Point of Impact

“Jesus, Tad, you do want to die, don’t you?”

Tad didn’t answer but finished toweling off. He looked at himself in the foggy mirror. Skinny as hell, yes, but in the blurry, soft-focus mirror reflections, he didn’t really look that bad.

Bobby blew out a theatrical sigh. “Yeah, I got one for you.”

Tad nodded, managed a grin. He’d never gone riding with Thor twice in a week before, it always took a long time to recover completely, but with enough chemical assistance, he could get past the aches and injuries he collected while tripping. They were still there, of course, but he didn’t feel them. Well, not as much. Thing was, he’d built up a pretty good tolerance to Demerol and morphine over the years. He could take a handful of 50 mg tabs and walk around like it was nothing, a dose that would put much bigger guys on the floor in a dreamy trance for six or eight hours. Morphine was a better painkiller than Demerol, heroin better still, but of course, those had their own problems — he wasn’t a big fan of needles or gas-powered skin-poppers that blasted the drug into you. Getting addicted wasn’t a problem he worried about, and he used morphine or smack sometimes, when it got really bad, but only as a painkiller, not for the high. Some people liked downers, which was what the opiates were. Tad liked uppers. Being able to move, to do things. The months he’d spent in a bed coughing up bloody sputum when he had active TB never left him. He didn’t plan to die in bed. Live fast, die young, and if the corpse was ugly or good-looking, what did that matter? You weren’t gonna be around to hear praise or revulsion, were you?

Time was running out. Take the trip now, or miss it. You get to be dead a long time, right?

Even with the Demerol tabs he’d taken last time he was up, and the shower, he felt like Bobby said he looked: like shit. So a little of the Mexican white was called for, to dull the edges. Some muscle relaxants, some steroids for the swelling and inflammation, and a little speed to balance things, he’d be able to get around. And once he picked up the Hammer again? Well, then it would all go away.

Superman don’t need no pain pills.

“I’m on it,” Tad said. “Give me ten minutes.”

Bobby nodded. “I’m going to start final mix now.”

Tad waved him off. His stash was in his car, parked at the sandwich place. He’d have to go get it, come back, and hope he could find a vein he could hit. What a bitch.

Washington, D.C.

Toni spent an hour playing with the scrimshaw, then had to quit. Her ankles were swelling, her right thumb and forefinger had gone numb from gripping the pin vise, and she was going blind looking through the magnifying lamp’s lens. That stereoscopic microscope would sure come in handy.

Yeah. So would some artistic talent and a lot more patience. Putting in a thousand tiny dots, each the size of a flea’s eye, was extremely exacting work. A couple of times, she had lost her concentration and put a dot outside the lines. Those would have to be sanded out and polished, and that was tricky, she’d already found out.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, taking up something this precise. Maybe she was just wasting her time and a lot of effort.

She went to the bathroom, washed her hands and face in cold water, and went into the living room. She sat on the couch. She could do her djuru hand work sitting down, most of it. The footwork was getting harder and harder to add in, and while Guru’s advice had been not to worry about it, it would all come back after the baby was born, she did worry about it. It had never occurred to her it would be like this.

The Indonesian martial art had been the core of who she was since she’d been thirteen. She hadn’t gotten into team sports, school clubs, or other extracurricular activities as a young woman in high school and college, not to speak of. No, she had dedicated herself to learning how to move in balance, to being able to deliver a focused attack against an aggressor, no matter if he was bigger, stronger, faster, or even well-trained. Yes, she had school, in which she did well, and yes, she had friends and lovers and a job, but in her own mind, she was a warrior.

A warrior with, she had to admit, some control issues.

Now a big, fat, pale, pregnant warrior with control issues, hey?

Shut up!

Putting scratches and itty-bitty dots on fake ivory instead of kicking ass. Some warrior.

Tears rose and threatened to spill, but Toni angrily wiped her eyes. No. She wouldn’t give in to this emotional turmoil. Hormones, that was all it was, goddamned hormones! She’d learned how to control PMS, and she never let her periods keep her from work or working out. She could beat this, too! It was a matter of will!

Sure, sure, it is, as long as you watch out for peg-legged guys with eye patches carrying harpoons, whale-girl. Thar she blows!

She was more angry than she was anything, but now the tears did flow, and she couldn’t stop them.

The com chirped. She stared at it. It kept on cheeping. Finally, she picked it up.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi, babe, it’s me. How are you doing?”

Alex. Oh, boy. Was that the wrong thing for him to say.

“I hate my life,” she said.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to say anything. She had more. Much more.

15

Quantico, Virginia

“You want me to go along on a drug raid?” John Howard said.

Michaels nodded. “Yes. We have a vested interest here, even though it is officially a DEA matter. I just got off the com with Brett Lee. They are willing to allow a Net Force liaison to tag along… if he’s field-qualified. In the interests of interagency cooperation, of course.”

“Let me see if I can translate that. We need credit for this, right?”

“Damn straight. This is going to be a high-profile bust. There is a lot of interest in catching these folks, from way up the food chain. When the media figures out what this is connected to, we don’t want to be left out in the cold. You standing there conspicuously in your Net Force blues on the six o‘clock news will make sure nobody accidentally ‘forgets’ to mention that it was us who located this evildoer and gave his location to the DEA.”

Howard smiled. “You’re getting a lot better at this political in-fighting, Commander.”

“I’d say thank you, but I’m not sure I consider that a compliment.”

Howard shrugged. “Goes with the job. Same with any organization. Once you get above the rank of major in the army, most of what you do requires one eye on the chain of command, the other eye on the internal and external politics affecting your unit. Makes it hard to see what you actually want to accomplish. You don’t watch out for us, you sure can’t expect anybody else to do it. Certainly not the DEA or NSA.”

“I wouldn’t order you to do it. Strictly voluntary, General.”

“Well, sir, I’d be happy to go along and help our fellow crime fighters take down this dope peddler. It’s been a little slow around here anyway.”

“Knock on wood,” Michaels said, rapping his desktop. “In case there are any bored angels watching who want to give us something to worry about.”

“Amen.”

* * *

After Howard left, Michaels’s secretary told him he had a call.

“From?”

“Gretta Henkel.”

“Why do I recognize that name?”

“She’s the CEO and largest shareholder of Henkel Pharmaceuticals, which is headquartered in Mannheim, Germany.”

Michaels rolled his eyes. Jesus, word was definitely out about this drug thing. He reached for the phone.

The conversation didn’t take long, and when it was done, Michaels leaned back in his chair and shook his head. Ms. Henkel, of Henkel Pharmaceuticals, the largest European drug manufacturing company and the fourth