by Tom Clancy
It was Leon and Lonnie’s plan. Junior was just the wheel man.
The safe turned out to be a better model than they had figured. After five minutes all they’d done was make a lot of noise, clanging and banging away at it. Junior could hear them out in the car even with the house’s doors closed, the car window rolled up, and the air conditioner going.
The neighbors must have had good hearing, too, because lights went on all over the place and people started coming out of their houses to see what was what.
The neighbors clearly knew that the guy who owned that house was bowling, it being eight o’clock on a weeknight, because they spotted Junior right off and started his way. That alone would have made him real nervous, but he also saw that some of them had guns.
Junior was a pretty good handgunner even back then, but he wasn’t about to try and take on five or six guys with shotguns and squirrel rifles coming at him in the dark on a hot summer night in Mobile. People up north might hate guns and all, but men in this neck of the woods knew how to use them, and there was no way that he was going to hop out of the car and shoot with them. He’d signed on as a driver and lookout, not security.
Junior laid on the horn to warn Lonnie and Leon as best he could, then put the car into gear and left rubber halfway to the corner.
The neighbors didn’t shoot at him, fortunately. A man who had grown up knocking squirrels out of oak trees wouldn’t have had any trouble hitting a car pulling away at all.
Later, he heard from a guy he knew who shared a lawyer with Lonnie and Leon that they hadn’t heard the horn, and were still banging away at the gun safe when the neighbors snuck up behind them and started clicking off safeties. He’d lost track of Lonnie and Leon after that. Which was just as well; neither one of them was too swift.
So, no, Junior didn’t want any neighbors coming to help out the security guy. The fewer people around, the better. He didn’t need an audience, either. He wanted it to be man against man, with no witnesses except the guy who walked away. Which would be Junior.
This one would be more dangerous than the last time. A guy coming out on an alarm would be expecting trouble. And if what the company said in its advertising was true, he’d be a better shooter than most cops. Plus the whole thing would have to go down quick, because the cops would show up eventually.
Which was just fine with Junior. He didn’t want it to be too easy after all. If there wasn’t a chance that the security guy would drop him, then there wasn’t any point. He might just as well sneak up behind somebody and shoot him in the back. There wasn’t any challenge in that, no victory, no glory.
He passed a couple of possible prospects before he found the one he wanted. Kim’s Business and Industrial Center, the sign said. There was an “Armed Response” sign warning that the property, which looked to be some little prefab shop and offices, all single-level and joined, was protected by Hopkins Security. He had passed a city limit sign, so he was in the county. Exactly what he wanted.
There was always the slight chance the local sheriff or state trooper might make it here first. If that happened, Junior would have to decide how to handle it, but he was betting the security guy would show up before the others.
He parked the car under the shadows of a big tree in the first corner of the dimly lit parking lot, got out, and walked around the building. There was an old flatbed truck in front of a little machine shop down on the east end, but the truck was locked and the engine cover was cool. There were no other cars. A few windows had lights on, but it didn’t look like anybody was home.
Perfect.
He found a nook between two buildings where a car pulling through the lot wouldn’t see him. After running over it a couple of times in his mind, he nodded to himself and went to kick in a door. The window had a Hopkins sticker, and a blinking sensor showed the place was alarmed.
He hit the door and it popped open on the first kick. An audible alarm blared, hooting over and over like one of those European ambulance sirens, eee-aww, eee-aww!
That ought to do it.
Junior strolled back to his hiding place. He loosened his Rugers in their holsters, pulled them from under the vest, then reholstered them. He felt the sweat break out, his heart cranking up faster. It’s killin’ time, Junior.
15
Net Force HQ
Quantico, Virginia
The deposition had barely begun and Alex Michaels was already uncomfortable. Mitchell Townsend Ames was smooth, no doubt about it, and Alex was more than ready to have this all over and done with. He just wanted to get back to work.
Ames was striking in appearance: tall, well-built, and undeniably handsome, with wavy, almost blond hair and cleanly chiseled features. He was dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit that had to run at least five thousand dollars, and his shoes were clearly handmade.
“Please state your name, address, and occupation for the record,” Ames said, his voice low and even.
Michaels did so.
“Thank you, Commander Michaels. I realize you are a busy man, and I’ll try to get this done as quickly and painlessly as possible.” Ames smiled.
Michaels returned the smile automatically, despite what Tommy had told him: Alex, Ames is a shark getting ready to chomp you in half. This man is not your friend, no matter what he says or does, no matter how polite he seems to be. Don’t ever forget that, not for one second.
They were in the Net Force conference room nearest Alex’s office. There were five of them present: Mitchell Ames and his assistant, a young woman attorney named Bridgette who was flawlessly beautiful; Tommy Bender; a certified court stenographer named Becky; and Michaels. This wasn’t the first time Michaels had been deposed — you didn’t get to his rank in the federal LEO hierarchy without dealing with herds of lawyers — but it was the first time he had personally been a defendant in a lawsuit.
A DVD recorder took it all in, and the court reporter keyed in a transcript as backup. Whatever got said here would be preserved for posterity.
“Commander Michaels, is it true that you were in charge of Net Force operations in January of 2013?”
“Yes.”
“And that the assault by Net Force military operatives, led by General John Howard, upon the CyberNation-owned and Libyan-registered ship the Bon Chance was by your order?”
“Yes.” Tommy had cautioned him to answer direct questions with no more than “Yes” or “No” whenever possible, and not to expand on his answers unless absolutely necessary. The less you said, the less you gave away.
“Because you believed it was a pirate vessel? And as such, you had the right to go after it, even in international waters?”
“Yes.”
Ames paused, looked at a yellow pad in front of him, and made a note on it with a pen.
So far, so good. Tommy had told him the kinds of questions he was likely to get. Alex wasn’t going to lose his cool and give away anything that the man could use against him.
“I understand that prior to the assault, you sent Net Force agent Toni Fiorella Michaels to the vessel as an undercover operative for the purpose of gathering information.”
He hadn’t expected this kind of question so soon. “Yes, I did.”
Ames looked up from his pad, raised an eyebrow. “You sent your wife onto what you believed was a ship full of pirates?”
The scorn practically dripped from the man’s voice. What kind of man would do that? Send the mother of his child into harm’s way?
Or is it that you didn’t really think there was any real danger on the boat, hmm? Not a pirate among them?
Given a choice, Alex would have explained that one. He would have preferred to tell the man that he hadn’t expected there would be anything for Toni to worry about that early in the game. He would also have liked to mention that Toni had only been stuck on the ship due to a passing hurricane. But Tommy’s instructions had been clear.
“She was, and is, a qualified field operative,” he said, keeping his voic
e bland.
“I see. Well, sir, you are a better man than I. I cannot imagine sending my spouse into a situation like that.” He glanced down at his pad. “Oh, but wait. I also see that your wife is an expert in an Indonesian fighting art, called Pukulan Pentjak Silat Serak, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Ames nodded. “Well, I suppose your wife’s abilities might mitigate the worry some — that she can slaughter a man with her bare hands, not to mention what she can do with a weapon? And that she has, in fact, maimed and killed people using this art? I see here incidents on 8 October 2010, right here at Net Force Headquarters, wherein she beat an alleged assassin until you shot and killed that person; again on 15 June 2011, in Port Townsend, Washington, when she broke a man’s neck; and, let’s see, again in October 2011 at your home in Washington, D.C. — no, wait, it was you who killed that one, too, wasn’t it? With a pair of little daggers, wasn’t it? Tell me, Commander, do you believe that the family that slays together stays together?”
A year ago that might have gotten to him. Two years ago he certainly would have risen to the challenge. And as little as five years ago he may have risen to his feet and punched this insinuating little lawyer right in the mouth.
But silat, like any true martial art, was about more than fighting. It was about discipline and control, and while Alex still had a long way to go before he considered himself proficient, he had come far enough to be able to deflect Ames’s little gibes.
Tommy answered for him. “Is there a question in there, counselor, or are you just trying to bait Commander Michaels?”
Ames smiled. “No, I’m just trying to establish what kind of people work for Net Force, counselor.”
“People whose actions have all been justifiable under the law,” Tommy said. “Let’s move on, shall we? Like you said, my client is a busy man — wasting his time with character assassination is hardly productive.”
Ames’s smile grew wider. “I wouldn’t think of impugning your client’s character, Mr. Bender. I’m only trying to uncover the truth, in the name of justice. That your client has a propensity for violence goes to the heart of our action, doesn’t it? Runs in the family, too.”
Alex could see all too clearly where this was heading. This was going to get ugly, just as Tommy had said. He wouldn’t mind so much getting dragged through the mud by this guy — he wouldn’t like it, of course, but Alex was a big boy whose actions could stand a little scrutiny. The part that would be most likely to get to him was hearing his wife impugned. That was going to be hard to take.
“Now, then, Commander, let’s return to the reasons you came to believe that my clients’ duly registered recreational ship, minding its own business in international waters, was infested with cutthroat pirates that were somehow a threat to the United States… ”
Michaels stifled a sigh and settled back into his chair. This was going to be a very long morning.
* * *
Ames smiled to himself as he left the Net Force building at the FBI compound. Alex Michaels was made of a little sterner stuff than most bureaucrats he’d gone up against. He wasn’t going to lose his cool in front of a jury unless Ames could rattle him more than he had at the deposition. Attacking the wife was a possibility — Ames had thought Alex had shown some vulnerability in that area — but you had to be careful with those. Sometimes even if they worked, a crack about somebody’s spouse could alienate a jury enough to hurt you. Ames didn’t want to risk that. He always presented himself as the soul of goodheartedness, and even when he used personal attacks he made them seem reluctant and only tendered for the cause of truth, justice, and the American way. As if he was genuinely sorry that the defendant was a wife-beating creep, but that the jury had to decide if that mattered.
Next to him, Bridgette said, “What do you think?”
She was bright — top of her class at Lewis and Clark two years ago, as smart as any of the other dozen assistants and associates at his firm. Lovely, too. But she still believed that law and justice were synonymous, which of course they were not.
He couldn’t begin to tell her the real reasons he had instigated this deposition. He had wanted to see his opposition face-to-face. He wanted to get Michaels’s home address from his own lips, because it might come down to nasty and personal, and he wanted that information without leaving a more obvious trail. Mostly, though, he wanted them to see him and be afraid.
Little things, taken separately, but they were all part of a great lawyer’s affect. In this business, presentation was every bit as important as the law itself. It didn’t matter how many statutes you could cite if the jury didn’t like you.
Bridgette wasn’t ready for any of that, however. “It went as well as could be expected,” he said. “You’ll be second chair on this one, so I want you to know everything there is to know about maritime law and U.N. treaties and pirates by the time we are ready to go to trial. Not to mention Commander Alex Michaels and his wife, Toni.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” In truth, though, the results of this action did not really matter. Of course, if it ever actually got to trial, he wanted to win it. Mitchell Townsend Ames didn’t lose, period, but the real point here was to bury Net Force in problems so that he could end-run them legally. If congress and the senate passed an acceptable bill and the President signed it into law, then all this was moot. Net Force would be bound by the results. As much as they might hate it, once it became law they could jump up and down and rant until they turned blue and it wouldn’t make any difference at all.
Ames did not care about the men killed on the Bon Chance. He didn’t care about their surviving relatives. The dead men had been thugs, shooters who had gotten shot instead. They were criminals, and deserved none of his worry. This entire suit was a smoke screen, and if it served its purpose, that was all that counted.
Once he had a goal, Ames always figured out whatever means was necessary to achieve it. If he could do it with a threat of a legal action, great. If it took a trial, fine. If it took sending a knuckle-dragger like Junior to bribe, blackmail, or assault anybody who stood in the way? That was acceptable, too. Whatever was necessary. Second place was for losers. Winning was all.
The chauffeured limo pulled up, and the driver hopped out and opened the door for them. Bridgette climbed in first, Ames followed. As soon as he was seated, he reached into the door’s map compartment and pulled his pistol rig out, the SIG P-210, and slipped the crossdraw holster back onto his custom-made horsehide belt, locking the one-way snaps into place on his left side. Crossdraw was best for in a car. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and was easier to get to in a hurry. This one had been designed for drivers to thwart carjackers. Hard as they were to get, he had a permit to carry a handgun in D.C., Virginia, Maryland, and New York, and in most of the easier shall-issue states as well. That was just one more advantage of big money and a legitimately recognized need. He’d been threatened with death in public by angry men more than a few times. But such permissions did not extend to federal courts or law-enforcement buildings, passenger aircraft, or post offices, among other places.
All in all, this had been a productive visit. He had a better sense of Commander Alex Michaels. He knew where to find the man and his family. If push came to shove, he could always have Junior pay them a late-night visit. A man like Michaels wouldn’t roll over for bribery, blackmail, or even physical intimidation, Ames knew that, but he had a family. And even if his wife was some kind of martial arts death on two legs, they had a little boy who wouldn’t be so adept.
And a man would do just about anything to protect his children.
Chalus, Iraq
Howard’s group was badly outnumbered. On top of that, his four-man scout team was only lightly armed. They had come to gather intel, not to fight. The Iraqi foot patrol, on the other hand, was more heavily armed, and they outnumbered Howard’s unit by at least four to one. There had to be sixteen, maybe eighteen of the enemy soldiers.
H
oward and his team were already off the road. He waved his team down. In the dark, they’d be hard to spot.
The liquid Arabic flow of the Iraqis talking among themselves drifted through the rocks and scrub growth. The men were joking, laughing, not expecting any trouble, on a routine patrol that had probably never stumbled across anything more dangerous than a lizard.
They were in the El Burz Mountains. The peak elevation along the road from Chalus to Karaj was a thousand meters above sea level, maybe a little higher to the west. They weren’t that far inland yet, only about thirty kilometers from the Caspian on the north coast of Iraq, but that was far enough so that it would take an extraction copter a few minutes to get here. One more good reason to lay low and let the patrol pass.
Contrary to what a lot of people thought, especially after the Gulf War, not all of Iraq’s soldiers were half-witted camel jockeys who ran around yelling “Allah ackbar!” and couldn’t shoot straight. Some of the elite units were battle-hardened vets who could hike all night and then fight all day, men with training as good as that given by any army in the world. In a stand-up fight against B1 bombers dropping daisy-cutters and Navy ships firing rockets from a hundred miles away, the Iraqis would get creamed. You couldn’t use World War I tactics in the twenty-first century and expect to win. But on a narrow road in the mountains at night — in their mountains — against a recon force not wearing SIPEsuits or heavy armor, a quarter their strength? Those AK-47s still worked just fine.
Howard and his men had come to find out if there was a biological weapons plant buried here in the hills, possibly buried deep in a cave where it couldn’t be spotted from spysats looking for it. Cutting loose on a larger and better-armed force was not the way to do that.
The fact that the patrol was here at all probably meant the intel about the bio-weapons plant had some basis. So far, the Big Birds had not been able to pinpoint the location, but the amount of traffic they had tracked in and out of one of the canyons not far from here indicated that there was something going on.