Point of Impact

by Tom Clancy

  “Okay, let’s assume for a moment that he didn’t panic and do it by accident, he iced the man on purpose. That brings up a big question, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Why would he do that?”

  “Any theories you want to share?”

  “I have been thinking about it. Assuming there was no personal hatred of the man, the only thing I can come up with is that he didn’t want Zeigler giving up his dealer.”

  Michaels said, “That doesn’t make any sense, because the whole purpose of the raid was to bust the guy hard enough so we could find that out.”

  “Yes, sir. Thing is, Zeigler was in a panic, and he was about to spill his guts when Lee double-tapped him.”

  Give the commander credit, he picked up on it right away. “Where somebody other than Lee could hear him. You.”

  “Yes, sir, me. And the maid.”

  Michaels shook his head. “I don’t like this worth a damn, John. Something stinks here.”

  “I do believe so myself.”

  The commander steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “If it had just been Lee there, he could claim he shot Zeigler to save the maid.”

  “Who speaks about five words of English and was so terrified she didn’t know which way was up,” Howard added. “Not a great witness either way.”

  “So come the shooting review or whatever it is DEA does, anything you have to say is going to make Lee look real bad. He had to know what he did was going to cost him big time.”

  “I’d assume so, yes, sir. If they believe me, it ought to be worth his job. If he was one of mine, I’d kick him out and tell the local DA to burn him, manslaughter at the very least, maybe murder two.”

  “Which he has to know, and even so, he’s willing to horizontal somebody in front of a witness.”

  “Maybe he thinks he can blow enough smoke to get past it.”

  “I wouldn’t underrate yourself, John. You are the military commander of Net Force, a general. You can shine a lot of light on him.”

  “Yes, sir. So we’re back to the big question. Why’d he do it? What did he have to gain that was so important he’d risk his job?”

  “I don’t know. But I certainly think we need to find out.”

  “Yes, sir, I believe that’s true.”

  “There’s one other thing we need to think about here, too, John.”

  “Sir?”

  “Maybe Lee loves his job and is willing to do anything to keep it.” He raised an eyebrow.

  Well, Mama Howard didn’t raise any stupid children, either. Howard said, “Bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”

  “He killed a world-famous movie star in front of a witness who, at the very least, can get him fired and maybe charged with a nasty felony. Maybe if something happened to the witness, he might not be so worried.”

  Howard nodded. “I take your point. I’ll make sure my brakes are working before I go for a drive.”

  “And make sure nothing is attached to the ignition switch, too, John. I’d hate to have to break in a new military commander.”

  “Yes, sir, I’d hate to put you to the trouble.”

  They smiled at each other.

  But when Howard left, he considered what Michaels had said. Lee did seem to be something of a loose cannon. He didn’t want to be in front of him if he went off.

  28

  Los Angeles, California

  Drayne was not a man to make the same mistake twice, especially on something that, in theory, could cost him his freedom. As soon as he was back on the ground in L.A., still in the car on the way home, he made a call to a real estate agent he’d never met. He got her name out of the phone directory and picked it because he liked the sound of it.

  “Silverman Realty,” the woman said, “this is Shawanda speaking.”

  Shawanda Silverman. What kind of intermarriage produced such a great name? He loved it.

  “Yes, ma’am, my name is Lazlo Mead, and I’m going to be living here in the Los Angeles area for about a year or so for a project I’m just starting to work on.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mead?”

  “What I want is to lease a three- or four-bedroom furnished house not too far from things, but in a nice area, you know, maybe out a little ways, in one of the canyons?”

  “Certainly I can help you with that. What ... ah ... price range are we talking about?”

  “Well, the company is paying for it—I’m in aircraft supply and maintenance—so maybe you could find one where the rent was somewhere around eight to ten thousand dollars a month?”

  He could hear the cash register in her voice: “No problem with that,” she said too quickly. “I can make a list of a few places, and we can get together and view them.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. I’m kind of in a hurry, but I’m up to my eyeballs in work. Somebody gave me your name as having done this kind of thing for people before, so maybe you could just, you know, pick a place that would work for me and my wife and just go ahead and lease it for us. I’ll e-mail you a transfer, you know, first month, last month, cleaning and security fees, whatever—say forty thousand?—and e-sign any paperwork to get the ball rolling. We can get together later. Sooner I get out of the hotel and into a real place, the happier I’ll be.”

  “I understand that, Mr. Mead. I’m sure I can find a house that will work for you. Any preferences as to furniture or schools or such?”

  “Well, my wife likes modem stuff, so we want to keep her happy. No early American or like that. No kids, so schools don’t matter.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll e-mail you pictures, if you want.”

  “That would be good.” He gave her one of the remailing addresses he used. She probably already had caller-IDed the number of the clean phone he kept for just such transactions, the one made out in the name of Projects, Inc. Now there was a term that could be stretched to fit virtually anything. What did it mean? Nothing. He gave her the number. Soon as she found something, she said, she would call. He got her e-mail address and promised to send a fund transfer first thing in the morning.

  After he broke the connection, he felt a lot better. In a day or two, he’d have a hideout, so if he had to leave the Malibu house in a hurry, there would be a place he could run to where he could sort things out. He had a big, fat, five-hundred-pound gun safe bolted to the concrete floor in a U-Store-It place way out Ventura Boulevard; he’d drive over the hill and move most of the cash from the beach house to that tonight, as a matter of fact. Maybe some of the better champagne. The locker, which was eight by ten feet, was air conditioned, he’d made sure of that. With his money safe and a place to hide if it came to that, he would be halfway ready.

  Lazlo Mead was about to come into full existence, too. Drayne had a wonderful, illegal software program and card stocks for making phony IDs. A couple of hours and a good color laser printer, a few watermarks and holograms, and presto! Mr. Lazlo Mead would have a driver’s license from, oh, say, Iowa; a social security card, maybe a library card, and a couple of credit cards that looked perfect, even if they weren’t valid. The program would also print out pictures of a mythical wife and parents, if he wanted.

  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.”

  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 cour
se, 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.”