Net Force - Tom Clancy [60]
19
Tuesday, September 28th, 6:54 p.m. Washington, D.C.
In her guise as Phyllis Markham, the Selkie gimped her way toward the targets house, the little poodle doing his imitation of a watering can on every other bush or tree along the way.
The guards in the surveillance cars were gone. She had been disappointed to see them leave. There were times when shed been set upon a mobster or gunrunner or politico with a dozen guards crawling all around, and that had made the job more difficult. But one guy, who didnt have a clue he was a target, no protection except maybe a house alarm? It took some of the fun out of it.
At her level, she mostly made her own challenges.
Shed been on this more than a week, and she was ready. She knew the targets habits. When he ordered Chinese food delivered, she knew he liked the hot and spicy chicken with noodles. When he went for his morning run, she could have run half a block in front of him and stayed with him all the way. She knew when he went to a fund-raiser, where he tried to sit if he wasnt assigned a table, and what time he would make his excuses and leave. She knew about his ex-wife and kid in Idaho, the car he played with in his garage, and that his assistant had the hots for him, to judge from how she looked at him. And that he didnt have a clue about that. She knew how tall he was, how much he weighed, where he got his hair cut and that he hadnt really wanted his current job. She knew much about the target-just not why he had been chosen.
Scout heard something in one of the bushes to the left. He yapped at it. Probably a cat. She let him bark a couple of times, then told him to hush. He did, but he trembled to go after the thing in the bushes. The dog didnt know he was a toy; he thought he was the son of a wolf and he wanted that prey. She smiled.
The worst dog bite shed ever gotten hadnt been from a big beast like a shepherd, but from a dachshund who must have thought he was White Fang, too. Maybe the little ones had something to prove.
The target seemed like a decent enough guy. He was fairly attractive, had a nice smile and did a good job. As bureaucrats went, he was better than most. He loved his little girl out there in flyover country, and hadnt been active much sexually since his divorce, so he was probably still carrying a torch for his ex. He was a more useful member of society than most, an ethical, moral, reliable man.
That she was going to kill him didnt bother her at all.
Some professionals didnt let themselves know anything about their targets, didnt get involved any more than necessary to make the deletion. They stayed cool, didnt interact, didnt let themselves see the targets as people. Shed always thought that was chickenshit. If youre going to take somebody out deliberately, you ought to get to know him. It seemed only fair, and so much better than being killed by a stranger. Her way, at least she had some respect for people who deserved respect. There was a kind of honoring of the target involved.
She knew more than enough now. He wasnt a bad guy, but he wasnt that interesting, and there wouldnt be any surprises.
Move along, boy. Go.
Reluctantly, the dog proceeded, looking back for the thing in the bushes as he walked, just in case it tried to break from cover and run for it.
Little Scout there, hearing the call of the wild, that was funny.
When would she hit the target? When you could choose any time, when you had all your bets covered, then you did it when it felt right. Not before. Not if you wanted it to be perfect. This guys death would unleash an army of feds on her trail. It needed to be perfect.
She was approaching the targets condo. She glanced at her watch, an analog, battery-powered Lady Bulova, one Phyllis Markham would wear, since it had supposedly belonged to her dearly departed mother. She slowed a hair, letting the dog sniff a little longer at some other males territory marking.
Tomorrow was trash pickup day-the collection mini-trucks came around