Net Force (1998) Read online

A holographic projector in the ceiling clicked on, and a three-dimensional image of the assassination scene, photographed from a police helicopter less than eight hours ago, blossomed in the middle of the table.

  Michaels began to lay it out. The explosion, the attack, the dead and suspected dead. He did it methodically, taking his time. He had the computer show other views as he talked. After ten minutes, he paused and looked around the table. "Any questions so far?"

  "Any other unusual activity regarding federal officials last night?" That from the President. Yes, that was a prudent question. Who might be next?

  "No, sir."

  "Anybody step forward to claim responsibility, terrorist groups, like that?"

  "No, Mr. President."

  "Anything on the bombs?" Reed asked.

  "The charge under the manhole cover was a U.S. Army antitank mine, and the explosive's taggants identified it as part of a batch that supposedly went into the ground in Iraq during the Gulf War. Likely dug up by some farmer with a metal detector and sold on the black market. Or maybe diverted by a quartermaster before it ever got to Iraq. No way to tell at this point."

  "The limpet on the door was untagged, but our lab says it's Israeli small-marine surplus, about five years old."

  "Probably pick up one of those at a good-sized gun show," Reed said. He smiled to show it was a joke. He sounded nervous, too. Not really afraid, but a little edgy. Understandable.

  Michaels continued: "No prints or DNA dregs on the expended brass, all of which were identical. From the bullets removed from the victims and cars, the ammunition appears to have been factory-loaded Federal 147 gr. 9mm Luger FMJ round-nose, and would have been subsonic from either a pistol or a submachine gun. Extractor marks on the casings show that both types of weapons were used. So far, recovered tags from the gunpowder show the lot numbers to be parts of shipments that went to Chicago, Detroit, Miami and Fort Worth."

  "Good luck tracing that," Reed said. "And those guns are probably in the bay by now."

  "All right, we have the facts, such as they are," the President said. "How about a theory. Who did it, Mr. Michaels? Who are they going to come after next?"

  "Computer, image twelve," Michaels said.

  Another holoproj appeared, also from the air, but this one showing a different scene, recorded in daylight.

  "This is an FBI archive image of the scene of the killing of Thomas 'Big Red' O'Rourke in New York City last September. The method of attack was remarkably similar. A bomb went off under the Irish mobster's armored limo, the doors were blown off by limpets, O'Rourke and his bodyguards were killed by multiple rounds from 9mm pistols and submachine guns."

  "There have been other killings like that, haven't there?" the President said.

  "Yes, sir. Joseph DiAmmato, of the Dixie Mafia, in New Orleans last December, and Peter Heitzman in Newark this past February. The FBI's Organized Crime Unit believes the hits were ordered by Ray Genaloni, head of the New York City Five Families, but the investigation is still pending."

  "Meaning you don't have anything concrete yet," Reed said.

  "Nothing a federal prosecutor wants to take into court, no."

  The President nodded. "So it looks like what we're talking about here is mob related? Not some kind of terrorist activity?"

  Michaels was careful with his next words. "Sir. At first glance, it would seem a strong possibility."

  Carver said, "If I may, Alex?"

  Michaels nodded, happy to let his boss take over. He hoped his relief didn't show too much.

  Carver said, "Commander Day was head of the FBI's Organized Crime Unit for several years. During that time, many of the top people in the major New York families were arrested, and half of those were convicted and put away. Genaloni's father and older brother were among those imprisoned. The mob wouldn't lose any sleep over Steve's death. And they tend to have long memories."

  " 'Revenge is a dish best served cold,' " the President said. "Isn't that a Sicilian proverb?" He looked a bit more relaxed than he had. The mob wouldn't be gunning for him.

  He stood, glancing at his watch. "I hate to cut this short, gentlemen, but I have pressing matters elsewhere. It looks like this is some kind of mob thing, and while I regret the loss of Commander Day, I can't see that national security is at risk here." He glanced at Reed, who shook his head.

  Or their own asses, Michaels thought.

  "Okay, Walt, I would like to see this cleared up. Keep me apprised. Gentlemen. Mrs. Upton."

  With that, the President and his Chief of Staff left.

  Carver moved over to where Michaels stood near the computer. "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

  "No, sir."

  "All right. We'll start some heat Genaloni's way," Carver said. "The man won't be able to pee without somebody watching him from inside the bowl. I want you to get your computer people digging."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Talk to Brent Adams at OC. He'll be told to cooperate. We aren't going to have a turf war here--I'm giving this one to you. The President of the United States has just told us he wants to see this cleared up, and it did not sound like a request to me."

  "No, sir."

  "That's it. I want situation reports daily, sooner if anything breaks. Anything else you can think of?"

  "No, sir. We'll keep you in the loop."

  "Good man."

  Not until he was back in his car and well away from the White House did Michaels allow himself to relax. This high-level stuff was risky. He would rather be in the field, training new agents, anything, than playing with politicians and security advisors. Here, a misstep, one word out of place, and you'd be counting paper clips the rest of your career. So now, aside from his personal agenda, he had it straight from the top: Find out who killed Steve Day.

  Find out--or else.

  Fine. No problem. That was exactly what he planned to do, and he had the resources to do it.

  Wednesday, September 8th, 9:30 a.m. Quantico, Virginia

  Toni Fiorella was in the small gym practicing djurus when two members of the newest class of FBI mainline recruits came in. There were maybe a dozen people already working out--lifting weights, using the flywheel bikes or punching the heavy bag, but most of them were regulars, instructors or people assigned to Training HQ. The trainees tended to stay in their own gym, which was just fine with her. Newbies, most of them fresh out of law or accounting schools, tended to think they knew everything, and that the Bureau should feel honored they had chosen to grace it with their wonderful presence.

  She shifted into a right-front stance, most of her weight on her forward foot, knee bent, did the windshield-wiper-like two-handed block to control the center, left, right, then shot her right elbow upward in a short, tight strike to an imaginary opponent's head. She slapped the elbow with her left hand to simulate the hit, slid the left hand under the right arm, where it stood ready to sweep away an opponent's return punch, then shot the straight right and left punches that followed.

  This was the first djuru, and a very simple sequence.

  One of the newbies, a tall, muscular man in blue spandex bike shorts and a matching FBI-trainee T-shirt, looked at Toni, then chuckled and said something to his buddy.

  The second newbie was a short and compact man, a bit on the pudgy side, with a thick bar of eyebrows. He laughed in return.

  Toni ignored the two, did the left punch and chambered that arm by her hip, then stepped forward with her left foot, to mirror the moves she'd just done.

  Day's death had affected her more than she would have thought, and Alex's state of mind was also weighing heavily on her. She'd come to the gym to burn off some of her frustration at not being able to reach out to Alex the way she wanted. The workout wasn't helping much, and she wasn't feeling particularly charitable just now.

  She finished the series of steps and strikes, made the backfist turn and started back the way she'd come, starting into the second djuru's pattern. In Bukti, there were eight short forms, or djuru
s, that many sambuts--prearranged fighting sets--and techniques beyond counting based on those few simple routines.

  Spandex and Eyebrows had faced off against each other; they danced back and forth, sparring. Even though she knew she should have been concentrating on her form--her guru would have frowned at her lack of attention--she watched the two men peripherally. Spandex threw a lot of high round and spinning kicks, most of them to the head, while Eyebrows barked several kiais, the karate-style guttural yells used for focus, as he backpedaled and ducked or blocked the kicks.

  She figured Spandex for one of the Korean styles, Eyebrows for a Japanese or Okinawan fighting form. Both men looked fairly adept, though Spandex was better.

  She saw Spandex grin, then launch a flying-spinning back-kick.

  Right out of a bad action movie, she thought. She kept her pace even, trying to pretend she didn't notice them. Her expression gave her away, though--she couldn't stop the smile completely.

  Spandex caught it, and he was not pleased.

  He did a quick bow to Eyebrows to show he was done, then turned to face her. "Something funny, ma'am?" He had a strong Southern accent. Alabama, Mississippi, maybe.

  Ma'am. Well, he wasn't paranoid, because she was laughing at him, however hidden she tried to keep it. And, truthfully, she hadn't really tried very hard to hide it. She had to watch this, the feeling of superiority she got when she saw one of the other Oriental fighting styles. Everybody thought their own system was better; she knew hers was.

  Toni was about to the end of her set anyhow. She stopped. She knew she didn't look particularly imposing in her old black sweats, wrestling shoes and sweaty headband. And at five-five and a hundred and thirty pounds, she was almost a foot shorter and probably seventy pounds lighter than Spandex. But his tone irritated her.

  "No," she said. "Nothing funny."

  "Really? I thought maybe you were, you know, amused by my form or something."

  "No. It's not amusing," she said. She started to turn away.

  Eyebrows decided this was a good time to jump in. He said, "My friend here has a second-degree black belt." He waved at her, as if to take in the form she'd been practicing. "I bet he could teach you some things."

  "I'm sure he could," Toni said. Yeah, how to move wrong. But she kept her mouth shut as she headed for her towel. Might as well shower. She wasn't going to be able to concentrate with these two bozos flexing and being macho. She'd grown up with a houseful of brothers; she knew once the testosterone got to flowing, it was like the full-moon tide, there was no stopping it. Pretty soon, these two would be spitting on the ground and adjusting their crotches, or as close as they could get to it indoors.

  Manhood was a tricky business. She ought to know better than to mess with it by now.

  "So, what is that little shuffle thing you were doing?" Spandex said. He and Eyebrows grinned at each other.

  Little shuffle thing. Oh, boy.

  She turned back to face the pair. "It's called a djuru," she said. "The style is Pukulan Pentjak Silat Bukti Negara-Serak ."

  Spandex gave her a big grin. "Sounds like some kind of Thai food with peanut sauce. You, uh, have any rank in it?"

  "We don't have belts. You're either a student or a teacher. I'm a student."

  "Well, it looks very nice," Spandex said. "Even though I never heard of it."

  Nice.

  Toni smiled. There were a lot of things she generally let pass when she heard them from obnoxious men, and condescension had to be high on her list, since she got so much of it. She was only twenty-seven--that got comments, a woman--more comments, and Italian--that one was usually good for three or four Mafia jokes. She wondered why it was men felt the need to behave with her as they sometimes did. Not all men, not all the time, but enough so that it was sometimes a chore dealing with them. More than sometimes, it seemed to her.

  Another day, in a better mood, she'd have smiled and shaken her head and turned away, let the boys have their fun. But right now, she didn't much feel the milk of human kindness flowing through her. It had been a long, crappy night, and was shaping up to be a long and crappier day. She didn't need this. And know what? She didn't have to take it.

  So she said, "I'm sorry your education has been so narrow."

  Spandex frowned. He knew an insult when he heard it. "Excuse me?"

  She smiled wider, as sweet as she could make it. "Which part didn't you understand?"

  "Look, ma'am, there's no reason to get snotty."

  "Oh, I agree. So, you're a black belt, is that right?"

  "That's right."

  "Tell you what. Why don't you come over here and see if you can hit me? And I'll show you how my little shuffle works."

  Spandex and Eyebrows exchanged glances. Spandex hesitated, and she knew why. This was a no-win situation for him. If he whacked her, he was a big bully picking on a little woman. If she whacked him, his manhood would be in great jeopardy.

  "I don't think so, ma'am. I am an expert. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

  "I wouldn't worry about that," she said. "I don't think it's likely."

  She knew this was not a good thing to be doing. Her guru would be irritated in the extreme to know she was egging this guy on, but she couldn't seem to help herself. The trainee was so arrogant it rose from him like steam from a fresh-cooked hot dog on a winter's day in the Bronx.

  Eyebrows waggled the hairy bar at Spandex. "Hey, you don't have to hit her hard. You can pull it. Just show her a couple of your moves."

  Spandex grinned. A chance to shine? How could he pass that up? "All right, ma'am."

  He walked closer. When he was about three meters away, he stopped. Bowed. Dropped into a narrow horse stance and edged forward, hands lifted, one high, one low. "You ready?"

  She almost laughed. Might as well send her a telegram. "Oh, yeah."

  He was fast--and he was smarter than he looked. He didn't try one of the flashy and stupid high kicks. He scooted, stepped in, and fired a quick, hard right punch at her chest, right leg leading. It was a good shot, in balance, aimed where it wouldn't cause her any great damage if she missed deflecting it. Kept his other hand up to cover.

  Perfect.

  He probably expected her to step back and parry, but that was not how it went in her version of silat, not in this situation. She double-blocked with both hands open, stepped toward him, set her left foot down in a front stance and ducked under his outstretched arm as she swung her right elbow into his ribs under the armpit. Made a nice hollow thump when she hit him. Stopped him cold.

  Surprised the hell out of him, too.

  Her feet were already in place. Base--

  She reached up behind him fast, caught his left shoulder with her left hand. Angle--

  At the same time, she reached up and across with her right hand and laid it on his forehead, elbow down. Leverage --

  Those things done, she pushed forward, then tugged down and back at his shoulder at the same time she swept his head backward.

  Base, angle, leverage. If you had all three, the technique always worked. No exceptions.

  She had all three.

  Spandex went down like a chainsawed redwood, hit the mat flat on his back. She could have followed up with elbows, knees, whatever, but instead she moved back two steps. She didn't want to hurt him. Just embarrass him.

  The entire sequence, from the time of his punch until she stepped away, had taken just under two seconds.

  He rolled up and started for her. "Bitch!"

  Well. So much for "ma'am."

  He probably had a sequenced attack planned, a favorite combination of kicks and punches, fakes, sweeps, before the killer shot that usually worked for him when he sparred for points. If she stood there and let him get to it, it could be dangerous.

  She didn't let him get to it.

  As he launched a left jab to set her up, she stepped outside with the two-handed block, alligatored his arm with both hands just above his elbow, pivoted, dropped all her weight to one k
nee and pinwheeled him. Some of the boxing styles did teach their students how to do a little grappling and how to fall, but apparently Spandex's was not one of them.

  He did a half-flip, and slammed into the mat on his upper back again, hard enough to knock his wind out. This was all simple stuff, right out of the first djuru. Why work any harder than you had to?

  Toni came to her feet, waiting to see if he was going to try a third attack.

  Spandex was not so foolish. This time when he got up, he held out one hand in a no mas gesture. Lesson over. He knew when he was overmatched.

  Toni felt pretty good, despite knowing she should not have felt that way. Then she glanced at the entrance to the gym.