thrust it toward Howard. So keen was his vision that Howard noticed a ring on the man's right forefinger as he wrapped the digit around the trigger—
No time to raise the assault rifle to aim. Howard point-indexed the thin man, stabbed the weapon at him as if it were a bayonet and pulled the trigger. The big weapon bucked, once — twice — three times! and recoil lifted the muzzle with the second and third rounds. The first bullet struck at high solar-plexus level, the second the base of the throat, the third at the top of the receding hairline. Howard saw the spray of the head's exit wound, a balloon full of dark red fluid bursting—
The thin man fell, already dead, taking nearly forever to reach the floor. Land masses rose and sank, life came and went, time wore away mountains…
By the time the dead man lay flat on the concrete, the battle was over.
Howard noticed his ears were ringing, and the stink of burned gunpowder filled his nostrils. Jesus!
His troops moved, covering the surviving terrorists. Two had made it up the stairs, only to find the other exits blocked. Hands raised, they came down the stairs again.
The yelling man had survived. When the smoke cleared and the counts were done, of the twenty-one terrorists, nine were dead, six were wounded — two seriously enough so that Howard's medics didn't give them much hope, four with survivable injuries. The unit's medical transports had already pulled up and were hauling the bodies and wounded out.
None of Howard's troops had sustained a scratch.
And he had killed a man, face-to-face, who had tried to kill
'Sir,' Fernandez said, 'we oughta skedaddle.'
'Affirmative, Sarge.' He glanced at his watch. Not yet noon. Amazing.
According to Hunter, they had about ten minutes before the local authorities would have to quit pretending they didn't know anything and take action. 'Pack it up,' Howard said to the troops. 'Oh, and… good work.'
That earned him a few grins, but his adrenaline was fast fading. He felt tired, old and suddenly depressed. He and his troops had been better trained, better armed, and they'd had surprise on their side. This wasn't a battle, it had been a complete rout. These so-called terrorists had never had a chance.
How much pride could you take in winning a battle of wits with an idiot? A footrace with a man wearing casts on his ankles? Not very much.
Still — he hadn't screwed it up. That was something.
15
Toni Fiorella was practicing
She was breathing hard and working on a pretty good sweat when Jesse Russell came into the gym. No spandex this time. He wore faded black sweat pants, an oversize black T-shirt and mat shoes.
'Hey,' he said.
'Mr. Russell.'
'Rusty. Please.'
'All right. Rusty.'
'What, uh, do I call you in class? As a gesture of respect?
'The term we use for teacher is ‘Guru,' ' she said.
He smiled. 'Really?'
'Indonesia got a lot of its culture from the mainland, some from the Hindu and Moslem religions.'
He laughed.
She raised her eyebrows.
He said, 'I was just thinking about telling my friend Harold about this: ‘I went to see my guru today.' ‘Yeah? You learning how to meditate?' '
'Actually, she's teaching me how to kick some serious ass.'
Toni smiled. 'Are you serious, Rusty? About learning?'
'Yes, ma'am. I trained five years in taekwondo, and I'm pretty sure I can handle myself in most situations, but it's mostly outfighting, long range. This in-your-face stuff sorta came as a surprise. I'd really like to learn it.'
'All right. There are three things you want to remember: base, angle and leverage. And one of the most basic principles works on taking the center line — you want to control the area in front of your head and body, and in front of an opponent's head and body. I'm going to demonstrate the first
He nodded. 'Yes, ma'am.'
When Alex Michaels bothered to eat lunch, he usually ate it at his desk. The unit secretary would get his order, put it on the list and fax it to the deli guy, who would deliver the food to the reception guard just after noon. Before the deli had been approved as a supplier, Net Force had run a background on the deli's owner, his wife and grown kids and the guy who brought the orders. Even so, when the assassination protocols had been in place, if anybody wanted to order out, an agent had to hand-carry the order to the store, then stand and watch the food as it was prepared. Security was tight, and rightfully so — why bother to shoot somebody if you could poison his lunch?
Michaels was partial to the Reuben sandwich and potato salad, and the crunchy dill pickle, quarter-sliced lengthways, that came with it. That was what he usually ordered.
On days when he just had to get out of the unit for a few minutes, he skipped the deli order and the Net Force cafeteria and went to the new restaurant row a couple miles away. In good weather, he took his recumbent trike, a low-slung sixteen-gear three-wheeler he left parked in the covered bike racks.
Today, the weather was a little crisper than it had been, not quite so warm and muggy, a good day for pedal power. He could legally take the trike on the roads, but there was a jogging/bike path that wound from the edge of the fence, and while it was twice as long, it was a much prettier and safer trip. It had been two weeks since Day's murder, and since there had not been any more assassination attempts on federal officials — if you didn't count the Ninth Circuit Court judge whose wife had beaned him with a fishbowl during an argument about his alleged extramarital affair — the assassination protocols had been downgraded. Now, it was basically pay-attention-to- things, but not an active alert with bodyguards, at least not at his level.
He changed into bike shoes and shorts and a T-shirt in his office, stuck his taser into a small fanny pack with his ID and virgil and put his foam helmet on. He walked outside to the bike and trike racks, unlocked his trike and wheeled it out into the parking lot. The recumbent had set him back two weeks' pay, even used, but he enjoyed the heck out of it. In the lowest gear, he could climb the steepest grade around here, admittedly not saying much, and on a flat road without traffic, he could pump along in high gear at speeds pushing forty. Well, maybe a little less than that, but it felt like he was flying. It was a good way to keep a little tone going on the days he didn't jog, and he hadn't been doing much of that lately. Working out was usually the first thing to go when he got really busy. It was easy to rationalize it — he could always run or hit the Bow-flex later, right?
He squatted and sat on the low seat, slipped his feet into the toe-clips on the pedals and put his riding gloves on. He grabbed the handlebars. He planned to stretch it out a little today — he felt stale. Lunch was pretty much an excuse for a place to go. Probably he wouldn't do more than grab a soft drink before he headed back.
He checked out at the gate, and headed for the bike path.
He stayed in a fairly high gear, even though it was hard to pedal that way at slow speed. The shift lever was
