He’d had this sensation a couple times before. Once, it hadn’t been anything he could ever tell. The feeling came, he looked around, didn’t see anything, and eventually it passed.
The second time, he had been walking outside a camp in Iraq and he felt a panicked urge to stop right where he was. In that instance, he had halted, cold. Looked around, didn’t see anybody outside the camp within rifle range who might pot him. Then he’d looked down.
Another step, and he would have put his foot smack on the trigger of a terrorist-rigged mine planted by some local scumbag, what turned out to be an old artillery shell with a spring-loaded striker that would have no doubt blown off a foot at the least and probably killed him. IED, they called ’em. Improvised Explosive Device.
How had he known that? What sense had been tripped?
It wasn’t dependable, this feeling—he hadn’t felt squat when the two cops had braced him, nor when the shooting had started in Kentucky. But he felt it now.
If he kept going, he was going to die. He knew it right to the marrow in his bones.
He pulled the car into a hard U-turn, breaking the back end loose, laying rubber and noise over the road. As soon as the car’s wheels regained traction, he tapped the gas.
Two things happened: Three men in field gear with M-16s at the ready came into view to his left, running in his direction.
A car started up behind him, a flashing light bar lit, and a siren screamed.
The M-16s opened up, their sounds reached him about the same time as the first rounds hit the car—clunk-clunk-clunk! —and punched through the metal just behind him. Part of a shattered bullet spanged around inside the car and blew out a back window—
“Shit—!”
He ducked instinctively and stomped the gas pedal.
The rental car wasn’t a Formula One racer, but it did surge a little. He turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, zig, then back to the left, zag. Soldiers kept shooting, but he couldn’t worry about that. They’d either hit him or they wouldn’t.
He saw a camo’d Hummer heading toward the gate, angling to cut him off.
The only weapon he had was a SIG side arm, a fucking nine, but he pulled it, aimed through the closed passenger window, and cooked off three fast shots, aiming at the other vehicle.
The first shot shattered the window, and it and the other two were damned loud in the car, but there was no help for that.
The Hummer’s driver hit his brakes. Too much to hope for that he’d hit the guy, but at least he’d slowed him down—
He saw sparks from the road in front of him. They were trying for his tires. He wouldn’t make much speed running on the rims.
He swerved the car again, slewing back and forth.
The gate was ahead, and a counterweighted pole was the only thing blocking the exit, though the guy in the kiosk had triggered the rolling gate and it began to close—
The pedal was floored, he wasn’t going to make the car go any faster, but it looked as if he might make it—
The guy in the kiosk ducked as Carruth pointed the SIG and let one go in his direction—
Why weren’t they closing on him? It was like they were hanging back on purpose—
The car threaded the gap, though the gate scraped the back passenger panel with a steel-fingernail-on-a-chalkboard noise. He had to be doing fifty, and in a few seconds, that went up to seventy.
Off the base!
Nobody was out here waiting for him—why the hell not?
Carruth uttered a steady stream of curses as he drove, watching the rearview mirror for pursuit. Another half a block into the base, he’d have never gotten out, even if he’d turned around and tried. His instinct had saved his ass—at least temporarily.
But—what the hell had happened? How had they gotten on to him?
Worry about that later, too. Right now, he had to drive like his life depended on it. Because it sure as shit did.
32
Net Force Gym
Quantico, Virginia
Thorn stepped out of the shower in the Net Force gym he had pretty much turned into his private practice salle, dried himself, and began to re-dress. Other people still came by to work out, but almost never when he was here.
He didn’t expect he would be working out here that much longer. As his grandfather used to say, you don’t need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. The zephyrs of change were about to start roaring through Net Force like a small hurricane. What had started out as a civilian-run group under the aegis of the FBI had been co-opted by the DoD into another arm of the military, and its mission had radically changed. A tank just didn’t run the same way a Corvette did.
So far, the military had left most things as they were, but eventually they would alter things. It was in their nature. Like a corporate raider forcing a company merger, the powers-that-be were going to look around and notice there was a lot of duplication of effort—and it would be cheaper, simpler, and smarter to eliminate that duplication—why have four when two were plenty?
Why have two when one could do the job?
Thorn finished dressing. He checked himself in the mirror, ran a comb through his hair. He had come out of private industry, he had been involved in his share of buyouts and takeovers, and he knew how things worked. Things changed, and for all kinds of reasons: Buggy whips weren’t made anymore because there were no buggies. There came a time when the old gray mare was put out to pasture because she couldn’t keep up. That was how it had always been, and Thorn didn’t see that stopping anytime soon.
When the DoD took over Net Force, the agency’s days were numbered, and, as he looked at it, that number wasn’t very large. Six months, a year, maybe longer, but his guess was sooner rather than later. It didn’t make any sense otherwise. Net Force would be broken into components and the chunks sold or traded or given away, and in the end, nothing would be left. The name might stick around for a time, but the heart and soul would be gone. It wasn’t about the hardware, but about the people, and if they left, the party was over.
Thorn had an older cousin who had been a paper company manager twenty-five years or so past. The company, thinking ahead, always replanted the trees it harvested, put three in the ground for every one they chopped down. They were cutting third-growth, fourth-growth wood now. And they were adding new kinds of trees that grew faster and made better pulp, but now and again they would screw up the timing. A region would start to be harvested and trees replanted as they went, but they would cut down all the viable timber before the new plantings matured. There would be a five-year, sometimes a ten-year gap. When that happened, all the local loggers and support people were laid off. Thorn’s cousin had been the manager of one such area, up in Alaska. He’d had to shut the operation down to a few caretakers; a couple hundred workers, most of whom had been working the woods all their lives, thirty, forty years some of them, were let go. The little mill town had no other industry, and property values went into the toilet. Those people who couldn’t make it farming or fishing or hunting had to leave and find work elsewhere. The town effectively died.
Thorn’s cousin would tell the story at family gatherings, how the heart went out of the people who worked for him. How there had been suicides, divorces, vandalism against the company. It was a terrible experience, his cousin would say, taking another drink from his beer. Awful to be part of, depressing to watch. A way of life being lost. Much like what had happened to the Indians.