Changing of the Guard Read Free

he kept going. He was a hundred meters away and gathering speed, thinking he could certainly outrun that loaded truck on the motorcycle, when they started shooting.
    No matter. They wouldn’t hit him at this distance!
    He was wrong. The bullet punched through his back, low, at the right kidney, went right on through him—he looked down and saw the exit wound, a welling red crater the size of his thumb. It felt as if he had been hit by a hammer, but he didn’t fall, didn’t put the bike down. Maybe it wasn’t a fatal wound. It didn’t hurt that bad.
    If he could just get across the border, he’d be okay. They’d find him a doctor. If he could just get back to Turkey, he’d be all right.

1

Net Force HQ
Quantico, Virginia
    Alex Michaels put the gold ink pen given to him by the late Steve Day into the box, next to a laser pointer and a couple of mechanical pencils. Amazing how much crap you picked up when you sat behind a desk in the same spot for a few years: rubber bands, paper clips, batteries, flashmem cards . . . It was not as if he hadn’t cleared out a desk before, but this time was different. He was leaving government service for the private sector, moving far away in time and space, into a new life with his wife and son.
    It felt strange. Unreal, somehow.
    Would he miss running Net Force? Sure, no question. There was a great satisfaction in being part of the solution to America’s problems. Under his direction, the organization had nailed some very bad people, and, however briefly, made the world a safer place. Given the times, that was not a bad thing. But it was time to move on. There were some things more important than a job—any job—and his family was one of those things.
    His work had put them at risk, and that simply wasn’t acceptable. He didn’t mind dying for his country, if it came to that, but he was not going to let his wife and child die—not for any reason. If a man didn’t take care of his family, he wasn’t much of a man, no matter how well the rest of the world might think of him.
    He opened the drawer on the right side, saw the kerambit case nestled there. That pair of short, hooked knives had saved his life and that of his family, when Toni had been pregnant. Coupled with his knowledge of the esoteric Indonesian fighting art called pentjak silat , he had been able to stop a madman bent on rape and murder. But such occasions should not arise, should not have to be dealt with, and removing his family from harm’s way was much smarter than contending with such adversaries.
    He had done his part. Now let somebody else stand in the line of fire. He would not miss that aspect of it.
    “Commander?” came his secretary’s voice over the intercom.
    “Yes?”
    “Thomas Thorn is here.”
    “Ah. Send him in.”
    Michaels looked around. Being here had been good. Leaving was good, too. . . .
     
    The secretary showed Thorn into the office. Michaels, on his feet and apparently packing personal belongings into boxes, came from around his desk and extended his hand. When they shook, Michaels used his left as well, clasping Thorn’s hand in a firm grip, but not a crusher.
    “Commander Michaels,” Thorn said. “I’m Tom Thorn. A pleasure to finally meet you, sir.”
    Michaels smiled, showing a lot of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “Just ‘Alex’,” he said. “You’re the Commander now. I’ve heard a lot about you. Have a seat.”
    Thorn started for the couch. “No,” Michaels said. “Behind the desk. It’s yours.”
    Thorn paused.
    “I’m serious,” Michaels said. “When I walk out the door, I might look back, but I’m essentially gone. I’ve got all my stuff almost cleaned out.” He waved at a box on the desk. “It’s your house now.”
    Thorn nodded. “Okay.” He moved around the desk. Michaels sat on the couch.
    “I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” Thorn admitted.
    Michaels laughed again. “You came up with the basic VR interface most people still