"Couple more of those ought to get its attention," Jay said.
Thursday, April 14th
The Yews, Sussex, England
Peel alighted from his car and slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary. He got a grip on his irritation, nodded at Huard, who was standing watch at the rear of the main house, then turned to watch as Ruzhyo got out of the passenger side. The car with the two dead agents in it, along with the gun that killed them, was at the bottom of a thirty-foot-deep sinkhole in a stock pond on one of his lordship's farms in East Sussex, not far from where they'd shot the pair. Well, where Ruzhyo had shot them. The SIS or local police would likely get around to finding the car and its cargo eventually, but probably not immediately. He should have plenty of time to clean up the loose ends and get the hell out of the country. A pity, that, but it was going to be too hot to stay, that was for certain. And while he wouldn't be getting that phantom fortune from the Indonesian bank, Goswell had a safe in his house that would surely yield running-away money. His plan was to ice Goswell, that bastard Bascomb-Coombs, and Ruzhyo--this last with great care, from behind, when he wasn't expecting it. Some artful arranging of the bodies so that it would seem as if the ex-Spetsnaz agent had killed the other two, then been shot by one of his men--Huard, say, who'd have to be iced as well--and Peel would be off. His situation was bad but not fatal, and while he would have preferred that things turned out differently, he could survive it. He was a trained soldier, an officer with command experience in the field. There was always a market for his services somewhere in the third world. He could train an army in one of the CIS countries, or command a battalion in central Africa, or work security for an Arab prince. War dogs were never completely out of fashion, no matter how peaceful things might be. You never knew but that your neighbor was eyeing your territory, and you had to be prepared to protect it, regardless of how wide his smile was or how open his hand seemed.
Not his first choice, but better than the options.
"Stay here and keep your eyes open," Peel told Ruzhyo.
Ruzhyo saluted with his rolled-up umbrella. He'd likely need that soon: The sky threatened rain, dark clouds rolling in from the North Atlantic in a cool front. Perfect, a storm to make things even gloomier.
Peel walked over to Huard. "Tell the boys to move out to the perimeter," he said. "We might have company. You watch the back door."
"Yes, sir."
Peel headed into the house. He would get it all done. And he'd wait until well after dark, so that he could take off on foot across the fields, just in case anybody was watching the estate. He had to figure that if they knew who he was, at least enough to have an SIS team on him, they knew who he worked for. They wouldn't storm the bloody gates at the Yews, oh, no, but they might be waiting for him to leave. If he hiked out on foot far enough, he could boost a car from one of the neighbors, drive to the south coast, and take one of Goswell's boats across the channel. There was no shame in retreating from a superior force. You could always regroup and come back later. A lost battle was not necessarily a lost war.
Goswell was having a drink in the sitting room. "Hello, Major."
"Your Lordship. Where is Mr. Bascomb-Coombs?"
"Down the hall, in the study, I believe. Playing with his portable computer. I had his access shut off to the special unit, but he has his way around that, I am sure. His portable computer peeped at him, he got quite agitated, and excused himself to go deal with whatever it was. A drink?"
"Splendid idea," he said. Applewhite materialized--too bad he would have to die as well, he liked old Applewhite--and Peel held up two fingers, to indicate the depth of his scotch. Oh, what the hell--he added a third finger. He had to last until dark, didn't he? And it had been a long and trying day. Nobody could blame him for needing a stiff drink.
A sudden breeze rattled the window casement, and the first drops of rain spattered on the glass. Well, it was going to be a stormy evening, to be sure, in more ways than one.
39
Thursday, April 14th
En route to the Yews
The Net Force team rode in what Howard called his Mobile On-Scene Command Center--essentially a large RV he had hurriedly rented--with Julio Fernandez driving, and cursing as he did so: "Why don't you stupid bastards drive on the right side of the road!"
The rest of the Strike Team had already piled into cars and trucks at the military base and were on their way to the meeting place--in this case, a fire station in Sussex.
Howard had a computer set up on a small table, and Michaels and Toni sat next to it, watching. Howard brought up an image, an augmented aerial view of a big house and some smaller structures. "This is Goswell's place," he said.
"You get this from MI-6?" Michaels asked.
"No, sir. I had Big Squint--USAT--footprint it this morning."
"Before we knew we were going to do this?" Toni asked.
"Yes, ma'am. Never hurts to keep the six-P principle in mind."
Michaels nodded to himself. Everybody here knew what that meant: Proper planning prevents piss-poor performance. Howard was just doing his job.
Howard continued, "We'd be a lot better off if we had a couple of days to study things, to run tactical scenarios, and to play with alternative plans, but since we don't, we KISS it and hope for the best."
Another acronym: Keep it simple, stupid.
"Here's how I see it," Howard said. "We wait until after dark before we hit the place. My men do the tango with the estate's guards while Sergeant Fernandez and I and a couple of others hop the fence and head for the house. We set off some flash-bangs and some puke lights and take out any guards there, go in and round up everybody, haul the ones we want out, and hightail it for the border. Ruzhyo, Peel, and Bascomb-Coombs will do, and we can feed any incriminating information about Goswell back to our hosts later and let them deal with him if he's involved. With any luck, by the time the locals figure it out, we're on our plane and halfway across the ocean."
"One small addition," Michaels said. "I'll be going in with you. And yes, I know, it isn't the wisest course of action, but we've had this discussion before, and since I get the heat, I get to make that choice." He glanced at Toni, about to say that she'd be staying at the command center.
The look in Toni's eyes was reptilian. She knew what he was going to say. And he suddenly knew if he said it, whatever chance he might have of patching things up between them was going to die right here and now. So instead, he said, "And Toni will be going in, too."
She gave him a short nod. "Thank you." Her words were cool and crisp--you could use them to frost beer steins--but at least she was still talking to him. Better than nothing.
When they got to the fire station, near a little town called Cuckfield, the Net Force Strike Team was already there. But when Toni stepped out into the rainy evening, there was a surprise waiting under the overhang of a carport next to the main building: Angela Cooper was there, too. She wore combat camo, pants, shirt, and boots.
"Oh, shit," Fernandez said quietly. "Looks like the game is about to be canceled."
They moved to the carport, out of the weather. Alex stepped forward, but before he could speak, Cooper raised one hand to his objections. "If I wanted to stop you, Alex, I wouldn't be here alone."
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Officially, His Majesty's government cannot condone any action against Lord Goswell without much more evidence than we currently have. However, the DG and our MP know what we've found out and, unofficially, they believe what we all do--that Bascomb-Coombs is very likely responsible for the computer terrorism, and that Major Peel and Goswell are privy and part of it as well."
"So you've decided to look the other way?" Alex said.
"Yes. Provided we have an unofficial observer to make certain our unofficial position is kept, well, unofficial."
Toni said, "So we get to do the dirty work, take care of your problem, and if it all blows up in our faces, you get to keep your hands clean."
"Can't put anything past you, can we, Ms. Fiorella? Well, that's probably not strictly true, is it, Alex?"
Years of martial arts practice gave you a certain amount of physical self-control. If you knew you could seriously injure or kill somebody with your hands, elbows, knees, or feet, it tended to make you think before you made any sudden moves. You had to be able to move almost reflexively fast once the action started, but you also had to know when it was appropriate. Once, in college, a dorm mate had sneaked up behind Toni and grabbed her in the hallway, intending to tickle her. His practical joke had cost him a visit to the campus clinic and a concussion. It had taken her a few more years to get past the reactive stage, so she could usually assess the situation before decking somebody who didn't really mean her any harm.
That hard-won self-control was all that kept Toni from stepping forward and destroying Angela Cooper. She really wanted to do it, bad. Instead, she managed a smile. She said, "Oh, I'm a bit slow sometimes, but I eventually catch on."
"All right," Alex said. "Colonel Howard will run it down again. We've got a couple of hours until we go." He looked at Toni, shook his head a little, then gave her an open-handed "Sorry" shrug. He looked pale, almost gray, and she hoped he felt bad. He should.
Thursday, April 14th
The Yews, Sussex, England
Ruzhyo leaned against the stone wall of the big house under the substantial roof overhang. The wind had died pretty much as the rain began, and the gutters piped the water away to drain chains at the house's corners, so he was dry enough even in the damp evening. And he had his umbrella, of course, and a feeling he would be needing its hidden functions before the night was over. Intelligence services of every country he knew of took a dim view of anybody who killed any of their operatives. It was bad for business. Spetsnaz had always been notorious for its vengeance. Once, in one of the ever-troubled mideastern countries, one of their ops had been caught by a group of zealots, and slain. A week later, sixteen of those zealots were found lined up neatly in a ditch, their severed penises stuffed into their dead mouths, their eyes plucked out.
Kill one of ours, and we destroy a village of yours. It made even zealots think.
The British were more polite and less savage, but they would by now assume their men were dead, and they would know who was responsible. At least they would know of Peel, and if they knew enough to find and follow him, they doubtless knew for whom he worked and where his employer lived. Peel would realize this, and he would have a plan in place by now, a way to escape being captured.
Huard, dressed in rain gear, walked a circuit around the back of the house, looking at Ruzhyo but not speaking as he moved from sight. Huard didn't like him, but Huard was a child.
So, in Peel's shoes, what would he do? Flight was the only real option; even Goswell could not protect him if he stayed here. And timing was critical. Peel would have to disappear before things grew too warm. Were he Peel, he would already be gone. Certainly before morning light offered his pursuers too much help in spotting him. And he would wish to depart without any telltales left behind. Peel had sent his men to the property's borders, leaving only Huard and Ruzhyo here. They, along with everybody inside the house, were expendable. That's how Ruzhyo would see it in Peel's place.
So, sometime during the night, Peel would call him inside. Or perhaps use the com to tell Huard to do it, to kill him? No. He wouldn't trust Huard. And if the boy failed, his master would know that Ruzhyo would have to come for him.
Ruzhyo could simply disappear into the rainy darkness in a few more minutes. None of Peel's men would find him or stop him if they did find him. He could trek away, catch a ride, steal a car, and be in France tomorrow. This game was nearly over, and what was the point in waiting around for the expected end?
He mentally shrugged. No point at all, actually. And perhaps that was the reason. There was nowhere he had to be. One place was as good as another. Did it matter where the sands of one's hourglass ran out? In the end, did anything matter at all?
Next to the parked lorry, Howard slipped his helmet on, and checked the LOSIR com. "Perimeter team, sound off, by the numbers."
The Strike Team obediently replied. All ahead functions there.
"Entry team, sound off."
"This is E1, Cooper."
"E2, Michaels.
"E3, Fiorella."
"E4, Fernandez."
And he was E5. Five of them should be enough, if everybody did what they were supposed to do. He and Fernandez would work the heavy shots, and while Michaels and Fiorella weren't trained assault troopers, he'd seen them in action enough to know they had balls. The only unknown was Cooper, and if she was a field agent for MI-6, she ought to have at least some basic moves. It was hurried, it was slapdash, it was hung together with string and bubble gum, but it was what he had to work with, and it was about to be a go. They all wore the light SIPEsuit configuration, mostly just armor, corns, and the tactical comp to run the helmet. They all carried the simple but reliable H&K 9mm subguns and tactical pistols, save for Howard and his .357 revolver. And as soon as he'd brought that out, Julio had howled.
"Why, Katie Mae, I must be going blind," he'd said. "My tired old eyes completely shot. What is that ugly lump on top of the colonel's antique good luck charm? Is that a dot scope? It can't be!"
"Julio ...
"No, I must be on drugs, or maybe just out of my mind. The Colonel John Howard I know would never in a million years upgrade to hardware just because it was state-of-the-art and useful!" He started looking up at the rainy sky.
"What are you looking for, Sergeant?"
"I dunno, sir. Some sign or portent. A big meteor about to fall on us, a gathering of angels, a rain of fire, something to let us know the end is near."
"Never let it be said that your commander is a total Luddite," Howard said. He smiled.
Now, they were on their way. They would split into two groups a couple of miles from here, the perimeter team would hit the gate, and they would go over the fence. Howard took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"All aboard," he said.
Peel glanced at his watch. Almost nine. Still raining, but not as hard as it had been, to judge from the sound on the slate roof. Bascomb-Coombs hadn't come out of the study; he was hunched over his computer, wearing a headset and finger bands, deep in some VR scenario. Well, fine. He could die never knowing what had hit him for all Peel cared, and good riddance.
Goswell had tottered off into the dining room for a late supper, and Peel had the sitting room to himself, working on his third scotch, a small one this time. He didn't want to drink too much. There was Ruzhyo to consider.
He'd have to get started soon, but he was stalling. Had to be done, of course, but there was a certain reluctance to get to it. Another page turning in the book of his life, and a big one. Ah, well. That's how it went. Win some, lose some, but the important thing was to live to fight another day.
He took another sip of his scotch.
Thursday, April 14th
Upper Cretaceous
What will be Sussex, England
The monster, which looked like a cross between Godzilla and a giant Spielbergian raptor, stomped out into the clearing that served as his toilet and let loose a bellow that shook fronds off the ferns. It was still pretty far away, a couple of hundred meters. Probably could cover that in maybe four or five seconds once he got moving good. One shot, maybe two.
"There he is," Jay said redundantly.
Saji looked up. "No shit."
Jay swallowed dryly, put the laser sight crosshair onto the monster's chest. The cross bounced around a little, but finally the holographic image blinked red, indicating that he had a lock. He jerked the trigger--and had a moment of panic as he feared he'd pulled it too hard.
The rocket streaked away, smacked into the monster's chest, and exploded.
When the fire and smoke cleared, the monster was knocked down.
"All right, Jay!" Saji yelled.
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The triumph was short-lived. As they watched, the monster rolled, used its tail as a prop, and got back to its feet. It looked around for the source of the attack.
Ohhhh, shit!
Saji was already shoving another rocket into the bazooka-style launcher before Jay could speak. She slapped him on the shoulder. "Loaded!"
The rocket lanced into the beast again. Boom! Again, it knocked the thing asprawl.
Then it climbed back to its feet again, and roared loudly enough to wake everything that had died since the beginning of time. It leaned forward, stuck its big tail straight out behind it, and spotted Jay and Saji. It looked like a giant hunting dog on point at a covey of quail.
Man! At least it was having an effect. Thing was, they had one more rocket and then the party was over. They could bail from VR if it got too close, and they'd sure as hell have to do that. Given what the little tiger had done to Jay's brain, he had a feeling that if this beastie got its claws on them, VR image or not, they would be in real physical jeopardy. If they had to bail, the thing would win, and Jay did not want to let it do that. More than anything he had ever wanted in his life, he wanted to beat this thing. Not just beat it, but to kick its ass seven ways from Sunday, to stomp the crap out of it big time.
But it didn't look good for the home team, no sir.
"Reloaded!"
Jay took a deep breath and readied his last shot.
Sure enough, Bascomb-Coombs was still there in the study, waving his hands around, wiggling his fingers, and directing some unseen computer wizardry. Peel glanced up and down the hall. No one around. He slipped into the room. He pulled the small Cold Steel Culloden boot knife from the sheath on his belt. The knife was short, pointed like a stiletto, with a hard, rubbery handle that gripped well. He stepped up behind the computer scientist, reached out, caught his forehead with his left hand, then drove the knife into the base of his skull with his right. Bascomb-Coombs stiffened.
Night Moves (1999) Page 29
