Tuscaloosa, Alabama
This new environment was also a forest, but one far different from the majestic old oaks of Sherwood. Jay had also traded in his Robin Hood outfit for a frayed flannel shirt, a pair of raggedy denim overalls, and worn combat boots. A pack of six bloodhounds bayed beside him, straining at the leashes he held in his hand.
Jay took a handkerchief from his pocket. It looked a lot like the parchment from the previous scenario. He waved it under the dogs' noses, giving them the scent.
The hounds sniffed the handkerchief, whuffled, and got more excited.
"Let's git 'im, dawgs," Jay hollered, and set them free of their leashes.
The pack took off, following the scent, with Jay chasing after the baying hounds.
This scenario was an old favorite of his, running through the Alabama backwoods like some old moonshiner chasing white lightning thieves from his still. He smiled at the image.
After a few minutes, the dogs' barking changed in pitch.
He moved faster, pushing through saw-grass plants and low bushes. Ahead he could see the dogs surrounding a small shack.
He called up the ID program for the shack and frowned. Someone had been clever. This little shack wasn't Otis E. Levator's home after all. It was a mail delivery box at a Postal Plus--one of the tiny commercial post offices at mini-malls everywhere. They were all sterile, with a built-in irradiator that was guaranteed to keep your letters germ-free.
Another cutout.
"Thanks a lot, Otis." To the bloodhounds, he said, "Okay, pups, you can shut up now."
The dogs obeyed.
So what he had was some clown's idea of a clever pseudonym. Elevator. Probably something to do with moving up in the world. But that was all that he had.
Now what?
Jay left the dogs behind and went into the shack. He did a VR shift--
Postal Plus Shipping Service
Jay didn't bother loading one of his custom scenarios. Not much point in it. He was pretty sure there was nothing to be found here. Instead, he just ran a standard VR website visual of the place, and tapped into the security on the shipping store's computer.
The address left by the mysterious Elevator was also a post office box, only this one was U.S. Mail.
Well, that was just great. All that work seeing the forest for the trees, all that time hacking a bank to get this--
He looked up and noticed something. Hello?
A security cam hung down from the ceiling. The operator of the mail place must have had some problems with people vandalizing mailboxes late at night. That was pretty typical of a place like this. Whatever the reason, he had installed a video surveillance device.
Jay recognized it as a pretty standard device. The cam took a mid-ranged resolution video of the lobby, capturing images of everyone who came in. Usually the files were stored for a week or so before being either destroyed or archived.
Now if only the data was kept on this hard drive. . . .
Jay went past the boxes and into the shop proper. The clerk was busy with some customers. Jay saw the door behind the vidcam and eased over toward it. When the man behind the counter went into the back with a package, Jay tried the door's handle. It opened, and he quickly slipped into the little room where the monitor and hard drive for the cam were. He closed the door behind him and crossed over to the computer.
It only took a couple of commands to start the playback. In the background of the video Jay could see a few parking spaces to the right of the wall of boxes. He narrowed the picture and located the box he wanted. There it was. He then sped through the data, hoping the owner of box 1147 had been in sometime within the past week.
Movement caught his eye and he slowed the recording.
A tall, dark-haired young man in a very nice business suit--Armani, it looked like--opened the mailbox, pulled out a parcel, and left.
Jay widened the frame. The man headed to a vintage Porsche Boxter parked just in front of the place.
Jay froze the image, narrowed the focus again, and got the license plate of the vehicle. He could just barely make it out: LAWMAN9.
Jay frowned. A cop? That didn't make sense.
He made a quick copy of the video, sent it to his own e-mail address, and then bailed from the scenario--
Washington, D.C.
In his home office, Jay checked the time. Almost midnight. Saji would be asleep; she was an early riser.
He did a quick check with the DMV databank and found a name for the owner of LAWMAN9: Theodore A. Clements.
Gotcha!
Jay pulled down a few more files, a basic search, and scanned them quickly.
Not a cop. A lawyer. Clements worked for the Supreme Court. He was a clerk.
Well, well, well. Why would CyberNation be sending money to a Supreme Court justice's clerk? Not for anything legal, he'd bet.
Just wait till Alex heard about this one.
U.S. Capitol Building Washington, D.C.
Commander Alex Michaels was not happy. It wasn't even eight in the morning yet, and he needed another cup of coffee. Instead, he was due at a briefing session for a congressional committee.
The worst part was that there was nothing he could tell the Subcommittee on Internet Security that they couldn't have gotten from a com or e-mail, nothing that an assistant couldn't have delivered just as well. But of course, that wasn't how things worked in this town. When a committee chairman wanted to be briefed, he didn't want to hear it from some flunky, and he certainly didn't want to actually sit down and read something. No, he wanted it from the lips of the man in charge.
It was just another part of the political gamesmanship that went on every day of life here. Who had to go where, and say what, was part of how clout was defined in the corridors of power. Alex knew all this. He also knew that the head of a small agency like Net Force couldn't say no to six congressmen, no matter how stupid those congressmen were being.
He was supposed to meet Tommy Bender here first. Nobody from Net Force, or even the mainline FBI, went before committees without a lawyer at his elbow.
He checked his watch and looked around again before finally spotting Tommy. The lawyer was talking to a tall blonde in a gray power suit, low heels, and red silk scarf. The skirt was cut just above her knees. She was gorgeous, no question about it, and Michaels thought she looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her.
Tommy caught his eye and motioned Alex to join him. "Hey, Commander," he said when Alex came over.
"Counselor." Alex nodded.
"This is Corinna Skye. She's a lobbyist. Cory, this is Alex Michaels, of--"
"Net Force," the woman said. "Yes, I know. Commander, nice to meet you, though I think we're on opposite sides of an issue right now." She gave him a small smile.
He took her hand. She had a firm grip. He caught the scent of some subtle musklike perfume from her, just a hint. Very nice.
"What issue would that be, Ms. Skye?" he said, releasing her hand.
"One of my clients is CyberNation. I hope you won't hold that against me?"
Alex didn't reply.
Tommy glanced at his watch. "Sorry, Cory, we have to run. We're in front of Malloy's committee in five. I'll catch you later."
She smiled again. "Go. The congressman hates it when you're late. Nice to have met you, Commander. Maybe we might get together later this week? I would like to try to correct some misconceptions about my client, if you wouldn't mind?"
What misconceptions? Alex thought. That they are evil scum who happily use terrorism to further their ends? That they are suing me and my department for a couple hundred million bucks?
But he didn't say any of that. He only smiled in return and said, "Sure. Give my office a call."
As they walked toward the committee meeting room, he asked Tommy, "What do you think that was all about? And why were you talking with a lobbyist for CyberNation, anyway?"
Tommy shrugged. "Hell, Commander, I'll talk to anyone, even the enemy--no,
make that especially the enemy. I'm not going to pass up any chance to gather some information."
Alex frowned. "Don't you worry that they might pick up some information from you?"
Tommy laughed. "About what? Our strategy is no secret. The guys on that boat were criminals. They fired first, your guys reacted in self-defense. We don't have any secrets to give away."
"So you think I should meet with her if she calls?"
"Oh, she'll call, Commander. And, yes, I think you should meet with her. A word of warning, though: Corinna Skye has a reputation for doing anything to get what she wants. And I do mean anything. So be on your toes."
Michaels just shook his head. He had the feeling it was going to be a long day. . . .
His virgil beeped. Great. Now what?
"Excuse me a second, Tommy." He stepped to one side and glanced at the ID. "Jay?"
"Hey, Boss. I have something real interesting here."
"Can it wait? I'm sitting in front of a committee in two minutes."
"I guess it can. The quick version is, I traced a nice chunk of change from CyberNation to a clerk for a Supreme Court justice."
"What? That's incredible!" Michaels said.
"Yeah, I thought you'd think that. I'll fill you in when you get back to HQ. Have fun at your committee thing. Discom."
Michaels thumbed the virgil off. CyberNation was sending money to a Supreme Court clerk? If Net Force could prove it and backtrack the money, it would be a huge victory for them. Assuming, of course, the money was for something illegal, but it just about had to be. Jay had been working this one. If the money was legit, Jay would not have had so much trouble tracking it.
"Alex? We've got thirty seconds."
Michaels nodded. "We can make it. The door is right there."
They hurried to do just that.
12
Bailiff Hollow
Williamsport, Indiana
Junior didn't like small towns. He'd grown up in one, and he knew how they worked. If somebody spit on the ground at ten o'clock in the morning, they'd be talking about it at the barber shop by noon. Everybody knew everyone's business, and they paid extra attention to any strangers who came to visit.
This particular little town was exactly the kind of place where a man would get noticed if he wasn't a local. In the middle of corn country, its people were mostly farmers, with the odd airline pilot or ex-military retired to the country thrown in, and maybe some weirdo artists who worked in stained glass. People like that.
This particular little town was also home to a United States senator whose family had owned property here since they stole it from the Indians. That senator was about to learn which way the wind blew.
Junior grinned. Senator David Lawson Hawkins, the upstanding Republican, was a buttoned-down widower with three grown kids and eight grandchildren, and none of that mattered. Senator Hawkins was either going to toe the line or he was going to get stomped.
Junior glanced at the GPS reader mounted on the rental truck's dash. He had selected a pickup truck, one a couple years old, so he wouldn't stick out as much. The truck was a big old Dodge Ram that looked like a dozen others he'd passed on the road here from Indianapolis, via the long way through Lafayette. It should buy him a few extra minutes before the locals took note of him, and that would be all he needed.
He didn't have an appointment, and the senator's bodyguard wouldn't be thrilled to see him, but there was no question in Junior's mind that Hawkins would talk to him. Junior had a conversation starter that guaranteed the man's attention.
Junior smiled. And if the bodyguard gave him any crap? Well, maybe he would cook the sucker. Just like that cop.
He got another rush thinking about the shooting. It had been all over the papers and the news services for days. They thought it was gang-related, and that was fine with him. He'd changed out the barrels on his Rugers and used a grinder to turn the old ones into steel filings that he had flushed down a storm drain. He'd bought a new brick of ammo, too, and thrown out all the old rounds, just in case there was some way they might match the lead or something.
He was golden. They didn't have a clue. He had bagged himself a cop and gotten away with it. One on one, mano a mano. And that feeling he'd had when he did it? He wanted it again. Soon.
Of course, you couldn't keep going around zapping cops. Once was a skate, but twice was a pattern. If another cop turned up with a pair of .22 rounds in his head, they'd crank up the hunt for sure. As long as they thought it was gang-related, they'd bring in the usual suspects and he should be safe. But if he deleted another policeman somewhere else with the same MO, they'd start up enough steam shovels to move heaven and earth.
Shooting somebody out here would be even worse. There was only one main road in or out, and even in the blend-in truck, some fool with nothing better to do might remember it, maybe even the license plate number: Nossir, it warn't Bill's truck, warn't Tom's, warn't Richard's, it was a stranger's Dodge, and yessir, I just happened to write down the numbers, kinda made me curious and all. . . .
He had that part covered, of course. He had switched plates with a used truck on a lot in Indianapolis not far from where he'd rented the Dodge, and he'd switch 'em back when he was done. Still, it wouldn't be smart to underestimate the cops even out here in the sticks.
Junior knew a con once who had swiped a bunch of computer gear, then put an ad in the local paper to sell the stuff. Junior thought that was crazy, but the guy hadn't been worried. The cops wouldn't think anybody would be that stupid, he'd said. They'd never look in the classified ads.
He'd been wrong. They looked. And they nailed him.
There were a lot of guys in cages who thought they were smarter than the police, especially the ones out in the middle of nowhere.
Junior knew better. He knew how they worked. If they were looking for a certain kind of truck, if they had that much, they might check every rental place for three states hoping to get lucky. And while he'd used a fake license and a credit card that couldn't be traced to him, that old cowboy hat he'd worn pulled low might not be enough of a disguise.
He shook his head, letting go of his fantasy of shooting the bodyguard. He knew it was better not to get their blood up looking for him. Besides, bodyguards were like dogs, they did what they were told, and the man's boss would tell him to stand aside. Junior was pretty sure of that.
He glanced at the GPS unit again. He had the coordinates for the farmhouse programmed into it. All he had to do was follow the map. It shouldn't be much farther.
Ten minutes later, Junior came to the property's gate, a large steel-frame swinger, complete with cattle guard. It wasn't even locked. He slipped the cable off the gate post, opened it, got back into the truck, drove in, and then got out and shut the gate. No point in drawing any attention to himself. People who left gates open on property where there might be livestock stuck in your memory.
The house was an old two-story place, recently painted and kept up real well. A half a mile from the gate, it sat at the end of a curvy road that wound through a section of cornfield. The corn stood about six feet high and looked as if it would be ready for harvest soon. Junior knew a little about crops. Though they'd grown mostly sugarcane and soybeans on his uncle's farm in Louisiana, everybody had a truck garden--corn, tomatoes, carrots, pole beans, like that.
By the time he'd parked the truck under the welcome shade of a cottonwood tree, next to a GMC pickup newer than his, the bodyguard/chauffeur was already on his way across the yard.
He was a big man, six-three, maybe six-four. In shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, Junior could see that he was also very muscular. A weight lifter, for sure, and probably a boxer or martial artist to go with the muscles.
He was wearing his gun hidden in a belly pouch under the T-shirt. Some of those were rigged with Velcro so all you had to do to access the piece was to grab it with one hand and peel it apart, going for the gun with the other hand. They weren't as fast as a belt holster, but in
the middle of the hot summer, it was hard to justify wearing a jacket or even a sleeveless vest.
Junior smiled. He liked his method better. He wore an unbuttoned denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps and tails out, over a white T-shirt. It was a little warm, but you could get away with it. The little revolvers rode close to his body, and the shirt was enough to hide them as long as he didn't move too fast and flare the tails.
Before Junior could open the door, the bodyguard was there. Up close, Junior saw a small tattoo on the man's forearm. Junior nodded. It was a prison tattoo, blue ink, probably ballpoint, a little spider web, not bad.
"Hey," Junior said.
"You don't have an appointment," the bodyguard said. It was not a question.
"No. But the man will want to talk to me."
"How do you figure that?"
"Give him this."
Slowly and carefully, Junior reached down to the seat and picked up a sealed 9 x 12 manila envelope.
The bodyguard took the envelope without looking at it. His eyes were still locked on Junior's.
Junior glanced at the tattoo. "Where'd you do your time?"
The bodyguard frowned. "I printed validation stickers at Wabash Valley. Six years, man-two." He looked at the envelope, just a glance, then back at Junior, his eyes hard. "You're not going to cause my boss any trouble, are you? The man has been very good to me."
Junior grinned and shook his head. "Not a bit. I'm just here to talk business."
"Wait here. Don't get out of the truck."
The bodyguard backed away, keeping Junior in sight, then turned and went back into the house.
I can take you, Junior thought. You're not fast enough coming out of that belly pouch.
Of course, he'd have to make the head shot. A .22 to the body wouldn't even slow that bodyguard down. He played it out in his mind, smiling. Yeah. He could take him.
It didn't take long. Five minutes and the bodyguard was back. "Leave any hardware you're carrying in the truck," he said.
State Of War (2003) Page 11
