Net Force

Today, when Mora Sullivan came in from her noon run — six miles, the last two in a pouring subtropical thunderstorm — she found her computer flashing its warning-light signal.

The house alarm diodes were all green; nobody had come into the building itself. The computer warning was due to an electronic break-in — or somebody trying to.

She blotted her face and hair with the thick towel she had left by the door. It rained almost every other day here in the summer, and while hurricane season was pretty much over, early October had its share of storms. She stripped off her wet shoes and socks, dropped the fanny pack with the plastic and pretty much waterproof Glock nine in it; she peeled the spandex bra and pants off, and finished toweling herself mostly dry before she started for the computer.

She put the towel on the office chair, sat naked upon the damp terrycloth and said, 'Security program, log on.'

The voxax brought the log up on-screen. Given her choice, Sullivan preferred real-time computer work; she didn't much care for VR, since it meant she had to effectively blind and deafen herself to ride the net.

She scanned the program. Somebody had probed at the Selkie's com circuit. They had only gotten a couple of bounces into the maze she'd constructed before they'd lost the signal, but even that was something of a surprise. Whoever had tried it was pretty good, professional-class.

She hoped they weren't good enough to spot the leeches she'd left for potential invaders.

'Security, backtrack the intruder.'

A series of numbers and letters flashed on the screen, followed by a map. Arcing, bright blue lines lit as the leech program fed the intruder's initial signal back to her computer through the series of firewalls and shunts. When it reached New York City, the dot representing the intruder pulsed a bright light, and an electronic address lit and also pulsed red underneath the dot.

So the invader was good, but not great. The leech had been undetected. Given what she had paid for the leeches, that was not a big surprise.

'Security, reverse directory, e-mail unabridged, crosscheck this address.'

More letter-and-number crawl sped up the screen.

A name flashed: Ruark Electronic Services, Inc.

'Security, give me the names of the corporation officers and any holding companies for Ruark Electronic Services, Inc.'

A moment passed. A list of names appeared. Heloise Camden Ruark, President and Chief Executive Officer; Richard Ruark, Vice-President; Mary Beth Campbell, Treasurer. A public company, incorporated in the state of Delaware, June 2005, blah, blah, blah—

Well, well, well. And look here, the owner of seventy-five percent of the outstanding shares was something called 'Electronic Enterprises Group,' which itself just happened to be—

— a wholly owned subsidiary of Genaloni Industries.

Sullivan leaned back and stared at the screen. So. Genaloni was trying to find her. She nodded. To be expected. The man wore a thin veneer of respectability, but under it, he was a thug. To a man like Genaloni, the response to a threat, whether real or imagined, was to burn all the bridges on any road leading to his castle, and then stand by the pots of boiling lead to cook anybody who might get past the rivers. Never use a needle when there was a boulder available. Genaloni would have heard about the attempt on her target's life. And since the target had seen her as a woman, and doubtless reported it so, the thug would be doubly worried. He did not trust women, and he could not abide failure. In Genaloni's league, strike one and you were out — strike two was a guarantee of bad things to come.

This was not altogether unexpected — she had halfway thought Genaloni might attempt to trace her before now — other clients had tried to get a handle on the Selkie. So far, her safeguards had been sufficient; nobody had ever gotten close.

As of now, the address and identity she had used when she'd taken the assignment from Sampson were history. Even if they found the place, there was nothing to tie it to Mora Sullivan, or any of the other aliases she used. But this was a bad sign. Genaloni was a thug, to be sure, but he was a smart thug, and a persistent one. If he was worried that the Selkie might be linked to him, he would do everything he could to remove the link. If that included having her found and killed, well, there it was. In Genaloni's jungle, self-preservation ruled. If he saw an aged, crippled lion half a mile away, going in another direction, he'd shoot it anyhow — because it might turn around someday. Who knew?

She scratched an itch on her bare left shoulder. She wouldn't be collecting anymore money for the target she had missed, but that was not really important. For her own pride, she would finish that job, payment or not. That was a given. And while she didn't think Genaloni's hackers could find her, even the smallest possibility that they might was too much to ignore. She would not spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She would finish the job on the target in D.C., but she would also have to do something about Genaloni.

And after that? Well, maybe it was time for the Selkie to retire. When the winds of change blew up a line of tornadoes, a smart woman took cover — or moved elsewhere.

Saturday, October 2nd, 1:15 p.m. Washington, D.C.

'Tyrone?'

Tyrone instantly recognized the Voice of Doom, even though the phone's visual was off. 'Uh, yeah.'

'This is Bella. Did you lose my number?'

'Uh, no, I was just about to call you.'

That's good, said the voice of self-preservation, hiding behind its rock. Lie. First a little one, then a big one. Tell her you have a fatal disease and you can't leave the house!

'Standout. So, can you come over this afternoon?'

No! No! A million quadrillion times no!

'Uh, sure. I can do that. Come over. I mean, to your house.'

'About three okay?'

No-no-no-no-nooo! Not good, not okay!

'Sure, three.'

'You have the address?'

'Yeah.'

'Okay, scan you then. And Tyrone? Thank you. This means a lot to me, you know?'

'Um… sure. Nopraw.'

'Discom,' she said.

Yeah, nopraw and discom, deadhead! Maybe because it means so much to her, Bonebreaker will make it quick, just snap your neck fast so you won't suffer too much! Asshole! Fool! Moron!

Tyrone stared at the cradled phone. He knew he ought to be terrified, but oddly enough, only a small part of him was. That part hiding inside his head behind its rock. The rest of him was… what, exactly? Thrilled? Yeah, that was part of it. That the best-looking girl in school had asked for his help, that he was going to her house, to stand and sit right next to her, to show her something he knew something about…

Well, like Jimmy Joe had said. If he was going to die, he might as well get there by a fun route. Besides, RW-speaking, Bonebreaker probably wasn't going to actually kill him. Maybe hammer him into a bloody pulp, but probably he'd survive, right?

His mother wandered into the room, carrying a set of blueprints for the birdhouse she was building. 'Hey, hon. Who was that on the phone?'

'A person from school. They want me to help them with a computer project. I'm going to go over to their house at three, is that okay?'

' ‘A person? They? Them? Their house?' My, aren't we getting plural.' His mom grinned. 'Would ‘this person' perhaps be of the… female persuasion, Ty?'

'Geez, Mom!'

'Ah. That's what I thought. What's her name?'

'Belladonna Wright.'

'Is that Marsha Wright's little girl?'