Net Force (1998)

by Tom - Net Force 01 Clancy

  She already had the pistol lined up on his right eye. At this range, she didn't need sights. She could point-shoot a marble off a tabletop all day long without scratching the finish, just using the gun and suppressor to index the target.

  "How much money are we talking about?"

  He grinned, thinking he had her number.

  He was wrong.

  The pistol's hand-polished action was honed to a crisp three-pound pull for the single-action mode, no creep. The Selkie squeezed the trigger gently. The shot broke like an icicle under her finger. It sounded like an air rifle, a spat! nobody would hear outside this room.

  The tiny bullet hit Ray Genaloni in the white of his right eye. He went boneless and fell, his brain shorted out by the lead bouncing around inside his skull.

  "Oh, Jesus!" Brigette said. "Oh, Jesus!"

  Because she liked Brigette a little, and because she wasn't a cruel woman, the Selkie said, "Calm down. You're all right. I'm going now, take it easy--who's that at the door?"

  Brigette turned to look.

  The Selkie fired twice--spat! spat!--and double-tapped Brigette in the right temple. The blonde fell. She kicked spasmodically as damaged brain connections triggered a last frantic try to run away. It was an instinctive reaction--the mind that had been Brigette wasn't home any longer. And she had checked out thinking she was going to survive this.

  The Selkie moved fast. She bent, put two more shots into the back of Brigette's head, then two more in the back of Ray's skull. The gun worked perfectly--she had polished the feed ramp with steel wool until it gleamed like a mirror, then coated it with TW-25B, a fluorocarbon-based military-spec lubricant. She never had a failure to feed, even with the hollowpoint Stingers. She pressed the heel catch on the pistol, pulled the empty magazine out and shoved another magazine home. She put the empty magazine into her pants pocket, racked the slide on the TPH, stripped and chambered a round. Then she changed magazines again, putting a fresh six-rounder into the gun. One up the spout, magazine full. Seven shots on tap.

  She looked around. She hadn't left any prints anywhere. The empty cases from the .22 were clean--she'd loaded them fresh from the box while wearing gloves. They could make something from the extractor and firing-pin marks on the brass rimfire empties, but since she was going to dump the gun as soon as she could, that didn't matter. Even if some diver found the piece twenty years from now, there wouldn't be anything to link it to her--she'd bought it clean on the gray market. Too bad. She really liked the Walther, but you didn't keep murder weapons around once they were used. The prisons were full of shooters who got attached to favorite pieces and kept them after they'd cooked somebody with them. Stupid.

  She looked down at the bodies. They both had thought they were going to walk away when she'd dropped them, and they'd been effectively dead before they had time to realize any different. There were worse ways to go.

  Okay, now the second part.

  She moved to the back door, peeped through a gap in the blinds covering the window next to the door. A big man in a gray sweatsuit stood inside the fence, next to the gate. He was smoking a cigarette, and he had a belly pouch drooped heavily over his crotch. That was where he'd have his gun. Good. A belly pouch was a lot slower than a holster.

  She needed to get him away from the gate and closer to the backdoor, out of line of sight from the front, in case anybody was looking at him.

  She had spent the better part of the day with Brigette. She could do enough of an imitation of her voice to fool somebody who might have heard it no more than a couple of times.

  She took a deep breath. Opened the door. "Excuse me? Could you come here a second? Ray needs a hand."

  The sweatsuited bodyguard ambled toward the back door. As soon as any view of him from the front was blocked by the house, the Selkie stepped out into the yard.

  Sweatsuit frowned. The Selkie wasn't what he expected to see.

  His reaction time was pretty good, but his tactics were bad. Instead of ducking his head, bolting and trying to hop the fence, which might possibly have gotten him clear with a couple of small-caliber rounds in the back, he dug for the pistol in his pouch.

  The fastest gunslinger who ever lived couldn't move fast enough to outdraw a gun already lined up on him. The reaction time, plus the mechanical time it took to come from the holster--even from a quick-draw rig, he'd need at least a third of a second, even if he was really fast. Coming out of a belly pouch, this guy was going to need two seconds to get his piece on-line, and he didn't have two seconds.

  The Selkie squeezed off her first shot before the guy got past the frown. The second and third rounds followed so fast they sounded like one long brap! She tapped him three times in the head, then ran for the back fence before the bodyguard even hit the ground. Her van was on that block, two houses down, to the left, and there weren't any dogs in the neighbor's yard--she had checked.

  The barrier was a cedar-plank, good-neighbor fence, six feet tall. She got to it at speed, put her hands, including the pistol, on top and jumped and levered herself over it. A pretty good hop.

  The ground was soft, the neighbor's yard empty. Nice grass, recently mowed.

  She ran to the gate next to the house, opened it, closed it behind her. Unscrewed the suppressor from the Walter's threaded barrel, shoved the suppressor into her back pocket, slipped the gun into the horsehide waistband holster, pulled her shirt out and over the gun.

  Forty-five seconds later, she was at the van. Across the street, two little girls played hopscotch on a pattern chalked on the sidewalk. The Selkie smiled and waved at the girls. Got into the van, started it, backed out into the street, then pulled away. She drove without any particular haste, stopped at the stop sign, put her blinker on to make the right turn. A model driver.

  Ray Genaloni was no longer a worry.

  Now, she had to go back to Washington, to finish one more little chore. . . .

  Thursday, October 7th, 2:45 a.m. Grozny

  As he was rebuilding his system, damaged in the sudden VR bail he'd been forced to take, Plekhanov came across bad news.

  Somebody had snapped a couple of his trip wires.

  It was late, he was tired and his first reaction was panic.

  He forced himself to take several deep breaths. Easy, Vladimir. All is not lost.

  He re-ran his security scans. There were no other signs of the intruder, so he was good, whoever he was. But there was no way to avoid breaking the trip if you went down certain electronic corridors. Like very fine strands of spider silk, the trips were always placed with utmost care, put in places short of where most would begin to look for them. Even a passer-through looking for such wards would usually miss them. They'd be strung across at knee-level, nearly invisible, offering so little resistance they'd never be noticed. If you stepped over one, chances were you would then break the next one. Once broken, the threads could not be restrung.

  It could have been a coincidence, some hacker exploring, but he did not believe that, not for a moment. No, he was sure that it was a Net Force operative, using the information gathered during the chase. Had the positions been reversed, had he been tailing somebody in VR, he could have tracked somebody with what he would have gotten during that run. As much as it galled him to admit it, if he could do it, so could someone else.

  He had underestimated them once. He would not do so again.

  So. Either they knew who he was, or they were close to figuring it out. If it was still the latter, with the resources of Net Force at their disposal, it would be only a matter of time.

  And then? Ah, then was when it would get interesting. They had no hard evidence, he was certain of that. And in order to get such evidence, they would have to probe a lot deeper into his system than they could possibly have managed thus far. And if they did know who he was, they would know how impossible that was going to be. They would know his capabilities. The key to his cipher existed only inside his brain, it was not written down anywhere, and they couldn't le
gally force him to divulge it. Without the key, his coded files might as well be blocks of iron--nobody could open them, nobody.

  Plekhanov leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and considered the problem. Knowing who he was was not the same as proving what he had done. He had, of course, run scenarios in which Net Force or some other law enforcement organization had uncovered his identity before his plan came to full fruition. As unlikely as that possibility had seemed, he was too old and too experienced to have not at least considered it. In his worst case scenario, they knew who he was and they had proof of what he had done--the net rascals, the bribery, the killings, all of it.

  There was a point beyond which even that would not matter. Once his people came to power, he would be practically invulnerable. Extradition requests would not be denied outright. That would be impolite. An investigation into the charges against the valuable and honored friend of the people would, however, eventually come to the conclusion that it was not in the best interests of the country to turn him over to the Americans. Not that his people wouldn't throw him to the wolves if they thought they could get away with it. They would. Fortunately, the newly elected officials would not only owe him for their jobs, there would exist also a detailed record of how they got those jobs. To abandon him to the beasts would mean those responsible would fall off the sleigh with him. He had learned a long time ago that self-interest was more dependable than any amount of gratitude.

  This was distressing, of course. A blot on an otherwise perfect plan, but not crippling, not this far along. He would keep a careful watch on things, proceed with extra care, but keep going as before. Ruzhyo was in place. Any sudden activity from Net Force, and the Rifle could be fired to offer them more confusion. Past a certain point, nothing they did would matter, and that point was fast approaching.

  Wednesday, October 6th, 7:06 p.m. Quantico

  Michaels was still chewing on the news that Ray Genaloni was dead, along with his mistress and a bodyguard, as he wound the meeting down. Richardson had already gone. Alex had a couple of final assignments for his own people.

  "Jay, run scenarios on what Plekhanov might be after. Tie all the pieces you have together. Is there any way to figure out where he's been, who he's seen, both in VR and RW?">

  "Maybe. He'll have his files locked, but we've got an ID and we might be able to backwalk some of his movement."

  "Do so, please."

  Jay nodded. He left.

  Michaels said to Howard, "I need you to do something for me. Work up a plan that would involve a sub-rosa extraction of Plekhanov from Chechnya."

  Howard stared at him. "Sir?"

  "Assume for a second that we can't get the Russian legally extradited. What would it take for a team to go in and get him? Could it be done?"

  Howard didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir, it could be done. How sub-rosa are we talking about?"

  "We wouldn't want our troops marching down the main street in full dress uniform waving the stars 'n' stripes; on the other hand, if something went wrong, we wouldn't leave them hanging. Dog tags under civilian clothes. Some kind of contingency plan if the extraction went sour. This is your area of expertise."

  "I see. I can work this up, sir, but realistically speaking, what are the odds of getting such a go-ahead?"

  "I'd say the chances are slim and snowball, Colonel, but as far as this scenario is concerned, we're talking the NRA slogan about guns and self-defense here."

  " 'Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it'?"

  "Exactly."

  "Sir. I'll work it up ASAP." Was that a new sense of respect in his voice? Even a little warmth?

  "Thank you, Colonel."

  Michaels went back to his office. Toni walked along with him.

  "If Genaloni had Steve Day killed, he's beyond our reach now," she said.

  "Somebody saved the people the cost of a long and expensive trial, yeah. What I'm wondering is--who did it? And why?"

  Toni shrugged. "He's a mobster. They swat each other like people at an outdoor summer barbecue slap mosquitoes."

  They got to his office. Toni followed him in.

  He frowned. "This wasn't a casual, reactive swat. Somebody very professional did this, an expert. Three dead people in a quiet neighborhood and nobody saw anything. They capped Genaloni and his mistress inside the house, came out, dropped the bodyguard in the back, knowing there were four hardwared bodyguards out front. We're not just talking cool, we're talking about somebody with supercooled liquid in their veins. Anything I don't have here?" He waved at his computer screen.

  "Our forensic report is still preliminary. All we got is a boot print in the neighbor's yard. He's a little guy, whoever he is."

  Michaels raised an eyebrow.

  She called up the prelim: "See. Print looks like a man's size four or five. Depth in the ground says he weighed maybe one-fifteen, one-twenty. Cat-burglar build."

  Michaels shook his head. There was something about this rattling around in his mind. . . . "I don't like it," he said, "it's too neat."

  "Sometimes things just . . . happen, Alex, and they aren't directly connected. You can't predict them. Somebody turns up in the right place at the right time, the circumstances are ripe, things just get out of hand."

  He looked at her. What was she talking about? It sounded more like an apology than an explanation.

  She looked uncomfortable. She said, "What I'm saying is, somebody had it out for Genaloni. Maybe the timing is a coincidence."

  Something occurred to him. He tapped his keyboard, called up a file.

  "What?"

  He didn't look up. "What size did you say this killer's shoe was?"

  "Four or a five. Forensics will know better when they get the cast back to the lab and do a like-surface comparison."

  "Let me ask you a question. Women's shoes and men shoes, how do they compare size-wise?"

  "Depends on the cut and maker, but usually the woman's shoe will be a couple of numbers larger than the same size in a man's. Why do you--? Oh."

  "Yeah. According to the computer extrapolation on the woman who picked up the dog in New York--and who came back and paid for losing it a few days ago, using a series of couriers like before--that woman wears a six. And weighs between a hundred and fifteen and a hundred and twenty-five pounds."

  "You think it's the same person?"

  "Coincidence only stretches so far. Our theory assumes that the woman who tried to kill me, who we think might have killed Steve Day, works for Genaloni. We know she was in New York to pay for the lost dog, and a few days later, Genaloni is killed by an expert who is about the same size. What does that say to you?"

  "Could be the same person. But if she was working for Genaloni . . . ?"

  "Exactly. Why kill him?"

  "Maybe he didn't want to pay her for missing you," she said.

  "Maybe, but it doesn't feel right, all of this." He thought about it for a second. "What if we're wrong about who had Steve Day killed? What if it was somebody who wanted to blame it on Genaloni? So maybe he found out and this woman deleted him. Maybe she's working for somebody else."

  "That's a stretch."

  "Yeah, it is, but consider: Day's assassination was by a team, and it was planned okay, but the execution was sloppy. A bunch of guys with submachine guns spraying all over the place, and even so, Day got one of them. Doesn't seem like this woman's style. She seems more adept than that."

  "She missed you."

  "Only because the dog barked. A second later or earlier, I'd be history."

  "So what are you saying here? There are two sets of killers?"

  "I don't know. But it's a possibility. We assumed that Day's death was due to his long battle with organized crime. The way it was done, his history, that would make sense. But what if we're wrong? What if somebody else did it? What if it wasn't connected to OC at all?"

  "Okay, let's assume for a second you're right. Who? And why? Why would anybody want to take you out?"


  "What do Day and I have in common?"

  "Net Force. You took over as Commander when he died."

  "Exactly. What if the attacks weren't on us personally, but on the heads of Net Force?"

  "From two different sets of killers?"

  "Yes."

  They both thought about that for a moment without saying anything else.

  There was a quick knock. They looked up to see Jay Gridley standing there.

  "What's up, Jay?"

  "Put in for my raise, Boss. We got her. The assassin. A positive ID."

  Thursday, October 7th, 8:48 a.m. Quantico