by Tom Clancy
“It’s not here,” he said. “The copy.”
“All right. Where is it?”
Morrison told him. When he was done, Ventura smiled. “That’s pretty clever.”
“Maybe the Pakistanis, they hate the Chinese. They’d find a use for it.”
“This is all moot. I can guarantee you, the Chinese will not be walking out of this theater with you as their hostage. At the first sign of trouble they will all become past tense. This is what I do, Patrick.”
The use of his first name rattled him even more. Morrison
took a ragged breath, let it out, then took a larger one and held it for a moment. Deep breaths. Calm down. “All right.”
The movie wasn’t scheduled to start for another thirty minutes—but it was definitely show time.
32
Wednesday, June 15th
Quantico, Virginia
Toni had planned to sit down and tell Alex what she felt, to apologize for losing her temper, and to try to get him to see her side of things.
It seemed like it would work out, because the first thing he said was “Listen, I’m sorry about losing my temper.”
That was a great start. She said, “Me, too.”
But that was as far as it got. Alex’s secretary opened the conference room’s door and said, “Commander, we just got a distress call from Jay Gridley’s virgil.”
“What?”
“District police are on the way. Here is the location.”
Alex came to his feet.
Toni said, “I saw Jay earlier, he was here—”
“He went into town,” Alex said. He headed for the door in a hurry. To his secretary, he said, “Get the helicopter warmed up and get the GPS location to the pilot. I want to be in the air in three minutes.”
“Alex?”
“This place is falling apart,” he said. “Nothing is going right!” He looked at her. “You coming?”
She nodded.
Washington, D.C.
“Hit him again,” Fiscus said.
Rudy nodded. He threw a short uppercut that slammed into Jay’s belly like a steel brick.
Jay doubled over, the pain overwhelming. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see for the tears clouding his vision, couldn’t believe how much it hurt! He would have fallen if Vic hadn’t been standing behind him, holding him up, his huge paws meaty clamps on Jay’s upper arms.
Nothing in VR had ever come close to this, nothing.
“Catch your breath, Mr. Net Force Agent, and think about it a second.”
Jay managed to breathe again after a few seconds. He felt like puking, the urge was almost impossible to resist.
“You feel better? Good. Now tell me—why are you looking for K.S.?”
How long had he been here? It felt like years, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes. He’d tried to stall them, but Fiscus wasn’t buying it, and after the second punch, Jay didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. One more, maybe.
“Fuck you.”
“You’re not my type, but maybe Rudy will take you up on that later, hey? Boys, girls, sheep, cows—doesn’t matter to him. One more, Rudy.”
Jay went out with the third punch, at least partially. The intense flash of pain went from red to gray, and time seemed to ooze lazily, like tar on a hot summer street.
“—got all day,” Fiscus was saying. “And Rudy ain’t even broke a sweat. I seen him work the heavy bag for ten, fifteen minutes, four, five hundred punches. You ain’t a bag full of batting, son. How long you figure you’ll last?”
Jay’s blurry vision was enough to let him see that gap-toothed smile, and he knew that Fiscus and his two apes could and might beat him to death. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”
“Sheeit,” Rudy said.
“See, I told you he was just getting warmed up. Don’t worry, Rudy, you can throw a couple more if Mr. Net Force Agent gets too sluggish. Okay, let me hear it.”
Jay took a raspy breath. The guy didn’t know, so it didn’t matter what he said. Jay could create scenario, and writing the description and background and dialog was part of that. He could spin it, and how would this guy know different?
“Okay. We came across a computer break-in, in New York. A stock trading company, and—”
“Rudy.”
The punch took Jay under the armpit on the right side, a left, hooking move, and he felt, and thought he heard, one of his ribs crack under the impact.
“Uuuhhh! Ow, ow, what did you do that for?! I’m telling you!”
“Nah, you ain’t. You’re lying. I might look stupid, but I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, kid. Every lie buys you another slam. Try again. ”
Jay felt a great wave of despair wash over him. He was going to die. He knew it. No matter what he told them, in the end, they were going to kill him.
Washington, D.C.
“That’s it, that surplus store,” the cop said.
In the big tactical van, Michaels nodded. According to the protocols for Net Force distress calls established with the police, the local cops had arrived Code 2—fast, but without sirens. They set up a perimeter and the local version of SWAT or SERT or whatever was ready to go in, but Michaels had gotten there before they hit the building, and he wanted to go along.
The police lieutenant in charge of the scene looked at Michaels’s taser and shook his head. “Not a good idea, Commander. We know who this guy is that runs the store. We’re pretty sure he’s got enough illegal hardware in there to equip a third-world army, and he’s usually not alone. Your little zapper won’t cut it.”
“I’ll stay behind the team. That’s my man in there.”
“I’m going, too,” Toni said. She held her own taser.
“What is this, a goddamn parade? Where’s the marching band and the baton twirlers?”
“I can make some calls, Lieutenant, and get the heavy hitters into it if I have to. My boss can call yours. You want me to do that?”
“Shit. No. Put masks and vests on and stay in the back and the hell out of the way, you understand? If you get killed, don’t bitch about it to me.”
“All right.”
He looked at Toni. This was not the time to tell her to stay behind, he could see that, but it was the first thing he wanted to say. Maybe she was right. Maybe she couldn’t work for him. Maybe he was too protective. He did not want her in there.
“Heads up, people,” the lieutenant said into his com. “We’re going in thirty seconds. And we got two feebs riding the caboose. Don’t nobody shoot them by accident.”
The lieutenant pulled a pair of spidersilk vests with ceramic interlock armor and the initials D.C.P.D. stenciled in reflective yellow on the backs. “Put these on. They’ll stop handgun rounds and a lot of rifle bullets. Grab a gas mask and helmet. We’re going in with flash-bangs and puke gas.”
Michaels nodded.
“Fifteen seconds,” the lieutenant said into the com. “Go get into position. Behind Sergeant Thomas over there. And stay behind him.”
Michaels glanced at Toni, and they jumped from the back of the mobile command post and ran.
Woodland Hills, California
Morrison and Ventura were in their seats in the theater when an “usher” walked Wu down the aisle. The section they were in had been roped off, so that they sat in the middle of a block of four rows alone; the other seats in the block were all empty. There were maybe forty people already in their seats, with a few others trickling in.
Wu carried a fold-out laptop computer slung over one shoulder—and a big tub of popcorn.
Ventura smiled at that. Had to give the man credit for style.
Ventura and Morrison both stood, and Wu moved to join them. He slipped under the velvet rope to sit between Ventura and Morrison. While he was talking and concentrating on the scientist, Ventura would be behind him.
Wu held up the tub of popcorn. “Want some? I think it’s got real butter on it. It should be real, it co
st four bucks.”
Ventura was tempted to dig around and see if there was a pistol hidden there—he’d have a small one under the popcorn—but both he and Morrison declined the offer.
Ahead of them, the huge screen was still dark. There wouldn’t be any coming attractions or ads run today.
“What time does the movie start?”
“We have a few minutes,” Ventura said.
“Good, good, we can get this business taken care of and enjoy the picture. Same people did this who did Quin-ton’s Revenge, and it’s gotten good reviews.”
He sounded relaxed enough, and that was a good sign. He’d brought in ten people, who were scattered around the theater with their own tubs of popcorn or boxes of candy, so he ought to feel as if he was in control of the situation, or at least be on a par with Ventura. He either couldn’t sense the sights lined up on his skull from the projection booth, or he really was a chilly character not afraid to die.
“Now you know we Chinese like to dawdle and make polite small talk before we discuss business, but this is America and I like to fit in, so what say we get down to it?” He slipped the computer off his shoulder and unrolled the flexible pop-up LCD screen, locked it into place, and then unfolded the keyboard. The computer came on with a small chimed chord, and the screen lit up.
Morrison’s computer was already up and running, on the seat on the other side of him. He picked it up.
“Ah, here we are,” Wu said. “Your bank account number?”
Morrison read off a fifteen-digit series of numbers and letters.
Wu typed it into his computer. He looked up at Morrison and smiled. “And that was for ... three hundred million dollars, U.S.?”
“Four hundred million,” Morrison said quickly.
“A small joke, Doctor.” He tapped in the numbers. He said, “It’s a fair-sized transaction, but nothing huge. It’ll take only a few seconds for them to verify the account we’re transferring from, and acknowledge the credit.”
Ventura did a sweep of the room. It seemed as if this might come off with no problems. His team was on alert. If anything that looked like a gun, or a canister of gas, or any kind of weapon, made an appearance in the still-well-lit theater, things would happen fast. Nobody was going to be yelling “Drop it!” or “Don’t move!” At the first sign of aggression, his people were to cook the Chinese—all of them—no hesitation, no questions. Any screwups, and Wu’s people were all history. It was a harsh response, but the only way to go here. One guy blasting away indiscriminately with a small subgun or even a pistol could do a lot of damage—and it wasn’t going to happen.
“There you are, Dr. Morrison. You should see it on your machine.”
Morrison tapped keys. “Yes. It’s in and verified.” He typed in another sequence. “The account number and password are both changed.”
“Then you have it. We can deposit but we can’t take it back. You’re a rich man. Now it’s your turn.”
Morrison nodded. He still looked like a man sitting in an electric chair, waiting for the current to flow.
“Here is the address for our people,” Wu said. He held the computer up so Morrison could see the screen. “You send them the data, they say they can have it tested in less than two hours. They work, we watch the movie, everybody goes home happy.”
Wu turned to look at Ventura. “You know, Luther, if it had been left up to me, I expect I would have tried for a—how shall we say?—cheaper offer.”
Ventura gave him a small smile. “Such an offer couldn’t have been ... acceptable, Chilly.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I know so.”
Wu’s smile matched Ventura’s own. “It would have been very interesting to see whose opinion was right, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The two of them held gazes for another moment.
Wu said, “Well. Another time.” He looked away, back at Morrison. “Doctor, if you would?”
Ventura was victorious. His smile broadened.
Morrison nodded and started to type in the electronic address.
“Gun!” somebody screamed—
—and sure enough, guns started to go off.
33
Wednesday, June 15th
Washington, D.C.
Toni was right behind Alex. The gas mask had big, wide lenses that left her peripheral vision clear, but there was an annoying clicking sound every time she inhaled. And she was breathing pretty fast, too. She forgot about her breathing and the noise fast enough when the first of the six-man team ahead of them crashed through the door into the back room of the surplus store. Bright flashes of actinic light strobed her, but the mask’s polarizers kicked in and blocked the glare within a hundredth of a second or so. She should have worn earplugs, she realized, because the noise was loud inside the building. A misty cloud of green gray vapor boiled up with the explosions and lapped against the walls with the racket.
She heard a triplet of quick, smaller explosions—pap! pap-pap!—gunshots, she was sure—and Alex doglegged to the left. She followed him. Somebody yelled something she couldn’t make out, and somebody retched so loudly it sounded as if he was turning his guts inside out.
Alex looked back at her. “You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Then it was all over.
The mist, which felt greasy on her bare skin, started to clear, and the police team spread out enough so Toni could see four men who weren’t cops. Three of them were on their hands and knees, vomiting. One was on his back, blood oozing from holes in his side and one leg. He had his head sideways and he was throwing up, too.
One of the men on his knees enjoying the purging benefits of emetic gas was Jay Gridley.
“Thank God,” Toni said into the mask. The sound was muffled, but she saw Alex nod.
“Yeah,” he said.
Woodland Hills, California
Wu was quick. He dropped from his seat onto the sticky floor and tossed the tub of popcorn into Ventura’s face as he fell.
Ventura was able to hear the rifle shot from the projection booth, was aware even as he pulled his own gun that the flat crack of the small-bore longarm was distinct from the duller, louder handgun sounds—
Wu came up with a gun—it must have been underneath the popcorn tub—and jammed it at Ventura. He fired twice—
Quick and good, too—
The bullets hit Ventura square in the chest, but the titanium trauma plate in the pocket of the blended Kevlar/ spidersilk vest under his shirt stopped the rounds, even though they felt like sledgehammers against his sternum—
Ventura cleared his own weapon and brought it around—
Morrison was up and running, screaming wordlessly—
Wu cursed and got off another round, higher this time, right on the edge of the trauma plate—
More gunshots blasted in the theater—
One-handed, Ventura fired—one-two-three!—letting the recoil raise the muzzle each time, so the shots walked up Wu’s body, in case he was also wearing a vest, so the hits were chest-throat-head—
“Stop, stop, stop—!” Morrison screamed.
Ventura looked up from Wu, saw that Morrison had his own little .22 revolver out and pointed in front of himself as he reached the aisle—
One of Ventura’s best shooters—the ex-SEAL, Blackwell—moved to grab Morrison, to pull him down and out of the line of fire—good, good!—but Morrison was panicked, and he thrust his weapon out at the man—
“Morrison, no!” Ventura screamed. “Don’t—!”
Too late. Morrison pulled the trigger. Blackwell, coming to save the scientist, was five feet away, and even Morrison couldn’t miss every time at that range. At least two or three of the six shots chewed into Blackwell. The vest he wore stopped a couple, but one went high, hit him in the jaw, and Ventura saw a tooth explode from the torn mouth in slow motion as Blackwell’s head jerked to one side—
Ah, shit—!
And he saw
with razor-edged and expanded clarity as Blackwell did what any really good trained shooter instinctively did if somebody pointed a gun at him when the situation went hot—
“No!” Ventura screamed, trying to bring his own gun up around, but he was mired in subjective slow-time, and too late.
Blackwell knew Morrison was wearing a vest, and Blackwell didn’t want to die. So even as he fell, wounded, Blackwell lined his pistol up on Morrison and stopped the threat—
He shot him right between the eyes.
The back of Morrison’s head blew out in a spew of brains, blood, and bone.
Washington, D.C.
He was going to be okay, Jay realized. The doctor had taped him up, given him a shot to counteract the puke gas, and another for pain. Every breath he took still hurt his ribs a little under the tape, and his stomach was sore from vomiting, but he was real happy to be feeling anything at all.
It was sure better than the alternative.
The boss said, “What on Earth possessed you to go into the field on your own?”
Jay started to shake his head, but that made him dizzy, so he stopped. He said, “I dunno. Pure stupidity would be my best guess. Not ever gonna happen again, I guarantee that. Reality sucks.”
They were in the hospitial’s lock ward, where one-eyed Fiscus had been transferred after they’d patched him up. He’d been hit twice after firing at the cops, in the side and in the leg, but neither hit was life-threatening once they stopped the bleeding. He was awake, and the boss had flexed his Net Force muscle to get in and question the guy before the mainline boys and the D.C. detectives got there.
Jay and Toni were with Michaels as he walked into the room, and they all nodded at the cop sitting in the chair next to the bed.
“We want some information,” Michaels said to Fiscus.
Full of IV tubes and things clipped to his fingertips or taped to his chest, Fiscus flashed his gap-toothed grin. “People in Hell probably want ice water, too,” he said. His snakeskin patch was gone, and the eye it had hidden had a milky film over it.