Net Force

Somebody somewhere had surely written a book on how to tell a man you still liked, but didn't want to sleep with again, that you still liked him — but didn't want to sleep with him again. She wished she had read it. How did you just up and blurt it out? Look, it was a lot of fun screwing our brains out, and I like you and all, but I don't want to have sex with you anymore because it was a spur-of-the-moment mistake and, nothing personal or anything, but I love somebody else. Even though he doesn't think of me in that way. Sorry. So, how about them Orioles, huh?

Toni tried to think how she would feel if the roles were reversed. It would be hard to be dumped, especially if she was in love with the man blandly telling her they should just be friends from now on. That was close enough to the relationship she had with Alex to be painful. If they'd slept together and he'd said it to her, she didn't think she'd be able to stand it.

Did Rusty love her? He had not said so in those words, but he certainly was attracted to her strongly. And since the sex had been good, he might have trouble understanding. The problem was, he hadn't said or done anything wrong; it wasn't his fault. But no matter how she polished and shined it up, no matter how many pretty flowers she covered it in, it was still going to be a rejection: I don't want you anymore.

Worse, it didn't matter what Rusty thought — he didn't have any choice. It was a done deal, not open to negotiation, end of discussion. So sorry.

That it was already decided didn't make it any easier. She didn't want to hurt him, but it was either cut him off clean with a sudden slash, or poke him with a needle and let him slowly bleed out. That was the easier way. She could be too busy to see him, too busy to work out, too busy to answer his calls. His FBI training would end soon. He'd be posted as a junior agent to some field office a thousand miles away — a nasty part of her realized that if she wished it, she could even pull a few strings to arrange a distant posting — and that would be the end of it. A slow leak, eventually running dry, with Rusty probably wondering all the while what he'd done wrong.

That was the coward's way, to stand back at a distance and avoid the confrontation. She had been taught to face things head-on, to move in close and do what was needed to finish things. It was more dangerous, but it was quicker and cleaner.

Quicker. Cleaner. Harder.

Then again, maybe all he wanted to do was get laid. He was male, she wasn't so ugly people crossed the street to avoid her — maybe sex was all he had in mind? That would make it easier.

She wished she had somebody to talk to about this, a girlfriend to ask for advice, but there was nobody locally. She thought about calling her friend Irena back in the Bronx, but it didn't seem fair. They hadn't talked in months, and it didn't feel right to call her just to cry on her shoulder. Besides, Irena had never been a heavy dater. She'd had a couple of boyfriends before she got married, and she was madly in love with Todd. Toni had never told her about Alex, how she felt, and she would have to do that, to put the Rusty thing into context. Otherwise, why would she want to dump him, with all he had going for him?

No, she'd have to do this on her own.

She was not looking forward to it.

Thursday, October 7th, 8:56 p.m. Quantico

John Howard paced in his office while the computer put together yet another scenario for the theoretical snatch of the Russian programmer. So far, Howard had run five operation plans, with the computer's estimates of their chances at success ranging from sixty-eight percent down to less than twelve percent. He did not like these numbers. Given his knowledge of ops out of the standard Strategy and Tactics modules, without at least an eighty- percent success estimate, people were likely to get hurt, maybe die. Could be the enemy lost troops, could be he did. The former was better than the latter, but in this particular combatsit, both were bad.

Sometimes you had to fight the battle, no matter what the odds, but he didn't like going in knowing he was going to lose people.

The big elements were stable, but the small variables were always the problem. The more of those he had information on, the better he could program the Op S&T mod, but — how to determine some of these? A straight-up fire-fight in a big field in the middle of nowhere was easy. But what, for instance, could you do to predict the traffic pattern on the streets of any large city during a covert operation? An unexpected wreck on a major artery during rush hour could cause a total stoppage; you had to figure on alternate routes, and you had to assume that if you wanted to take those routes, others caught in the jam would also want to use them. But even if you planned on a big truck overturning, how could you figure out where and when it might do so?

You could not, unless you put it there yourself.

If you reckoned on an assault during off-peak hours, early in the morning or in the middle of the night, say, that offered other problems to replace the ones you solved by choosing that option. Local police noticed activity in the middle of the night they might ignore during the day; if discovered, it was much harder to hide, and outrunning air pursuit on the ground for any distance was nearly impossible. They had helicopters everywhere now, even in countries where most of the population still lived in grass huts.

Plus, the snatch was only one element. A small unit, three or four troops, no more, would handle that. An escape route, preferably by air, would have to be arranged. Something that could fly fast enough to get away quickly, and yet stay under enemy radar while so doing, was necessary.

But if the operation went south? How many men were necessary for a backup team? Did the Net Force team want to begin a firefight with troops of a supposedly friendly nation? What were the repercussions of that?

Howard shook his head. It was a lot to chew on, and no matter how well he did it, he knew some bit would be missed. It might be small enough to pass through the system undigested. It might be just large enough to block a windpipe and choke him. There was a pleasant thought.

The computer chimed. The new op was done. Chance of success, fifty-four percent.

Might as well flip a coin for that one.

'Computer, retain previous parameters, change operation begin-time to 2300 hours and run.'

The computer chimed again and began cross-checking the op.

He paced again. It was probably all going to be moot. He did not have much confidence that Michaels would give the order to use military intervention in this situation. He had too many people to answer to higher up the chain of command, and they were all civilians. It was one thing to go into a foreign country with the locals knowing you were there but pretending you were not there, thus offering a tacit approval of your actions. It was another thing to put troops on foreign soil with the expressed disapproval of the locals. The Chechens had been touchy about such things since the Russians had invaded them years ago; they would not welcome an American StrikeForce team wandering around in their country, no matter how covert. If it hit the fan, there would be major noise. Heads would roll, and likely his would be the first to hit the ground.

Still, he had his orders. He would carry them out to the best of his ability. He was a soldier. That was what he did.

Thursday, October 7th, 9:02 p.m. Washington, D.C.

The Selkie couldn't expect the teams guarding the target to use the same route to his condo twice in a row. However, the closer they got, the fewer options they had. There were only two main approaches to the neighborhood, and if they wanted to drive there, they would have to use one or the other. If they didn't use this one today, they would likely use it tomorrow.

She got lucky. Today, they picked this route.

She stood at a public phone kiosk next to a stop-and-rob a mile away from Michaels's place, her new bicycle on its kickstand next to her. She was dressed as a man in boots, baggy jeans, an oversized jacket, with a short and well-trimmed fake beard, and while the bodyguards saw her, she had her back to them as the procession passed, watching them via the small rearview bicycle safety mirror attached to the helmet she wore. They paid little attention to her.

As she'd expected, they had ramped up the level of protection. There were two close-in outrider cars, one in front, one behind, and the target rode in an armored limo. She hadn't wanted to risk a drive-by look at his condo, but she had to assume the place was covered with a tight net of security. She wasn't going to granny her way down