Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (84 page)
“Where were they?”
“In the bathroom. On the back of the toilet.”
Toni shook her head. “How’d they get there?”
He shrugged. “Got me. I just find them, I don’t explain them.”
Toni grinned. “The boy was up half the night,” she said. “He’ll probably sleep late.”
That was an understatement. Little Alex had a nightmare that woke him up at midnight, and he’d spent the next two hours squirming on the bed between Toni and Alex, putting his cold little feet on her and pushing, which hadn’t done her sleep any good, either. When he had finally gotten back to sleep, Alex had carried him to his own bed. By then, it must have been two thirty or three A.M.
Yeah, he’d sleep until nine or ten. Toni wished she could stay in bed a couple more hours herself. They never told you that when you had a baby, you’d be in sleep-deficit for the next two or three years. . . .
“Okay, I’m gone. Are you going to need a ride home?”
“No, ma’am. My mom is picking me up. I’ve got shooting club practice tonight. My pop got me a new pistol, and I get to try it out this evening.”
“Great. Okay. I’ll be back around one. Anything you need . . .”
“Yes, ma’am. I expect I can still operate the phone.” He grinned.
She returned the smile as she headed for the door. He was really a sweet kid. John and Nadine Howard had done a good job. She’d be sure to tell them that the next time she saw either of them.
She was in the car and rolling two minutes later, her mind already on the day’s work. The FBI had been pleased enough with the information she and Jay had developed on Marcus Boudreaux, and while they hadn’t apprehended him yet, they were working on it.
They hadn’t mentioned anything about Ames yet. All they had so far was the coincidence of his name showing up at a shooting club where Marcus Boudreaux was a member, and the word of a computer hacker. For just about anyone else, that would have been enough. But not for Mitchell Ames. Not for a high-level, almost celebrity-status attorney. And certainly not for a high-level, celebrity attorney who was currently suing Net Force.
No, they had to have everything nailed down perfectly before they even breathed a word about Ames.
In the meantime, Jay was digging into Ames’s personal life like a rabid steam shovel, looking for any hint of a connection with Boudreaux.
On a more personal front, Guru would be home tomorrow, she’d said. Her great-grandson was out of the woods, well enough so they had sent him home from the hospital. It was a hot, but not-too-smoggy sunny day.
Things were going along pretty well at the moment, she had to admit. But she couldn’t wait to get in to work.
Net Force HQ Quantico, Virginia
Michaels leaned back in his chair and nodded at John Howard. “So that’s the situation, General.”
Howard nodded. “You really think Ames is involved in this?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Howard chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be something, Commander? Busting the guy suing you?”
Alex grinned. “I would think it would go a long way to making his case look bad to a jury. A lawyer with his own hit man?”
“I thought they all had hit men,” Howard said.
Michaels laughed.
“Well, I suppose there won’t be anything for me to do, once we’re ready to go with this,” Howard said. “I’d guess the New York police would frown on a Net Force team storming a Park penthouse.”
“Probably,” Michaels agreed.
Howard left, and Michaels took another moment to relish the idea of sending a crooked lawyer to jail. Even if it turned out he wasn’t guilty, it was a nice fantasy for a summer morning. . . .
36
Washington, D.C.
Just after noon, Junior cruised past the house to get a good look at it.
He took deep breath. This was too hurried-up to suit him, but sometimes you had to make do. Might as well get to it.
He called Ames on the throwaway.
“Yes?”
“I’m starting that job now,” he said.
“Right now?” Ames’s voice was a bit crackly on the throwaway.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Call me when you get things squared away.”
Junior hung up. He circled the block, then parked the rental car a couple houses down, got out, taking his time.
A cowboy suit would stand out too much in this neighborhood, so he wore a baseball cap, sunglasses, his fishing vest over a T-shirt, and shorts. Just another average Joe.
Well, okay, another average Joe with two guns hidden under his vest.
He walked to the place, looked around, still in no hurry.
He didn’t see any neighbors watching him. He tried the front door, but it was locked. He circled around, found a gate in a fence to the backyard, also locked, and climbed it. No dog started barking, which was good.
He went to the back and saw a sliding glass door into a kitchen. It was closed, and the sound of a big AC rumbling on a concrete pad around the corner meant the windows would be closed, too, but unless they had a broomstick in the track or a backup lock, opening a sliding door like this was easy enough.
Junior carried a titanium “business card” in his wallet for just such occasions. The card was thin, flexible, tough, and it would take maybe fifteen seconds to jimmy the latch.
It took half that.
Net Force HQ Quantico, Virginia
Michaels was on his way back from lunch when his virgil chirped. He pulled the unit from his belt. No caller ID, but only a handful of people had this number. He thumbed the connect button.
There was no visual.
“Yes?”
“Alex Michaels?” said a breathy female voice.
“Yes, who is calling, please?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is, there’s a man breaking into your house right now who means to kill your son.”
The caller discommed.
Michaels felt a blast of cold fear slap him. Alex was home with Tyrone, Toni was still at lunch!
He pushed the call button and said, “D.C. Police, emergency!”
Washington, D.C.
Junior smiled as he slid the back door open. He thought he caught a hint of movement, just a glimpse, but it was gone before he could get a real look. Did he really see somebody?
He shook his head. He would have sworn he’d seen a black kid, skinny, a teenager. He shook his head. Could he have the wrong house? The address checked out, but far as he knew, Alex and his family were all white.
He waited, holding his breath. Nothing.
Must be his imagination.
Careful, Junior
, he thought.
Don’t go lettin’ your nerves get to you now.
, he thought.
Don’t go lettin’ your nerves get to you now.
He slid the door closed carefully behind him and stood there for a few seconds, listening. He heard the hum of the refrigerator, the more distant drone of the air conditioner. Nothing else.
Junior pulled his right-hand revolver. It wouldn’t do to get bashed by the wife or a baby-sitter swinging a frying pan. And since the guy whose kid he was after was a fed, he might have a gun at home. If Junior saw somebody pointing a gun in his direction, he’d cook ’em, no question.
He eased his way through the kitchen to the hallway, peeped around the corner, and pulled his head back real fast.
Nothing.
He stepped into the hallway, his gun leading.
Ames’s Corporate Jet Somewhere over Tennessee
Ames smiled at the throwaway phone. Well, it was done.
Junior wouldn’t give up when the cops came calling. There’d probably be some kind of hostage situation, and Junior would know they had him for kidnapping at the very least, plus the gun felonies, and maybe a connection to the shooting in Atlanta. He knew that Junior didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in prison, or waiting to be executed. There was no way he’d give up. And eventually, if they didn’t blast him right off, a SWAT sniper would line up and put a .308 round through Junior’s head, and that would be that.
Adios, Junior. Give my regards to the Devil. . . .
Net Force Helipad Quantico, Virginia
The Net Force helicopter lifted, Toni and Alex the only passengers, and veered to the left in a dizzying maneuver.
Alex had told the pilot to do whatever he had to do to get them home, fast.
“Alex?” She had to yell over the sound of the engine and rotors.
“It’ll be okay!” he yelled back. “D.C. police are on the way, they’ll be there before we are.”
Toni was terrified.
Dear God, don’t let anything happen to my baby!
Washington, D.C.
Junior thought he could hear somebody talking, low and quiet, and he crept along the wall toward the sound, his left hand coming up to grip his right, holding the revolver in a double-grip. He kept the gun pointed at about a forty-five-degree angle in front of him, toward the floor. It was easier to bring it up and target than it was to bring it down from a barrel-up position, like a lot of cops and military guys did it.
He passed a couple of rooms with doors open, peeked in quickly, and didn’t see anybody.
He got to the end of the hall, where there was a closed door. He tried the knob quietly. . . .
Locked.
He put his ear against the door, but the voice—if that’s what it had been—had gone quiet. He couldn’t hear a thing. He was sure somebody was in the room, though. Sure of it.
Junior sweated, despite the air-conditioning. He stood there for a long time, thinking about it.
Should he back off, go around and look in the window? Assuming there wasn’t a blind or curtain over it that wouldn’t let him see anything. Should he demand that whoever was inside come out? That might not be a good idea. They could be standing there holding a phone with the police emergency number already dialed. That could even be what he’d heard—somebody calling the police, who could even now be on their way here.
Or maybe it was the mama in there, holding her granddaddy’s old pump shotgun, ready to shred anything that came through the door.
He shook his head. Too many questions with no way to answer them unless he moved. No, if somebody was in the room, no point in giving them any warning, any time to do anything. Best thing was to kick the door open, jump in, and catch them off guard. People got spooked by loud noises and movement, distracted by yelling things like, “How’s your sister?” They got overwhelmed by too much coming at them at once, every time.
He took a deep breath, let a little of it out, and gathered himself. It was an interior door, hollow-core, with a snap-button lock. No problem.
Ames’s Corporate Jet Somewhere over Arkansas
Ames had opened a bottle of very good red wine when the jet had lifted, and it had breathed enough by now. Some wines didn’t travel very well, and the lower pressure in the cabin wasn’t good for wine in general, but he didn’t care. He would have a glass or two, and if the rest of it didn’t keep, what was a couple hundred bucks, given his income? Plenty more where that came from. He had dozens of cases of good stuff at the hideout in Texas.
He poured the wine and swirled it around in his glass, and thought about the lobbyist, Cory Skye. He hadn’t heard from her in a couple of days and wondered where she was, and how she was doing in her pursuit of Net Force’s commander.
He inhaled the sharp scent, then took a slow sip from the glass. Ah.
Washington, D.C.
Junior leaned into the kick, hit the door hard, and was happy to see it pop open, showing a bedroom. He leaped in—
He caught movement to his left, twisted, and saw several things at once:
There was a bathroom, and in it, crouched down under a sink, was the boy he’d come to collect.
There was also a skinny black kid—he’d been right about that!—standing in front of the door, partially blocking it.
There was a long-barreled target pistol in the skinny kid’s hand, pointing at the rug—
Gun!
Junior swung his revolver around. Driven by years of practice, made smooth by countless repetitions, he moved like oil on polished steel, no hesitation, no jerkiness, no roughness.
Turn. Index. Target—
He lined up on the black kid’s head, ready to squeeze off the first round. . . .
The long-barreled gun in the kid’s hand blurred.
Jesus! How fast was that?
He didn’t have time to wonder very long. Before his finger was halfway through the trigger squeeze, there was fire and noise, but it cut off—
—Junior’s mind stopped dead. His last thought was:
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