Net Force - Tom Clancy [71]
Jesus. He didnt need this kind of crap. The damned road to legitimacy was going to be knee-deep in blood, the way it was looking right now.
Jesus.
Friday, October 1st, 12:12 p.m. New Orleans
Jay Gridley downshifted from fourth to third, enjoying the Vipers muscular rumble as it slowed for the off-ramp to the right. He pulled to a stop at the light, waited for a couple of trucks to go by, then turned right onto the surface street.
Welcome to New Orleans. Laissez les bons temps rouler-let the good times roll
Hed heard a rumor he had to check out, that there was some kind of rascal going down, a chunk of money being rerouted, and the fingerprints on the deal were invisible. Might be the guy he was looking for.
He idled at another traffic signal, and while waiting for the light to change, glanced at the newsstand on the comer. The hardcopy papers and magazines wilted under the heat and high humidity, covers drooping flaccidly. There was one of those big colorful maps pasted on the kiosk: CyberNation! He really was going to have to check that out a little more. A man in his position needed to know such things.
A headline caught his attention. He waved at the vendor, held up a dollar and pointed at the paper he wanted. The man next to the stand stepped into the street, took Jays money and handed him the paper.
The headline said: THAI PRIME MINISTER DIES IN CRASH.
The vendor didnt offer any change.
Gridley had time to scan the first paragraph before the light turned green.
Apparently Prime Minister Sukho had driven his car off a bridge. Hed been alone at the time. A freak accident.
His widow had no comment.
Gridley blew out a sigh. Well, well.
The traffic was bad in the Crescent City, the roads jammed with locals and tourists coming to visit, to see the river, taste the spicy foods, maybe take in a strip show on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. When you visited an officially sponsored city-site in VR, you had to live with the RW local conditions, and even in October, the heat and dampness were oppressive here.
The place he was going was called Algiers, and it was not the best of neighborhoods, despite years of trying to renew the district. He had done a little research on it, enough to know he wanted to get in and out quick. His Viper would move fast enough to keep him ahead of a lot of trouble, but it wasnt a tank. He depended on his speed and skill, and so far, hed been able to outrun VR thugs, but even an expert could get trapped in a dead end.
He wove his way through narrow streets, keeping a careful watch on the other traffic. He also watched with care the pedestrians who lounged on corners, drinking beer from long-necked bottles or unknown liquid from pints hidden inside little paper bags. In this section of town, most of the faces he saw were dark, or at least swarthy, and none of them looked kind.
He saw money being exchanged for small baggies or vials, saw women dressed in short skirts and hooker heels leaning against bus benches or in the lee of bar doorways, watching for potential customers.
Even in VR, Gridley wanted no part of these women.
He glanced down at the directions hed gotten. Another turn, a right, and he was on a street barely wide enough for two cars. Ahead was the branch of the Bank of Louisiana hed come to find, what looked like a trailer without wheels, set in front of a lot full of building rubble.
Parked in front of the bank branch was a shiny new metallic-blue Corvette convertible with the top down, the motor running. A man came out of the bank in a hurry. He looked young, but he moved old, wore a nice suit, and he carried a briefcase in one hand. He would have passed for a customer, a businessman-except he was wearing a mask.
He looked up, saw Gridley, and ran for the Vette. He threw the briefcase into the passenger seat as he opened the drivers door and jumped into the car.
On some level, all of a sudden, Gridley knew. It was him! The programmer! He was sure of it!
He grinned, gunned the Viper.