Junior nodded. There was no point trying to pretend he didn't have any, though he had already pulled the two Rugers out and stuck them under the seat.
He got out, stood there while the bodyguard patted him down, then followed the man into the house.
They went in through the back door and straight to a big paneled office--Junior thought it looked like pecan wood--with lots of bookshelves. There was music coming from hidden speakers, an old show tune. He grinned.
The senator sat behind a big desk made of the same kind of wood as the paneling. It had a burl to it. Pecan, he was sure of it, or maybe some kind of maple.
"Have a seat, Mr. . . . ?"
"Just call me 'Junior,' Senator."
Hawkins was sixty-something, leathery, tanned, and fit. He had salt-and-pepper hair cut in a flattop. He wore a plaid cotton shirt, jeans, and work boots.
Senator good ole boy, Junior thought, but this time he hid his grin.
"Wait outside, Hal," the senator said to the bodyguard. "And close the door, would you?"
Hal nodded, stepped out, and shut the door softly behind him.
As soon as the door closed, Senator Hawkins turned back to Junior, his expression growing ugly. "Now you want to give me a good reason why I shouldn't have Hal take you outside and stomp you into a pile of greasy hamburger?"
"Your call, Senator," Junior said. "But you know I'm not so stupid as to come here with the only copy of that picture. You can also be sure that I have people who know where I am, and who have more pictures like it--and some a lot worse. Something happens to me, you know what comes next."
"You son of a bitch."
Junior frowned. "You're a smart man, Senator, and you've been in politics half your life. How long did you figure to keep something like this a secret?"
"It's been forty years so far," he said.
Junior nodded. "The wife, the kids, the grandkids, they're all good cover, but that doesn't matter now, does it? What's done is done."
The senator sighed, and Junior could see him give up. "What do you want?" he asked. "Money?"
"No, sir."
Hawkins stared at him.
"I need one thing, one time only. I need a vote. In return you get all the copies of all the pictures, and we never say another word to each other as long as we live."
Senator Hawkins glared at him. "And I'm supposed to trust a blackmailer."
"It's not like you have a whole lot of choice here, Senator."
Hawkins thought about it. "What if I say no?"
"Then the pictures--all of them--show up on the web and tomorrow's front page. You want your grandchildren knowing you've been sharing long weekends up in Pennsylvania with another man? The brother of an appeals court judge? That you've been swinging the other way since before you met Grandma?"
Hawkins shook his head. "No, I don't want that."
"Fine," Junior said. "Then we can do business."
There was a long pause, and Junior felt just a twinge of nervousness. You could never be sure in a situation like this. The guy might just lose it and go off, and with his guns in the truck, he didn't feel real comfortable. Hal would stomp him like a roach. Sure, the senator would pay for it, but that wouldn't help Junior any.
Finally, Hawkins said, "I don't know who you work for, Junior, but let me tell you this. If this gets out, I'm ruined. If that happens, I won't have anything left to lose. Hal out there has friends. They'll find you, and you will tell them who sent you, before they put you out of your misery, and whoever your people are will suffer the same fate as you. You understand me here?"
Junior felt a chill. This man was dead serious, Junior had heard enough people calling it straight to know it when he heard it. The senator was telling him it was easier to do what Junior wanted than it was to kill him, but that if it went wrong, he could do that. Would do it.
He nodded. "Yeah, I hear you."
"All right. What is it you want?"
Junior told him.
"That's it?" He looked stunned. "My God, you didn't need to do this. You already had my vote."
"The man I work for doesn't take chances," Junior said.
Junior left. After he was back in the truck, with his guns in their holsters, he felt a whole lot better. Hawkins would be a nasty enemy, and Junior was just glad to be done with him.
Washington, D.C.
There were some good things about living in Washington, Toni thought. One of them was that news got old fast. The phone would still ring now and then with calls from the media, but at least the reporters were gone from the sidewalk. They were off making somebody else miserable, which meant that Toni's life could begin to get back to normal.
She was even thinking about going into the office today. Alex needed her help, no question about that. Between the lawsuit and normal Net Force operations, things were getting a little thick.
Toni had lost a few steps, she knew. She wasn't quite as sharp as she'd been before she quit to have the baby. Like silat, work was a skill, and if you didn't hone it, it got a little dull.
That didn't worry her, though. She knew she could get it back if she really wanted. The question was, did she really want it? And that question did worry her, at least a little.
A year ago, two years ago, it would never have occurred to her that she might not want to go back to work. Before Alex--and especially before Little Alex--her work was her life. She had never imagined that anything--silat, her parents or siblings, or any future family of her own--could ever replace her job as the single biggest focus in her life.
She had been wrong. She had found something that mattered more to her. And it was making her think about things in a way she never had before, to ask herself questions that would have been unthinkable just a short time ago.
It didn't have to be that way, of course. She had known plenty of women who had done both, raised a family and maintained a career, but it had seemed to Toni that something always suffered, even among the best and brightest. It was a matter of time, not effort or ability. There were only so many hours in a day, only so much you could do, no matter how much you wanted to do more.
And that was the point she kept coming back to. There were other people who could do her job at Net Force. Other people could help with investigations and administration. But who could step up and be a mom to her son?
No one, of course. She knew that. Even Guru couldn't replace Toni. Not when it came to her family.
The worst of it was, there was just no way to know. Not in time, anyway.
At Net Force, at the FBI, at most jobs, the results of your decisions showed up quickly. Oh, some investigations stretched out over months or years, but for the most part you made a decision and you knew pretty quickly if you were right or wrong.
Being a parent didn't work that way. You made your decisions on how to raise your child. You figured how and when and why to discipline him and how to encourage him. You determined when to lead by example and when to give a lecture. And after each decision, after each opportunity to teach or scold or praise, you had no idea if you had made the right call. You wouldn't know--couldn't know--until someday in the far future when your son was grown and you saw the fruits of your labor.
But even then, really, how would you know? If your child turned out happy and productive and successful and loving and all the other things you hope and pray for him, how would you know how much was due to your parenting and how much was just luck, or genetics, or other influences?
You wouldn't. You couldn't. And knowing that made making parental decisions--and especially major parental decisions--that much harder.
She sighed. Why hadn't anybody told her about such things before? How did she go from having all the answers to her life, to having things all planned out and comfortable, to feeling as if she were standing on a trail leading into an unknown wasteland, next to a sign that said, "Beware! Here Be Dragons!"
Being Mommy was a lot harder than being a federal agent. Or kicking somebody's tail in a
fight. Much harder.
13
Net Force Shooting Range
Quantico, Virginia
John Howard shook his head. Julio hadn't been able to make it today. He had said something about having to take his son to somewhere to apply for pre-preschool classes. That meant that John was the only one here with his own son. It was probably just as well, though. After all, there was no point in both of them being embarrassed.
Tyrone brought the K-frame revolver up and squeezed off two shots, double-action. He paused a second, then squeezed off two more double-taps, with only a half-second between the second and third pair.
Howard looked at the computer screen in the shooting bay. The computer displayed an image of the "bad guy" target. Hits showed as bright points of light against a darker shade.
Howard let out a low, soft whistle. Six shots, all neatly paired, all hits. Two in the head, two in the heart, two in the groin. No question about it, the boy had fired quickly, smoothly, and accurately, using a handgun he had only shot one time before.
"That's good, son."
Tyrone smiled. "Thanks, Dad. It just feels so, you know, natural."
Howard shook his head. Unbelievable. "Try the .22."
Opening the Medusa, Tyrone ejected the empty shells into his palm and put them into the plastic bin. He put the revolver down and picked up the little .22 target pistol, a bull-barreled Browning semiauto. The gun had iron sights and was front-heavy, but it was an accurate enough weapon. The sights were frame-mounted and not on the slide.
Tyrone slid the half-loaded magazine in, chambered a round, and thumbed the safety on. He kept his trigger finger outside the guard, the gun pointed low and down range.
John nodded, giving the boy high marks for safety, too.
"I'm going to change the target to a bull's-eye," Howard said. "Take your time, remember what I told you about breathing, and shoot five rounds slow-fire."
Tyrone nodded.
Howard tapped a control on the computer. The image blinked and shifted into a standard black-and-white concentric-circled twenty-five-meter pistol target.
Tyrone took a couple of deep breaths, raised the pistol one-handed, and extended his arm, duelist-fashion. Formal target shooting discipline allowed only a one-hand hold. The gun would not be as steady as when held in a two-handed combat grip, so he shouldn't do as well, even with the smaller recoil of the .22 round.
The little pap! of the .22 target load was very quiet under the sound suppressors, even though Howard hadn't taken his hearing aid out.
Tyrone lowered the weapon, took a couple more breaths, and raised the pistol again.
Pap!
Howard watched his son, not as interested in the score as he was in how Tyrone shot. He paid particular attention to how he stood, his grip, trigger control, his breathing, and his eyes. Behind the shooting glasses, Howard could see that Tyrone kept both eyes open.
Tyrone lowered the gun again, relaxed and breathed, then brought it back up.
After five rounds, the slide locked open. Tyrone ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, then put the pistol and empty magazine onto the bench and turned to look at the computer. At this range the bullet holes were too small to see with the naked eye.
Howard looked at the computer screen at the same time.
All five rounds clustered into a ragged hole an inch below dead center, tight enough so you could cover them all with a quarter. There were no fliers at all.
A one-inch group, one-handed grip, twenty-five meters out, and the first time he had ever fired the pistol. Now that was good shooting!
But Tyrone frowned. "I missed the bull's-eye," he said. "I was aiming right at it."
Howard laughed and shook his head. "No, son," he said. "Those sights are set for my eyes. What's important is not that you shot low, but that you put them all essentially into the same hole. You can always adjust the sights. Try it. Just give them one or two clicks, that'll raise the point of impact."
Tyrone adjusted the sights, reloaded, and fired off another slow five. This second group was almost the same as the first, with four centered in the ten ring and one round slightly off.
John shook his head again, amazed. If you threw out that one flier, you could cover the other four with your thumb--and even with the flier included, all five were still within an inch or so of each other. Amazing.
"I pulled the third shot," Tyrone said. "It felt off."
Howard said, "Son, there are men who have practiced regularly for years, burning tens of thousands of rounds, who can't do what you just did. This Browning is a very good gun, but it's not close to being a world-class free pistol. With a precision weapon and match-grade ammo, you'd do even better." He paused, then finished, "Ty, if you can do this consistently, you could win Olympic medals. You're a natural born shooter. I've been around guns all my life and I've never seen anybody with as little experience do as well."
Tyrone looked at him. "Really?"
Howard smiled. "Really. You have a talent. I don't know that this is one I'd have picked for you, but God has His plans, and we're not always privy to them. If you are interested in pursuing this, I'll see that you get whatever equipment and training you need."
"Sir," came Gunny's amplified voice over the PA system, "are you screwing around with my target computer out there?"
"Negative, Gunny," Howard called out. "It's Tyrone."
"Tell me he wants to join the junior pistol team, sir. Please."
Howard looked at Tyrone. "Well?"
"Yes. I'd like that."
Louder, Howard said, "Only if you promise not to teach him any bad habits."
"Sir, when a man can shoot like that, there's nothing I can teach him at all."
Net Force HQ Quantico, Virginia
Corinna Skye was a little softer than when Alex had seen her last. As before, her suit was well-cut and expensive, but today it was a pale, less-formal gray, her jacket unbuttoned, and she wore a red blouse beneath it. She sat on the couch facing his desk, her legs crossed, showing a few inches of stocking above her knees.
"Thank you for seeing me, Commander."
He nodded. "Before you get started, there's something you should know."
She looked at him expectantly.
"Your client, CyberNation, is suing Net Force--and me personally--for two hundred million dollars. On top of that, we've caught them doing all manner of illegal things in the past, and there is an investigation that has been ongoing since then."
She started to say something but he held up his hand. "Now I know that the organization managed to throw a few sacrificial bodies off the sled, as it were, but I don't believe that all the guilty parties have been brought to justice. In fact, I fully expect that we will catch CyberNation doing all manner of illegal things in the future, too. I think CyberNation's higher-ups all ought to be wearing eye-patches and peg legs and going 'Har, matey!' when they talk, that they are as twisted as a boxcar full of corkscrews, and if I can, I'll see them all in prison for a long, long time."
She smiled, what looked like a genuinely happy expression. "Oh, go on, Commander, don't sugarcoat like that--tell me how you really feel."
He had to laugh at that. "I'm sorry," he said. "I guess I came off pretty righteous and pompous, didn't I?"
She laughed, too. "That's all right, Commander. I appreciate honesty. I seldom get to hear it as much as I would like in my work."
He nodded. "In that case, Ms. Skye, I have to warn you that you're wasting your time lobbying me."
She smiled and shook her head. "I don't think so. Besides, there's no challenge in convincing somebody who already agrees with you."
Well, he thought. This ought to be interesting, at least.
"Let me lay out some facts, Commander."
"That's the third time you've called me that," he said. "We don't stand on titles around here. Please, call me 'Alex.' "
She smiled again. "All right, Alex. My friends call me 'Cory.' "
He nodded.
"Let's assume for a moment, hypothetically speaking, that all the bad apples in CyberNation were removed from the barrel. Or maybe even that there are a couple you missed, but that the rest of the organization is not intrinsically evil."
"That's a big assumption, and like I said, I don't agree with it."
"For the sake of argument."
He shrugged. "Okay."
"If that were the case, if all those who did anything illegal were gone, how would you feel about the organization then?"
"You mean about those fine, upstanding people who are suing me for all that money?"
She smiled. "Well, as long as we are speaking hypothetically, suppose that lawsuit did not exist. That it just went away?"
"No crooks, no legal action," he said. "In that case, I suppose I might not think much of CyberNation one way or another."
She frowned. "Are you saying that you have no opinion whatsoever regarding their basic premise?"
He leaned forward a little, clasping his hands and resting his elbows on his desk. "Not at all. I think it's a silly idea. A virtual country whose citizens live and work in the real world but do not have to pay taxes to the countries they actually live in? A phantom government that can still issue IDs, credit cards, even driver's licenses?"
"It's not a phantom government and you know it," she said. "Its leaders are elected through the same democratic process as the President of the United States."
He shrugged. "There's no White House, no Capitol Hill, no physical analog to any of the traditional seats of power. Without that, it's all just pixels on a screen."
She smiled. "Actually, with VR there are no pixels and no screen, but you know that, too, of course. Besides, I see your point. I just don't agree with it."
"What about the rest of my comments?" he asked.
She waved her hand dismissively. "You already get most of your IDs and credit cards on-line," she said. "When was the last time you mailed in a credit-card application instead of just visiting a website? This is no different. And I've heard that several states are considering doing their driver's license testing and renewals on-line as well. Sure beats standing in line, doesn't it? If we can do it, why can't CyberNation?"
State Of War (2003) Page 12
