Point of Impact

Tad thought about it for a few seconds. Commander Alexander Michaels. Net Force. Washington, D.C. A long way to travel for somebody in his shoes. And nothing he did would bring Bobby back, dead was dead. Why bother?

Yeah, well, fuck it. He’d almost reached the end of his string anyhow.

He went into the bathroom. Bobby had stocked the place with all kinds of shit they might need if they had to run. He found scissors and an electric razor with a trim attachment and cut his already-short black hair into a flat- top. The Hammer made him want to jump up and down, but he held himself steady by force of will so that the do wasn’t too ragged. He used half a bottle of hair coloring on his new cut. He shaved off his lip-hanger goatee. Pulled out his earrings and tossed them.

After the hair color was done, bleached to an ugly yellow, he showered. Got out, and rubbed himself down with bronzing gel, applying it carefully with the little sponge thing.

Okay, so he wasn’t gonna pass for a surfer, but he wasn’t the same fish-belly white beatnik in the picture, he was blond and tanned. He found some slacks, a dress shirt, socks, and running shoes, all in pale gray or white, not his look at all. There was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with plain glass lenses, and he put them on. He could almost pass for normal.

There was about fifty thousand in cash in frozen food packages in the freezer. He took about ten grand. He didn’t expect he’d need that much, and if he somehow got back here — unlikely — he could get the rest then.

There were some fake photo IDs in a desk drawer, three or four sets each for him and Bobby. Tad picked up a set, looked to see that the driver’s license was from Texas, and that the name was Raymond Selling. Bobby’s little joke: Selling was the winner of last year’s Los Angeles Marathon race. He’d done one for Richard Kimball, too, from the old TV series, The Fugitive. The last one was for Meia Rasgada, which was Portuguese for “torn stocking,” yet another kind of runner.

Bobby was a riot.

Had been a riot.

He needed to move, he really needed to move, but he had one more thing he had to do before he could. He took one of the clean digital phones in the kitchen and punched in a number from memory. His memory at the moment was excellent; he could draw on anything he had ever seen, smelled, tasted, heard, felt, or done if he needed it, and he knew it would be there.

“Yo,” came the deep voice.

“Halley, it’s Tad. I need something.”

“Yeah, me, too. Your money in my pocket. Go.”

“I want an address for Commander Alexander Michaels, M-i-c-h-a-e-l-s. He’s the head of Net Force.”

“I can give you that without having to burn an electron, dude. Net Force HQ is in Quantico, Virginia, part of the new FBI complex next to the Yew-Nite-Ted States Muhrines—”

“No, I want his home address.”

“Ah. That’ll take a little more. They’d keep that buried pretty good.”

“How long?”

“Ah, forty, forty-five minutes.”

“Call me back on this number when you get it.”

“Cost you five hundred.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’m on it, dude.”

Tad took his new self outside. There were two cars in the garage. A year-old tan minivan with a Baby on Board sticker on the back window, and a three- or four-year-old Dodge Dakota. Both had keys in the ignitions. He paused long enough to grab the rear bumper of the truck, to squat and lift the tires clear of the pavement a few times, to burn off some of his excess energy. Then he climbed in and cranked the engine.

He pulled out of the driveway and headed for the airport. On the way, he called and booked a first-class seat on the next nonstop flight to Washington, D.C. The plane wouldn’t leave for three hours. Another five or so hours to fly there, figure on maybe two more to find the place. Call it ten hours all totaled, be there by eight or nine A.M. at the absolute latest. He’d be riding the Hammer for that long, and when he started to come down, he had a whole shitload of caps that would be good until noon, and another twelve hours of Hammer to ride after he took it. Midnight tomorrow, easy.

That should be more than enough time to have a long chat with Commander Alexander Michaels of Net Force, and to teach the fucker what a bad mistake he had made in helping get Bobby Drayne killed.

Plenty of time.

38

Los Angeles, California

Michaels had just finished shaving and was getting dressed when there came a knock on the hotel room’s door.

It was Jay. He said, “FBI got a lead on Bershaw.”

Michaels waved Jay in as he continued to button his shirt. “Yes?”

Jay held up the flatscreen so Michaels could see the image thereon. A blond-haired man with glasses, dressed in casual sports clothes.

“They sure this is him?”

“Check the side-by-side.”

A magnified image of the blond appeared next to an identical-sized head shot of Tad Bershaw. Overlay grids appeared, numbers scrolled, and yellow highlight outlines pulsed over the features.

“The feeb surveillance matchware doesn’t worry overmuch about hair, eye, and skin coloring, it compares ear size and lobe shape, nose length and nares spacing, eye spacing and brow angle. Plus somatotypes, though those can be altered by shoe lifts and padding. This is him.”

“Where was this taken?”

“LAX, last night. The matchcam sent a sig to FBI HQ, but the priority tag imprint apparently was malfunctioning; instead of an A-1 stamp, the file was batched with a bunch of routine no-hurry PPOIs… that’s possible persons of interest. So they should have seen it last night, but nobody got around to scanning the file until a few minutes ago.”

“So much for infallible technology,” Michaels said. He sat on the bed, pulled on his socks. “So where did he go?”

“According to the gatecam at CrossCon Air, he took a nonstop red-eye to Washington, D.C. Plane landed around two A.M. this morning, eastern time. Dulles matchware showed him getting off the jet, but that’s the only image they got. FBI checked the rental agencies, he didn’t get a car, and they are talking to bus and limo drivers and cabbies. No hits yet. From the passenger list, they know he’s using the name Raymond Selling.”

“Like the marathon runner?”

“Who?”

“Selling is the fastest long-distance man in the country, probably the world.”

“I don’t follow the sport. Running for twenty-six miles hurts me just to think about it.”

“Why Washington?”

Jay shrugged. “Why not? Maybe he’s got an old girlfriend there, somebody he used to run with. Easier to disappear in a big city than a small one.”

“Well, maybe we’ll bump into him when we get home.”

“I hope not,” Jay said. “If he’s got any of that dope left, he’s not somebody I want to meet face-to- face.”

Michaels tied his shoes, stood, and reached for his sport coat, which hung on the bathroom door. “What time does our flight leave?”

“Couple hours. Be back in Washington about seven P.M. Five-hour flight, add three for the time zones.”

“Well, let’s go have breakfast and enjoy the L.A. sunshine. It’ll probably be raining when we get back to the