Kill Code (7 page)

Following him, she watched as he set up a bunch of
stuff that she didn't understand. He seemed so preoccupied that she
didn't want to interrupt him.

Jackie just tried to stay out his way. Finally, he
strolled out onto the range, set up something on a tripod, and then
put a target up. She figured it was only at a hundred yards—she
could see two other places to put targets up and they both seemed
really far out there.

Leo tossed her a set of ear muffs and then put on a
set of his own.

“You're gonna want to wear those until I'm
done.”

Leo picked up a rifle. It had a heavy-looking
barrel, dull finish and had a huge scope on it. Leo carefully
placed it on a stand on the bench. Reaching inside a case, he
pulled out an electronic device and held it up in the wind. He
noted down some numbers.

“What's that?” she asked.

“A Kestrel weather meter. A lot of factors affect
the trajectory of a bullet and this takes some of the guess work
out it by providing elevation, humidity, temperature and wind
speed.” She realized that she was speaking normally and could hear
just fine. Probably some sound-blocking mechanism in the ear
muffs.

He pulled out a pocket calculator and did some quick
figuring. Consulting a table that was taped to the side of the
stock, he twisted the knob on the scope. Then he took a bullet and
slid it into the rifle.

Settling down behind the rifle, he carefully peered
through the scope. She could see him relax, slowly caress the
trigger and then the rifle went off. It slammed into Leo's
shoulder. Working the handle, he extracted the spent brass.

“Right on the numbers, but a bit high. Probably the
elevation difference from where I usually shoot.” Leo wasn't
speaking to anyone in particular, just muttering to himself.

He went out and checked the piece of equipment he
had put on the tripod. “A little on the warm side.”

“What's that thing?” she asked.

“A chronograph. Measures the speed of the bullet.
The round I loaded is moving a bit faster than it should. I'll tone
down the powder just a hair and see what that does.”

He made some quick calculations and then went back
to the other bench and made up another bullet.

Leo went through the same process again with
shooting and noted down some more numbers. She looked over his
shoulder and saw the scribbles on the paper. “Why don't you get a
computer to handle all that?”

He wagged the calculator at her and said, “A
computer can break, be lost, have dead batteries. This calculator
runs on solar power and all I need is that, a piece of paper and a
pencil to figure out everything else. If needed, I can do it
without the calculator, but it gets to be a pain when you have a
lot of shooting to do.”

“What exactly are we doing and why do you need my
help?”

“I'm a precision rifle shooter. I need to get this
rifle dialed in so I can defend against whoever is coming after you
and probably me.”

“Who is coming after me? And why?”

“I don't know. That's something we'll have to figure
out.”

He grabbed a couple of targets and a stapler, handed
them to her and said, “Take the truck out and put out those
targets, one at six hundred yards and another at a thousand.”

“Why?”

He gave her a long look and said, “That's your
favorite question, isn't it? Just because I might have a general
idea as to what this rifle will do at a hundred yards, I still need
to make sure that my calculations are right. It won't take
long.”

She did as he asked, noting that the targets were
out there quite a distance away.

In the back of her head, she wondered if Leo was
sighting in on her as she stapled the targets onto the wooden
target stand. Dismissing it as illogical; for one thing, he would
have to get rid of her body besides fetching his truck. But there
was someone out there after her.

Leo had been busy in the meantime making up
bullets.

The next several hours were about as boring as could
be. Leo would shoot a bullet, peer through what he called a
“spotting scope” at the target, fiddle with the scope, shoot
another bullet. Then, every five bullets, he would clean his
rifle—laboriously scrubbing the barrel with a long metal rod that
had what looked like a little piece of rag. The cleaning solvent
was acidic smelling.

Jackie wondered why she was here and what she could
do to speed up the process. Finally, she asked, “What can I
do?”

Leo looked up from his calculations, appearing
startled.

“Nothing, right now. It shouldn't be much
longer.”

“So, what am I supposed to do for now?”

“Sit down, think of who might want you dead.”

She didn't know how to do this, so she went back to
the truck and fired up her laptop. Naturally, she couldn't find any
WiFi access points. She had modified the WiFi card to reveal even
hidden networks. From there, it wouldn't be much of a problem to
gain access to it even if it was encrypted.

Seeing how out in the sticks they probably still
used dial-up for Internet access, she dug around in her bag until
she found her air-card.

Hopefully there was cellular access out here, and
she was surprised when she was able to get a strong signal and on
to the Internet. The first thing she did was log into the company
intranet. It took some time, because she had made sure it wasn't
something easy to access. She was an ex-hacker after all, and had
made it as difficult as humanly possible to access. Every once in a
while, for fun, she'd post a challenge on one of the hacker web
boards offering a reward to anyone able to crack her security. So
far, she'd never been beat.

From there, she checked her e-mail. As she scrolled
through it, she realized that after all that had happened today,
how inconsequential the concerns of running a business were.

She almost missed it, an e-mail from Patrick Lackey,
her accountant. Jackie skipped through the accounting speak
wondering why he was pestering her. Then she saw he'd found a trail
as to where all the money from the company went. She went to the
top of the e-mail and forced herself to read every word. Why the
man couldn't write a sentence less with than forty words was beyond
her.

The e-mail didn't give her many more details than
she already knew from her quick scan. The final word was that
Patrick had stashed copies of his findings on his computer. Of
course, it was the only computer in the entire company that she
couldn't access remotely. Sometimes, the best security was
isolation. If no one could gain access without violating physical
locks, and the computer wasn't connected to the Internet or the
Internet connected company network, you could probably assure the
computer was reasonably secure. But it did mean that she would have
to go back to the office to find the information. Why couldn't
Patrick have just attached it to the e-mail?

Of course, she knew that he didn't realize his
attempt at security, or lack of technological know-how, might get
her killed.

Tyrannicide completed its daily analysis of
obituaries and death notices. So far, none of the expected targets
appeared. Unexpected. Though an unidentified body had appeared in
the area of a coin store of one of the subjects. Was this the body
of the messenger or of the subject? It sent another message to the
messenger's Blackberry asking for an immediate response.

Hard coded within itself, there was a list of
targets. Tyrannicide was to expend all available resources until
those targets had been assassinated, taking out others, meeting its
criteria as it could.

Checking its operational funds, it selected the next
target and sent a text message. The Black Hand being interconnected
via the Internet made everything so much easier—to kill.

###

Matthew Tudor easily cracked the security on the
Cadillac, gaining entry and popping open the driver's side door.
The computer systems on modern cars made his job that much easier.
He accessed the OBD-II connector underneath the steering wheel,
connecting it to his Blackberry. The software hadn't been that
difficult to write, but the damn connector had set him back a
couple of hundred dollars. He always found it annoying that auto
companies couldn't use an industry standard connector that was
cheap, easy to find and wired up in a way that anyone could
access.

Ironically, reprogramming the car's computer was a
breeze, made easier due to the industry's standardized format.
First the locks would seal the car, and then a short circuit would
start the car on fire. Getting a car to do this wasn't easy, but
his talent hadn't come cheap. Making sure he had the right target
would be verified by the personalized key fob that the target used.
If someone else got into the car, it would revert to its original
programming and he'd have to do this all again. Yes, it was risky,
but for the extra money due to be wired into his account when this
was all over, it was worth it.

He verified the program had been installed correctly
and removed the connector. Putting the cover back on the connector,
he carefully closed the car door. His flesh colored latex gloves
precluded leaving any fingerprints, but he still made sure that no
trace of his presence would be found.

There was a small smear on the chrome trim. He wiped
it away with a cloth he'd brought for that purpose. Yes, it was a
hot looking car. If everything worked the way he had planned, it
would be even hotter.

###

Leo had fired thirty-seven rounds. His shoulder was
sore from the recoil and his vision was starting to fade in the
late afternoon sun. While his rifle and load weren't perfect, he
would have to settle for the sub-three-inch groups that he had been
able to shoot at a thousand yards. He could have pared that down a
bit, but didn't want to waste his CNC manufactured bullets—once
they were gone, he had no easy way to replace them. He had
twenty-six rounds of premium loaded ammunition, better than match
quality that was ready to shoot. He still had some extra bullets
and brass and enough powder left to load them in case something
changed and he needed to come up with another load.

He pulled the bolt out of the rifle and slid it into
his pocket. Walking back to where he had set up his cleaning
supplies, he started cleaning the barrel, comforted by the long
familiar smell of Shooter's Choice bore cleaner. When the patches
started coming out clean, he ran one more patch down the barrel and
then followed it up with a patch soaked in Kroil oil.

All that was left was a fouling shot. The rifle
would shoot clean and to the point of aim, but would shoot better
when slightly dirty. It almost hurt, leaving a rifle dirty, but Leo
knew it was the best way to get the most accurate first shot out of
his rifle.

Sighing, he dug a loaded round out of his case, and
stepped up to the firing line. One more shot and then he could take
a break. Even when shooting a match, it had been a while since he'd
shot for this length of time. Usually at a match, he'd fire five or
six rounds at a target, then step back to let the next set of
shooters onto the line. There was a lot more standing around
talking rifles, loads and shooting, than actual time behind the
rifle.

Another difference between matches and now was that
he hadn't put out wind flags. Today, he'd done it the old fashioned
way, judging by the way the grass moved and the mirage in the
scope. The old skill of doping the wind without flags had come back
and he felt a small sense of pride in it.

Sliding the bolt into the rifle, he sat down at the
bench, his head and face automatically coming into perfect
alignment. The scope showed the target that, even at thirty-two
power, appeared tiny, wavering in the wind and humidity generated
mirage.

He slipped the loaded round into the steel embrace
of the chamber, slowly sliding the bolt closed. A mere six ounces
of trigger pressure would send his custom designed, Very Low Drag
bullet at three thousand feet per second down range slamming into
the target a second later. 

Taking a deep breath, he settled the scope onto the
target. It was rock steady. He let out half a breath and gently
started squeezing the trigger. The rifle smashed into his shoulder,
the recoil and noise surprising him. It had been a perfect shot.
Leaning over, he checked his shot in the spotting scope—it had
pierced the X-ring.

Looking up, he noticed Jackie standing next to him.
He hadn't noticed her approach—not something that he should make a
habit of if he wanted to survive for very long.

“Are you about done?”

He pulled the bolt open to let the rifle cool.
Taking off his muffs and ear plugs, he hoped that she wasn't
planning on pointing a gun at him again. He wondered where she had
got it and why she was carrying it. He didn't have much use for
pistols—not that he couldn't use them, but why have to be within
ten yards when you can be a thousand yards away and accomplish the
same thing? 

“Yes, about done. Why?”

“I found something that might help me figure out who
is trying to kill me.”

###

While she had been waiting for Leo to get done
puttering around with his rifle, she had tried to call Patrick to
find out the complete details on what he had found out. But, for
some reason, he didn't answer and his voicemail box was full. Damn
Luddites she thought—he had probably forgotten his cell phone at
the office again. There was no reason not to be constantly
connected to the rest of the world. Patrick was of the old school
of accounting and running a business, still using green accounting
paper to help run the business. While computers did occasionally
fail, with a good back up, you wouldn't lose any work.

So she was going to have to physically access the
data rather than remotely. She wondered how this was going to fit
into the grand scheme of things.