Extinction Machine

Chapter One Hundred Six

VanMeer Castle

Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Monday, October 21, 7:27 a.m.

As I drove that last mile, Bug gave me more background on the man I was going to meet.

Howard Shelton was the third richest man in Pennsylvania. Yeah, I know that doesn’t sound like much if you don’t know Pennsylvania. The coal mines and steelworks aren’t completely gone, and there are a lot of moneymaking industries in the Keystone State. Corn, oat, soybean, and mushroom farming is massive. As is mining for iron, portland cement, lime, and various kinds of stone. Plus there are major electronics manufacturers and some of the biggest pharmaceutical companies. Shelton had fingers in all those pies, which is where his family’s old money came from. Old Abner Shelton, Howard’s great-grandfather, was a crony of Teddy Roosevelt. Abner’s brother, Humphrey, had the stateroom next to the Astors on the Titanic.

The newer money—say from the thirties on up—was in defense contracts and military research and development. Every time a bomb drops Shelton puts a couple of bucks in his pocket. Even if those bombs don’t have the American flag stenciled on their cowling.

I idled outside a wrought-iron gate that was wider than my apartment and designed with all sorts of animals and oak leaves and birds. Between the gate and the house was a winding half mile of road that snaked between sculpted gardens, marble fountains, and rows of oaks and beeches and elms. The garage stood apart from the house and was nicer than my dad’s mayoral minimansion in Baltimore. There was a Bentley parked outside and a Lamborghini getting a hand polish from a man in driver’s livery.

“Y’know, pal,” I said to Ghost, “there’s rich and there’s rich and then there’s f*ck you.”

He flopped down on the seat and began licking his balls. Clearly he agreed.

I tapped my earbud. “Cowboy to Ronin.”

“Ronin here,” came the immediate reply. Sam Imura. We’d timed things to allow Black Bess to take up a position on the far side of the estate with Ivan behind the wheel. Sam and Pete were supposed to break the perimeter and find useful places to loiter.

“I’m at the front gate,” I said. “What’s your twenty?”

“Finished the first circuit and sitting in an apple tree on your three o’clock. Damn, boss, this place is bigger than Rhode Island.”

“Hold there,” I said. “But don’t be a wallflower if the party starts hopping.”

“Copy that,” said Imura.

“Prankster,” I said, “you in the game?”

Prankster—Pete Dobbs—confirmed that he was on the grounds, way over on the east side.

I got right up to the gate and tooted the horn and waited while a guard came out of the booth. He’d been there since I pulled up but apparently didn’t give much of a f*ck about a guy in a Ford Explorer. Maybe if I’d rolled up in a Land Rover or a Lexus LX he’d have at least pretended to notice my existence.

Jeez, even the help was snobby around here.

Ghost glanced at the guard, went back to his hobby, then changed his mind and sat up. At first glance the guard was a big slab of white meat in a polyester jacket, but that was all deception. His jacket was a little too loose, his pants cut baggy in the crotch, and he had black sneakers on his feet. If I wasn’t in a sneaky profession I might have dismissed him. But the jacket was a little too baggy, and it was unbuttoned.

“What do you figure?” I asked Ghost. “Uzi or MAC-Ten?”

Ghost offered no opinion.

“MAC-Ten,” I decided. Though it could easily be a microwave pulse pistol if these guys were Closers.

The pants? Cut baggy in the crotch to allow the man to kick. So, some martial arts, too. The sneakers? They were thin-soled. Not running shoes—these were fighting shoes. The thicker the sole the more potentially damaging torque to the knees when kicking or pivoting on one leg. I’d guess almost no tread, too. Tread binds. This guy was a serious fighter and was dressed for it.

As the guy opened the small access door in the gate, I double-tapped my earbud. “Bug, get me a rundown on the security staff here. Tell me who this is.” There was a control panel on the steering wheel that allowed me to activate a set of high-def cameras mounted discreetly around the car. A holographic display appeared on the upper left of my windshield—invisible from outside. I zoomed in on the guard’s face. Immediately a series of white dots appeared on the image as the facial recognition package began identifying and cataloging unique points on his face and taking approximate measurements.

MindReader pinged before the guy could walk to where I’d stopped.

“Name’s Henry Sullivan,” said Bug. “Thirty-three years old. U.S. Special Forces, retired. Worked six years as an ‘advisor’ for Blue Diamond Security.”

“Bingo,” I said. “Martial arts?”

“Muay Thai kickboxing,” said Bug, “and boxing. Golden Gloves in Detroit where he grew up.”

“Swell,” I said. That put him in a better class than some of his MMA buddies. “Criminal record?”

“Nothing stateside, however there were some disciplinary notes in his army jacket. Doesn’t bond well with people of color. Got into several fights with black soldiers. While he was with Blue Diamond in Afghanistan he was one of four men suspected in the rape of two fifteen-year-old girls. No charges filed. Looks like the company paid off the families. Overall,” concluded Bug, “he’s a total dick.”

“Charming,” I said, and wondered if it would be out of line if I accidentally ran him over a few times.

The guard twirled his finger for me to lower my window.

I did, considering the best way to play this. I fished in my jacket pocket for NSA credentials. According to the card I was Special Agent David Paul Leonhard.

Dave Leonhard pitched for the Orioles in the late sixties.

“State your business,” said Sullivan, his voice flat and disinterested.

“I’m here to see Mr. Shelton.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to make an appointment.”

I badged him. “National Security, please open the gate and stand back.”

Sullivan gave me a four-second appraisal. “Wait here.”

He turned and walked away. Not to his guard booth, but far enough so he could make a call on a cell without me overhearing. Dumbass. I hit a locate-and-trace on the steering column and MindReader picked up his signal, kicked open a door on the right satellite, and fed the conversation in my earbud. Sometimes I think Mr. Church writes his Christmas wish list based on stuff he sees in Mission: Impossible films … but that means his field agents always have the best toys.

“… a*shole here flashing an NSA ID.” He walked around back and read my license plate number. I didn’t have one of those James Bond license plate flipper thingies, but I did have a great set of fake tags. Government plates, legitimate number, and when they ran them they’d come up with a Ford Explorer belonging to the NSA. While Sullivan waited for a comeback on the number, I relaxed and scratched Ghost’s head. He usually likes that, but right now he kept craning around to study all of the potential juicy places where he could bite Sullivan. Ghost is a very smart dog.

A voice on the other end of Sullivan’s call came back with the expected information. “Let him through.”

Sullivan closed his phone and came back to the window. “Drive up to the side entrance. Turn off your engine and leave your keys in the ignition. Someone will meet you. You’ll be escorted inside.”

“Thanks, sport,” I said. People hate to be called “sport.” Ghost gave him an “I’ll eat you later” look, but Sullivan managed not to keel over from fear. Instead the guard gave us another quick two-count stare, then gave a single nod and walked away. What was he doing? Remembering my face in case we ever met again? Probably. Which was fine with me, because if we did meet again, and if that encounter was less civil than this, I wanted him to know me.

I drove through the gate and up to the house, parked where I was supposed to park, and was met by four goons dressed similarly to Sullivan. I’d switched the facial recognition from the car to the left lens of my mirrored sunglasses, and MindReader began pulling their info out of cyberspace. They were all cut from the same cloth. All ex-military—though one of them was a Brit, a former SAS shooter—and all formerly employed by Blue Diamond Security. According to Bug, their most recent tax returns listed their employer as Shelton Aeronautics.

Big surprise.

The lead guard was a thug named Burke who had a lantern jaw and shoulders you could suspend a bridge from. Bug gave me his background, and it made Sullivan look like a saint. A very violent man who wasn’t on death row because his most heinous acts were perpetrated on foreign soil in countries no one gives enough of a political shit about.

I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to take Burke behind the woodshed and explain karma to him.

He gave me a stony look and demanded to see my ID.

I showed it to him.

“Hand them to me please,” he said, pitching it as an order.

I’ve been working for the DMS long enough to have developed a useful set of government-standard expressions. One of them is the polite “go f*ck yourself” not quite a sneer that’s so highly prized by the FBI and NSA.

“Now,” Burke said, snapping his fingers in my face.

I folded my ID case and tucked it inside my jacket.

“I’m here to see Mr. Shelton,” I said. “And you’re wasting my time.”

Burke stepped a little closer to me. “Here’s a news flash, a*shole. You’re on private property and you haven’t produced a warrant. Hand over your credentials or hit the road.”

I shook my head. “I have a document in my pocket that says I can go wherever I want and see whomever I want, so I advise you to desist in this obfuscation and conduct me to your employer.”

I’m good at Scrabble and I liked seeing the eyes of goons like this glaze over as they tried to sort out what I’d just said.

“Yeah?” said Burke in what was for him probably a class-A comeback. “Let’s see the warrant.”

I didn’t have anything to show him. Instead I said, “You are aware, I assume, of the terrorist attack in Baltimore yesterday. And the cyber-warfare that has been targeting your employer and other key companies. Do you really want to hamper my investigation?”

“I said, show me some paperwork or turn around and drive out of here.”

Ghost didn’t like Burke’s tone and was giving him half an inch of fang in a silent snarl.

“You better keep a short leash on that mutt,” said Burke. The other three men shifted slightly to form a tighter circle. They probably thought it gave them a tactical advantage. They were mistaken.

I got up in Burke’s face. “You’re about to make a major career mistake, Mr. Burke. Push it and see what happens. Now—take me to Shelton.”

Burke grinned. “Let’s see … oh, how about kiss my—”

And his cell phone rang.

Special ring tone, two strident notes on a rising scale.

The goon squad froze. Burke stepped back from me and removed his cell phone with the speed you’d expect from someone scrambling to get a scorpion out of his boxers.

“Yes, Mr. Shelton?” he said, almost snapping to attention even though this was a phone call. Made me wonder how many cameras were on us right now.

I kept my face bland and used a subtle finger signal to prep Ghost for attack. The dog didn’t need any incentive—he had his eyes on Burke’s crotch and the hair on his back was rippling like the spine of a ridgeback.

“Right away, Mr. Shelton,” said Burke. Then he looked at me and I could actually see the guy’s blood pressure go up about twenty points. “Of course, Mr. Shelton.”

He lowered the phone, glanced at his crew, all of whom were staring into the middle distance like they were waiting for a bus. None of them looked at Burke as he took a ragged breath to steady the witches’ brew of emotions that was boiling inside his chest.

“Agent Leonhard,” he said to me, “I apologize for my rude behavior. It was wrong and I hope you can forgive my childish attitude and ill-chosen words.”

The syntax was all wrong for him, so I figured he was repeating verbatim what Shelton had told him to say. Usually I’m sympathetic with a guy who gets a two-by-four kicked up his ass by his boss; but, Burke was a total piece of shit, so f*ck it.

“Well,” I said in my best officious-government-prick voice, “when you are done eating crow perhaps you’ll conduct me to your employer’s office.”

In my ear I heard Bug say, “Oh, snap!”

I swear to god Ghost snickered.

Burke’s blood pressure looked like it could blow bolts out of plate steel.

“This way, sir,” he said in a strangled voice.