident and blew out an eardrum is why."

"Still beat'em. Take it any way you can."

Howard nodded at the case. "This a secret weapon?"

"Well, a weapon, yes, but not so secret. Just new. Take a look."

Julio set the case down on the old map table across from Howard's desk, popped the latches on the case, and clamshelled it open.

Howard walked over and looked at the components inside the case.

"Why, it is a gun. It appears to be a bolt-action five-oh BMG rifle," Howard said.

"Yes, sir, but not just
any
five-oh. This is a prototype, one of only two built, of the upcoming EMD Arms Model XM-109A Wind Runner, designed by Bill Ritchie himself. Third generation."

Julio reached into the case and pulled out the stock and receiver assembly. "This here receiver is made of 17-4 PH stainless and, with improved heat-treating, now Rock-wells out at forty-five-plus. Sixteen pounds, wire-cut, tolerances you wouldn't believe, and with the fully adjustable stock here retracted, a mere twenty inches long. Stock is equipped with a carbon-fiber polysorb monopod recoil pad and nice cheek piece incorporating no-tear biogel."

"You have to go looking for your shoulder after you fire it?"

"No, sir, it kicks about as hard as a stout twelve-gauge. Of course, it will shove you back about a foot if you shoot it prone, and you will want to be lying down behind it and not firing offhand."

"I bet."

"Speaking from experience, sir. You'll notice the M-14 bipod and mounted scope, the latter of which is a U.S. Optics adjustable, 3.8X-22X, very nice optical gear, sighted in for a thousand meters. And here is a nifty little red dot switch, automatically adjusted for parallax, that gives you short-range capabilities. Short range in this case being three to four hundred meters. Put the dot on the target, that's where the bullet goes, plus or minus a few inches.

"Might as well throw it as shoot that close, though.

"The new model Son of Wind Runner here uses a five-round magazine like the older models, and has a Remington-style adjustable trigger, set to three pounds. Uses your standard MK211 caliber .50 multipurpose cartridge as the primary tactical round, though match-grade handloads are the ticket at Camp Perry, of course." Julio held up a box of ammo. "Like these."

He opened the bipod and set the receiver and stock up on the table. He reached back into the case and came out with the barrel.

"Your barrel here is a twenty-eight-inch fluted match-grade graphite from K&P Gun, with an eighty-port screw-on muzzle brake, the holes set at thirty degrees. You secure the barrel to the receiver like so, using an Uzi-style nut and a self-locking ratchet, right here."

Julio put the barrel into the receiver and tightened it. It didn't take long.

"Total weight, thirty-four pounds. Insert a loaded magazine, and there she is, ready to rock'n' roll."

"Very nice," Howard allowed.

"The original XM 107 was designed for use by the Army, particularly the Joint Special Operations Forces, and the Explosive Ordnance Disposal teams. And, theoretically, the Infantry, though the groundpounders didn't get too many copies. SOF uses 'em against soft or semi-hard targets out to seventeen hundred meters, and EOD uses'em to blow up unexploded ordnance from a long way outside proximity fuse range."

"Like I said, a nice toy. How much?"

"These things are like hen's teeth, sir. The waiting list is a mile long, and how can you put a price on this kind of quality?" He stroked the barrel with one hand. "There are only two of them exactly like this in all the world."

"Let's try, shall we? How much?"

"Well, with our discount, a hair over five thousand dollars each."

"That actually sounds pretty reasonable." Then, knowing Julio for all the years he'd known him, he said, "A 'hair over' you said. How thick a hair we talking about?"

"Call it three thousand and change," Julio said. He grinned.

"What? For eight thousand dollars, this beast had better dance and whistle 'Dixie,' Lieutenant!"

"Well, I wouldn't know about that, sir. But EDM Arms guarantees one-minute-of-angle accuracy at a thousand meters right out of the box."

Howard raised his eyebrows at that. "One MOA? Guaranteed?"

"Just as you see it. I thought that would get your attention. But that's only to keep the lawyers happy. EDM Arms has got
verified
five-round groups at a thousand meters of
one-half MOA.
They say they got a couple groups that good at seventeen hundred meters, even a little longer."

Howard looked at the weapon again. "Good Lord. That's a tack-driver."

"Yes, sir. And Bowens, our newly recruited ex-Army shooter, has been doing just that with this very piece, starting yesterday. Talking about a pie-plate-sized group from a mile away. He didn't want to let me take it long enough to show it to you."

Howard grinned.

"So, come next month, Net Force's little piece of the National Guard is going to shoot the living asses off the Navy, the Marines,
and
the Army."

"If one of them doesn't get his hands on the other one," Howard said.

Julio grinned real big.

Howard stared at him. "You didn't."

"Well, sir, yes, sir, I did. If something broke on this here weapon--highly unlikely, I know, given the fine, fine quality, but if something
did
break--we'd want proper backup, wouldn't we?"