Designated Targets

The two male officers leaned forward and gave the scene their undivided attention. Taylor seemed just about to speak when something strange happened. One of the men exercising on the boat broke away from the others and made a run at the gunnels. He leapt over the side and dropped out of sight. Everyone on the deck froze for a second, but then two armed soldiers suddenly ran to the same side and raised their rifles.

Nguyen quickly refocused directly on them, pulling in to twenty meters virtual. “They’re shooting at him,” she said. “That’s it. I’d bet my much-reduced pay packet that he’s Chinese, not Japanese.”

There was no sound, but they could all see the puffs of smoke and the impact of recoil.

“I think so,” Taylor agreed.

The American major tapped at the screen with his index finger. “You know, these things are just marvelous, but I think we’re going to need to grab some of these characters for a little—what do you guys call it—face time?”

Nguyen nodded. Almost to herself. “That’s a bit beyond my reach, sir. But if you’re willing to take it up the line, I’ll cut you together a briefing stick from the take.”

Brennan agreed as they watched the shooters on the deck of the ship slap each other on the back.

“I guess that one didn’t get away,” said Lieutenant Commander Nguyen.

7

NEW YORK

She wasn’t Rita Hayworth, and it wasn’t the Ritz, but Slim Jim wasn’t about to write to his congressman, either. He’d never had his dick sucked so often or so well by a movie star. In fact, he’d never had his dick sucked by a movie star. Or by anyone he hadn’t paid, really.

Not that Norma was a movie star just yet, but she would be. He’d already seen most of her films, and she was gonna turn into a seriously hot piece of ass.

And if his apartment wasn’t the Ritz, it was nearly as classy. So classy, in fact, that all his dough nearly hadn’t been enough to get him in. Ms. O’Brien had been forced to twist a few arms before the board had consented. And old Walt Winchell had helped out some, too.

He was a good fuckin’ egg, old Walt was.

In fact, lying in his big bed overlooking Central Park, recalling every detail of the previous night, Slim Jim Davidson figured himself to be just about the happiest guy in the world. He wondered whether he ought to call Norma at the little studio apartment he’d bought for her, just to get her to come over and give his pipes a really good cleaning before he got up and seized the day. After all, it never hurt to remind a girl like that who held the purse strings.

But in the end, he didn’t reach for the phone. His hand was stayed by something he’d never once experienced in his short and—up until now—reasonably shitty life. He was overcome by a small, warm feeling he vaguely recognized as a sense of . . .

Generosity.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and a great rich, rolling laugh burst forth. Yeah, that was it, all right. He felt like just about the most generous motherfucker in the whole wide world. His mother would have been shocked, even appalled, since she was one of the worst fucking grifters he’d ever met. At least she had been, until she was beaten to death by that bum she’d hooked up with down in Tallahasee way back in—what, ’35 or ’36? Still, she’d a been proud that at least one of her boys had amounted to something. Then she woulda cheated him of at least half of what he was worth.

And he was worth plenty.

“Top o’ the mornin’, Ma!” he crowed to his empty bedroom. “Top o’ the fuckin’ morning!”

He reached around under the covers, enjoying the slippery feel of the silk sheets, taking his time to find what he wanted. His remote for the sound system had got itself kicked down near the foot of the bed. He snagged it up with his foot and thumbed the button to fill the apartment with music. The neighbors had complained about him playing AC/DC before breakfast, and he didn’t want to get kicked out. So he’d dialed it back a little, programmed some Elvis, some Benny Goodman, a little Herb Alpert and Garth Brooks, to mix in with his favorite bits of Metallica, Sacre Coeur, and the Beach Boys. He had what Ms. O’Brien called “eclectic” tastes, but then, he had eighty years to catch up on, so she could just go fuck herself—a thought that brought on a slow smile.

So he was about to reach for the phone to call Norma after all, when his good humor was ruined by a hammering at the door.

Shit.