Michael Tanner, by holding on to the senator’s laptop, was extorting him. He probably wanted some giant payday. But he had also done the one thing Will had feared most: he had handed it to the press. These days, the news media were on the lookout for violations of civil liberties they could blast the White House on. And CHRYSALIS was surveillance taken to a new extreme. The press would be all over it.
And the NSA and the entire security apparatus of the US government would not give up until they’d found out how the plan had leaked.
The public, the rest of the Senate — in fact, everyone — would assume that Susan Robbins had deliberately leaked it for political reasons, because she wanted the program killed. But whatever Susan actually felt on the subject, and Will didn’t know for sure, she was savvy enough to know that extremists don’t make it to the White House. No one must ever know that the leak had come from her, because no one would believe that it was accidental.
But if what actually happened came out, Susan would be damaged far more. She had directed her chief of staff to copy documents and take them, in violation of all procedure, out of a secure environment. So that Senator Robbins, who couldn’t be bothered with sitting in a locked SCIF, reading documents, could have the luxury of reading it on her flight to LA.
The outrage would be swift and severe. No politician who had deliberately mishandled classified information would ever make it to the White House.
He’d lose his job, of course. She would have to fire him; he’d insist on it. He’d hate it if this ever happened. He daydreamed about walking into the Oval Office unannounced and advising Susan on how to handle the latest crisis with, say, China.
But if all that stood between him and unscheduled visits to the Oval Office was this one arrogant coffee merchant, this rich guy with his own name on his company, then he knew what he would do.
It would be like when he decapitated that rabid raccoon all those years ago. There was a part of him, that dark place, that could not only commit an act of violence but thrill to it.
As long as he wasn’t caught.
He just had to get to Tanner before the NSA did.
“Isosceles,” Randall was saying. “Can you do that? If you can’t, we’ll learn the Weaver.”
Learning the proper stance was easy. When he finally pulled the trigger he heard only a disappointing little click, because the gun wasn’t actually loaded. He put on a pair of safety glasses, like he used to wear in shop class in high school, and a pair of headphone-type things, which Randall called “ear protection.”
Randall took a fresh target paper and clipped it to a bracket in the lane in front of them, then flicked a switch, and the paper zipped forward twenty feet. Then he loaded a full magazine into the gun and handed it back to Will.
“Okay,” he said. “Fighting stance, knees shoulder width apart, one leg slightly back. That’s it.”
This time when he pulled the trigger — line up the front sight with the top of the notch on the rear sight, start to exhale, pull the trigger slowly, equal pressure all the way back, keep it steady, no movement — it made an explosion that, even with the ear protection, jolted him.
“Nice job!” Randall said. Will hadn’t seen the man smile before. He had a big gap in his front teeth. “You’re a natural.”
Will was a natural. Randall was right. Never again did he hit the target dead center, on the bull’s-eye, but most of his shots stayed within the concentric ovals. A good “grouping,” Randall said.
He seemed to have an aptitude for it. At least at twenty feet. When Randall moved the target back to fifty feet, it was more challenging. Plenty of his “rounds” hit the paper outside the black silhouette or missed the target entirely. Then again, some came pretty close to the center. Randall seemed to be impressed with him.
Anyway, he didn’t expect to be aiming at Tanner from fifty feet away. That was a chance he wasn’t going to take.
Even though gunfire kept startling him — he might not ever get over that — he felt an excitement that emanated from his groin, where he actually stiffened. He hoped Randall didn’t notice.
As long as he thought of Tanner as that rabid raccoon in the garage, rather than a human being, he would hit the target. Even with his adrenaline pumping away, and maybe even running, if he had to.
“Your brother-in-law is going to be impressed,” Joe Randall said.
“My— Oh right, yeah, he will.”
“Where do you live?”
Why was the guy asking that? Will wondered, suddenly alert. “Stanton Park,” Will said. “Why?”
“Living in the district, it’s not so easy. It’s going to take you four trips to the police department, two background checks, fingerprints, a five-hour class, and almost a thousand bucks in fees.”
“What’s not so easy?”
“Getting a license to carry. You’re trying for that, right?”
“I told you, it’s just for this hunting trip I’m going on—”
“You should. You got a gift.”
Randall flicked a switch again, and the target zipped toward them. He unclipped the paper from the bracket and handed it to Will. “Souvenir.”
“Oh.” Will laughed. “No, thanks.”
“You don’t want a souvenir? You hit the bull’s-eye, pal. Your wife is going to be impressed.”
“All right, sure,” Will said, taking it. He figured he’d toss it on the way home.
“So when’s our next session, cowboy?” Randall had taken out a little black book and a ballpoint pen.
“I think one’s probably enough,” Will said.
“Lots more to learn.”
“I’ll see how it goes,” Will said. “I might not need another lesson.”
61
No one stopped for him.
This was the part of his plan that had most concerned Tanner. He had to move quickly but without a car or any public transportation. He held out his thumb and tried to look friendly and unthreatening. Not like the serial-killer hitchhiker you shouldn’t have picked up. After the tenth car had passed him by, he looked down at himself and realized his shirt was torn; his khaki pants were soiled with mud. His face was probably scraped and muddied too. He must have looked like a swamp creature.
So he sprinted along the side of the road, on its narrow shoulder, in the direction of the town center. His pursuers — NSA guys, they had to be — had lost him. But they would soon conclude he’d left the woods, broaden their search, and it was only a matter of time before they found him. Any car that came up on him from behind could be the NSA team. He had to get a car of his own and get the hell out of here.
In a number of thriller movies he’d watched, when the bad guys used their stolen credit cards, an alert went off at the police department. Or somewhere. He couldn’t use a credit card. The NSA would locate him immediately.
And as he’d already found out, he therefore couldn’t rent a car. He had a little over a hundred bucks in his wallet, which was normally plenty for him. But he sure didn’t have enough to buy a used car.
He would have to steal one.
He’d never done anything like that before — he didn’t even cheat on his taxes — but he had an idea of how he might do it. Years ago he’d learned from his father how to hot-wire a car. They had an ancient Chrysler LeBaron whose starter relay had gone bad. The car conked out at the worst moments, and starting it up was tricky.