Sims (22 page)

“Oh, Christ! What are we into here? Who
were
they?”

“SimGen, I suspect.”

“No way! With their clout in court and Congress, they don't need to hire killers.”

“Who's got more to lose?”

“No, Romy, I don't buy it—I won't buy it. They're—”

She leaned close. Intensity radiated from her like heat from a reactor core. “They're hiding something, Patrick. And whatever it is, the two of us—you, me—we've touched a nerve. We've somehow threatened that secret.”

“Just great,” he said. “One of the largest corporations in the world has painted a bull's-eye on my back.” He held up his hands and watched them shake. “Look at me—I'm a wreck.”

“The shakes are normal,” Romy said, holding out her own trembling hands. “Just excess adrenaline. It'll pass. How do you feel otherwise?”

“How does terrified sound?” He wasn't ashamed to admit it: He was shaken to his core. “It's not every day someone tries to kill me.”

“The all-important question is: Have they scared you off?”

“Oh, they've scared me, but not off,” he said, hoping he sounded a lot braver than he felt. “You see, they made a big mistake when they ruined my practice: It left me with only one client. I
can't
quit.”

Romy smiled at him, and he sensed genuine regard in her eyes. Somehow that made the terrors of the past few minutes almost worthwhile. Almost.

“And I'll tell you something else,” he said, feeling a growing anger blunt the edge of his fear. “I'm still not convinced SimGen was behind what happened here, but just in case it was, I'm putting them on notice.”

Her eyes never left his face. “How?”

“I'm sure I saw the word ‘SimGen' on the side of the van that sideswiped us. How about you?”

“Come to think of it,” she said, touching an index finger to her temple, “I believe I did too.”

“Of course you did. We'll make sure it's in the police report, and I'm going to mention it in every interview over the next week or so. SimGen will deny it of course, but a suspicion will be implanted in the public mind. SimGen will be
praying
nothing happens to us.”

“I love it,” she said. “Turns the tables in a wonderfully underhanded way.”

“I aced Underhanded 101 and 102 in law school.”

“I'll bet you did.” She pulled a PCA from her coat pocket. “Time to call the cops.”

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

“I understand,” Luca Portero said for what seemed like the hundredth or thousandth time, trying to calm the voice on the other end of the hard-encrypted line.

Truth was, he didn't understand. Not one damn bit.

He rubbed his burning eyes. Somewhere outside this sealed office in the subbasement of SimGen's Basic Research building, the sun was preparing to rise. Luca hadn't slept in twenty-three hours, but he wasn't the least bit physically tired. The fatigue weighing on him like a lead-lined shroud was mental, from hammering his brain for an explanation as to how such a simple op could go so fatally wrong.

“
Do
you understand, Portero?” said the voice.

It belonged to Darryl Lister, Luca's old CO, the man who'd brought him into SIRG. Just like back in the service, Lister was his direct superior, and the next stop up the ladder from Luca. Lister was understandably upset about being awakened ahead of his alarm clock with the news that two of their men were dead. He'd hung up on Luca, then called him back half an hour later—after checking with the SIRG higher-ups, no doubt.

“Then maybe,” Lister continued, “just maybe you can help
me
understand how six pros go out to process a couple of soft-shelled yuppies, and two come back in body bags, while the yups are still walking around. You were running the op. Explain, please.”

Lister's tone surprised Luca. He sounded nothing like the Captain he'd known back in their Special Forces days. Hell, they'd stalked through Kabul and Baghdad together; he was one of the few men in the world Luca respected. Why was he coming on so managerial?

Couldn't worry about that now. Had to give him answers.

Luca once more reviewed the set-up, groping for a flaw. He'd handpicked the men, all seasoned SIRG operatives. Using a bogus identity he'd personally
rented the vans from two different companies—could have used unmarked SimGen vehicles but didn't want to chance a trace. Then last night, after weeks of surveillance on Sullivan and Cadman, a golden opportunity: the two of them together driving through Westchester in the dead hours of the morning. A couple of quick calls and everyone was in position, waiting for it to go down.

So far, so good. Not a hint that it was going to go down the toilet.

He reran his mental tape of what he'd learned from debriefing the survivors. According to Snyder and Lowery—the wheel man and his back-up in the first van—the hit on Sullivan's car had been perfect: over the rail and down the slope. As planned, they'd driven away and left their rented van at a body shop that knows how to keep a secret.

After that the story murked up. The two survivors of the wet team, Cruz and Hooper, had spent too much time recovering from their doses of Mace to see anything. And they were still limping from the tap dance the Cadman woman had done on them.

Luca shook his head, torn between rage and admiration. Some kind of broad, that Romy. He couldn't help but admire the way she'd engineered the raid on that sim whorehouse. And then she'd made asses of two of his best men. Maybe they were still alive thanks to her. He could use someone like her.

When Cruz and Hooper could finally see and walk again, they'd found Ricker and Green dead; they'd gathered up the corpses and hauled ass out of there in the second van.

“I put Ricker in charge,” Luca said.

“Good choice,” Lister replied. “I'd have done the same. But Ricker is dead, and that's what disturbs me, Portero. How does Ricker wind up with a cracked skull? Who do you know who could take Ricker in hand-to-hand?”

“Nobody.”

“Damn right. He was a fucking animal.”

No argument there. Ricker wasn't just big and tough, he was experienced and smart. No one was going to take him down without a struggle, and not without him taking one or two down with him. But according to Cruz and Hooper, they never heard a sound.

And Ricker's body . . . his throat had been crushed—that explained the silence—and his head had been smashed. Looked like he'd leaned out of a speeding subway and got clocked by a support girder. Same with Green.

In fact, if Luca wasn't so sure it was impossible, he'd think someone
had grabbed Ricker and Green by their necks and smashed their heads together . . . like a bully brother breaking his sister's dolls. But who could man-handle two guys as fit and jacked as Ricker and Green like that?

An icy length of barbed wire dragged along Luca's spine.

“According to what you've told me,” Lister said, “Ricker and the team didn't know where they were going until less than an hour before they hit the road. Even you didn't know. So how did whoever took them out know? Sounds to me like they were already there waiting.”

“Or they were followed.”

“But why follow them at all? Unless . . . shit! The Japs! I bet it's the Japs! That goddamn Kaze Group has been sticking its dirty fingers deeper and deeper into the biotech pie, and now—”

“I doubt it's the Japs,” Luca said. “They've got no reason to protect Sullivan.”

“Maybe they just want to keep us off balance.”

Luca began to feel an unsettling suspicion. He hesitated, as if uttering the words might turn the possibility into a reality. But Lister—and SIRG—had to know.

“I think there's a new player in the game.”

“Where'd you get an idea like that?”

“A gut feeling. And the fact that we've never had to deal with a countermove like this.”

A pause while Lister digested that. “Who on earth . . . ?”

“I have no idea—yet. But I'm going to find out.”

“You do that. But don't lose us any more men in the process. Whoever these people are, they play rough.”

“Rough,” Luca said, clamping his jaw. “They don't know rough. Not by half.”

“And something
you
should know,” Lister said. “Word from upstairs is that this was a bad idea.”

“Bad?” Anger dueled with a sudden stab of cold fear. “It was approved! What the hell are they trying—?”

“Careful what you say, Portero. The wrong people might hear and you could find yourself back where you came from, living on your pension while pimping for your mother—and happy to be allowed to do so. Comprende?”

Lister's unexpected attack rocked Luca. “
What?
What did you just say?”

Rage flared through him, making him want to reach through the phone and kill. He didn't care about the swift and inevitably deadly reprisal from SIRG, he wanted to crush Lister's larynx, wanted to see his eyes bulge, his
face turn purple while Luca screamed in his ear that yes, my mother was a whore, but only because she had to be and she's not anymore, and yes, she doesn't know who my father was, but . . .

“Sorry,” Lister said. “That was uncalled for. I'm just . . . you wouldn't believe the pressure that's coming down.”

Luca said nothing. All right, so SIRG was squeezing Lister, big time. That still didn't give him the right . . .

“Look,” Lister said. “Whatever you thought they said before, they now say the lawyer is not key. If he goes, he can be replaced in minutes by another lawyer, maybe a better one, who might cause even more problems.”

Lister paused, as if expecting a comment. They're right, Luca grudgingly admitted. No shortage of lawyers. But he said nothing.

Lister went on: “The sims—this
particular
group of sims—are key. No other group has come forward looking to unionize, only these. Why, we don't know. Why, we don't care. Point is, SIRG wants the focus of your efforts from now on to be the Beacon Ridge sims. Are we clear on that?”

“Completely.”

Calmer now, Luca already was germinating an idea. A simple plan. A one-man job. And he knew just the man.

This time there'd be no slip-ups because he'd take care of it himself.

Because this had become personal.

Romy Cadman had made him look bad. Hurt his reputation. Now she was going to hurt.

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

“I'm fine, really,” Romy said.

She stood in an empty ladies' room speaking to Zero on the secure PCA he'd given her. It was clear after last night that she was under surveillance, so she'd picked a spot at random and wound up in a coffee shop not far from the federal district courthouse in White Plains. At this hour—10:32
A.M
.—the dining area contained only a handful of late breakfasters, and the ladies'
room was empty; she'd checked all the stalls before calling.

“You're sure? Absolutely sure?”

The concern in his voice touched her. “Absolutely. Those martial arts lessons you made me take came in handy.”

“I never thought you'd be in physical danger, but I felt it best you be prepared for it.”

“If nothing else, it's helped me keep my cool.”

Relative cool, she thought. Her nerves were still jangled. She'd tried to rest at the motel—in her own room, much to Patrick's dismay—but sleep had remained steadfastly out of reach; so she'd compensated this morning by drinking too much coffee, which did nothing to settle her nerves.

She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. A little haggard looking, but not half bad for someone who'd ducked an attempt on her life just a few hours ago.

“But murder?” she said. “Somehow I don't see the brothers Sinclair sitting around and deciding to have us killed.”

“That decision was reached elsewhere, I'm sure. By someone connected to the company but with his own best interests at heart.”

“Someone also connected to Manassas Ventures, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Our investigation into that little company keeps coming up empty. It seems to exist in a vacuum. We've avoided direct inquiries, keeping everything back door because we don't want to let them know anyone's interested. But if nothing pans out soon we may have to arrange a little accident.”

“Accident?”

He went on without elaborating. “In the meantime we want to keep you and Patrick alive and well. Connecting SimGen to the vans was a brilliant stroke. Your idea?”

“No. Patrick's.”

“Clever fellow. The Beacon Ridge sims could do a lot worse.”

“I'm beginning to see that.” After last night, despite his tough talk, she'd half expected him to wake up this morning and run off with his tail tucked between his legs. But he was in court now, arguing motions. “What I don't see is how you managed to be down in that ravine with us.”

“
I
wasn't there.”

“I don't mean you personally—the organization.”

“We had a tail on Portero.”

That startled her. “For how long?”

“Long enough to see him rent a couple of vans. After that, we kept an
eye on the vans. When some mercenary types became attached to the vans, I suspected strong-arm tactics were in the works. Some of our people followed one van to that ravine and you-know-who intervened.”

“I'm glad.”

“So am I. I'd never forgive myself if . . .” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, the gloves are off, I'm afraid. The organization is going to mount its own surveillance on you and Patrick. The Beacon Ridge barrack as well.”

Romy's stomach turned. “Oh, no. You don't think—”

“Anything is possible. And we must be prepared for it.”

THE BRONX
NOVEMBER 6