by Tom Clancy
Kent kept his pistol behind his leg as he started toward Natadze. Still far enough away so the man might not make him—
At the back of his car, Natadze set the guitar case down, as if he was going to put it into the trunk, then straightened and suddenly broke into a sprint at a right angle to Kent, heading toward the open hallway to the north where the ice and soda machines were.
Kent snapped his pistol up, but Natadze was already ten feet farther away pumping fast and gaining speed. He hadn’t gone for his gun, and Kent didn’t want to shoot him. Plus a miss would put a round through a motel door or wall, and maybe hit somebody sleeping inside.
“Stop!” Kent yelled.
That was a waste of breath. Natadze sped up.
Kent ran, chasing the fleeing man.
The corridor opened up into another section of parking lot, around which there was a short chain-link fence. Too short a fence to slow Natadze down. He vaulted it, hit on the other side—another parking lot, for a fast-food place—and kept running.
All that training on the obstacle course paid off as Kent sailed over the fence without catching or breaking anything.
Natadze had twenty yards on him and was gaining more. Even full-out, Kent wasn’t as fast. If this kept up, Natadze would run away from him in a few minutes. He might have to shoot the guy anyway.
But Natadze doglegged to his left, into the parking lot of a small strip mall. Thirty yards back, Kent watched his quarry make a mistake. He rounded a corner, and when Kent reached it and glanced after the runner, he realized it was a dead end—windowless buildings on either side and a brick wall of a third building at the end.
Natdaze spun, and came up with a handgun—
Kent dodged to his left and took three steps, out of Natadze’s line of fire, behind the corner of the building. He didn’t want to shoot the man, but neither did he want to get shot himself—
Cover, he needed cover—!
Behind him was parked a pickup truck with a florist’s logo on the door. Kent backpedaled toward it, keeping the mouth of the alley covered.
Game over, Natadze. I have you now!
“It doesn’t have to be this way!” Kent yelled.
They were only half a block away from the motel where Natadze had been staying. Kent was behind solid cover, since even the cab of a full-size pickup truck was proof against most handgun rounds, to say nothing of the engine compartment. It was possible that Natadze might skip a round low, off the concrete, but a standard pistol bullet wasn’t going to have much steam—if any—after it ricocheted off the parking lot and went through two steel-belted truck tires, especially if it was a hollow-point, even semi-jacketed. But to try a shot that risky, he’d have to show himself, and Kent was ready for that.
“I’m afraid it does have to be this way!” Natadze called back.
He was behind the corner of the building, and Kent didn’t know what the walls were made of. It looked like adobe, but that could be a thin layer over concrete block, or styrofoam panels. The difference was concealment versus cover—you could shoot through the former but not the latter. Since Kent wasn’t sure exactly where the other man was, he wasn’t going to try and perforate a wall and hope that he hit the bad guy—and maybe generate a ricochet into some little old man five blocks away walking his Pomeranian.
Besides which, he wanted the man alive. There were a lot of questions still hanging, and Natadze knew the answers. Dead men told no tales.
More than that, dead was too easy.
Kent shifted his grip on his pistol. He was lined up, aiming over the hood of the truck, covering the corner of the building. There was one in the tube and seven in the magazine. He had two more full magazines, and if he needed more than two dozen rounds, he was gonna be in deep trouble anyhow.
Right now, they were in a standoff. The alley behind Natadze was a dead end; he wasn’t going anywhere unless he came out the way he went in, and that meant he’d have to get past Kent. On the other hand, Kent couldn’t go in after him, because there was no cover between the truck and the building—an animal clinic next to a dog-grooming shop and a Mexican restaurant—no concealment, nothing.
The first man to leave cover would be the first one exposed to the other’s fire. It was about twelve or fifteen meters from the truck to the building, and even a crappy shooter could make a body shot at that range; Kent had to assume that a professional killer knew how to shoot straight—thinking otherwise could get you dead in a hurry.
Time was on Kent’s side, though, and they both knew it. In a neighborhood like this at night, a little strip mall on the edge of a fairly upscale area, somebody probably would have heard the chase and the shouts. The local police would show up eventually, and while they might not be SWAT-grade officers, they would be cops with guns.
He could have called and warned them about how dangerous Natadze was—if he hadn’t left his virgil on the seat in the rented van. He should have had it on his belt.
Yeah. And if he had X-ray vision and superpowers, he could see Natadze and fly over there and capture him, too. No point in going down the “if only” road.
“You could have shot me back in Nebraska,” Kent called. “Why didn’t you?”
“Why would I have done that? All I wanted was my guitar. I got it and left—no reason to kill you.”
Kent nodded to himself. Yes.
“Cops’ll be coming,” he said. “You can’t get out.”
“And what will they see when they arrive? A man crouched behind a truck, holding a pistol. They are just as likely to shoot you as me.”
“I’ll explain it to them.”
“You have command presence, yes. But how long will it take? Once your gun is lowered, then it is me against a local policeman or two. My chances are passable.”
Kent sighed. The man was right. A local cop, even two or three, would show up, see Kent, and immediately order him to drop his weapon—only cops and bad guys had guns in this city, and they couldn’t tell which Kent was at first glance. They’d have to disarm him. Even if he convinced them he was on their side and there was a bad man with a gun hiding behind the veterinarian’s office, Natadze could come out blazing and take them down before the real danger sank in. Kent didn’t want that.
“You could back off. Allow me to leave. Save the lives of those police officers. They could be men with families. A woman officer. Do you want that on your conscience, Colonel?”
Kent almost grinned. Here was a man with brass balls. A killer, attempting to negotiate his way free by threatening to blame his future killings on the man trying to capture him.
“Cops know the risks of their job,” Kent called. “No deal.”
Natadze laughed. “I did not think so. Still, no harm in trying.”
He was going to make a run for it!
Kent knew this—how he could not have said, but he knew it.
He took a deep breath—
Natadze burst from behind his cover much faster than Kent was prepared for—he must have backed up to get a running start—because he was sprinting like a champion. Before Kent could line up his sights, Natadze was halfway to the truck, and firing, one-two-three—!
Kent ducked as the bullets spanged off the truck’s hood. He had maybe a second before Natadze blew past, and even with spray-and-pray, the man could hit him—
He dropped prone, looked under the truck, and saw Natadze’s churning legs. He led the runner and squeezed off four rounds, tracking the movement.
The first two missed. The third bullet hit Natadze’s right leg, just above the ankle—Kent saw the hole appear in the cloth—
Natadze went down, his speed causing him to skid as he hit on his hands and knees. His gun was in his right hand, and he couldn’t get it into shooting position because it was pressed against the concrete, grinding away as he skidded—
—Kent rolled away from the truck, still prone, keeping his own pistol extended as he angled out. Two revolutions and he was clear of cover and lined up for a
body shot—
“Let it go! Let it go!”
But Natadze collapsed onto his right side and tried to thrust his handgun out at Kent.
“Don’t do it—!”
Time, already running slow, nearly stopped altogether. He had him, no question, and Natadze had to see that, but he still kept moving, bringing his piece around, a bug mired in molasses—
“DON’T—!” Kent screamed.
In that bullet-time slo-mo, he saw the other man grin, and he read his mind: Shoot me or die, Kent—that’s the choice.
Kent’s breath was already held and his front sight was dead-on Natadze’s center of mass.
He fired twice—
The .45 slugs hit Natadze right over the sternum and the impact was enough so that his muscle spasm curled him into a fetal ball.
The gun fell from his hand. He managed to roll onto his back.
By the time Kent got there, there wasn’t much left in Natadze’s clock.
He had enough air and energy to say, “Good shot. You . . . you t-t-take the guitar. S-s-souvenir . . .” He exhaled his last breath. Kent had heard enough death rattles to recognize this one.
He squatted to make sure. No pulse.
He heard the police sirens dopplering in. He stood, tucked his gun into his holster out of sight, and moved away from the dead man. He stood there with his hands held wide, by his shoulders, as the first SFPD car screeched into the parking lot. He stood very still.
25
Hanging Garden Apartments
Macao, China
Wu was not a man given to rash action. He had never been one to just leap off a cliff in the hope that the river below was deep enough to keep him from breaking a leg. No, Wu was the kind of man who climbed down the escarpment, waded into the water with a long pole, probed to find the exact depth, marked the spot, and judged whether or not he could hit that precise place when he jumped. If he could not, he stayed on the cliff.
And yet, here he was, lying on Mayli’s bed as she finished her shower, enjoying the fragrance of sandalwood incense and the memory of their recent actions, considering telling her things that a careful man would never reveal.
Why was that? What has happened to you, Wu, that you would even dream of taking this road?
Well, Mayli was more than passing adept as a lover. She already knew what Shing was up to, of course. That was part of her job, to get Shing talking about anything and everything. That and keeping an eye on him, and keeping him happy.
But she had also been probing, albeit subtly so, to find out what Locke was up to, and even carefully working Wu himself. Nothing blatant, nothing slap-your-face obvious, but it was apparent. She wanted to know what was really going on.
He could keep her in the dark. Take her along and continue to enjoy her company without ever filling in the blanks. But she was a smart woman, and eventually, she might figure things out, and then she’d be dangerous. He might have to . . . take care of her, and that would be such a waste. She was the best Wu had ever been with when it got right down to it.
But: The thought of not seeing her again, of her being married to that smug idiot Shing had, oddly, become . . . repellent. Why should Shing have such a delicious treasure? Why should that narrow and shallow lout be polishing Mayli’s pearl, when Wu was a man much better able to appreciate her in all her dimensions?
He was not a man to delude himself—love was not a factor here, nor did he want it to be. But he knew exactly what she was. She was a trophy woman worthy of a great man. With her close at hand, she could be valuable in so many ways—not just as a lover, but as an ally he could rely upon—as long as their interest lay in the same direction, of course.
A man wanted a mate who not only would help him, but who could help him. Mayli was nothing if not wise in the ways of men.
As rich as he was going to be, she would prefer his company to that of the callow computer-nerd Shing. Yes, Wu was older, but he was fit, adept, and a woman like Mayli would always be drawn to such as himself. He could buy her houses, cars, yachts, cover her in precious gems, give her anything her heart might desire. And if she wished a lover on the side? What did that hurt? She would be happy, and it would not detract from their time together.
Did he not deserve a way to relax, to keep the tensions at bay? It was a small thing against the totality of what lay ahead. Great men had burdens, but they were not bound by the same constraints as the ordinary.
But—Mayli was far too clever a woman to stand by blissfully ignorant. She would wonder, and if she was going to be more than a bedmate, he needed for her to understand why he wanted her. How important he must think she was to tell her.
And in truth, Wu wanted to tell somebody. No one knew the full details of his plans, not even Locke, who knew some, but not all.
If it all came off the way Wu planned, it would be a thing of major importance, and the secret was Wu’s alone. There would be more than a little satisfaction in telling somebody, in putting them in awe of his genius. She would certainly be impressed. She was worldly enough to appreciate the magnitude of it.
Was it a foolish leap into unknown waters? Wu thought he had a pretty good idea of Mayli’s basic character. She was, like him, pragmatic. She served her own interests first, doing whatever was necessary to obtain her own desires. She was skilled. And, of course, she was beautiful, smart, and ambitious. If she knew what Wu knew, who on earth would be a better match?
Betraying him would gain her nothing, and linking with him, the possibility of the world at her feet? A shrewd woman would look at her choices, realize there was little risk, and go with the flow. Mayli was not a Taoist per se, but she was smart enough not to try to swim against the current of a huge river.
The shower cut off—it had been a selling point when Wu had rented this apartment, the water’s pressure was great, and a long, hot, needle spray possible. A cloud of vapor wafted from the bathroom as Mayli slid the shower’s curtain open and stepped out. She stood framed in the doorway, slick and gorgeous, and turned to smile at him as she reached for a towel. She knew she was beautiful, and she knew men liked looking at her.
Wu felt his interest stirring as he watched her dry off.
She glanced at him. “Ah,” she said. “It appears I may have to shower again.”
He smiled. “It is possible,” he said. “Come here and let us see if that is the case.”
They could always talk later, he thought.
Tell her? Or kill her? It might come to that. Which would it be?
Washington, D.C.
The Dyson sphere had come up empty. It was discouraging, but Jay wasn’t going to lie down and die, so he shifted his search.
First, he sneaked into one of the black-ops systems nobody was supposed to know about—but, of course, Jay Gridley wasn’t just anybody. He had heard they had a very nasty program running that kept track of all kinds of e-mail it wasn’t supposed to keep track of, and this was his first chance to take a look at it. You never knew but that some idiot might think he was secure when he wasn’t and say something stupid, like, “Hey, didja see how I screwed up the military’s VR war games?”
Jay didn’t really believe his prey could possibly be that foolish, but stranger things had happened. People said things when they didn’t know they were being watched that they would never say if they thought somebody was peeking over their shoulder.
He went in, popped the firewall and encrypted password open, and looked around. He didn’t see anything useful. He left. This was a top-level system, supposedly bullet-proof, but that was a joke against a man of Jay’s caliber.
He smiled at the metaphor.
Then it was back to CyberNation. Maybe something new there.
Behind the Scenes at CyberNation
Jay stared at the hole in the fence, a small, irregular-shaped blank space in one of the planks making up the stockade wall in the small abandoned mining town. This was where players came to pan for gold, and the idea was that the local streams and r
ivers had played out, but that there was still at least one bonanza claim waiting to be found here, one missed by earlier panners.
Something was not right about that hole in the wall.
Of course a lot of things seemed odd here. Little things—the details in the programming, the quality of sensory input. It wasn’t bad—most people wouldn’t ever notice it—but most people weren’t Jay Gridley. However, as Jay was a guest, he had to stick fairly close to their existing VR scenario.
Another attack had hit CyberNation recently, this time an on-line SCA enclave. The SCA was the Society for Creative Anachronism, a group that enjoyed harking back to the good old days, and pretending that they were knights and ladies in medieval times. In the RW, they spent much time cooking authentic foods and beating the daylights out of each other with padded swords and sticks.
In VR, their battles and lifestyles could go farther, including interaction with elves, unicorns, and other creatures from myth. Which meant that when the combined elf/unicorn attack had come, it had completely shocked the SCA members. Particularly when the avatars used by the hackers had proceeded to perform acts with each other that pretty much negated the whole had-to-be-a-virgin-to-ride-a-unicorn thing.
The attack had then escalated into violence as the attackers engaged some of the SCA members in combat, proving yet again that in video games the computer always wins.
Apparently it hadn’t all been bad, however. Although the peaceful elf-loving contingent had pulled out of VR in shock, the more physical SCA warrior-types had actually expanded its membership.
Jay had backtracked the troop of attackers to this small hole. They had apparently entered the CyberNation system here, and then taken what resources they needed to expand their numbers before the attack.
But there was really something wrong with that hole.
He tabbed his visual input control and instantly he was in full Raptorvision. He ran his new glasses at low rez most of the time, because at high rez he found he sometimes had to reinterpret details that seemed too blocky or fuzzy when sharpened. Which meant that going to high rez was kind of like putting on X-ray glasses. Kind of.