Net Force (1998) Read online

  The cane whistled as she whipped it back and forth, but as she stepped toward him, she hit the toppled chair with her shins and stopped.

  "Fuck!" she said. The word was not only unladylike, it was in a deeper, smoother, younger voice.

  Still stumbling backward, Michaels banged into the sliding door. The crown of his head thumped against it hard--it made an almost metallic gonging sound, but the glass held--

  The old lady kicked the fallen chair out of her way, started to take another step, the cane pulled back to brain him, but he had the taser out now and he pointed it at her and pressed the firing stud--

  No, not the firing stud, he'd accidentally hit the laser sight instead! Damn!

  A tiny red dot appeared--but on the wall next to the old lady. He moved the taser, put the gyrating dot on the old lady's chest--

  She snarled and threw the cane--

  It hit Michaels low, below his outstretched arm, across the belly. He didn't feel any pain, but it was hard enough to jolt his aim. The laser dot jerked to the side, off the old lady--

  She spun and ran. By the time he recovered, she was mostly out of his line of sight, almost to the front door. Jesus, she was fast! Taser needles were only good for five or six yards, even if he could hit her this far away--

  He started after her. He didn't know who the hell she was or what she was doing here, but this was his goddamn house and now his surprise gave way to rage--

  Just who the hell did this woman think she was? How dare she?

  He heard her yell something he couldn't make out, but by the time he got to the front door, she was twenty yards away and going strong. In the back of his mind, the sight of a seventy-year-old lady sprinting like an Olympic athlete was pretty amazing, even though he knew she was a younger woman in disguise.

  He started after her, but she'd had too good a start. And she was fast. No way he was going to catch her wearing a robe and slippers.

  The danger was over. He'd chased her off. Now what he needed to do was call the cops. Let them hunt for her.

  Michaels started to step back into the house, but stopped when he heard something in the bushes. He leveled the taser, and swept the laser's red dot back and forth, seeking a target. "Who's there? Don't move, I'll shoot!"

  He was ready to blast somebody, anybody who got in his face.

  Nothing.

  He stepped cautiously toward the bushes.

  On the ground in a down position, front legs stretched out and looking up at him, was the little old lady's toy poodle. It yapped once. Wagged its tail.

  Michaels shook his head. Jesus H. Christ!

  He bent down. "C'mere, boy. Here, Scout."

  The dog came up and hurried over, head lowered and tail going like crazy. Michaels picked the little dog up. It licked his hand.

  Michaels frowned, realized he was breathing way too fast. He blew out a big sigh and tried to calm himself.

  What in hell was going on here?

  Thursday, September 30th, 11:55 p.m. Washington, D.C.

  Goddammit!

  In her clean-car, driving into the Maryland night, the Selkie's smoldering rage flared yet again. She pounded the steering wheel with the heel of her right hand. "Shit, shit, shit!"

  She knew it was a waste of her energy, that it did no good at all. Done was done, and there was nobody to blame but herself. It was her fault. She'd put the damned dog into a down-stay, but she hadn't told him "quiet." One of the goddamned cats must have spooked the dog, and naturally, he'd barked at it because she hadn't told him not to!

  Stupid. An amateur's mistake, so simple it never occurred to her. But even though it was a waste of her energy, it still pissed her off. She beat on the steering wheel again.

  It was incredible, but that was how it always went when luck went bad. The smallest thing that could go wrong to screw up things always went wrong at exactly the wrong instant. That bark, just as she was set to strike, had ruined the deletion. A second earlier, and she'd have been a smiling old lady hobbling along behind the target. A second later, and the target would have been out cold on the floor, waiting for the final stroke--game, tip over your king.

  If the dog hadn't barked. If the target hadn't had a taser in his pocket. If that chair hadn't gotten in her way--

  If, if, if.

  Damn!

  So now they had the dog, her cane, and unless they were all a whole lot stupider than was likely, they knew that Alexander Michaels was targeted by an assassin. They'd find the place she'd rented in the neighborhood quick enough, though there was nothing in it to tie her real identity to it. They'd know she'd been stalking him. She didn't think there was much they could use from what they had, but one thing for sure:

  Getting to the target was going to be a whole lot harder now.

  That brought a smile, despite her anger. Oh, yes, she was still going to delete the target, no question of that. The obstacles would be bigger, the risks riskier, but she didn't take a contract and not deliver. Never.

  Well. She'd wanted a challenge. She sure as hell had one now.

  Friday, October 1st, 12:34 a.m. Washington, D.C.

  Alex was trying to pretend it was no big deal, but Toni knew better. He was rattled. He looked calm as he stood there, dressed in tan slacks and a T-shirt, with no shoes, holding the toy poodle that had been part of the would-be assassin's cover. He petted the dog absently as the cops metaphorically tipped their hats and left. They'd kept the local cops from lighting up the place with their flashers, but even so, there was a lot of activity around Alex's condo for this time of night. Neighbors peeped through windows or stood on door stoops, trying to puzzle out what was going on.

  Toni was relieved that Alex was all right, that the assassination attempt had failed. And she was also gratified that he had called her first, before he'd called anybody else. That meant something.

  Toni had lost no time in co-opting this investigation. It belonged to Net Force, part of the Steve Day case. The local cops had been called in only to provide a net to catch the woman, and it was probably too late for that. The woman wasn't going to be hiding under a bush a block away or anything. If it was a woman. Maybe it was a small man under the disguise?

  "Alex?"

  "Hmm?"

  "We'll need the dog."

  He looked down at the poodle, then back at her. "The dog? Why?"

  "We'll want to run a scanner over him, see if there is an ID chip implant or anything."

  "No, I think he'll stay with me. Have somebody from the lab come by, they can check him here."

  "Alex, he's evidence."

  "No, he is what kept me from going to fill a hole next to Steve Day's." He looked at the dog and scratched behind one of its ears. "He's a good boy, aren't you, Scout?"

  Toni nodded. Anybody who didn't know him would think Alex was used to assassins coming into his house, no sweat, and isn't it a nice night? But she knew him. Maybe better than he knew himself. "I guess we can work on this for a while." She held up the cane, wrapped in no-smear plastic sheeting.

  "She wore gloves," Alex said. "White, silk or cotton, probably. I bet it was wiped clean after she put them on. The gloves."

  "Won't hurt to look," Toni said.

  He shrugged.

  The last of the D.C. police were gone, but there were four of Net Force's agents still there. A man on each entrance to the house, one in a car across the street, one standing by the sliding glass door. They'd stay with Alex until they got this sorted out.

  Toni felt a surge of anger she had to hold on to. Whoever this person was, she--or he--was going to be sorry if Toni got to them before anybody else did.

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. It was just such a surprise, seeing this nice little old lady from my neighborhood ready to knock my head over the left-field wall."

  "I bet."

  "I've seen her around for at least a week."

  "So did the agents on your door during the protocol watch. This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing. You were
being stalked."

  He shook his head. "Because I sit in Steve Day's chair. This woman probably had something to do with that."

  "Yeah, that thought had crossed my mind."

  "Well. Take that stick into the lab."

  "I can stay around if you want."

  "No, go back to work. I'm all right."

  She left, reluctantly, and the image of Alex standing there petting the little dog stayed with her as she drove back toward HQ.

  Friday, October 1st, 7:37 a.m. New York City

  Johnny the Shark stood in front of Ray Genaloni's desk with a sheet of paper in one hand.

  "Okay, what?"

  "This just came from our guy in the D.C. cop shop," Johnny said. "I thought you'd like to see it first thing."

  Genaloni took the paper, put on his reading glasses and looked at it.

  Before he got six words into it, Johnny said, "Seems some woman tried to kill the Commander of Net Force."

  Genaloni looked up from the paper, over the top of the reading glasses. "Tried? Tried to?" Then it sank in, the rest of it. "A woman? You saying the Selkie is a fucking woman?"

  Johnny held both hands up in an I-dunno gesture. "This is what our guy in D.C. sent."

  Genaloni read the paper. It was a copy of an incident report, and it was lean, not much to it. And it didn't look as if the cops were gonna stay on it, either; the feds had kicked them out.

  Genaloni shook his head. A woman. He couldn't believe it. He'd talked to the Selkie on the phone three, four times, had never had a clue--she'd sounded like a man. A woman. That bothered him more than that she'd tried the hit and missed. And that bothered him more than a little. What if they caught her? What if she kept some kind of records, linking him to her?

  He'd worried about this before, of course, but not really. The Selkie had always delivered. There was a lot of money to be made and it wouldn't serve him--no, her--to rat him out. But now? This was bad. Especially if she was a woman. You couldn't trust women with your ass.

  "We got some computer geeks on the payroll, right?"

  "Some of the best."

  "Put 'em to work. I want them to run down the Selkie. Find her--if it really is a her."

  "And after we find her?"

  "Nothing. Just find her. I'll decide what I want to do once you get that part done."

  Johnny nodded and left. Genaloni looked at the fax sheet. This whole thing with Luigi and the feds was a fuckup. He didn't like any of it, and it was getting worse. Maybe it was time to cut his losses and tighten up. Find Luigi and put him away, in case he'd said anything he shouldn't have. Find the Selkie, put her away. Take care of the guy she'd tried to kill himself, no loose ends anywhere.

  Jesus. He didn't need this kind of crap. The damned road to legitimacy was going to be knee-deep in blood, the way it was looking right now.

  Jesus.

  Friday, October 1st, 12:12 p.m. New Orleans

  Jay Gridley downshifted from fourth to third, enjoying the Viper's muscular rumble as it slowed for the off-ramp to the right. He pulled to a stop at the light, waited for a couple of trucks to go by, then turned right onto the surface street.

  Welcome to New Orleans. Laissez les bons temps rouler --let the good times roll. . . .

  He'd heard a rumor he had to check out, that there was some kind of rascal going down, a chunk of money being rerouted, and the fingerprints on the deal were invisible. Might be the guy he was looking for.

  He idled at another traffic signal, and while waiting for the light to change, glanced at the newsstand on the corner. The hardcopy papers and magazines wilted under the heat and high humidity, covers drooping flaccidly. There was one of those big colorful maps pasted on the kiosk: CyberNation! He really was going to have to check that out a little more. A man in his position needed to know such things.

  A headline caught his attention. He waved at the vendor, held up a dollar and pointed at the paper he wanted. The man next to the stand stepped into the street, took Jay's money and handed him the paper.

  The headline said: THAI PRIME MINISTER DIES IN CRASH.

  The vendor didn't offer any change.

  Gridley had time to scan the first paragraph before the light turned green.

  Apparently Prime Minister Sukho had driven his car off a bridge. He'd been alone at the time. A freak accident.

  His widow had no comment.

  Gridley blew out a sigh. Well, well.

  The traffic was bad in the Crescent City, the roads jammed with locals and tourists coming to visit, to see the river, taste the spicy foods, maybe take in a strip show on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. When you visited an officially sponsored city-site in VR, you had to live with the RW local conditions, and even in October, the heat and dampness were oppressive here.

  The place he was going was called Algiers, and it was not the best of neighborhoods, despite years of trying to renew the district. He had done a little research on it, enough to know he wanted to get in and out quick. His Viper would move fast enough to keep him ahead of a lot of trouble, but it wasn't a tank. He depended on his speed and skill, and so far, he'd been able to outrun VR thugs, but even an expert could get trapped in a dead end.

  He wove his way through narrow streets, keeping a careful watch on the other traffic. He also watched with care the pedestrians who lounged on corners, drinking beer from long-necked bottles or unknown liquid from pints hidden inside little paper bags. In this section of town, most of the faces he saw were dark, or at least swarthy, and none of them looked kind.

  He saw money being exchanged for small baggies or vials, saw women dressed in short skirts and hooker heels leaning against bus benches or in the lee of bar doorways, watching for potential customers.

  Even in VR, Gridley wanted no part of these women.

  He glanced down at the directions he'd gotten. Another turn, a right, and he was on a street barely wide enough for two cars. Ahead was the branch of the Bank of Louisiana he'd come to find, what looked like a trailer without wheels, set in front of a lot full of building rubble.

  Parked in front of the bank branch was a shiny new metallic-blue Corvette convertible with the top down, the motor running. A man came out of the bank in a hurry. He looked young, but he moved old, wore a nice suit, and he carried a briefcase in one hand. He would have passed for a customer, a businessman--except he was wearing a mask.

  He looked up, saw Gridley, and ran for the Vette. He threw the briefcase into the passenger seat as he opened the driver's door and jumped into the car.

  On some level, all of a sudden, Gridley knew. It was him! The programmer! He was sure of it!

  He grinned, gunned the Viper. He'd cut the sucker off, block his escape.

  The masked man got the jump on him, though. He pulled away from the curb, leaving rubber as he upshifted.

  All right, all right, it didn't matter! The Vette was fast, but it couldn't touch the Viper, through the gears or topside--it didn't have the guts, no way!

  Gridley stomped the gas pedal, felt the Viper surge as if it was goosed. Gained on the Vette. Aloud, he said, "Might as well shut it down, pal, you ain't goin' nowhere!"

  The narrow street hadn't been designed with muscle cars doing eighty in mind. A curve to the right burned more tire rubber on both vehicles, but Gridley kept the Viper on the road, shifting, tapping the gas, still gaining. He was a hundred feet back and he'd eat that space in five more seconds--

  The driver of the Vette threw a handful of shiny dimes into the air.

  At least that was what it looked like at first. It wasn't until the dimes hit the street that Gridley saw they weren't coins at all, but some kind of spiked things.

  Caltrops!

  He stood on the brake pedal. The Viper's brakes locked, the car skidded and slowed, but not enough. The left front tire went first, made a noise like a firecracker going off. The Viper lurched to the left. Gridley jerked the steering wheel, partially straightened the car out, almost had it--then the right front tire ble
w. The Viper spun into the new flat, lost traction as it hit the curb, popped both rear tires and slammed into a storefront. Glass exploded as the Viper smashed through a big window and into a small bakery, shattering display cases. The car slid backward, knocked over a table and came to a stop against a counter. The impact tumbled the old metal cash register onto the Viper's trunk.