Net Force - Tom Clancy [89]
Wearing class-two body armor, on his way to a safe house, Harrison had come out of a courthouse in Chicago, surrounded by federal marshals.
She had made the shot from six hundred yards. Class-two Kevlar didnt much slow the sniper rifles.308 bullet: it had punched through Harrisons aorta and left a fist-sized hole in his back when it exited his body. He was effectively dead before the sound of the shot reached him.
And now there was Genaloni.
A flight attendant came by. Coffee? Juice? Something else to drink?
No, thank you.
Did she have to take the crime lord out?
If she had reflexively thought she must, she would hardly be any better than he was. Yes, she had to do something, and since what she did for a living was delete people, that was where her strength lay, and naturally, she had to consider that an option. But there were other ways. Having made the decision that it was time to retire, all the old IDs, the houses and rentals, all of those were going away. She could lay a trail that ended in a car crash or other accident that would convince any pursuers she was dead. Or she could set Genaloni up for some criminal rap and know hed get put away. He would still wield power from a prison cell, of course, these guys always did, but hed have other things on his list. Even somebody like Genaloni would probably forget about her after five or ten years in the gray-bar hotel.
Men like Genaloni tended to die relatively young, or wind up in prison. They made a lot of enemies on both sides of the law, and the odds were that one of those enemies would get to them.
Of course, there were ninety-year-old ex-mobsters rolling around in wheelchairs, sucking oxygen from portable bottles and pretending to be feeble or insane, who had beaten the odds. Old Mustache Petes who, despite the dangers, were still free.
She sighed. Which was the best way to go? She had to decide pretty quick. After she paid for the lost dog at the kennel upstate, shed go to her place in Albany and think about it.
Sunday, October 3rd, 1:28 p.m. Washington, D.C.
Tyrone stood at the door to Bellas house, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Yesterdays session had gone pretty well. She was not a great net rider, but not that bad.
Twice, she had brushed her hip against his. Once, when she reached across to grab a stylus, he had felt the weight of her breast on his arm.
The memories might cool someday, but just at the moment, they did not help slow his pulse rate.
He touched the buzzer.
Bella opened the door. Today, she wore a less-revealing outfit-a sweatsuit. She had her hair pinned up, and she looked scrubbed fresh, smelled clean, and a little bit soapy.
Hey, Ty. I just got out of the shower. Sorry I look so undone.
There was an image he could imagine all too clearly, Bella in the shower. No, no, you look fine, he said. And he said it too fast, his voice too high. He was too stupid to live. Man!
Come in.
Upstairs, they donned VR gear and got started. He said, Okay, lets use my program today. You mind riding double on a big motorcycle?
Nopraw, she said. Whatever you want to do.
Yeah, right. What he wanted to do had nothing to do with the net. No, sir, definitely not. But he said, Okay. Heres how scenario translates
Sunday, October 3rd, 9:45 p.m. Grozny
Plekhanov settled in, lit his VR, then realized he still had not deleted the car program. The shiny blue Corvette sat parked at the curb in front of him. He mentally shook his head. He really should get rid of this thing. All right. As soon as he finished the little drive over to Switzerland, he would dump it. Definitely.
Sunday, October 3rd, 1:50 p.m. Washington, D.C.
Riding the Harley along the curvy road through the Swiss Alps, Tyrone yelled over the wind noise: You see how this works? My program translates their programs