Cold Shot by Mark Henshaw Read Free Book Online

shuffled through the dust. She was sure he’d be on the business end of some late-night hazing now.
    Kyra holstered the Glock, then slung the bag and the HK over her shoulder, and walked back toward the range house.
    •    •    •
    The jogging trail was a mile of wide gravel and cleared dirt through the pines and old-growth trees, with poison ivy and Virginia creeper on the sides to keep runners on the path. It started by the main road that ran past the dining hall and her billet, bordered a field of unexploded ordnance, or so the signs warned, then curved west into the woods. The Virginia humidity was still on the rise in late spring and the evening air was cooler than normal for this time of year. It had been getting dark when Kyra set out, but the moon was full and she plowed on through the night. She’d even decided to tackle the challenge course despite the inherent danger of attacking such obstacles in the dark. Broken ankles and torn ligaments were real possibilities, as was spending the night in the forest a mile from her billet, crippled, until some other jogger came along in the morning to help her back. But daylight wasn’t a luxury or even a friend in the intelligence business . . . it was the enemy often as not, something to be shunned. Darkness was the ally for those who weren’t afraid of it.
    An intelligence officer who was afraid of the dark was in the wrong business.
    Kyra pushed through the course and made it back to her billet in time to catch the bar with time to spare, a hot shower notwithstanding. She’d missed dinner, but she’d had the dining-hall chow enough times to know that was no great loss and there were plenty of all-night dives close by.
    Kyra rested her elbows on the hardwood trim that lined the bar counter, set her glass down on the granite top, and scanned the room. It was almost empty. The flat-panel televisions were all tuned to news channels that were recycling the same stories for the second time since she’d arrived. The fireplace behind her was framed by a pair of elephant tusks mounted on wooden bases that sat on the stone hearth. She couldn’t imagine how they had made their way to the Farm, or how the Agency had even allowed it, but she supposed that some cowboy from the Special Activities Center had smuggled them in. Three men were playing pool badly at a nearby table. One lonely soul was throwing darts at an old board to her left and Kyra hoped the young man didn’t have aspirations of becoming a professional.
    Her cell phone rang, a Bruce Hornsby song that turned the bartender’s head. Kyra looked at the screen on the phone, then smiled. “Hey, Jon.”
    “You’re at the bar, aren’t you?” he asked without preamble.
    “Yep.” Really, Jon? Where’s the trust?
    “Beer?”
    “Ginger ale,” Kyra answered. And proud of it.
    “Ginger ale and what?”
    “And ice.”
    “Good for you.” He wasn’t being condescending, she knew. Kyra wasn’t an alcoholic, but she’d come close and working a job where one’s coworkers were hard drinkers was a prescription for trouble. Jon knew it and was being protective, which was a rare thing for him. She’d learned to appreciate it, slowly.
    “How was the range?” he asked, changing the subject.
    “It was good. I requalify on the Glock first thing in the morning.”
    “I heard you were shooting the place up with the heavy artillery.”
    Kyra half smiled and wondered who at the Farm was part of Jonathan’s network of informants. “I wanted to play with something that had a bit more kick.”
    “The joys of life are in the small things, I suppose,” he said. “You’re wrapped up down there?”
    Here it comes. She was surprised he’d taken this long to get to the point. “Just the one test left, yeah,” Kyra admitted. “Why?”
    “I need you back. The director gave us an assignment this morning,” he told her. “We have to track down a ship.”
    “And you haven’t found it by now?” Kyra