"Bye, bye, Mama," he said. He glanced up, then back down at his toy construction. "Ook, I-rone, ook!" He waved at the toys excitedly. He still had trouble with his "l"s, "g"s, and "t"s sometimes. He called her mother "Am-maw," which everybody thought was incredibly cute.
It bugged her, just a little, that he seemed so blase about her leaving. Not that she really wanted him to cry and be upset . . . Well, okay, maybe she did a little.
So much for being indispensable.
She fretted in the car, but she knew in the long run it was for the best. The boy needed to get used to being with other people. He was shy around strangers, although it had taken all of forty seconds for him to warm up to Tyrone, a factor much in Tyrone's favor. She didn't want him to turn into a little recluse who never went out into the daylight.
Halfway to the office, she shifted into work mode. She'd been disappointed that the man who had hired the virus-spewing hacker hadn't shown up for the arranged meeting. Could be it was just a coincidence, but he hadn't called back, and Toni's thought was that the man had somehow spotted the trap. Which, when she thought about it, probably wasn't that hard to do. When they wanted to, the regular FBI could become invisible--they knew sub rosa surveillance techniques as well as anybody. But they probably wouldn't have been in full-stealth mode for this kind of arrest. A businessman, in a mall office, in Long Island? How worried about him seeing them would they be? Not to mention what the local cops might have done.
The background check on the office renter had come up negative. The references had been fake, the rent paid via no-trace electronic transfers. The guy had been hiding something, all right, and smart enough not to leave an obvious trail.
Well. She would get Jay to poke around it some more. Maybe he could find a lead. Not that it was a major attack on the Republic or anything, but it was her case now, and she wanted to clear it successfully.
She had gotten a call from Guru earlier in the morning. Her great-grandson, who had apparently taken a turn for the worse just before she had arrived, was apparently doing better. Another few days and he would be out of the hospital. Guru would come home, then, which was good because Toni missed the old woman. Both Alex and the baby did, too, though Big Alex would never admit it.
The sun was broiling the city, and it was going to be another hot day, but all in all, Toni couldn't complain. She had a wonderful husband, a gorgeous and bright little boy, and a job that allowed her to stretch now and then. Her silat teacher, who had been a part of Toni's life since she was thirteen, would be coming back to occupy the spare bedroom in a few days, to be nanny and live-in great-granny to her child. Everybody was healthy. Life could be a lot worse.
She had a lot to be thankful for. A whole lot.
31
Ames Medical Clinic
New York City, New York
Ames sat in his inner office at the clinic, brooding.
Something was wrong. Junior had not called, and Ames's attempts to contact him had failed. Junior had never kept Ames out of the loop before.
And then there was that little incident at the clean office, with the cops staking it out. Could there be a connection?
Probably not, he decided. Most likely it was just what he'd thought: The hacker had gotten busted and tried to bargain his way out of trouble. It might not have even been him on the phone the day before the meeting. With that vox-changer Thumper used, it could have been anybody. It could have been some cop. The only thing Thumper had to give to them was the location of that office, nothing else, so that's what he would have given them.
He couldn't see how Junior could be connected to that. He certainly didn't think Junior had been arrested. Junior was smarter than the hacker, at least when it came to street work. If he had been picked up, he'd sit tight, get word to Ames he'd been arrested, and wait for Ames to send a lawyer and money to bail him out.
There were all kinds of ways Ames could do that without leaving a trail, and Junior would know that he would do whatever he could to get Junior freed. Having Junior in police custody was not advantageous to Ames. Dead, yes. In jail, no. Once he was out, he could always jump bail, take off, and not look back, if he thought it was going to go badly for him later. And no doubt he'd expect a nice piece of change from Ames to run with, if he needed it.
So, Junior wasn't in jail. Where was he, then, and why hadn't he checked in?
He sighed. It could be a lot of other things, some innocent, some not so innocent. Junior could have gotten into an auto accident, been hit by a drunk driver out in Small Town, Mississippi, or somewhere, and be on life support in the local hospital, full of IVs and catheters, EEG flatlined, in an irreversible coma. Simple as that.
Or the accident, if there was one, could have been worse, and maybe he was wearing a toe tag in the county morgue and they were trying to run down relatives using his phony ID. Or waiting for the fingerprints to come back from the police, which would put a whole different spin on who the victim had been.
It was also possible that Junior could have changed his mind and decided that his little woman was worth the risk that she might turn him in. He might have decided to run off to Mexico with her rather than kill her. Right now, the two of them could be on the beach in some snazzy resort, drinking tequila, licking salt off each other's hands, and cooking up ways to make Ames pay for it from now on.
He didn't really think Junior was that sentimental, but people had made stranger choices.
Or maybe Junior had decided to go ahead with his plan, but had screwed up and been killed by the woman instead. Unlikely, maybe, but possible.
Or he could have run a red light, gotten pulled over by the cops, found to be a felon in possession of a firearm, and now be lying on a dank mattress in a small town lockup somewhere where they decided he didn't rate a phone call--or the phone wasn't working.
Ames could easily conjure up a dozen more scenarios, most of them bad for him. Without any hard information, he could speculate for the rest of the day and it would all be meaningless.
The facts were, Junior had told Ames he was going to get rid of the woman, and he hadn't called to say it was accomplished. He had supposedly gone off to do it, and enough time had passed that the job should have been finished.
Whatever the deal was, Junior had not called. That was what Ames knew.
He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and ran through it again. He could see other possibilities, but the essence was unchanged.
So, what did it mean? More importantly, what could he do about it?
For that matter, did he really have to do anything about it at all? Yes, having Junior out of touch was inconvenient. There were still a few jobs he needed done. But having Junior in custody, or on the run, didn't hold any real danger for himself.
After all, Junior was the shooter. He was the guy who had killed a United States congressman, and certainly not on Ames's orders. If Junior was ever tied to that killing, there was no way he would be able to bargain his way out of it. He might be able to deal himself a life sentence instead of the death penalty if he gave up Ames. Without proof, however, it would be his word against that of a well-respected attorney. And there was no proof, nothing concrete to tie Junior to Ames.
Absolutely nothing.
And if Junior could be believed, there was nothing to connect him to that murder, either. Unless he was involved in some other bad business Ames didn't know about, the biggest risk to Junior was that woman, and Junior was supposedly in the process of getting rid of her.
The only other risk that Ames could see was if any of the politicians Junior and that woman had up came forward, which wasn't that likely. The one who had been ready to talk was dead, and Ames had to figure he was a rare beast to risk it. Politicians who are screwing around are not the bravest of men.
So he didn't believe Junior was in trouble with the law. And even if he was, Ames wasn't too worried about it. But he was worried about the silence.
Junior should have reported in by
now, even if he'd failed his assignment. If he wasn't in jail, it must be one of the other myriad possibilities. But, which one?
And how could he find out?
Atlanta, Georgia
The motorcycle that finally caught up to Junior didn't belong to one of the Gray Ghostriders. No, this one had flashing lights and a siren on it, and a city cop in the saddle, waving for Junior to pull the rental car over.
Wasn't that just great?
Junior found a residential side street off the main road and turned, pulled the car to a stop three houses in, and put his emergency flashers on. He had a vague idea of where he was, but Atlanta was not his town. Somewhere fairly upscale.
The cop stopped his bike thirty feet behind him. He waited a minute or two, probably running the car's plates, then got off and strolled up to the car.
Junior already had the window down, and the cool air inside was quickly sucked out into the hot, damp night.
"Evenin'," the cop said in that honey-voiced Georgia drawl. "Can I see your license and registration, please?"
Junior had his latest fake license, this one from Alabama, already in hand, along with the rental car's contract, and he offered them to the cop. "What's the problem, officer? What'd I do?" He could be polite, too.
"You changed lanes back there without signaling."
Junior blinked. Was this guy serious?
"I'm sorry about that, officer," he said. "I thought I hit the blinker. I must have not pushed it down hard enough." That's what a citizen would do, try to talk his way out of it. Not that Junior cared about the ticket. He wasn't going to be around when the ticket came due. But he didn't want to make the cop suspicious by acting out of character.
The cop nodded absently, looking at the Alabama license.
"Wait right there," the cop said. He walked back to his bike to do a radio and computer check.
The license wouldn't come back on him, because he hadn't done anything with it in Georgia, and the rental agreement at the car company matched the license, if they had any way of checking it. There was no way they would be hooked into a net that would let them access the Alabama Department of Transportation or whatever that fast, and even if they could, the fake was supposed to be good enough to come up no-want, no-warrant, and a legit name and number.
He'd take the ticket, smile, and be on about his business.
The cop came back in a minute, and sure enough, he had a ticket book his hand, Junior's fake license clipped to it.
But when the cop got there, he said, "You're not carrying anything illegal in that car, are you, sir? No guns or explosives?"
"Me? No. Why would you say that?"
The cop said, "Can't be too careful these days. You, uh, of Middle Eastern descent, Mr., uh, Green?"
Junior was insulted. "Do I look Arabic to you?"
"Well, sir, yes, you do a little."
Junior almost blurted out that he was a Cajun, but that wouldn't have been smart, since he was supposed to be a redneck named "Green" from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
"Well, I'm not. I'm as American as you, pal."
"I wasn't trying to insult you, sir."
"Yeah, well, you did. Just write the goddamned ticket and let me get on about my business, would you?"
That was a mistake. He knew it the second it left his mouth. It rubbed the cop the wrong way. Never tell a cop what to do, especially if you have the slightest whiff of ex-con on you.
"Step out of the car, sir."
"What?"
"I said, 'Step out of the car.' "
That was bad. Junior was wearing the fishing vest over his T-shirt. If the guy patted him down, and he was definitely going to do that, he'd find Junior's guns. Even though they'd be clean--a new barrel in the left one and a whole new one on the right since he'd shot anybody--well, except if he hit anybody at the bar. But even so, it would be an automatic trip to jail, and once they got his prints and started poking around, they'd realize pretty quick that Junior was not named "Green," and who he really was. Felon, firearms, fake ID. That would be bad all the way around.
"Okay, okay, don't get riled, I'm sorry. I'm getting out right now."
The cop had his hand on his pistol, but it was still holstered, so Junior kept his hands raised and away from his body as he carefully and slowly stepped out onto the warm macadam.
The cop got a better look at him and nodded. "Assume the position," he said. "You look like a man who knows it."
"You got me wrong, officer. By the way, how's your sister?"
The cop had time to frown, and when he saw Junior move, he pulled his piece, but Junior had the beat and he was faster. The guy was five feet away, he couldn't miss.
Twice in the face--pap! pap!--and the cop went down. Lights went on inside the houses closest to them, and people started opening window shades and doors. It was a pretty good neighborhood, they probably didn't hear a lot of shooting around here. Some of them had probably noticed the bike's flashing lights when it had first pulled in.
Go, Junior, now!
He jumped back into the car and floored it.
As he drove away, he kept shaking his head. How much worse could things get?
32
Washington, D.C.
Jay was bugged. He'd spent several hours ripping apart his code for that superhero scenario he'd written, the one that he'd used to locate the inflow of CyberNation money into the country, and he just couldn't find anything wrong with it. Which was what he'd expected, of course, except that he still couldn't explain that weird patch of fog he'd run into, and Jay didn't like things he couldn't explain--especially not in code he'd written himself.
The problem was, he was almost out of options. The only other thing he could think of to try, now that his software had checked out, was replacing some of his hardware. He kept duplicates of most items on hand--he couldn't very well tell Alex Michaels that some bad guy had gotten away because his DVD drive had broken down. He also tried to keep up with upgrades in the industry, both because it was his job and because it was his passion, and usually ordered new models as soon as he heard about them. With some companies, ones he'd worked with for years and had a lot of confidence in, he had standing orders to ship at least one unit of everything they made.
And there were a few companies he helped out by serving as a beta tester, getting a chance to try out some items before they were even ready to hit the general market.
It always helped to stay ahead of the game, especially in this business.
He'd gotten a new reeker in the other day, an Intellisense 5400 olfactory presence generator, guaranteed accurate to within 500 PPM, and he wanted to try it out. This seemed as good a time--and as good a reason--as any.
He opened the box. The new reeker was a little slimmer than the one he had, a brushed-aluminum finish with tiny air intakes and little nozzles where the chem was mixed to make smells.
He smiled as he looked at it, all shiny and modern and new. His best guess was that almost all this hardware would be gone within five years, replaced by direct stimulation of the brain through induction. In the meantime, however, you used what was available.
Jay moved back to his computer, removed the old one from his VR rig, and plugged the new one in. Pulling on his gear, he toggled his hardware-room scenario.
Instantly, he was in a huge space, dimly illuminated by hundreds of readouts--old analog dials, LED projections, backlit LCDs, and various screens. Over in the corner, under a large blue-neon nose-shaped icon, a red light was flashing. A computerized voice sounded an alert.
"Warning. New hardware detected. Initializing virus hardware check. Warning. New hardware detected--"
Jay snapped his finger and the voice went silent. A few seconds later, the drivers for the new reeker loaded, and he was ready to calibrate.
A green light shone near the nose.
"Let's try some . . . candy," Jay called out.
A moment later he was in a old-fashioned candy store, filled with hundreds of huge glass
jars of every kind of sweet, tooth-rotting treat imaginable. He went to a container of fat red-and-white-striped peppermints and lifted the lid. The distinct smell of mint blossomed as he inhaled. Ah. Nice.
He took a deeper breath and was pleased to note an increase in the odor's intensity.
Must have an airflow rate sensor.
He tried several other pleasant-smelling jars, noting each time that the scent was as close to the real thing as he could recall.
After five minutes or so he decided it was time to try some other olfactories.
"Outdoors, swamp," he said.
He stood in a swamp, looking out at cypress trees thick with Spanish moss. The trees weren't as well rendered as they could have been--he would have done better if he'd written the calibration proj--but he was here for the smells, not the visuals.
The air had just the right combination of suffocating murkiness he remembered from his one trip to a real swamp. Jay was pretty much a VR guy, not much RW, but a VR programmers' convention he'd attended in New Orleans back in the early days of VR had included a tour of the surrounding bayous as part of the "get it right, make it real," theme of VR work. He'd been bitten probably ten or twenty times by mosquitoes while he'd sniffed, touched, and looked around the swamp, and had contemplated briefly going into another less nature-based life of coding.
But no. VR was the way--using human senses to interpret digital data. It worked with what nature had given man and extended it. Jay had always wanted to be at the cutting edge of things, and VR was it. So he'd put on anti-itch cream and gone back to the convention, and every time since he'd taken whatever tour was available for wherever that year's meeting was.
He inhaled slightly and got a hint of woodsmoke. A thin breeze wafted against his face, and the smell intensified.
Nice. Good resolution on this hardware.
"Clear scenario, reload Pulp Hero."
The scene flickered for a second, and suddenly he was at the New Jersey docks again, dressed as he had been when he'd traced CyberNation's payment to the clerk when it had entered the U.S.
State Of War (2003) Page 25
