Net Force Read Free

Chechnya to kill and rape. Yes, yes, Grigory had been a soldier, just following his orders, and yes, this mission was more important in the long run than any grudges Ruzhyo might have against the Snake, so he would endure the man. But perhaps one of these days, the Snake would speak of his beautiful Medal for Action in Chechnya once too often, and if that day came near enough to the end of the mission so he would not be vital, Grigory Zmeya would go to join his ancestors. And Ruzhyo would smile while he throttled the stupid oaf.
        Not today, however. There was still much to be done, bridges to be crossed, objectives to be achieved, and the Snake was still necessary.
        Which was lucky for him.
        
        Alexander Michaels was only half asleep when the small monitor on the nightstand next to his bed lit. He felt the pressure of the light against his closed lids, and rolled toward the source and opened his eyes.
        The screen’s blue Net Force background came up and the computer’s vox said, “Alex? We have a priority-one com.”
        Michaels blinked, and frowned at the timesig on the monitor’s upper right corner. Just past midnight. He wasn’t awake. What-?
        “Alex? We have a priority-one com.”
        The computer’s voice was throaty, sexy, feminine. No matter what it said, it always sounded as if it were asking you to go to bed with it. The personality module, including the vox program, had been programmed by Jay Gridley, and the voice he’d chosen for it was, Michaels knew, a joke. Jay was a great tech, but a better cook than he was a comedian, and while Michaels found the vox irritating, damned if he would give the kid the satisfaction of asking him to change it.
        The Deputy Commander of Net Force rubbed at his face, combed his short hair back with his fingers, and sat up. The small motion-sensitive cam mounted on the top of the monitor tracked him. The unit was programmed to send visuals unless he told it otherwise. “All right, I’m up. Connect com.”
        The voxax-voice-activated-system obeyed his command. The screen flowered, and the somewhat-harried face of Assistant Deputy Commander Antonella Fiorella appeared. She looked more alert than he felt, but then she had the graveyard watch this week, so she was supposed to be alert.
        “Sorry to wake you, Alex.”
        “No problem, Toni. What’s up?” She wouldn’t be calling him if it wasn’t vital.
        “Somebody just assassinated Commander Day.”
        “What!?”
        “His virgil sent out an alert. D.C. PD rolled on it. Time anybody got there, Day, his bodyguard Boyle and the limo driver, Louis Harvey, were all dead. Bombs and submachine guns, looks like. Maybe twenty minutes ago.”
        Michaels said a word he seldom used in mixed company.
        “Yeah,” Toni said. “And the horse it rode in on, too.”
        “I’m on my way.”
        “Virgil’s got the address.” A short pause. “Alex? Don’t forget the assassination protocols.”
        She didn’t need to remind him of that, but he nodded. In the event of an attack on a senior federal official, all members of that unit had to assume it might not be the only attack planned. “I copy that. Discom.”
        His assistant’s image vanished, leaving the Net Force blue screen. He slid off the bed and started pulling on his clothes.
        Steve Day was dead? Damn.
        Damn.

2

        
         Wednesday, September 8th, 12:47 a.m. Washington, D.C .
        Red and blue lights from the D.C. police patrol cars strobed the street with primary carnival colors, an effect appropriate to the circus of activity now going on. It was pushing one in the morning, but there were dozens of people lining the road, held back by police officers and bright plastic crime-scene tape. More curious onlookers peered down from nearby buildings. There was something to see, too, what with the blasted limo, the litter of shell casings, the