He left the dead where they had fallen and proceeded to his target like a guided missile, homing on ground zero. Morgan Lasser squinted in the sudden, glare of sunlight as they left the bunker, muttering a curse as he remembered that his shades were in the car. Screw comfort, then, as long as he could see to aim and pull the trigger when their adversary showed himself.
Assuming he survived that long. More firing came from the woods, a little closer than the last round. This had only been one weapon, and it sounded like a submachine gun. Lasser didn’t know which clones had drawn what weapons, and he couldn’t tell the creepy pricks apart in any case. What did it matter, anyway? If one of them got lucky with the stranger, he would hear about it soon enough. Meanwhile he had to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.
They had the normal kids—whom Lasser always thought of as the “regulars”—penned up inside their dormitory, closely watched, with orders not to poke their heads outside or even crack a window blind until they got the word. He didn’t know what story Radcliff had concocted to explain the shooting, and he didn’t care. The little bastards did as they were told, or else. If one of them complained to someone weeks or months from now, who would, believe him? There would be no evidence of any paramilitary action, nothing but the nearby target- practice range to help account for gunshots amplified by an hysterical imagination.
If it went beyond that point, he thought, the little shit could always have an accident, or simply run away from home. Without a witness, the authorities would have no case.
He checked the others with a glance, saw Oxley and their fearless leader holding guns as if they were afraid the weapons might explode and tear them limb from limb at any moment. Damn amateurs were worse than useless in a killing situation, but it felt to Lasser like a moment when he needed every man on tap, regardless of their marginal abilities.
He had considered using the trainees, decided they would only mix things up, get in the way. Still, it would be a fallback option if his first line of defense broke down. And judging from the slaughter he had witnessed on the monitor inside, the drones he had on the perimeter still had a lot to learn about defense.
He wondered how many of them would live to profit, from the lesson they were getting here today.
And if they all went down, but he and Dr. Radcliff managed to survive, what then? It would be eighteen months at least before the oldest drone in training was prepared to solo in the field, and they had orders stacked up to the rafters—from the syndicate, assorted right- and left-wing paramilitary groups, a certain Middle Eastern government. None of their clients was renowned for patience of forgiveness when a plan fell through. The very least they would expect was compensation, possibly with interest, and a couple of the psycho fringe groups might suspect betrayal, possibly come looking for revenge…
But he could think about the irate customers tomorrow, if tomorrow ever came. The business end was Radcliff’s job, in any case, with Lasser handling operations from behind the cover of Security Unlimited. If things went sour, he could always disappear, pull up one of the several alternate identities he kept on tap for such emergencies and spend the next few years in Switzerland or the Bahamas, where the bulk of Lasser’s money was secure in numbered bank accounts. A total bailout meant that he would have to deal with Radcliff, silence him for good, but he could live with that.
It might even be fun.
Right now he had to think about some kind of a defense when he had two drones, Garrick Tilton and a pair of amateurs to back him up. Lasser regretted not importing extra guns to help out with security. So far, they only seemed to be confronting one invader, but he was no ordinary man. If he could stroll through automatic gunfire, kill four men barehanded, he deserved respect. Not fear—at least not yet—but something more than casual disdain.
He wished the place were fortified, but that would be impossible For anybody to explain when the inspectors came around from Health and Human Services. It was hard enough to cover Radcliff s cloning operation with the orphanage facade, pass off the obstacle course and other training facilities as part. of a well-balanced program for physical fitness, without trying to explain barbed wire and booby traps. One hint of paramilitary training, and they would have everybody from the Feds to private watchdog agencies and cult busters breathing down their necks.
So he would have to do with what he had. They could not move inside the dormitory block without attracting even more attention from the regulars whom Lasser had already sought to neutralize. The blockhouse was secure enough, if you liked being locked inside a vault, but that would leave their adversary free to roam the grounds at will, while they were forced to sit and watch him on the monitors.
It came down to a confrontation in the open, and he was relieved that some unknown landscaper had contrived to push the forest back in all directions, clearing out a broad expanse of lawn around the buildings. That way, if they were positioned properly, they had the compound covered. Short of beaming in like an escapee from the ‘Star Trek’ series, their antagonist couldn’t approach the dorms or blockhouse without giving someone ample time to blow his ass away.
Unless, of course, they stalled too long before selecting their positions.
“Quickly, now, we have to separate,” said Lasser. Turning to the drones, he told them, “You two take the north side of the dorm, both corners. Anybody you don’t recognize, he’s dog meat.”
“Right.”
“Yes, sir.”
They went like soldiers, no dumb questions or delays, and Lasser wished them well. He turned to Garrick, saying, “Take the west side of the blockhouse. Now!”
“Okay.”
So far, so good.
That still left Radcliff and his weasel, Oxley. Neither one of them had ever shot a man before, but they would have a chance today.
“You’re on the south end of the dorms,” said Lasser, both of them included in the order. “Any unfamiliar faces, do your best to drop them. Shoot first, save the questions for another day. If you can’t bring the target down, at least make noise. I’ll try to help you out.”
“And where will you be?” Radcliff asked. The hallmark of an amateur with more ego than common sense.
“I’m covering the east side,” Lasser said. “You’ll know if anybody comes at us from that direction. Are you ready?”
Warren Oxley said, “I’ve never killed a man before.”
“Consider this your lucky day. Now, move it!”
Lasser didn’t wait to see if they obeyed him, but set off in the direction of the watch point he had chosen for himself. Thus far, the gunfire had come mainly from the east, in the direction of the road that ran past Radcliff’s Fairfield Home for Boys, and Lasser knew that any threat was most likely to come from that direction, also. If the stranger held his course, depicted on the monitors so far, he would come out in Lasser’s sector and find death there waiting for him.
Perfect.
Lasser was scanning for a point of adequate concealment to improve his odds. The best that he could manage was a shaded doorway, nothing much, but it would offer him a clear view of the lawn and trees beyond.
He ducked into the alcove, didn’t even bother checking it and stiffened as he heard the voice that issued from behind him. Barely audible the whisper was in his ear.
“Surprise!”
The house was deathly quiet, not at all what she was used to with so many boys around. Where were they? Where was everybody? From the sound of it, the staff must all be out, around the grounds somewhere, unloading with the kind of hardware that was normally restricted to the Army and Marines. It all made Chelsea anxious for her father’s safety, but she was not giving up.
A weapon.