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Authors: Elizabeth Jennings
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fucker had shot his Angel, and recently.
CHAPTER FIVE
Warrenton
April 25
His name was a whisper on the wind, mentioned only at midnight, when the lights were low and the whiskey flowed, when ties and tongues were loosened. Haine had heard the stories, different versions of them, in Atlanta, in San Francisco, in Miami. Depending on who you talked to, the man was a former CIA agent, a former SEAL, an exRanger or that deadliest of Special Forces soldiers, a Delta operator. Depending on who you talked to, he was six-foot-six and blond, five-foot-eight and dark-haired. He was black, he was Hispanic, he was Irish.
He had gravitated to the one place on Earth where he could hide in plain sight what he was—a predator. Uncle Sam spent twelve years training him in the fine art of murder. Uncle Sam was good at that. The US government had actually given him the money, the training, and the weaponry to turn himself into what he’d been born to be—a killing machine.
The thing was, though, that the US government expected its soldiers to have an off button, and he hadn’t been born with one. After a couple of episodes which had to be hushed up, he’d been given a dishonorable discharge because a court-martial would have been too messy.
Haine knew of him only by his nickname—Barrett. Not because it was his name—no one knew the name he was born under—but because of the big .50-caliber sniper rifle he was so good with.
It didn’t matter what his name was, only what he could do.
Barrett solved problems. If someone was standing between you and what you wanted, Barrett took care of it for you, for a price.
One night two years ago, in an exclusive club in Dallas, Haine had listened, bored, while a prospective client named Jerry Dunne ranted about his castrating bitch of a wife who was hell-bent on wiping him out financially during a particularly bitter divorce. According to Jerry, Mrs. Jerry had lawyered up with the Devil Incarnate, and Jerry was staring ruin in the face. Then Jerry’s voice had lowered dramatically and he’d leaned forward, with the sly stupid expression of the very drunk, to confess that he was calling in Barrett to get rid of his problem.
Haine’s heart raced as he casually asked how Barrett could be contacted. Five minutes later, Jerry was snoring in a drunken stupor on the leather banquette of the club, and Haine was tucking a slip of paper with instructions in his pocket. He pulled that slip out now and moved to his laptop.
Barrett was clever. His clients contacted him by e-mail, over a Web-based e-mail site. The clients and Barrett all had the same user name and password, and they had access to the same e-mail account.
Haine logged on and wrote his message but didn’t send it.
An hour later, Barrett logged on, read Haine’s message, deleted it, and answered. Haine read it and deleted it. Since the drafts were never sent, no server kept a copy. It was perfect, it never went anywhere, and was utterly untraceable.
How much? Haine had asked at the end.
Four hundred thousand, Barrett wrote. Two immediately and two upon delivery. Plus expenses.
Haine lingered over the keyboard, hands trembling. He had stock options, slated to vest in September. Court Industries stock would probably go up to $70 a share after the Proteus Project was approved. He’d make $24 million. Spend money to make money. The oldest economic law there was.
Deal, he keyed.
I’ll be there by midnight tomorrow, Barrett wrote.
San Luis
Shock shuts down the human nervous system. It drains blood away from the periphery to the vital organs in a last-ditch attempt to protect the center of the human body, the heart and lungs. While in a state of shock, a person is struck blind, deaf, and dumb. Totally helpless and vulnerable, unable to react in any way.
Matt had learned in hard places never to react to surprises. Nothing could shock him, nothing could slow his reaction time.
Matt made sure his men trained for real-life shocks.
CHAPTER FIVE
Warrenton
April 25
His name was a whisper on the wind, mentioned only at midnight, when the lights were low and the whiskey flowed, when ties and tongues were loosened. Haine had heard the stories, different versions of them, in Atlanta, in San Francisco, in Miami. Depending on who you talked to, the man was a former CIA agent, a former SEAL, an exRanger or that deadliest of Special Forces soldiers, a Delta operator. Depending on who you talked to, he was six-foot-six and blond, five-foot-eight and dark-haired. He was black, he was Hispanic, he was Irish.
He had gravitated to the one place on Earth where he could hide in plain sight what he was—a predator. Uncle Sam spent twelve years training him in the fine art of murder. Uncle Sam was good at that. The US government had actually given him the money, the training, and the weaponry to turn himself into what he’d been born to be—a killing machine.
The thing was, though, that the US government expected its soldiers to have an off button, and he hadn’t been born with one. After a couple of episodes which had to be hushed up, he’d been given a dishonorable discharge because a court-martial would have been too messy.
Haine knew of him only by his nickname—Barrett. Not because it was his name—no one knew the name he was born under—but because of the big .50-caliber sniper rifle he was so good with.
It didn’t matter what his name was, only what he could do.
Barrett solved problems. If someone was standing between you and what you wanted, Barrett took care of it for you, for a price.
One night two years ago, in an exclusive club in Dallas, Haine had listened, bored, while a prospective client named Jerry Dunne ranted about his castrating bitch of a wife who was hell-bent on wiping him out financially during a particularly bitter divorce. According to Jerry, Mrs. Jerry had lawyered up with the Devil Incarnate, and Jerry was staring ruin in the face. Then Jerry’s voice had lowered dramatically and he’d leaned forward, with the sly stupid expression of the very drunk, to confess that he was calling in Barrett to get rid of his problem.
Haine’s heart raced as he casually asked how Barrett could be contacted. Five minutes later, Jerry was snoring in a drunken stupor on the leather banquette of the club, and Haine was tucking a slip of paper with instructions in his pocket. He pulled that slip out now and moved to his laptop.
Barrett was clever. His clients contacted him by e-mail, over a Web-based e-mail site. The clients and Barrett all had the same user name and password, and they had access to the same e-mail account.
Haine logged on and wrote his message but didn’t send it.
An hour later, Barrett logged on, read Haine’s message, deleted it, and answered. Haine read it and deleted it. Since the drafts were never sent, no server kept a copy. It was perfect, it never went anywhere, and was utterly untraceable.
How much? Haine had asked at the end.
Four hundred thousand, Barrett wrote. Two immediately and two upon delivery. Plus expenses.
Haine lingered over the keyboard, hands trembling. He had stock options, slated to vest in September. Court Industries stock would probably go up to $70 a share after the Proteus Project was approved. He’d make $24 million. Spend money to make money. The oldest economic law there was.
Deal, he keyed.
I’ll be there by midnight tomorrow, Barrett wrote.
San Luis
Shock shuts down the human nervous system. It drains blood away from the periphery to the vital organs in a last-ditch attempt to protect the center of the human body, the heart and lungs. While in a state of shock, a person is struck blind, deaf, and dumb. Totally helpless and vulnerable, unable to react in any way.
Matt had learned in hard places never to react to surprises. Nothing could shock him, nothing could slow his reaction time.
Matt made sure his men trained for real-life shocks.
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