Net Force Part 18

Today, when Mora Sullivan came in from her noon run--six miles, the last two in a pouring subtropical thunder-storm--she found her computer flas.h.i.+ng its warning-light signal.

The house alarm diodes were all green; n.o.body had come into the building itself. The computer warning was due to an electronic break-in--or somebody trying to.

She blotted her face and hair with the thick towel she had left by the door. It rained almost every other day here in the summer, and while hurricane season was pretty much over, early October had its share of storms. She stripped off her wet shoes and socks, dropped the f.a.n.n.y pack with the plastic and pretty much waterproof Glock nine in it; she peeled the spandex bra and pants off, and finished toweling herself mostly dry before she started for the computer.

She put the towel on the office chair, sat naked upon the damp terrycloth and said, "Security program, log on."

The voxax brought the log up on-screen. Given her choice, Sullivan preferred real-time computer work; she didn't much care for VR, since it meant she had to effectively blind and deafen herself to ride the net.

She scanned the program. Somebody had probed at the Selkie's com circuit. They had only gotten a couple of bounces into the maze she'd constructed before they'd lost the signal, but even that was something of a surprise. Whoever had tried it was pretty good, professional-cla.s.s.

She hoped they weren't good enough to spot the leeches she'd left for potential invaders.

"Security, backtrack the intruder."

A series of numbers and letters flashed on the screen, followed by a map. Arcing, bright blue lines lit as the leech program fed the intruder's initial signal back to her computer through the series of firewalls and shunts. When it reached New York City, the dot representing the intruder pulsed a bright light, and an electronic address lit and also pulsed red underneath the dot.

So the invader was good, but not great. The leech had been undetected. Given what she had paid for the leeches, that was not a big surprise.

"Security, reverse directory, e-mail unabridged, cross-check this address."

More letter-and-number crawl sped up the screen.

A name flashed: Ruark Electronic Services, Inc.

"Security, give me the names of the corporation officers and any holding companies for Ruark Electronic Services, Inc."

A moment pa.s.sed. A list of names appeared. Heloise Camden Ruark, President and Chief Executive Officer; Richard Ruark, Vice-President; Mary Beth Campbell, Treasurer. A public company, incorporated in the state of Delaware, June 2005, blah, blah, blah-- Well, well, well. And look here, the owner of seventy-five percent of the outstanding shares was something called "Electronic Enterprises Group," which itself just happened to be-- --a wholly owned subsidiary of Genaloni Industries.

Sullivan leaned back and stared at the screen. So. Genaloni was trying to find her. She nodded. To be expected. The man wore a thin veneer of respectability, but under it, he was a thug. To a man like Genaloni, the response to a threat, whether real or imagined, was to burn all the bridges on any road leading to his castle, and then stand by the pots of boiling lead to cook anybody who might get past the rivers. Never use a needle when there was a boulder available. Genaloni would have heard about the attempt on her target's life. And since the target had seen her as a woman, and doubtless reported it so, the thug would be doubly worried. He did not trust women, and he could not abide failure. In Genaloni's league, strike one and you were out--strike two was a guarantee of bad things to come.

This was not altogether unexpected--she had halfway thought Genaloni might attempt to trace her before now--other clients had tried to get a handle on the Selkie. So far, her safeguards had been sufficient; n.o.body had ever gotten close.

As of now, the address and ident.i.ty she had used when she'd taken the a.s.signment from Sampson were history. Even if they found the place, there was nothing to tie it to Mora Sullivan, or any of the other aliases she used. But this was a bad sign. Genaloni was a thug, to be sure, but he was a smart thug, and a persistent one. If he was worried that the Selkie might be linked to him, he would do everything he could to remove the link. If that included having her found and killed, well, there it was. In Genaloni's jungle, self-preservation ruled. If he saw an aged, crippled lion half a mile away, going in another direction, he'd shoot it anyhow--because it might turn around someday. Who knew?

She scratched an itch on her bare left shoulder. She wouldn't be collecting anymore money for the target she had missed, but that was not really important. For her own pride, she would finish that job, payment or not. That was a given. And while she didn't think Genaloni's hackers could find her, even the smallest possibility that they might was too much to ignore. She would not spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She would finish the job on the target in D.C., but she would also have to do something about Genaloni.

And after that? Well, maybe it was time for the Selkie to retire. When the winds of change blew up a line of tornadoes, a smart woman took cover--or moved elsewhere.

Sat.u.r.day, October 2nd, 1:15 p.m. Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

"Tyrone?"

Tyrone instantly recognized the Voice of Doom, even though the phone's visual was off. "Uh, yeah."

"This is Bella. Did you lose my number?"

"Uh, no, I was just about to call you."

That's good, said the voice of self-preservation, hiding behind its rock. said the voice of self-preservation, hiding behind its rock. Lie. First a little one, then a big one. Tell her you have a fatal disease and you can't leave the house! Lie. First a little one, then a big one. Tell her you have a fatal disease and you can't leave the house!

"Standout. So, can you come over this afternoon?"

No! No! A million quadrillion times no!

"Uh, sure. I can do that. Come over. I mean, to your house."

"About three okay?"

No-no-no-no-nooo! Not good, not okay!

"Sure, three."

"You have the address?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, scan you then. And Tyrone? Thank you. This means a lot to me, you know?"

"Um . . . sure. Nopraw."

"Discom," she said.

Yeah, nopraw and discom, deadhead! Maybe because it means so much to her, Bonebreaker will make it quick, just snap your neck fast so you won't suffer too much! a.s.shole! Fool! Moron!

Tyrone stared at the cradled phone. He knew he ought to be terrified, but oddly enough, only a small part of him was. That part hiding inside his head behind its rock. The rest of him was . . . what, exactly? Thrilled? Yeah, that was part of it. That the best-looking girl in school had asked for his his help, that he was going to her help, that he was going to her house, house, to stand and sit right next to her, to show her something he knew something about. . . . to stand and sit right next to her, to show her something he knew something about. . . .

Well, like Jimmy Joe had said. If he was going to die, he might as well get there by a fun route. Besides, RW-SPEAKING, Bonebreaker probably wasn't going to actually kill kill him. Maybe hammer him into a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp, but probably he'd survive, right? him. Maybe hammer him into a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp, but probably he'd survive, right?

His mother wandered into the room, carrying a set of blueprints for the birdhouse she was building. "Hey, hon. Who was that on the phone?"

"A person from school. They want me to help them with a computer project. I'm going to go over to their house at three, is that okay?"

" 'A person? They? Them? Their Their house?' My, aren't we getting plural." His mom grinned. "Would 'this person' perhaps be of the . . . female persuasion, Ty?" house?' My, aren't we getting plural." His mom grinned. "Would 'this person' perhaps be of the . . . female persuasion, Ty?"

"Geez, Mom!" Mom!"

"Ah. That's what I thought. What's her name?"

"Belladonna Wright."

"Is that Marsha Wright's little girl?"

"I think so."

"Oh. I remember her from the third-grade play. She's a cute little thing."

"She's not nine years old nine years old anymore, Mom." anymore, Mom."

"I would hope not. Well. Do you need a ride?"

"I'll take the Trans," he said. "It's not far."

"All right. Leave a number, and be back for dinner at seven."

"Yes, Mom Mom."

"Lighten up, Ty. I know I used to ride dinosaurs to school, but my memory hasn't all gone. It's not as dangerous as you think, talking to a gurrul gurrul. . . ." She laughed.

So much for what you you know, know, said the voice from behind its rock. said the voice from behind its rock.

Sat.u.r.day, October 2nd, 1:33 p.m. Quantico For once, a meeting actually got started on schedule. Michaels looked around the conference room at his people. "Okay, let's not waste any time. Jay?"

Jay Gridley waved the presentation projector on. "Good news and bad news," he said. "The cane came from this store, made by a company that mostly supplies serious martial artists."

An image appeared.

"This is the model. . . ."

Another image, this one of the cane, flashed on-screen.

"After eliminating a whole bunch of customers--legitimate teachers, people who really need to use canes, collectors, and the usual number of loose nuts and bolts who buy things out of paranoia, all of whom could account for their purchases--we are left with eight possibilities."

Names flashed on-screen.

"Of the eight, our agents have so far interviewed five. Four of these produced the canes they are recorded as having purchased. One gave the item as a gift to a friend, and we have found that one."

Five of the names faded away.

"Of the three remaining subjects, one is a survivalist in Grant's Pa.s.s, Oregon, who refuses to allow local, state or federal agents on his property. The gentleman in question is seventy years old and according to his medical records, has had a surgical hip-replacement. We have a judge signing a search warrant as we speak, to look for the cane on his property. I'd guess they'll find him leaning on it when they get there."

The name on-screen began to blink, alternating red and blue.

"So that's pending. The remaining two names . . ." He shook his head. "Well, they are . . . interesting."

Michaels said, "Interesting?"

Jay waved at the screen. One of the names began to pulse in yellow. "Wilson A. Jefferson, of Erie, Pennsylvania. Mr. Jefferson, in the last three years, has bought a cane, two sets of escrima escrima sticks and a set of custom-designed sticks and a set of custom-designed yawara yawara sticks. These were delivered to a post office box. The cane is the right model. The sticks. These were delivered to a post office box. The cane is the right model. The escrima escrima sticks are used in a Filipino fighting art called, oddly enough, sticks are used in a Filipino fighting art called, oddly enough, escrima escrima; the last items are used in several different fighting styles, but the name is j.a.panese. According to the post office box rental agreement and state driver's license records, Mr. Jefferson is a white male, forty-one years old, and he resides at this address."

A street number and name blossomed.

"However, a check at this address came up negative. n.o.body by that name has ever lived there. On the surface, Jefferson's credit records seem fine, but below the surface, they vanish. What we have here is an electronic man."

"So this is our a.s.sa.s.sin," Toni put in.

"Sort of," Jay said. "Then there is Mr. Richard Orlando."

More screen action.

"Mr. Orlando has bought, over a period of four years, five canes, including two of the models we have in hand. All were delivered to a post office box in Austin, Texas. And a check of his background says he is an Hispanic male, twenty-seven years old, and as far as we can tell, also exists only in a few record computers and apparently nowhere else. The photographic image on his driver's license is blurred so badly he could look like anybody in this room. Oddly enough, so are the photographic records of Mr. Jefferson."

"Same person, using two fake IDs," Michaels said.

"That would be my opinion," Jay said. "Very dissimilar and a thousand miles apart. Fakes, and unless you were looking for them, you'd never accidentally spot them."

"Great," Toni said. "So, what's the good news?"

"That is is the good news," Jay continued. "n.o.body remembers either Mr. Jefferson or Mr. Orlando. We've interviewed postal workers, and come up blank. There are no trails leading away. As far as we can tell, the only reason these two E-men ever existed was to take delivery of some fancy but perfectly legal the good news," Jay continued. "n.o.body remembers either Mr. Jefferson or Mr. Orlando. We've interviewed postal workers, and come up blank. There are no trails leading away. As far as we can tell, the only reason these two E-men ever existed was to take delivery of some fancy but perfectly legal sticks sticks half a country apart. And I'd give you good odds that the real person who has these things--if he or she still half a country apart. And I'd give you good odds that the real person who has these things--if he or she still has has them, knowing we'll be trying to trace him or her through them--isn't in Pennsylvania them, knowing we'll be trying to trace him or her through them--isn't in Pennsylvania or or Texas." Texas."

"Dead end," Toni said.

"Deader than black plastic in the noonday sun," Jay said. "We'll keep on it, but whoever this is, he or she, they are real good. They went to a lot of effort for such a small thing."

"Seems to be paying off, too, isn't it?" Michaels nodded. "I'm still betting on a she, " he said. "It didn't feel like a man under that old-lady disguise. Okay, thanks, Jay. Toni?"

"We're running checks on all known professional a.s.sa.s.sins. So far, nothing substantial on anybody as good as this one seems to be."

"What about insubstantial?"

"Rumors about this shadowy figure or that. Usual stuff--the Iceman, who can kill you with a hard look. The Specter, who walks through walls. The Selkie, who can change shape. Urban legends. Problem with the really good hired killers is that they keep very low profiles. Pretty much the only time anybody bags one of them is when a client gives them up."

Michaels nodded. He knew this. He'd been thinking about it since Steve Day's murder.

"Anybody got anything else?"

Brent Adams, the FBI head of Organized Crime, said, "Something is going on inside the Genaloni organization."

Michaels looked at Adams. Raised his eyebrows.

The OC man said, "Our people went back and strained out a year's worth of everything with a Genaloni tag. A couple of weeks ago, the FBI regional office in New York City got an inquiry from one of Genaloni's lawyers regarding the detention of Luigi Sampson. Sampson is Ray Genaloni's enforcer--the head of his legal and illegal security operations."

"Yes?"

"Well, our agents in New York didn't detain Sampson. Genaloni's people didn't follow up on it, so n.o.body thought anything else about it. A mistake of some kind."

"Which means . . . ?"

Adams shook his head. "We don't know. But since then, our wiretaps and surveillance cams haven't heard or seen anything of Sampson."

"Maybe he went on vacation," Jay said.

Adams shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he p.i.s.sed off Ray Genaloni and he's in a field outside Dead Toe, South Dakota, pus.h.i.+ng up the daisies."

"I don't think they grow daisies up there. Too cold," Jay said.