next several days, Ventura would walk in his client's shoes, go where
he went and do what he did, as much as possible. He would get to know
the man's routine, just as he had gotten to know the routines of those
he had sought out and killed.
And when he knew what he needed to know, then he would notice anything
that did not belong.
He pulled a small phone from the pocket of his gray silk sport coat. He
pressed a button on it, waited for a moment, then said, 'All right.
Let's move.'
The rest of his primary team--two men and two women--were in the coffee
shop or covering the street outside. He watched the man and woman
pretending to be a married couple stand and walk arm in arm toward the
door. Both kept their gun hands clear--the woman was dexter, the man a
sinister, so the man walked on the left, the woman the right.
Ventura tucked the phone away and surreptitiously adjusted the hidden
pistol on his hip as he stood. The leather was a custom pancake
holster from Ted Blocker, the gun a Coonan Cadet, a stainless .357
Magnum. The pistol had been attended to by Ventura himself, the feed
ramp throated and polished, the action slicked, custom springs
installed, with the magazines hand-tuned so there would be no failures
to feed..357s and .40s had the best record of one-shot stopsin street
shootings. A one-shot stop meant that one round to the body put a man
out of the play. The Coonan held seven cartridges, six in the magazine
and one in the chamber, and he carried it in condition one--cocked and
locked. All he had to do was draw, wipe the safety, and fire. Using
hand loads he built himself, Ventura's one-shot stops should be right
at 97 percent. Practically speaking, you couldn't get any better than
that with a handgun. A sub gun was better, a shotgun more so, and a
good rifle best of all, but such things were hard to carry around in
public settings, so one made do with what was available.
He had three other pistols identical to it. If he had to shoot
somebody, the gun had to go away, and since he liked the design and
action, he had bought several, through a dummy dealer. Three years
ago, he'd had eight of the pistols. They were good hardware.
Of course, the mark of a good bodyguard was not having to use the
hardware. He allowed himself a small smile as he headed for the exit.
Like a perfect crime, the best bodyguard was one you never knew
about.
He might not be the best yet, but there was still time for
improvement.
Quantiro, Virginia
'Sir? Somebody to see you. A Dr. Morrison, from Washington State?'
Michaels looked up from his computer, blinking away the reading trance
he'd been in. Morrison, Morrison ... ?
Ah, yes, he remembered. Morrison had called yesterday, said he was in
town, and needed to speak to somebody at Net Force about a problem with
something called HAARP. Michaels had done a fast scan of the archives
to find out that this was short for High Altitude Auroral Research
Project, a joint endeavor that involved the Air Force, Navy, and
