Night Moves nf-3 Read online

  "Ah, yes. Nasty piece of work, that one. Got away, did he?"

  "Apparently only temporarily, according to what Bascomb-Coombs has learned. It seems they are about to collect Mr. Ruzhyo somewhere out in the American West."

  "Too bad for him."

  "Just thought you'd find it interesting, sir."

  "Yes, well, keep me up to speed on new findings."

  After he clicked off, Peel looked up at the old window. Interesting developments in all this business. While it was not the regiment, it did have its moments. Indeed it did.

  Sunday, April 3rd

  Stonewall Flat, Nevada

  "All set?"

  "Yes, sir," Fernandez said. "Sniper teams in place, ground troops to their positions. The place is surrounded, and the Strike Team is making dust for the trailer now. Off-road, in case he's got it mined." Fernandez grinned to show he wasn't serious about that part.

  The two men stood in their modified SIPEsuits next to the Hummer, parked half a mile back on the main road — the only road — leading to Ruzhyo's Airstream. Howard had his visor up and used his silicone-armored field-grade ten-power Leupold binoculars, sweeping back and forth slowly, looking at the target. "No sign of him. He must not be an early riser."

  "His problem," Fernandez said. "Our boys'll be there in a minute, a few flash-bangs, some emetic gas, and Mr. Assassin wakes up half-blind, puking last night's dinner, and in deep feces. You should have let me lead the team, no point in both of us missing all the fun."

  "You're about to be a married man with a child, Julio, and if you think I'm going to explain something happening to you to Joanna, forget it. Better get used to sitting at a desk."

  "That'll be the day."

  "Sooner than you think, Sergeant."

  He looked at the trailer. So far, so good.

  Ruzhyo was already awake when he heard the sound of the approaching vehicle. He came up, strapped on the belt with the extra shotgun shells, then picked up the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder by the nylon strap. He collected the pistol and the radio control unit, then walked to the window over the sink. He set the Browning down, hooked the control to his belt, and looked out.

  A squat, squarish, dun-colored truck rolled toward the trailer at a good speed, coming up the slight rise ten meters to the left of the driveway, paralleling it. A cloud of pale dust billowed behind the truck.

  A military assault? With the driver staying off the road to avoid mines? Smart. If they were military, they'd probably be wearing light armor, so his guns weren't going to do him much good unless he was very precise with his shooting. Something to keep in mind.

  He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out, found a glass and ran a little water into it, rinsed his mouth, then spat into the sink. He put the glass down, stuck the pistol into his belt, and walked to the door.

  Guests had come to call, and it was time to put out the welcome mat.

  He pulled the radio control unit from his belt. There were four buttons on the device, each of which controlled a signal made stronger by a booster hidden in the satellite dish installed on top of the trailer.

  He sighed and pushed the first button.

  "What the hell is that?" Howard said.

  A circular wall of gray appeared from the ground around the trailer, roiling up into the still-cool morning air. The dark gray cloud obscured the trailer in a matter of seconds.

  "He's got smoke," Fernandez said unnecessarily into the LOSIR headset built into his helmet. "Slow it down."

  The leader of the Strike Team said, "No shit."

  Howard was aware of the exchange in his own headset, but he was dropping his visor and switching his helmet's viewer to IR.

  Not much help; whatever was making the smoke was also making some heat, and he couldn't see through it.

  He called up the feed from Big Squint's footprint, but the computer-augmented satellite image didn't show anything inside the ring of smoke, save the trailer.

  "He's still inside," Howard said. "So far. Proceed with caution."

  "Copy that," the Strike Team leader said.

  Ruzhyo looked through the window over the door. The smoke bombs had obscured the trailer from view. In another few seconds, they would finish smoking and explode into white hot flares, which ought to confuse any sensor devices pointed at him.

  He looked at the second button. Nodded to himself. He hadn't killed anybody in a while, but this attack was obviously military in origin, and those men and women hiding at the sniper points would be soldiers and prepared to shoot him dead if so ordered. They knew the risks of combat. And if they did not, they were about to find out.

  Hidden at nine places where a sniper might conceal himself for a field of fire centered upon the trailer were twenty-seven antipersonnel units buried in large paper cups turned upside down and covered with a thin layer of sand and soil. These were variants on the old Bouncing Betty; a small compressed-gas charge would pop the cigarette-pack-sized APUs up five or six feet, where a second, stronger charge would explode and blast a handful of steel BBs all around itself in a devastating pattern. An unarmored man standing within a few yards of the APU would be cut down, dead or seriously wounded. Even with armor, some of the pellets could find a seam or unprotected spot and cause dangerous or even fatal wounds.

  He pushed the button.

  Howard's LOSIR com came alive with startled yells and screams, overlaid with the sounds of small explosions, both on-line and then, a second or two later, echoing across the terrain.

  "Report!"

  "We got a mine here, Colonel, Spalding is hit and bleeding!"

  "We got blasted at S2, sir, dusted us pretty good, no injuries!"

  "Reader is down, her face is a bloody mess!"

  "John — look."

  Howard looked at the smoke, saw bright lights flaring through the haze. What the hell was going on here?

  When the first of the smoke bombs burned down to their magnesium pots and flared, Ruzhyo opened the trailer door and stepped out. He had only fifteen yards to travel, but he needed to be in position before his heat sig would be the only one in the area, in case they had sat or high overfly surveillance.

  He hurried.

  The hidey-hole was disguised by a sheet of plywood, lined all around with heat-reflectives and absorbent deadstrip material. He'd glued dirt and brush on top of the board, and once in place, it was virtually invisible and solid enough to walk on. The chamber was only a meter wide by two meters long, but he wasn't planning on staying there that long.

  In the hole, he squeezed a cold chemlume and got enough light so he could see to power up the battery-operated TV monitor. A camera on top of the trailer — also hidden inside the satellite dish — and a second camera in the garbage dump behind the place gave smoke-shrouded, grainy, but serviceable views of the trailer and the area around it, including his Dodge SUV.

  The car was loaded with things necessary to make the rest of his plan work.

  Give it a few more seconds for the smoke to clear.

  "Smoke is clearing," came the report over Howard's LOSIR.

  "Proceed with extreme caution," Howard replied.

  "You still want him alive?"

  Howard gritted his teeth. He had four wounded — so far — and, according to the medic, two of them hit hard enough they needed to be gotten to a hospital PDQ. The Guard copter was already on the way.

  "Yes. Alive, if possible. But protect yourselves as necessary. I don't want anybody else going down, understand? If you have to shoot, you shoot."

  "Yes, sir."

  Now, Ruzhyo thought. He pressed the third of the four buttons on his control unit.

  "Heads up!" Fernandez said.

  Howard looked. A vehicle zoomed out of the smoke, coming up the road. Ruzhyo's SUV.

  "He's running for it!"

  The chatter of subgun fire echoed. Howard brought his binoculars around to frame the fleeing vehicle. He saw pockmarks appear on the metal where the bullets hit. What an idio
t! Did he think he could just hop in his car and drive away?

  Ruzhyo pushed the final button.

  Before Howard could adjust the focus on his binoculars and get a look at the driver, the car blew up. The ground shook where they stood, and the blast wave rolled over them with a noise like the end of the world. A fireball rose inside a mushroom cloud like a miniature atomic bomb. This wasn't the gas tank going up; the car had been rigged with big explosives.

  "Holy shit!" Fernandez said. "What the hell did he have in there?"

  When the smoke cleared a bit, there was nothing left of the car except part of the frame and two flaming, smoking tires. More burning debris was scattered for hundreds of meters all around.

  Howard stared. Jesus Christ! What a fuck up!

  "Looks like you were right to be worried, Colonel. I stand corrected."

  Howard just shook his head.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday, April 3rd

  Lhasha, Tibet

  Jay Gridley sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in an orange robe, the smell of patchouli incense heavy in the cool air. The thin reed mat under him did little to stop the cold radiating from the flagstones into his backside, and his shaved head was chilly. Through an open window, he saw snow piled ten feet thick, a blanket that shrouded everything in crisp, glistening white. A wordless vocal chant echoed in the background, a low and pulsing drone, and light inside the massive chamber was provided by hundreds of candles.

  At the front of the room, seated in full lotus on a short wooden platform that put him only a few inches higher than the monks, was the head monk, Sojan Rinpoche. The man was also bald, probably seventy, and had smile wrinkles that didn't quit. Gridley could see why, after a few minutes of listening to the guru speak. He smiled a lot.

  At the moment, the old man was talking about some kind of Buddhist deity:

  "… in Sanskrit, he is called Yamantaka. In China, they call him Yen-an-te-chia. In Tibet, we speak of him as Gshin-rji-gshed. Everywhere, we know him as He Who Conquers Death, one of the Eight Terrible Ones, the drag-shed, Guardian of the Faith, and patron of the Dge-lugs-pa.

  "He is terrible to behold, this manifestation of Manjusri bodhisattva. Long ago, during a mighty battle in Tibet, Gshin-rji-gshed took his form to engage and defeat Yama, God of Death. He has nine heads, thirty-four arms, and sixteen feet. He is the Horror to Behold, the Mighty Terror, the Trampler of Demons.

  "He is," the old man said, smiling, "not somebody you want to fuck with."

  Gridley did a mental double take at the last sentence. That seemed weird, coming from a Tibetan holy man.

  He sighed. This was the old man's scenario — if indeed he was an old man and not somebody faking it — and he didn't much care for it. Too austere. And now that he was here, he didn't really understand why he had come. What was it that he had hoped to find?

  The nurse. The nurse had told him to look this guy up. After he had ripped the VR set off and thrown it on the floor because he hadn't been able to concentrate without losing it. Oh, he could still use VR, but only in a passive, customer sort of way. He couldn't create it. He couldn't manipulate it. He would begin okay, but after a minute or two, he would drift, and the imagery failed.

  A computer operative who couldn't run a computer. A VR worker who couldn't work VR. He was screwed. His life was over.

  But the nurse — she was some kind of Buddhist or something — she had given him this guy's web address, told him to check it out. He'd helped others, she'd said.

  Gridley had nothing to lose, so he went. But he didn't see how Gshin-rji-whateverthehellhisnamewas was going to help squat.

  As if reading his mind, the old man clapped his hands once, and the monks, save for Gridley, all vanished. The room around him swirled and shifted, and he found himself sitting in a comfortable armchair facing the guru, who also sat in a chair. In place of the orange robes, Jay wore slacks, a pullover sweater, and motorcycle boots, and the old man wore jeans and a work shirt. The Tibetan's legs were crossed at the ankles, he sported Nikes, and he had that big smile again. He looked like somebody's kindly old grandfather come for a visit.

  "Better?" he said.

  Gridley blinked. "Uh, yeah, I guess so."

  "A lot of folks want the monastery imagery. It makes them feel as if they've found the real thing. That Tibet, unfortunately, only exists in the movies these days."

  He regarded Jay with a straight, direct gaze. "You have a problem."

  "Yeah."

  "Your aura is fractured."

  Jesus, auras? Time to bail—

  "That is to say, you appear to have some difficulty concentrating. Drugs? Or a medical problem? Tumor? Stroke?"

  How the hell could he tell that? Nothing like that showed in VR!

  "Uh…"

  "Take your time. You want to check out, come back later, that's cool."

  Jay shook his head. "You don't seem like any guru I ever heard of."

  "You want the monastery back?"

  "No, I — it's just that—"

  "Expectation," the old man said. "That one is a killer. You had a idea, an expectation of what I was supposed to be, so whenever I pop off and do something that doesn't fit, it's confusing. And you're already confused enough, right?"

  "Uh, yeah, right."

  "Well, we'll get to that. First things first. What shall I call you?"

  "Webnom or realnom?"

  "Doesn't matter, just something you'll answer to."

  "Jay."

  "Okay. Call me Saji. You came for some clarity, right?"

  "I — uh, I'm not sure."

  Saji laughed. "What you mean is, you didn't come for all this Buddhist bullshit, demons and Dharma and all. But you do want clarity."

  "Yeah."

  "Well, being a Buddhist doesn't get in the way of that. In fact, it helps. But we'll get back to that later, too. First things first. The nature of your injury?"

  "They say I had some kind of stroke."

  "Fine, we can deal with that."

  "I'm glad you can."

  "Not me, we, Jay." He tapped his right temple with one finger. "Our brains have a lot of built-in redundancies. You get a short in one spot, it's entirely possible to reroute the signal to a place where the wiring is better. You might not even need that, but we'll see. I'm going to ask you a series of questions, you respond however you like."

  "Okay."

  "What is eighty-seven minus thirteen?"

  Christ-arithmetic?

  "Yes, arithmetic. To start out." He grinned.

  Jay sighed. When you're at the bottom, the only way you can go is up.

  "Seventy-four," he said.

  "And who is the President of the United States…?"

  Sunday, April 3rd

  Stonewall Flat, Nevada

  "What have we got, Julio?"

  "Sir, not much. We've come up with some bloody pieces of scorched bone, something that looks like burnt hair, and a couple of teeth. Whatever he had in that car did a job on him. I doubt they'll ever find all of him."

  Howard sighed. Yes, indeed. He wasn't looking forward to writing this report.

  "All right. Finish the trailer, leave two men to watch the site, and we'll get the lab boys out here. Pack it up and let's go home."

  "Yes, sir."

  Howard looked at the crater where the target's car had gone up in the blast. This wasn't the plan, but at least they had taken him down. The man had been a professional killer. Aside from whatever else he had done, Reader was in bad shape, and three others were wounded enough to need hospital time. The target deserved to be questioned and imprisoned for a thousand years, but this would have to do. Quick and rough justice, Howard could live with it.

  He turned away and headed for the Humvee. Julio had been right to keep the air conditioner turned up. It was hot out here and getting hotter.

  Damn, he hated this.

  In his burrow, Ruzhyo tried to sleep. It was hot, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't relax enough to drop o
ff. He had considered wiring the trailer so that it would go up with the car, but had decided against it. Perhaps somebody could get some use from it. It had been, for what it was, a good home for him. And more importantly, anybody who remained behind to watch would surely use the place for shade from the hot sun, or even go inside to run the air conditioner.

  From inside, there was no window that looked directly upon Ruzhyo's hiding place; he had made certain of that.

  By now, they would have found the remains of what he had left inside a sterilized and vacuum-sealed plastic carton for them to find: Leavings from a barber shop's trash; several uncut bones, raw meat, and blood mixed with anticoagulant made from rat poison, all from a pig. And the final touch, a human skull from a high school biology skeleton, stolen and wrapped tightly inside the pig's scalp, packed with the pig's brain. Such things would not fool a pathologist for an instant, but someone who had just seen a car blasted to smoking bits might think the fragments of bone and blood and brain human. And they might think so long enough to allow him to escape.

  Nothing was certain, but it was a chance.

  The cameras showed men getting into vehicles and leaving. They would post a guard, probably no more than two or three soldiers. It would be hot, and the guards would remove their helmets or some of their armor or go inside the trailer. When they did, he would be ready. They would have checked the trailer for explosives and, finding none, would feel safe.

  Pistol held loosely in his hand, Ruzhyo tried again to sleep. Even a few minutes would be good. He was so tired.

  Sunday, April 3rd

  London, England

  MI-6 HQ looked just like any other modern office building inside. Michaels wasn't sure what he'd expected, especially given that Net Force HQ also looked like some typical corporate structure; still, he half expected to see James Bond or Q or somebody skulking through the halls on the way to do the king's business.

  They sat on a comfortable couch in the office of the director-general, Matthew Hamilton. Along with Hamilton were Angela Cooper, Minister of Parliament Clifton Wood, and himself. Toni had stepped out of the room to call the FBI director.