Free Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 by Tom Clancy Page B

choice was another six or seven minutes away. If there was a problem there, then he would scrub the mission for tonight and try again tomorrow.
    As the road narrowed and curved, however, Santos saw that they were alone. He checked his speedometer. The bodyguard, who liked to drive fast, was going ten miles an hour faster than the posted limit.
    Perfect.
    A flip of a pair of temporary switches on the handlebar lit the flashing lights and cranked up the siren.
    Ahead of him the limo slowed, and pulled off in exactly the place where he hoped it would. It was dark enough so any passersby wouldn’t see anything except the bike’s flashing lights—that’s what they’d be looking at as they went past. And he wouldn’t need more than a couple minutes to do this.
    The limo stopped, and Santos pulled the motorcycle up behind the car. He killed the siren, left the lights going, dismounted from the bike, and walked to the limo. The driver powered the window down.
    “What’s the problem, Officer?” the driver asked.
    In his best U.S. accent, Santos said, “You were going a little fast there, sir. Could I see your license and registration, please?”
    “Aw, come on, you’re not gonna give me a ticket, are you? Out here in the middle of nowhere, no traffic?” The bodyguard opened his wallet and flashed a badge and ID card. “I’m Russell Rader, King Executive Protection Services. I’m a former LEO-FBI, retired, working a bodyguard assignment for Blue Whale. This is Mr. Ethan Dowling, the vice president.” He nodded at the passenger in back, who smiled. “Cut me a little slack, okay?”
    Santos pretended to think about it for a couple of seconds. He closed the fake ticket book he held. “Retired FBI, huh? Well, I suppose I could let the speeding slide. But did you know your license plate was about to fall off?”
    “What?”
    “Screw must have fallen out, it’s barely hanging on. Have a look.”
    Santos moved back, and the driver alighted. Both men walked around to the back of the car. “Looks all right to me,” Rader said.
    Here was the tricky part. Santos squatted behind the car, put his right index finger on the plate holder. “No, sir, see, right here?”
    As he expected, the bodyguard squatted next to him to get a closer look.
    As soon as the car’s occupants couldn’t see them, Santos used his elbow.
    Normally, a squatting man wouldn’t have particularly good balance or leverage for such a strike. But Capoeira was an art based on movement in odd positions. Santos’s balance was superb.
    He slammed the bodyguard flush on the right temple. The man fell as if somebody had chopped off his lower half.
    Good night, Mr. Rader.
    Santos stood. He walked around to the passenger side of the limo, leaned down.
    The second bodyguard lowered his window.
    “Your friend is trying to fix the license plate, but his knife isn’t going to do the job. Do you have a screwdriver in the car?”
    As the bodyguard opened his mouth to speak, Santos drove his fist into the man’s throat with as much power as he could. He heard the voicebox break. The man clutched at his neck, and Santos fired a second strike, this one with the heel of his hand to the man’s forehead. A punch that hard likely would have broken his knuckles, but the heel of the hand was padded—you hit hard with soft, soft with hard, if you wanted to avoid damaging yourself.
    The man’s head snapped back. Before he could move, Santos jerked the door open and grabbed the stunned guard’s neck with one hand and pinched his carotids shut. Ten seconds was more than enough. The man’s eyes rolled in his sockets, showing white. He was unconscious.
    Santos released his grip. He didn’t want to kill him.
    In the back, Mr. Dowling started sputtering: “What the—! Hey—!”
    Santos could have pulled his pistol out and used it like a magic wand to silence the man, but he didn’t need it. He smiled, a broad, teeth-flashing grin. “This is a kidnapping, Ethan. You be