Net Force - Tom Clancy [50]
He passed another rider on a two-wheeler, cruising along at a steady, but slower, speed. The rider wore purple and yellow gear, and the bike was one of those carbon-frame Swiss jobs that easily cost twice what his trike did. He waved at Michaels as he blew past. Probably going to crank out forty or fifty miles, and save the sprint until the end. And even after that distance, Michaels knew he wouldnt be able to stay with him if the guy was a serious biker. Those guys were all crazy.
The burn increased, but he kept pumping, holding on. When he had about a hundred and fifty yards before the curve, Michaels allowed himself to coast. He slowed, added a little brake and made it through the curve. Not much bank there-too bad. A couple more degrees and he could have taken it at speed, but he guessed the designers didnt want walkers or joggers sliding down the side of a hill if the path got wet. It did rain here from time to time.
It felt good to get out, to do something physical. He resolved to do it more often.
Tuesday, September 21st, 12:09 p.m. Quantico
The Selkie slowed her run to a walk as soon as the target was out of sight on his big trike. He had seen her, of course, and given that he was a normal heterosexual male, he would have noticed her in the tight red shorts she wore. She was in excellent shape, and although running was not her preferred method of keeping that way, she could go a few miles without collapsing when it was necessary.
That the target had seen her and very likely stared at her ass didnt mean anything. He would not see her in these clothes again.
She could have killed him when he went past. Could have easily pulled the snub-nose.38 S&W revolver from the fanny pack she wore and put all five rounds the little gun carried into the targets back as he sailed past oblivious. Knocked him off his tricycle, reloaded, calmly walked to where he lay and put a couple more in the head. Even if somebody had been there to see-and no one had been-it was unlikely anybody would have been able to stop her. She was adept with the Smith, could manage NRA Expert with it, or keep up with the IPSC action shooters and their tricked-out pistols in their combat scenarios, despite the short barrel and lousy sights. It was one of the tools of her trade, and she was the best there was at that business.
But such killings were inelegant. Anybody could point a gun and blast away, and for an adept, there was no joy to be found in such a simple method. Of course, the needs of the client had to come first. Some of them wanted it known that the target had been killed. They wanted it done bloody. And some of them even wanted souvenirs-a finger, an ear-or some normally less-visible appendage. She didnt torture and she didnt take hurry-up contracts, but if the client wanted anatomical proof the target was gone, she would supply it. Those who asked for such things didnt usually offer her much repeat business. Clients who wanted body parts to put in a jar tended to piss people off and get into fatal trouble of their own.
She nodded at a jogger coming from the other direction, but didnt make eye contact.
Good assassins deleted their targets and got away.
The best assassins could delete their targets and arrange it so nobody even suspected there had been a murder. That was much more satisfying. She hadnt been given instructions about the manner of this targets death, and she was toying with the idea of making it look like natural causes, or maybe suicide. She was in control, it was her choice. Always.
16
Wednesday, September 22nd, 9 a.m. Washington, D.C.
The buzzer sounded and Tyrone Howard joined the exodus of students from first-period class into the dingy green halls of Eisenhower Middle School. Ahead of him, he saw Sean Hughes lumber into a guy from behind and shoulder him aside. The guy slammed into the lockers, hard. He recovered, turned, started to say something-then saw who had hit him and changed his mind.
This was a real good idea.
Tyrone slowed, to avoid getting too close. Hughes was an ox, pushing six feet