Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (79 page)
Junior got to the rental car, which he’d left unlocked, jumped in, and shoved the key into the ignition. As soon as the engine was running, he rammed it into gear and peeled out. He thumbed open the cylinder on his right-hand gun, tapped the ejector hard with the butt of his other gun, and spewed empties all over the seat. He dropped the second gun, pulled a speed-loader from his pocket, shoved it into the cylinder, twisted the release, dropped the loader, and snapped the cylinder closed. He rolled the window down and fired two rounds at the bar’s front door as he passed it, reached the street, and floored the accelerator.
He was half a block away before he saw anybody in the parking lot. By then, he had reloaded his left-hand gun. Out on the road, he had a chance, even if they came after him. They’d have to come from right behind him and he was good enough that he could pick them off if they got too close.
He shook his head. Well, this was royally messed up. Now Joan knew he was after her, and after he had gotten this close, she’d really go to ground. This was bad. This was a disaster.
The mirror stayed clear after a mile, and Junior decided that maybe the Gray Ghostriders weren’t that interested in running him down. Of course, Buck, Dawg, and Spawn were going to have some explaining to do, and even if the bar crowd bought it, and probably they would, that wouldn’t do Junior any good. Junior was in deep trouble now, no matter what.
Washington, D.C.
Toni said, “Here is his diaper bag, in case you want to go for a walk or something. The stroller is on the front porch, and he can walk for a couple of blocks okay, but then he’ll get tired and want to ride or be carried.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tyrone said. He was a polite young man. His mother had dropped him off and would be coming back to pick him up later. Toni liked Nadine Howard; she seemed a down-to-earth person, and a great mom, too, if Tyrone was any indication.
“He likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but he’ll eat tater tots, ham and cheese, or fish sticks. In the fridge and freezer.” She waved in the direction of the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He can have two peppermint candies if he eats his lunch. He’ll try to get you to give him more.”
And he usually manages to finagle his mama out of three, sometimes four.
And he usually manages to finagle his mama out of three, sometimes four.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He might want a bottle of milk if he gets sleepy. Sometimes he takes a nap after an outing. That’s okay, to give him a bottle.”
Tyrone smiled.
“Here is my office number, and here is the number for my virgil. If you have any problems, anything at all, call me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tyrone said. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
Toni was a little amused at herself for being worried, but worried she was.
C’mon, girl, John Howard’s son can certainly keep a two-year-old in check for a few hours.
C’mon, girl, John Howard’s son can certainly keep a two-year-old in check for a few hours.
When it came time to leave, Toni was afraid that Little Alex might get teary-eyed and clingy, but he was busy stacking Lego blocks with Tyrone. “Bye, sweet boy. Mama has to go to work for a little while.”
“Bye, bye, Mama,” he said. He glanced up, then back down at his toy construction. “Ook, I-rone, ook!” He waved at the toys excitedly. He still had trouble with his “l”s, “g”s, and “t”s sometimes. He called her mother “Am-maw,” which everybody thought was incredibly cute.
It bugged her, just a little, that he seemed so blasé about her leaving. Not that she really wanted him to cry and be upset . . . Well, okay, maybe she did a little.
So much for being indispensable.
She fretted in the car, but she knew in the long run it was for the best. The boy needed to get used to being with other people. He was shy around strangers, although it had taken all of forty seconds for him to warm up to Tyrone, a factor much in Tyrone’s favor. She didn’t want him to turn into a little recluse who never went out into the daylight.
Halfway to the office, she shifted into work mode. She’d been disappointed that the man who had hired the virus-spewing hacker hadn’t shown up for the arranged meeting. Could be it was just a coincidence, but he hadn’t called back, and Toni’s thought was that the man had somehow spotted the trap. Which, when she thought about it, probably wasn’t that hard to do. When they wanted to, the regular FBI could become invisible—they knew sub rosa surveillance techniques as well as anybody. But they probably wouldn’t have been in full-stealth mode for this kind of arrest. A businessman, in a mall office, in Long Island? How worried about him seeing them would they be? Not to mention what the local cops might have done.
The background check on the office renter had come up negative. The references had been fake, the rent paid via no-trace electronic transfers. The guy had been hiding something, all right, and smart enough not to leave an obvious trail.
Well. She would get Jay to poke around it some more. Maybe he could find a lead. Not that it was a major attack on the Republic or anything, but it was her case now, and she wanted to clear it successfully.
She had gotten a call from Guru earlier in the morning. Her great-grandson, who had apparently taken a turn for the worse just before she had arrived, was apparently doing better. Another few days and he would be out of the hospital. Guru would come home, then, which was good because Toni missed the old woman. Both Alex and the baby did, too, though Big Alex would never admit it.
The sun was broiling the city, and it was going to be another hot day, but all in all, Toni couldn’t complain. She had a wonderful husband, a gorgeous and bright little boy, and a job that allowed her to stretch now and then. Her
silat
teacher, who had been a part of Toni’s life since she was thirteen, would be coming back to occupy the spare bedroom in a few days, to be nanny and live-in great-granny to her child. Everybody was healthy. Life could be a lot worse.
silat
teacher, who had been a part of Toni’s life since she was thirteen, would be coming back to occupy the spare bedroom in a few days, to be nanny and live-in great-granny to her child. Everybody was healthy. Life could be a lot worse.
She had a lot to be thankful for. A whole lot.
31
Ames Medical Clinic
Ames sat in his inner office at the clinic, brooding.
Something was wrong. Junior had not called, and Ames’s attempts to contact him had failed. Junior had never kept Ames out of the loop before.
And then there was that little incident at the clean office, with the cops staking it out. Could there be a connection?
Probably not, he decided. Most likely it was just what he’d thought: The hacker had gotten busted and tried to bargain his way out of trouble. It might not have even been him on the phone the day before the meeting. With that vox-changer Thumper used, it could have been anybody. It could have been some cop. The only thing Thumper had to give to them was the location of that office, nothing else, so that’s what he would have given them.
He couldn’t see how Junior could be connected to that. He certainly didn’t think Junior had been arrested. Junior was smarter than the hacker, at least when it came to street work. If he had been picked up, he’d sit tight, get word to Ames he’d been arrested, and wait for Ames to send a lawyer and money to bail him out.
There were all kinds of ways Ames could do that without leaving a trail, and Junior would know that he would do whatever he could to get Junior freed. Having Junior in police custody was not advantageous to Ames. Dead, yes. In jail, no. Once he was out, he could always jump bail, take off, and not look back, if he thought it was going to go badly for him later. And no doubt he’d expect a nice piece of change from Ames to run with, if he needed it.
So, Junior wasn’t in jail. Where was he, then, and why hadn’t he checked in?
He sighed. It could be a lot of other things, some innocent, some not so innocent. Junior could have gotten into an auto accident, been hit by a drunk driver out in Small Town, Mississippi, or somewhere, and be on life support in the local hospital, full of IVs and catheters, EEG flatlined, in an irreversible coma. Simple as that.
Or the accident, if there was one, could have been worse, and maybe he was wearing a toe tag in the county morgue and they were trying to run down relatives using his phony ID. Or waiting for the fingerprints to come back from the police, which would put a whole different spin on who the victim had been.
It was also possible that Junior could have changed his mind and decided that his little woman was worth the risk that she might turn him in. He might have decided to run off to Mexico with her rather than kill her. Right now, the two of them could be on the beach in some snazzy resort, drinking tequila, licking salt off each other’s hands, and cooking up ways to make Ames pay for it from now on.
He didn’t really think Junior was that sentimental, but people had made stranger choices.
Or maybe Junior had decided to go ahead with his plan, but had screwed up and been killed by the woman instead. Unlikely, maybe, but possible.
Or he could have run a red light, gotten pulled over by the cops, found to be a felon in possession of a firearm, and now be lying on a dank mattress in a small town lockup somewhere where they decided he didn’t rate a phone call—or the phone wasn’t working.
Ames could easily conjure up a dozen more scenarios, most of them bad for him. Without any hard information, he could speculate for the rest of the day and it would all be meaningless.
The facts were, Junior had told Ames he was going to get rid of the woman, and he hadn’t called to say it was accomplished. He had supposedly gone off to do it, and enough time had passed that the job should have been finished.
Whatever the deal was, Junior had not called. That was what Ames knew.
He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and ran through it again. He could see other possibilities, but the essence was unchanged.
So, what did it mean? More importantly, what could he do about it?
For that matter, did he really have to do anything about it at all? Yes, having Junior out of touch was inconvenient. There were still a few jobs he needed done. But having Junior in custody, or on the run, didn’t hold any real danger for himself.
After all, Junior was the shooter.
He
was the guy who had killed a United States congressman, and certainly
not
on Ames’s orders. If Junior was ever tied to that killing, there was no way he would be able to bargain his way out of it. He might be able to deal himself a life sentence instead of the death penalty if he gave up Ames. Without proof, however, it would be his word against that of a well-respected attorney. And there was no proof, nothing concrete to tie Junior to Ames.
He
was the guy who had killed a United States congressman, and certainly
not
on Ames’s orders. If Junior was ever tied to that killing, there was no way he would be able to bargain his way out of it. He might be able to deal himself a life sentence instead of the death penalty if he gave up Ames. Without proof, however, it would be his word against that of a well-respected attorney. And there was no proof, nothing concrete to tie Junior to Ames.
Absolutely nothing.
And if Junior could be believed, there was nothing to connect him to that murder, either. Unless he was involved in some other bad business Ames didn’t know about, the biggest risk to Junior was that woman, and Junior was supposedly in the process of getting rid of her.
The only other risk that Ames could see was if any of the politicians Junior and that woman had up came forward, which wasn’t that likely. The one who had been ready to talk was dead, and Ames had to figure he was a rare beast to risk it. Politicians who are screwing around are not the bravest of men.
So he didn’t believe Junior was in trouble with the law. And even if he was, Ames wasn’t too worried about it. But he was worried about the silence.
Junior should have reported in by now, even if he’d failed his assignment. If he wasn’t in jail, it must be one of the other myriad possibilities. But, which one?
And how could he find out?
Atlanta, Georgia
The motorcycle that finally caught up to Junior didn’t belong to one of the Gray Ghostriders. No, this one had flashing lights and a siren on it, and a city cop in the saddle, waving for Junior to pull the rental car over.
Wasn’t
that
just great?
that
just great?
Junior found a residential side street off the main road and turned, pulled the car to a stop three houses in, and put his emergency flashers on. He had a vague idea of where he was, but Atlanta was not his town. Somewhere fairly upscale.
The cop stopped his bike thirty feet behind him. He waited a minute or two, probably running the car’s plates, then got off and strolled up to the car.
Junior already had the window down, and the cool air inside was quickly sucked out into the hot, damp night.
“Evenin’,” the cop said in that honey-voiced Georgia drawl. “Can I see your license and registration, please?”
Junior had his latest fake license, this one from Alabama, already in hand, along with the rental car’s contract, and he offered them to the cop. “What’s the problem, officer? What’d I do?” He could be polite, too.
“You changed lanes back there without signaling.”
Junior blinked. Was this guy serious?
“I’m sorry about that, officer,” he said. “I thought I hit the blinker. I must have not pushed it down hard enough.” That’s what a citizen would do, try to talk his way out of it. Not that Junior cared about the ticket. He wasn’t going to be around when the ticket came due. But he didn’t want to make the cop suspicious by acting out of character.
The cop nodded absently, looking at the Alabama license.
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