Читать книгу The Ties That Bind - Cliff Ryder - Страница 8

Jason Siku slipped the modified shooting glasses over his eyes. From his perspective, the yellow-tinted lenses were more than just a coloration that brought out contrasts in the landscape. The lenses used a tiny microprocessor built into the frames to work in tandem with the high-tech rounds he was testing tonight.

The indoor firing range was almost empty, and Jason was enjoying the relative peace of practicing without the interruption of other people talking and shooting at the same time that he practiced. He dropped an empty clip from his porcelain-framed Glock 17 and slid in a new one. Setting the weapon down, he attached a new human-shaped target sheet to the clips, then moved it out to a distance of fifteen feet. Picking up the gun once more, he set his feet and turned on the laser sight with a tap of his thumb.

A red dot appeared on the target’s chest region. He took one steadying breath, then began shooting. A few seconds later, the last round was fired and the slide sprang open. During these sessions, Jason didn’t think or reminisce, and he rarely spoke to anyone when he was here. An excellent shooter, he knew, thought of nothing during the moments of pulling the trigger but his weapon and the target. Everything else was a distraction that could prove deadly or cause a miss.

He removed the empty clip and was reaching for the next one when a hand on his shoulder startled him enough to almost cause him to jump. He felt his muscles tense momentarily, then he relaxed them. He turned to see the owner of the range, Jim Miller, staring at the target. Jason pulled off his ear protection and offered a slight smile. “Hi, Jim,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Miller continued to gaze at the target. “Fine,” he said, then shook his head. “That’s…that’s some good shooting. Even taking the short range into account, I don’t know too many people who can shoot like that.”

Jason nodded. “Thanks. I practice at ten, fifteen and twenty feet,” he said. “Every once in a while, I’ll go out farther, twenty-two or twenty-five feet, but it’s really kind of pointless beyond those ranges.”

“How’s that?” Miller asked.

“Most shootings with a handgun occur inside twenty feet,” Jason said. “Being a crack shot at fifty won’t help you much if the other guy is ten feet away and shooting back.”

“I suppose not,” Miller admitted. “Those are some nice patterns, too. Two to the chest, one to the head. You didn’t miss once. We’ve got a couple of shooting-club champions that come here that don’t get groupings like that.”

Jason smiled. “I practice a lot.”

“I’ve noticed,” Miller said. “You’ve been in here often.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just wanted to let you know that we’re closing in about fifteen minutes.”

Jason glanced at his watch. “Thanks for the reminder. I was kind of in a zone.”

Miller grinned. “I noticed that, too.” He headed back down the firing lane and said, “Have a good night.”

“Thanks,” Jason said. “You, too.”

He considered running a few more rounds through the weapon—it was also new—but he’d already done over five hundred this week. The gun felt comfortable in his hands and his accuracy with it was solid. The fact that the rounds he was using were specially made for Room 59 agents wasn’t something anyone needed to know.

Working with information processed by the shooting glasses, the modified rounds were autocorrecting. A tiny microchip tracked the previous round and the shooter’s visual response and made adjustments on the fly. If you were off by a half inch with the first shot, the second shot would be dead-on. It was a marvelous modification, but Jason didn’t like to count on it, so he’d practiced with the weapon until he felt that he wouldn’t need the rounds to adjust for him more than a quarter inch at twenty feet or less.

He reloaded and placed the weapon in the ballistic holster under his left arm, then pulled on his jacket. He took his extra clip and slid it into the spare magazine slot on the holster, reeled in his target and policed his area clean. He knew no one would bother to look at the casings too closely. There were thousands of them in the area, and it would take more than a cursory examination to notice anything different about them anyway.

Jason crumpled up the target and tossed it into the trash can, then started walking toward the front of the building, where Miller sold guns and other sporting goods. Just as he reached the door leading into the shopping area, he brought himself up short. Even through the heavy sheet metal, he could hear the sound of raised voices.

Cautiously, he eased open the door wide enough to slip through. The voices were clearer now.

“Just give us the money, man, and we’re outta here. No muss, no fuss.” It was a young man’s voice.

“Do it now!” another voice yelled. “Stop fucking around, old man!”

“I’m doing it,” Jason heard Miller say. “I have to turn on the computer first. I already shut it down for the night. The cash drawer won’t open unless the computer is on.”

“Oh, freakin’ bullshit, man,” the first voice said.

Jason eased his way up one aisle, cut sideways, then began working his way forward. What kind of idiot would choose to rob a gun shop? he wondered. Miller had to be armed or have a weapon behind the counter. Why wasn’t he fighting back?

“Look, you owe us, man, and now you’re gonna pay up. Stop with the excuses.”

Jason was finally close enough to peer over a large stack of shotgun shells that were on display. The two men talking to Miller both looked to be in their twenties. The one with the calmer voice held a revolver in his hands, while the screamer was carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Both of them wore gang colors, which meant that they were at least used to the idea of violence, if not used to doing it themselves. Both of them had various tattoos and piercings—anonymity was not a part of their world.

It didn’t matter to Jason what Miller supposedly owed them; what they were doing was robbery.

He decided to play it straight and see what happened. Room 59 agents weren’t supposed to get involved in this kind of thing—they were supposed to be invisible—but he wouldn’t let a good man die or be robbed for no reason. Stepping out from behind the display, he pulled out his wallet and kept his head down. “Hey, Jim,” he called. “What do I owe you for tonight?”

“What the fuck is this?” the screamer said. “Don’t move a freakin’ muscle!”

Jason stopped in his tracks. “Whoa,” he said. “Easy, kid. I don’t…hey, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late for that, man,” the first guy said. “It found you.”

Jason risked a glance at Jim, saw his hand easing toward the underside of the counter and gave a slight shake of his head. “It usually does,” he said, putting his wallet back into his jeans. “Are you boys giving my friend Jim here a hard time?”

“Ain’t none of your damn business. Don’t move, don’t get hurt. We’ll finish up what we gotta do and be on our merry,” the calm one said.

Jason went still. He turned his gaze on the calm one first, then the screamer. “In exactly thirty seconds,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “I’m going to kill both of you. And not in a nice way, but in a slow, painful way.” He kept his hands out, palms open and visible. “Or you can leave and never come back. It’s up to you.”

“What the fuck you talkin’ about?” the screamer said. “I’ll shoot you down, man, and sleep like a baby.”

“Twenty seconds,” Jason said.

“Man’s crazy,” the first guy said. “Got a death wish or something.”

“Fifteen seconds,” he said. “Your time is running out, boys.”

“Just give us the damn money, Miller!” the second guy yelled. “Your boy done took out a loan to pay for his habit, and since he’s not around no more, you get to pay up.”

Miller’s eyes met with Jason’s. “Fuck you,” the shop owner said. “My boy died because you got him hooked. If anyone owes, it’s you.”

“Guess they both want to die,” the calmer man said.

“Wrong again,” Jason whispered. In the blink of an eye, he had the Glock free from the holster and he fired a single round into the forehead of the kid carrying the revolver.

He fell over dead, the back of his head a gaping, gory hole.

“Grinch!” the screamer said, then turned his rage toward Jason. “You fuckin’ said thirty seconds!”

Jason shrugged. “I lied,” he said, bringing the Glock around. “Drop the gun, kid, or you’ll be just as dead as your buddy Grinch.”

Jason watched as the boy considered his options, saw him make his sad decision and begin to raise his shotgun. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the Glock spoke twice more, and the boy dropped the gun and began to scream in earnest. His knees were gone and he writhed on the floor, crying and bleeding.

“Jesus,” Miller said.

“He doesn’t have much to do with this kind of thing,” Jason replied. “Lend me your belt.”

“What?”

“Your belt,” he snapped. “Unless you want that boy to bleed to death.”

Miller whipped his belt off and handed it over.

Jason kicked the shotgun away and knelt down by the wounded boy, using Miller’s belt and his own to make tourniquets on each leg. “Shut up,” he snapped as the boy continued to scream and moan. “You could be dead.”

“You fucker,” the kid said. “You shot us both. You killed Grinch and my legs are all messed up. I’ll never walk again. You said you’d kill me.”

“I lied about that, too,” Jason said. “Besides, walking is a privilege, you know. By the time you get out of prison, who knows what kind of shape you’ll be in.”

“Prison?” the kid said.

Jason stood up quickly, then turned to Miller. “You carry the Glock 17 model?” he asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Why?”

“Get me one,” Jason said. “With a loaded clip. Be quick.”

Miller was moving on automatic pilot, but he did as Jason told him. Jason took the weapon and jogged back to the range door, firing the weapon three times. Then he brought it back to the shop owner.

“Take this,” he said, handing it to him. He glanced around. “Do you have video surveillance of any kind here?”

The man shook his head, still stunned. “No,” he said. “Never figured on anyone trying to rob me.”

“I don’t suppose,” Jason said. “Listen, Jim, I’ve got to get out of here and fast. As soon as I’m out the door, you call the cops and tell them what happened…but leave me out of it. Don’t mention my name or my involvement.” He leaned forward, his eyes boring into the other man. “I was never here. They came in, tried to rob you and you defended yourself, got it?”

“I…I got it,” he whispered, looking at the carnage. “Who…who are you?”

“I’m nobody,” Jason said. “I’m a ghost.”

“A ghost,” Miller said. “You’re pretty good in a fight for a ghost.”

Jason laughed quietly. “That wasn’t a fight,” he said. “That was just practice.”

“Jesus,” Miller said again. Then he added, “The boy will talk.”

“Probably,” Jason said. “But he’s loaded on drugs—crack or meth probably—and they’ll never believe him. Just stick to your story and give them the Glock, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

Jason turned and moved for the door.

“Hey!” Miller called.

Jason stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thanks for saving my life.” He sighed. “They got my son hooked on meth and it killed him. I couldn’t get him to stop, couldn’t save him no matter how hard I tried.”

“That happens sometimes,” Jason said. “You can’t save everyone.”

“Well, you saved me, so thank you. My son is dead, but I still…I want to live.”

“You’re welcome,” Jason said as he stepped out into the night.

The parking lot had only a few vehicles left in it and was poorly lit, but Jason found his own brown Volvo without any problems. He moved quickly, knowing the police could arrive any moment. He hit the remote unlock button on his key tab before he got to the car, skipping his usual quick walk around to ensure that no one had managed to get inside. It was always unlikely, but he never took chances with his safety. Now was the time to get moving.

He lived an orderly kind of life. His car was the safest one on the market—even safer after he’d added some additional aftermarket accessories. His apartment was sparsely furnished, meticulously neat and held no real clues as to who he was or what he did for a living.

He climbed into the Volvo, started the engine and headed for his apartment. In the distance, he could hear the telltale sound of police sirens. Clean action had felt good, despite breaking an operative rule. Of late, he’d felt strangely conflicted. When he’d worked for the CIA, he had very little downtime. Room 59 operatives had mandated time off between missions. He’d been surprised by the intensity of the training period, including his first posttraining assignment—a final exam, of sorts—that involved him assassinating a target. It had been a simple assignment, really. More the kind of thing assigned to a rookie than an old hand like himself.

In the darkness of the car, Jason laughed to himself. Home was just a place to sleep between jobs. He wondered if any agents had a wife and kids in this line of work. He shook his head. It didn’t make sense to have a family. Not for people like him.

And yet…family was on his mind more and more lately. Despite his son’s death, Jim Miller had wanted to live. He probably had a wife, maybe other kids—people he counted on and who counted on him. When he’d left the orphanage, Jason had no idea who his real family was or even if they were alive. All he had was his last name, which was on his birth certificate. He’d tried to find out more a couple of times, but other than learning that his mother had been an Inuit from somewhere in Alaska and his father was unknown, there’d been precious little information. After a time, he’d given up on the idea and, considering his profession, it was probably the wisest course of action. Being responsible for his own life, taking his own risks was one thing, but adding a wife or a child or some other family member to the mix, putting them at risk, seemed the very height of irresponsibility.

Still, he was alone and, he admitted to himself, lonely. It would be good to have someone he could count on. Someone to come home to.

He turned the corner close to his apartment complex and pulled into the parking lot. He shut down the Volvo, locked it and headed inside. He’d grab a quick bite to eat and then rack out for the night. His mandatory downtime was over, and he expected that an assignment would be heading his way soon enough.

Once he was inside, his thoughts turned again to the idea of trying to find his mother, his family. Why had she left him at the orphanage in Seattle? Why didn’t she want him? Did he have other family members—a brother, a sister, someone? The questions plagued him even as he heated a bowl of soup and cut a few slices of bread.

He knew he couldn’t live the life he did forever. Sooner or later, he’d get older, slip up and get killed or have to find something he could do that didn’t involve fieldwork. Would he be able to have a family then, or would it just be more of the same? What kind of woman would ask about his day and accept the only answer he could give—“I can’t tell you or I’d have to kill you.”

Sitting at the kitchen table, Jason pondered the questions and wondered why they were coming up again now, so soon after starting a new job, but his mind didn’t have very long to linger on them. Halfway through his soup, the pager on his belt began to vibrate.

He pulled it free and looked at the display.

His first assignment, Jason realized, was right on time to distract him from these notions.