Free Hard Target by Alan Jacobson

conference?”
    “Or,” Uzi said, “maybe he wants to use the big stage to make a high-profile announcement? Conference on terrorism, big terror attack on the US, bang—nine days later, the FBI catches the assholes.”
    “It would make you Fibbies look awfully good.”
    “And Knox,” Uzi said. “Let’s not forget politics. Frazier and Ali. Budgets and shark blubber.”
    “Tyson and Holyfield, not Frazier—” DeSantos eyed him over the tops of his glasses. “You making fun of me?”
    “Whatever the reason,” Uzi said, “it gives us less time. Conference starts at two.” He swiped his finger across the screen, then slid the phone back into his pocket. He walked in a circle, pacing, lost in thought.
    “What’s with the pacing? What are you thinking?”
    “I’m thinking we don’t have a whole lot of time to solve this thing.” He stopped and stroked the stubble on his cheek. “Okay. We attack it on a few fronts. First we pay a visit to Quantico and interview the flight crew and maintenance personnel who worked on the choppers, then get with CIA and NSA to see if they picked up any chatter they didn’t process fast enough.”
    DeSantos was nodding at each of Uzi’s suggestions, then added, “We also need to look into the backgrounds of the other people on the choppers. Just in case. It’s easy to get myopic, too focused on Rusch as the target. That’s the most obvious, but it could also be way off base.”
    “Already on it. Two members of my task force are meeting right now with the Special Agent in Charge of the Secret Service Presidential Protective Division. He’s putting together a list of agents and staff who were aboard both choppers. There were also some journalists on the Stallion.”
    “Yeah, but journalists don’t make enemies.”
    Uzi smirked.
    “Okay, so they make enemies. But not the kind who’d go to the trouble of killing the VP just to knock off a White House press correspondent.” DeSantos’s gaze lingered somewhere behind Uzi. “Your curvaceous spook is approaching.”
    Uzi was tempted to look, but thought better of it. “Give me a few minutes, then we can head over to the base.”
    DeSantos grunted. “Go do your thing, boychick. I’ll do mine. When you’re ready, come get me.” He winked, then walked off.
    Uzi nonchalantly turned, caught sight of Leila Harel, and headed in her direction. She was wearing terrain-appropriate boots, with black form-fitting tights stretched from her narrow waist down her long legs to her ankles. Clutching a clipboard against her chest, she knelt to examine something on the ground.
    “What do you see?” Uzi asked. He was standing behind her and just off to her left.
    Without turning, she said, “Charred dirt.” She lifted a handful and sifted it through her slender fingers.
    He noted her manicured red nails, then said, “Charred dirt. Strange thing to find at a crash site, don’t you think?”
    Still facing the ground, she said, “No.”
    Uzi frowned. His attempt at humor passed right through her, like an apparition. “What agency are you with?”
    She did not answer.
    “If I had to guess, and that certainly seems to be the case, I’d say you look like CIA.” He rubbed his chin in mock thought. “Yeah, I’d say CIA.”
    Leila tossed the rest of the dirt to the ground, then slowly uncoiled her legs and stood. “I thought you were here to investigate the wreck.” She turned her body, shoulders first, followed by her hips and legs. The form-fitting tights were complemented by a red turtleneck that clung to her full breasts.
    Uzi felt his eyes wander down to admire the sweater before he abruptly brought them up to her face. Her comment about him investigating the wreck was mocking him, taking his stammering remark from last night and throwing it back in his face. But after the split second of embarrassment, he realized that she had remembered exactly what he had said.
    “There are a lot of things here to investigate, it would