Kill Code (17 page)

She was quiet as he found a place towards the back
of the parking lot and backed the truck in so they could easily get
out.

Not sure what he was getting into, he followed
Jackie across the parking lot and into the cell phone store.

###

Jeff Silver was not having a good day and the FBI
was having an even worse one. The bank robbers had gotten away with
almost a hundred thousand dollars without leaving a clue. It was
like they were ghost—appearing to rob the bank and then
disappearing into the ether.

Not one bit of physical evidence was found despite
the old adage that “Criminals always take something from a crime
scene and always leave something.”

They knew the location and abilities of all the
security cameras, inside and outside the bank. No one saw them
leave in a vehicle, but then again, no one saw them walking away on
foot—all backed up by the security cameras. The one camera that
could have provided valuable information, located across the street
at a convenience store and pointing into the parking lot, had been
vandalized the night before, and no, the vandal hadn't shown up on
any of the cameras either.

The robbers wore gloves, black clothing and rubber
Ronald Reagan masks. Their guns were real based on an interview of
the security guard who was fresh out the military after spending
three tours in Iraq, in combat every day from the time he landed
in-country until he left. It was sad that a decorated and honored
veteran could only get a job as a security guard despite his
selfless service and sacrifice. Jeff made a note to call a buddy in
FBI recruitment to see if there were any job openings in this area
for someone who could keep their head while having a gun pointed at
them. Maybe the FBI could use him.

Sipping cold coffee that tasted like road sludge, he
stepped back and looked over the scene again. The Albuquerque Fire
Department had brought in a light truck that illuminated the front
of the bank in a ghastly whiteness and produced strange shadows
that were almost as bad as complete darkness.

He knew that there wasn't going to be anything found
here that could help. Crimes weren't solved by forensics, despite
the slew of TV shows that seemed to prove otherwise. Shoe leather
is what solved crimes—crooks liked to brag and someone, hopefully
soon, would talk. Someone, somewhere, knew something and would use
it to get themselves out of a bind with the law.

His cell phone buzzed. Flipping it open he saw that
it was a Denver number.

“Hello?”

“Special Agent Silver?”

“Speaking. How may I help you?”

“This is Detective Chris Lee, of the Denver PD. We
were told to be on the look-out for anyone using thermite to
disguise a crime. Well, it's happened. Someone almost burnt down a
building trying to hide what appears to be a sniper rifle. But not
any sniper rifle that you've ever seen; it's sitting in some sort
of base and there were a lot of electronics and motors in the
debris.”

“Was anyone shot by it?”

“No. This is the strange thing; a building up the
street had a bullet hole through the glass door, but there wasn't
anyone there to shoot at that we can find, no blood, or traces of
anyone breaking our crime scene tape.”

“Crime scene tape?”“Yes. There was a car bombing in
front of that location a couple of days ago. The intended victim
has dropped off the radar since then. We locked the business up and
secured it hoping to pressure her into coming to talk to us, yet it
hasn't happened.”

Something sounded strangely familiar about this
scene.

“Thank you very much for the info. Can you forward
copies of all the pictures and what your lab finds out about the
rifle to us? And if it's too much, or you are too busy, just send
the entire mess to the FBI office in Denver and they'll take over
the investigation.”

“Thanks. But you haven't heard the strangest part of
it yet.”

“What's that?”

“We found two bullet holes that we can't account
for.”

“How is that so strange?”

“The rifle system was bolt action and fired a .308
caliber bullet. The bullet holes we found were something much
faster. And more importantly, they were coming into where the rifle
was located, not outgoing.”

“So, someone was shooting back?”

“Not from the angle of the bullet holes. We tried to
laser it, but ours aren't powerful enough and got lost about a
hundred yards away. Based on the angles, the best we can determine
was that the other shooter was six hundred yards away. And get
this, the two bullet holes were almost touching. Quite remarkable
shooting by anyone's standard.

“Several years ago, I took a sniper class taught by
the FBI and while I thought the FBI snipers were really good, this
guy, if the shot placement is deliberate, makes them look like rank
amateurs.”

There was something larger going on here. Gut
feeling meant a lot to him, and his guts were churning—and it
wasn't caused by bad coffee.

He made a decision. “Seal the crime scene, post an
officer and someone will be there shortly, if not me
personally.”

“Great. That means one less case for us to deal
with. Can you tell me what this is all about?”

“Something probably worse than we can imagine.”

Flipping the phone closed, he went off to find his
boss who wasn't going to be happy to have to assign the “Ronald
Reagan Robbers” case to someone else. He was going to have to call
in a lot of favors to pull this off and really hoped that it would
all be worth it. More importantly, he hoped that he would be in
time to stop whatever was going to happen next.

Jim Fox, the Second Finger of the Black Hand, walked
quickly away from where he had placed the car bomb in the trunk of
the government-issued Buick assigned to the IRS Criminal
Investigation Division. His favorite device, the Explosively Formed
Penetrator (EFP), would immolate everyone in the car, no matter
where they sat, with a five thousand degree jet of superheated
plasma. Identification of the bodies would be difficult as there
shouldn't be anything left from the waist up, including tooth
enamel.

This job was most unusual, not to be placed to take
out a more specific target, but that's what the targeting package
had specified. He had modified his unusual device, spreading the
propagation of the plasma jet at the sacrifice of a bit of the
range, and hadn't had a chance to properly test it. Explosives can
be finicky and when you are trying for a specific effect, testing
was almost mandatory. He had worked with these devices enough to
have a knowledge of them and their properties that bordered on
pathological. The device would work as he designed it, but deep
down there was an overwhelming desire to test and test again before
using the device for real.

Too bad he couldn't stick around and watch to see
how well his newest variation worked, but he had an appointment at
the parking lot of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and
Explosives, also known as the ATF. This time, it was to wire up two
cars. This one he would have done for free as he had no love of the
ATF and their overzealous enforcement of a myriad of confusing and
stupid laws. He had been able to stay out of their clutches since
an unfortunate brush with them after getting out of Army, where he
had excelled in Explosive Ordinance Disposal. Someone had made a
crude pipe bomb to blow up a mail box and they had broke down his
door thinking he was the bomber. He had laughed at the accusations.
He had been trained on disarming devices ranging from pipe bombs
all the way to nuclear bombs. Knowing how to disarm them meant that
he knew how to build them. And, he had assured the bewildered ATF
agents, if he had set out to blow up a mail box, it would have
ended up in low orbit rather than not going off at all like the
device they were accusing him of having made.

After fending off the ATF, and having lost his job
at a demolition company due to having the ATF hanging around,
questioning everyone in sight and crawling through the company
records with a microscope, he got a call from someone who needed
his unique talents.

These most recent jobs, while profitable, were in
the US. Up until this point, he had always worked outside the
country. Besides, he had a lot of credibility to make up with his
recent miss of a target. Maybe he would have a chance to get
another shot at Jackie Winn. This time, he would make it count for
real.

As he was driving away, he heard an explosion and
his rental car shook a bit. He smiled.

###

Allen Wells drove until he almost ran out of gas.
What the hell had happened back there? There was another sniper in
the picture, something that he had never come up against. All he
knew was that if he had been behind that rifle, he would be dead.
He had lasered the closest buildings, just to be complete, and no
one was within five hundred yards. The sniper was damn good to find
the location from where the robot sniper had shot from and be able
to shoot back. Even more distressing was that the integral sound
suppressor should have really concealed the location that the shot
came from. There was no disguising the sonic crack of the bullet,
but any muzzle flash or other noise should have been
non-existent.

This led to the obvious question—had someone figured
that his usefulness was over and had set him up to be killed? He
had heard rumors that they used to do that—you were sent on a
suicide mission or were the target of a younger, smarter and faster
killer.

The company that paid him didn't know about his
remote sniper system; all they cared about was results. And that he
never needed a spotter or support staff helped limit their exposure
and increased his profit margin as he had told them that he
supplied his own.

So, was he now the target? He was currently disarmed
and would have to find someplace to build, calibrate and test
another remote sniper system. In his van, he had almost all of the
needed parts to build one, if not two. All he would need was some
small electronics and servos that he could buy over the counter at
any hobby store.

He pulled into a gas station and filled up his
truck, paying cash so he wouldn't leave a trace. It was almost
pointless as he knew if someone really wanted to find him, they
could, without much effort. The number of times that citizens
showed up in one way or another each day, even on gas station
cameras, was mind boggling. He had often used this to his
advantage, but now that he might be the one being hunted, he could
almost feel the cross hairs centered on the middle of his back.

Using the grungy rest room in the gas station, he
washed his face. In the stained mirror he noted the dark circles
under his eyes. He had been up for almost twenty hours. He stank of
stress and fear.

He needed a plan and to regroup and find out who was
hunting him and why. But first, a bit of rest. He was in Grand
Junction, Colorado. Not a real big town, but big enough for him to
hide away for a little bit while he regrouped.

What worried him was that he was going to have to,
at some point soon, reply to the company that he had missed his
target and then wait for further instructions. That would be the
point that would tell if the company was after him.

On the way out of the door of the gas station, he
asked the pimply kid behind the counter to recommend a decent hotel
that was close to the highway. The stupid kid didn't know, oh
well.

He got in his van and drove along until he found a
chain hotel that had a back parking lot where he could park his van
without anyone seeing it from the road.

After checking in, paying cash and using his false
ID that he had built up without the company's knowledge, he tried
to make himself sleep, but it was a long time coming.

###

Leo didn't like the look of the cell phone store. It
was brightly lit and was busy. Why did they need to expose
themselves in this way?

He followed Jackie to the rear counter, noting all
the fancy cell phones, PDAs and computers displayed on the store's
racks. He had never owned a cell phone, not having any use for one.
It was another invitation to have his privacy violated for little
personal gain. When he ran the coin store, seemingly a lifetime
ago, anyone who wanted to reach him could just call the store and
he would get back to them at his convenience. It gave him control
of his life rather than being controlled by a piece of machinery,
having to carry it everywhere, and answering the device when
someone else wanted to contact you. No, that kind of thing wasn't
for him. He lived his life as simply as possible, with as few
complications as he could get away from.

Jackie waited in line at a counter labeled
“Repair/Service.”

Leo stepped back and sat down on an uncomfortable
looking chair leading out into the showroom. A round faced woman
wearing a badge that said “Barb” approached.”Hi,” she said.

He tried to look as disinterested as he could when
he said, “Hello.”

“Can I help you pick out a new phone? We have some
wonderful specials this week.”

Leo didn't want to have to explain his lifestyle
choices to this cell phone shill.

“Thanks anyway,” he motioned towards Jackie and
said, “I'm waiting for my friend over there.”

“Okay. If there is anything I can do to help, be
sure to let me know.”

The buzzer announcing the door opening went off and
she went over to bother the new customer.

After a twenty minute wait, Jackie motioned him
behind the counter.

“He's here, but they're real busy. We may have to
wait.”

Shrugging, he said, “I don't have any other plans
for today.”
Except to find out who is trying to kill me and you
and stop them.