by Janet Dailey
The extensive offices were an ideal stalking ground. He kept in practice. Taking them home was problematic. But he liked to think that what he needed was boxed to go in tidy cubicles. They perched on swivel chairs, stared into screens. All he had to do was stop and wait for them to look up.
They made him wait, but he enjoyed that part of the game. He liked to see how they sat. Primly, with ankles crossed tight. Hiding it. Or casually, a high heel propped on the chair support with one leg bent and the other stretched under the desk. More open.
Sometimes they were silent, attending to busywork in a tapping frenzy of fingernails. Sometimes they talked incessantly on the phone. Eventually they all decided to notice him.
He knew when they did that they were sizing him up, ranking him instantly on a female scale. One. Marriage material. Two. Single but spoken for. Three. Good only for weekend laughs and a few drinks.
Four. None of the above.
Be a gentleman—he’d been taught that, very strictly. He believed in it. But when the need grew too strong, he went elsewhere. He didn’t have to be gentle where he wasn’t known.
They couldn’t seem to figure him out. But the reverse wasn’t true. He could read their lives in their eyes. When, in due time, he sparked fear there, he was happy. Their fear made him stronger.
They were always impressed by his penthouse.
It was a duplex with an extensive terrace. From there, even with the new buildings, he could still see the river, suddenly flat and slow, a dull silver ribbon pouring into the vast bay to the south.
To the east were the white buildings and the dome that defined the nation’s capital. At twilight they glowed faintly purple—the inevitable backdrop for evening news shows, a stock image for a thousand thrillers.
His mind supplied the overlay of crosshairs in a circle.
He would never go that crazy. The city fed him.
The carillon in the memorial park near the river rang out, a melancholy reminder of battlefield casualties.
The sound was annoying. War had made him millions, more money than he would ever need. The world might be running out of oil, but it was never going to run out of wars to fight for it. Wars required equipment and expertise like his.
Before he’d returned to the States to take advantage of his connections, he’d run a black op for another government.
Efficiently.
The prisoners were invariably male. They got put in boxes until they were ready to talk. They seldom did, though he got paid either way. Their silence got them carried out in smaller boxes. Other prisoners soon replaced them.
It was routine and lucrative, for such boring work.
Until the woman with dark hair was brought to the prison.
She gave up fast. But he’d had fun while she’d lived. Invented some new moves that he’d used again on those two from the motel a year ago. They made too much noise and that was that. Couldn’t have the cops show up when the neighbors complained about noise.
Below him a siren screamed. Red lights revolved on the top of an emergency vehicle speeding through the streets.
Nothing to do with him. He went back inside and thought about Kenzie.
CHAPTER 12
Linc returned to the shooting range in the sleek car, but wearing his usual jeans and an ordinary shirt. The gate was open and the parking lot was full. Kenzie came out of the shop, carrying a large gun case and a squarish bag made of heavy-duty nylon. She had two pairs of goggles pushed back on her head and wore padded ear protectors on each wrist.
“Steal that car,” she said. “I won’t tell.”
He grinned wickedly. “I don’t have to give it back until tomorrow.”
“Just so long as I get one more ride.” She opened the car door on her side.
“My pleasure. What’s in the bag?”
“Ammo. Compliments of Norm.”
He looked in and saw several opened boxes of different ammunition and a few loose bullets. Interesting selection that boded well for the loaner guns. Norm hadn’t just thrown in cheap stuff to get rid of it.
With a happy sigh she swung down into the passenger seat, putting all the gear at her feet.
They drove slowly through the parking lot, heading for the other side where the smaller range was. Kenzie glanced toward the main range. It was full up, with a shooter in every slot, men and a few women. Someone had rolled an awning over the long space where the shooters stood at different stages of readiness, taking aim.
Linc braked to a stop.
Gunshots burst out all at once. Then there was silence. He couldn’t hear the ticking timer, but he knew there was one. “Must be cops.”
“No uniforms. How can you tell?” Kenzie asked.
They were reloading. A solo shot rang out, then there were a few more. “Us Bannon boys went to firing ranges with our dad when he thought we were old enough. Cops practice like that.”
“Like what?”
“They go for x shots in x seconds. Wait for it—”
There was another barrage. Kenzie covered her ears.
Concentrating on the targets, the shooters didn’t see them go by. Linc raised a hand to Norm, who was visible behind the glass of the shop. “I owe him for this.”
“He said you don’t.”
Linc waved away her reply. “This is on the agency nickel, don’t forget. And we’re using the expensive targets.”
“Norm didn’t say what they cost.”
“The target dummies with layers of Kevlar backing aren’t cheap. I want to dig out bullets that go through the vests if I can.”
“Keeping souvenirs?”
“No. Any vest that can’t absorb or deflect a hit goes straight to the ballistics experts at Langley, plus the spent bullets, chunks of the target, and unused vests for comparison.”
“You have this all planned out,” Kenzie remarked.
“Not exactly,” Linc said. “There’s a limit to what I can do—this isn’t my area of expertise. But a brand-new vest shot full of holes is a very effective visual. Beats the hell out of a memo or a scientific report.”
“And I thought you loved science,” she teased.
“I do. But I know what gets on blogs and on the news.”
“You can’t go public, Linc. Not until we—well, you know what I mean.” Her tone held a note of alarm.
She meant catching the stalker. He hoped that was going to happen. “I’m not going to,” he assured her. “I only got my first look at the SKC operation yesterday.”
“After today”—she hesitated—“it’s going to take a while to get everything analyzed anyway.”
“That’s right.”
Kenzie turned around to look at the boxes jostling in the backseat.
“How many vests did you bring?”
“Twenty.” He looked over his shoulder. “They’re a hybrid type. Armor plates, backed with a material that SKC recently developed. It’s like Kevlar but lighter.”
She was familiar with armored vests, but had never had to wear one, as she’d told Randy. Kenzie’s posting to the army garrison in Darmstadt, Germany, meant she’d never heard enemy fire either. It was a peaceful place.
Kenzie counted five. “So the others are in the trunk.”
“Yeah. I’ll show you the removable armor plates, also new and improved. Lee Slattery had his chief of engineering give me the whole spiel and a binder crammed with fact sheets.” He held his thumb and index finger inches apart. “This thick. Haven’t read it yet.”
She directed him to a range in the near distance. The targets were positioned in front of a high berm of bulldozed earth. “Over there.”
His gaze moved over the berm and up to the high chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
“Good setup,” he said.
“I think this was the original range,” Kenzie told him. “Norm took out a loan to build the big one.”
“Like I said, I’m paying him. Where was I?”
“Telling me all about bulletproof vests,
” she said.
“So,” he went on, “I left with a hundred of each. Told Lee I was going to put them on my jet and fly out tomorrow. He slapped me on the back, like we all belonged to the same club.”
“I’m surprised it was that easy.”
“Money talks. They make millions on military contracts, but they don’t only sell to the military,” Linc said.
Kenzie heard a box slide forward and turned around again to push it back.
“It’s not illegal to sell gear like this to private buyers?” she asked.
“No, not in this state. Not in most, in fact. But you do have to have an export license from the U.S. State Department for higher-level armor plates.”
“That can’t be hard for you to get.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Probably not. Lee told me that it takes three weeks to two months. He seemed to think it was a giant waste of time.”
She acknowledged that with a nod, then looked back again. There were three vests she hadn’t noticed, not in boxes, but folded and stuffed into the rear footwells. “And those?”
“Not SKC. For comparison. The blue one is police issue—it’s Kevlar, no plates. A present from Mike. The other two are military grade. Gray camo is the Improved Outer Tactical, for just about everyone. And the brown one with a groin flap is a Modular Tactical—that’s Marine Corps.”
“I’m not going to ask where you got those.”
He smiled slightly.
“I had to wedge them in for the drive home,” he said. “The trunk was jammed. The backseat and floor and where you’re sitting right now were filled to the roof.”
He glanced up at it, running his right hand over the smooth interior surface. “Hope I didn’t scratch it anywhere.”
“Don’t act like you own it,” Kenzie teased him. “Where are the other sixty?”
“Mike Warren let me use a police storage area out near the impound lot, and he helped me unload.”
“I’m still surprised the SKC people just let you drive off with the goods, no questions asked.”
He pulled into a slot. The others were all empty.
“The warehouse supervisor didn’t blink an eye when I said I’d take them to go. I got the feeling they’re not too strict about who buys their stuff.”
“Figures.”
“I don’t care. Just so long as Lee Slattery buys my story,” he said with a wink. “He seemed to.”
They had the alternate range to themselves. She’d arranged it with Norm in advance. The bigger range was far more popular. There was the opportunity to talk shop and socialize, and get out of the sun under the awning. And it had a soda machine.
There were no luxuries like that on this side. The shooters’ structure looked a little rickety by comparison. Scrubby, low-growing plants had escaped the berm and popped up here and there, giving the area a weedy look. But the smaller range did get used. Brass casings gleamed in the gravel as she swung open her door and stepped out.
“So show me what you got,” she said.
Linc popped the trunk before he got out and she went to look. The carpeted cavity was filled with similar boxes, but larger, stamped with the SKC logo next to the X-Ultra brand. The label said Bullet-Resistant Vests—they weren’t bulletproof, she knew that. Nothing was.
He came around, opened up the top box with a swift stroke of a car key, and took one out.
It was made of standard camo material in desert tones, with laddered webbing straps across the body of the vest to hold equipment.
“Here you go.” He handed it to her.
Kenzie laid it on top of an unopened box to unlatch the quick-release fasteners on the side. She flipped the vest inside out, looking at the flat pouches.
“You know what those are for.”
“Yes. Small Arms Protective Inserts,” she replied.
“I love it when you talk military.”
He looked in the box and took out an armor plate to show her, tapping on it. “This is SKC’s version. Ultra-thin and very hard.”
“The design isn’t that different.” She took it from him and slipped it into one of the interior pouches, which were sewn into a grid, front and back. “Seems to cover the major organs.” Kenzie poked at the interior seams. “It still has gaps, though.”
“That’s where the new fiber comes in, as backup, in case bullets or frags get through.”
“No difference there, either. The IOT is made the same way.”
“Not with the same materials. That plate is supposed to withstand rifle fire, super-high-velocity bullets, shrapnel, you name it.”
“Supposed to.” Doubt drew down her mouth.
“I’m just telling you what Lee and his guys told me. He went on and on about their extensive field testing. He told me X-Ultra was so advanced the army was begging him to manufacture more.”
She set the vest down and found more armor plates in the open box. “The army runs its own tests.”
“Maybe those results are in the binder.” Linc’s comment had a sarcastic edge.
“And maybe Lee Slattery is full of it.”
Linc laughed. “We’ll find out.”
She moved the vest with the installed plates to one side. “Where do you want this?”
“Let’s fill a few more X-Ultras and then take them all out to the targets.” He moved to the car’s back door and took out the police vest and the two official army-issue vests.
She held up the vest. “This isn’t light.”
“No? It’s supposed to be.”
“You keep saying that.”
Linc frowned. “Sorry.” He reached out for it and she slipped the wide shoulder straps over his wrists.
“See what I mean?”
“Yeah. Feels like twenty-five pounds at least. Not an improvement.”
“Add in the equipment they have to carry around and you’re talking fifty or sixty pounds,” Kenzie pointed out.
He handed it back to her. “You’re right about that.”
“Make a note,” she teased.
He made a check gesture.
“I wish we could weigh them,” he added. “The testing we’re doing is kind of crude.”
“Tsk tsk. Did you forget your graph paper and slide rule? I bet you took first prize in every damn science fair.”
“I’m proud to say I have an unbroken record of coming in second every year,” he informed her. “Except for the first time. My baby brother sabotaged my baking-soda volcano and I only got an honorable mention. And for your information, slide rules went out with eight-track tapes.”
“I stand corrected. So how come you never became a cop?”
“Just not my thing. I was interested in tech stuff. My big brother RJ, now, he lived and breathed it. Becoming a cop was all he ever wanted.”
“Before the Montgomery kidnapping—didn’t he get shot by a drug dealer?”
“You read the papers, huh? Not just the headlines. The articles.”
“All the way through. After all, I loaned him a really good dog.”
“Thanks again for that.” He took folded sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on. “Feel like putting about five of these together? The light ones are good to go right out of the box. I want to check the targets.”
“Sure.”
He’d seen the demonstration at SKC. It wasn’t difficult to slide the rigid panels in—the vests were meant to be put together quickly. And he wanted her to look at them closely. Kenzie might spot defects he’d missed.
Linc walked out to the row of targets. There were ten. Not a type he’d seen before, tube-shaped with featureless heads. They were made of a composite material that he could barely get the point of his key into. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but it looked like it might stop a slug. But considering how higher-caliber bullets cut through flesh and bone and vital organs, maybe not. The Kevlar backing would tell the true story.
He counted his paces as he walked back. The shooters’ structure was actually a little to
o close. They needed to fire from a specific distance.
“Let’s get set up farther back,” he called.
“Okay. I have the vests ready.” She was waving something at him. “These don’t fit anywhere.”
He reached her. “Those are helmet pads.” He took the one she was holding and looked at it to be sure. “SKC is covering all the bases.”
“They make helmets too?”
“I don’t think so. But word is that some soldiers are sticking rolled-up socks in their helmets because the standard issue pads are hell on their heads. I guess these are like free samples.”
“Socks? Remind me to bring extra if I ever get sent out.”
“I hope not.”
“Don’t worry, Linc. I don’t plan to re-up.”
They went back out to the targets together to dress the targets in the vests, mixing up the army and police issue with the X-Ultras. Linc slung helmet pads over a couple of the featureless faces for something to aim at.
They walked back and she slipped her hand into his. He was surprised and pleased. Not about to say so, just in case she had second thoughts.
When they’d reached the car, she let go to take the guns and gear out of the footwell on her side.
Out of habit, he looked at what was behind them. The chain-link was just as high on the side opposite the targets, but there was a fair amount of overgrowth sticking through the diamonds. There were tall milkweeds, sumac, saplings, weeds. More than enough to hide a man.
The cooler weather had taken its toll, and some of the vegetation was turning brown and keeling over. Besides, the plants filled the shoulder of the busy road just behind the fence. He could see and hear the cars and trucks whizzing by. It wasn’t a safe place to stand, if anyone wanted to watch, and whoever tried would be seen from the road.
Not just the road. Linc spotted a slow side-to-side movement at the highest corner of the fence. A cam—a small one, but where it should be. Norm had every inch of his operation under active surveillance. The older man had seen combat, according to Kenzie. He didn’t fool around when it came to safety, period. And she had told Norm what was going on.
He or someone in the shop was keeping an eye out for trouble on an inside monitor. Linc told himself not to worry. And he didn’t want to worry Kenzie.
