Night Moves

As he watched Toni climb into the helicopter, pointedly not looking at him, he knew there were heavier prices to pay for screwing up — or, in this case, almost screwing somebody.

Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get killed in this clandestine operation.

Thursday, April 14th

Upper Cretaceous

What will be London

On foot, the rocket launcher slung over his shoulder, Jay sniffed the air. The usual jungle odors were there, and there was another smell that washed over the others, insistent in its demand to be noticed. Impossible to ignore, actually.

Next to him, Saji wrinkled her nose and said, 'Lord, what is that stench?'

'Not to put too fine a point on it, it's monster shit.'

He pointed.

Ahead of them was another thicket of prehistoric jungle, representing reams of coded packets, an electronic locus, a nexus that, in RW, corresponded to a computer company in London. Upon the path that led to that jungle, forming a rough triangle with two huge footprints, was a mound of scat, a pile of reeking excrement, brown, the size of a dumpster, and beset by a flock of busy flies.

Off to the sides of the path were a dozen or so other mounds, dried and hardened into the beginnings of giant coprolites. Welcome to Feek City.

The two of them circled around the fresh deposit. This close, they could see undigested bits of bone stuck in the pile, could feel the heat coming off it. The stink was so thick you could almost lean against it.

Jay said, 'Not to pretend I'm any better at cutting sign or anything, but I'm pretty sure it went this way. And I'd bet it came out here to do its business because it lives in there.'

Saji stared at the mound. She shook her head. 'I don't much like the idea of going in there after it,' she said.

Jay unshipped the rocket launcher. 'Me, neither. Stand to the side there,' he said. He shouldered the weapon, aimed it at the jungle, and squeezed the trigger. The rocket whooshed away on a flaming tail, arced into the woods, and blew apart in a fiery kaboom that spewed leaves and other bits of trees every which way.

'Couple more of those ought to get its attention,' Jay said.

Thursday, April 14th

The Yews, Sussex, England

Peel alighted from his car and slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary. He got a grip on his irritation, nodded at Huard, who was standing watch at the rear of the main house, then turned to watch as Ruzhyo got out of the passenger side. The car with the two dead agents in it, along with the gun that killed them, was at the bottom of a thirty-foot-deep sinkhole in a stock pond on one of his lordship's farms in East Sussex, not far from where they'd shot the pair. Well, where Ruzhyo had shot them. The SIS or local police would likely get around to finding the car and its cargo eventually, but probably not immediately. He should have plenty of time to clean up the loose ends and get the hell out of the country. A pity, that, but it was going to be too hot to stay, that was for certain. And while he wouldn't be getting that phantom fortune from the Indonesian bank, Goswell had a safe in his house that would surely yield running-away money. His plan was to ice Goswell, that bastard Bascomb-Coombs, and Ruzhyo — this last with great care, from behind, when he wasn't expecting it. Some artful arranging of the bodies so that it would seem as if the ex-Spetsnaz agent had killed the other two, then been shot by one of his men — Huard, say, who'd have to be iced as well — and Peel would be off. His situation was bad but not fatal, and while he would have preferred that things turned out differently, he could survive it. He was a trained soldier, an officer with command experience in the field. There was always a market for his services somewhere in the third world. He could train an army in one of the CIS countries, or command a battalion in central Africa, or work security for an Arab prince. War dogs were never completely out of fashion, no matter how peaceful things might be. You never knew but that your neighbor was eyeing your territory, and you had to be prepared to protect it, regardless of how wide his smile was or how open his hand seemed.

Not his first choice, but better than the options.

'Stay here and keep your eyes open,' Peel told Ruzhyo.

Ruzhyo saluted with his rolled-up umbrella. He'd likely need that soon: The sky threatened rain, dark clouds rolling in from the North Atlantic in a cool front. Perfect, a storm to make things even gloomier.

Peel walked over to Huard. 'Tell the boys to move out to the perimeter,' he said. 'We might have company. You watch the back door.'

'Yes, sir.'

Peel headed into the house. He would get it all done. And he'd wait until well after dark, so that he could take off on foot across the fields, just in case anybody was watching the estate. He had to figure that if they knew who he was, at least enough to have an SIS team on him, they knew who he worked for. They wouldn't storm the bloody gates at the Yews, oh, no, but they might be waiting for him to leave. If he hiked out on foot far enough, he could boost a car from one of the neighbors, drive to the south coast, and take one of Goswell's boats across the channel. There was no shame in retreating from a superior force. You could always regroup and come back later. A lost battle was not necessarily a lost war.

Goswell was having a drink in the sitting room. 'Hello, Major.'

'Your Lordship. Where is Mr. Bascomb-Coombs?'

'Down the hall, in the study, I believe. Playing with his portable computer. I had his access shut off to the special unit, but he has his way around that, I am sure. His portable computer peeped at him, he got quite agitated, and excused himself to go deal with whatever it was. A drink?'

'Splendid idea,' he said. Applewhite materialized — too bad he would have to die as well, he liked old Applewhite — and Peel held up two fingers, to indicate the depth of his scotch. Oh, what the hell — he added a third finger. He had to last until dark, didn't he? And it had been a long and trying day. Nobody could blame him for needing a stiff drink.

A sudden breeze rattled the window casement, and the first drops of rain spattered on the glass. Well, it was going to be a stormy evening, to be sure, in more ways than one.

Chapter 39

Thursday, April 14th

En route to the Yews

The Net Force team rode in what Howard called his Mobile On-Scene Command Center — essentially a large RV he had hurriedly rented — with Julio Fernandez driving, and cursing as he did so: 'Why don't you stupid bastards drive on the right side of the road!'

The rest of the Strike Team had already piled into cars and trucks at the military base and were on their way to the meeting place — in this case, a fire station in Sussex.

Howard had a computer set up on a small table, and Michaels and Toni sat next to it, watching. Howard brought up an image, an augmented aerial view of a big house and some smaller structures. 'This is Goswell's place,' he said.

'You get this from MI-6?' Michaels asked.

'No, sir. I had Big Squint — USAT — footprint it this morning.'

'Before we knew we were going to do this?' Toni asked.

'Yes, ma'am. Never hurts to keep the six-P principle in mind.'

Michaels nodded to himself. Everybody here knew what that meant: Proper planning prevents piss-poor performance. Howard was just doing his job.

Howard continued, 'We'd be a lot better off if we had a couple of days to study things, to run tactical scenarios, and to play with alternative plans, but since we don't, we KISS it and hope for the best.'

Another acronym: Keep it simple, stupid.

'Here's how I see it,' Howard said. 'We wait until after dark before we hit the place. My men do the tango