Kill Code Page 5

  “What was the third option?”

  “I killed the messenger and burnt his body in his car trunk. It'll be a couple of days yet for them to sort it out. I was hoping to be a little further along in figuring out who wanted you dead.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you even care?”

  He shrugged. “I don't know you from Adam, but I want my life back. I was happy. Then one day, someone walked into my store and pretty much said that if I didn't kill you, I'd be killed.”

  “Store?”

  “Yeah. I was co-owner of a coin store. I was forced to stab the person that gave me that,” gesturing at the papers in her hands, “with a letter opener over a pile of Wheat Pennies that I'd just bought.”

  When she didn't say anything, he added, “It was the first person that I ever killed who wasn't over six hundred yards away. Messy. I don't want to have to do it again.”

  She looked up at him and he realized how vulnerable she looked.

  “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I'm not helping you, I just want my life back.”

  When she didn't say anything, he really didn't know what he could add. His last date had been in college and that had been a disaster—despite being a rifle team stud, able to make a target rifle sit up and beg, he found himself awkward around other members of the human race. He didn't really miss it that much. It may have seemed sad to others, but something he'd never had, he never missed. So, why was he thinking about it when they were being hunted?

  Leo drove past the gate and then carefully relocked it. He wondered how the difference in elevation and humidity would affect his rifle and load. He generally knew what would happen, but was curious as to the specifics. He'd shot at this range before, but it had been years ago—more than several rifles and hundreds of loads and bullets ago. His shooting logs should have been able to point him in the right direction, but he'd left everything except for his current rifle's log at the house that he rented. He'd probably never see them again, along with the things he'd built in the last ten years, half a dozen rifles and the rest of his coin collection, some of them from his childhood.

  He drove to the empty range and started unloading all of his gear. Damn, he had a lot of things. He'd have to pare down his gear if he was going to be able to shoot and scoot. Though a lot of this stuff was for ammunition development—he'd have to make a list of what he would need when it came time to hunt.

  Both the six-hundred- and thousand-yard ranges were laid out in front of him. To his left was a hundred-yard range. He would start there. His ballistic table, taped to the stock of his rifle, would enable him to go from one hundred yards to six hundred, and finally a thousand by adjusting the settings on his scope.

  Leo puttered around, setting up his gear. His loading press was situated between the three ranges. He had enough materials to make a hundred rounds so he would have to make each shot count. His cased rifle he set on the concrete bench at the hundred-yard range. He dug out his log book and Kestrel wind, humidity and temperature gauge. Finally, he uncased his rifle. It was the best rifle that he had ever owned or shot. Built on a receiver he built himself, with a Hart barrel in a shortened .338 Lapua chamber. The trick was that it was a .30 caliber barrel. His favorite load pushed a bullet of that size and a decent velocity and Leo was sure that he hadn't rung out all the potential accuracy of the rifle.

  Finally, roughly set up, he tapped on the truck window. When he did get to shooting, he didn't want to frighten Jackie.

  She looked up.

  “You gonna help or are you gonna stay there?”

  Jackie rolled down the window and pointed a gun at him.

  ###

  She didn't know what to think. Why was this man helping her? Did he mean to kill her here and leave her body? Jackie needed more answers than Leo had provided. Yet she didn't know how to get those answers. Was she in fear for her life? Hell yes. What would she do to find out what she needed to put her life together? Almost anything. But how? That still didn't leave her very many options.

  Jackie had watched as Leo unloaded all of his crap. Her mind was in turmoil. How was this tied into Nathan? Or was it? Did the gun that Nathan left specifically for her have something to do with it?

  She reached into her satchel and felt the cold and strangely comforting feel of the pistol. “Are you gonna help or are you gonna stay there?” Startled, Jackie instinctively had pulled it out and pointed it at him. She was more than shocked when he merely smiled.

  “What are you gonna do with that?” he asked. You would think that he was used to having guns pointed at him.

  “I don't know,” was all that she could say.

  He motioned at it and said, “Do you mind?”

  “What?”

  Deftly, he pulled it from her grip. He pushed a button on the grip and a piece of metal came from the bottom. She could see a gleaming bullet in the metal. He slapped it back into the pistol, pulled the metal piece on the top, then pushed a button on the side. Handing it back to her, he said, “Beretta 92SF, same pistol issued to the US military. It comes with a loaded chamber indicator. Yours wasn't loaded. Now it is.”

  Why had he done that?

  “So, I could shoot you now, if I wanted?”

  His face cracked a smile. “Take the safety off first if you plan on doing that. In the meantime, I need some help.”

  Curious, and stunned at the same time, she stuffed the pistol back into her computer case and climbed from the truck.

  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 d
ead 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.

  Chapter 7

  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. On
e 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?”