Soft Targets by John Gilstrap Read Free Book Online Page B

residential part of town ended at the church, and that everything downhill from there—she had no idea what that compass direction would be, thanks to the complex geography of the Northern Neck—was part of the business district.
    At a time when small-town America was heaving its last sighs, this little burg still teemed with life. More important, it apparently teemed with cash flow. Where painted clapboards faced the sun, she saw none of the cancerous peeling that she’d become so accustomed to. As she closed in on the bottom of the hill and the river that lay beyond, she was even more amazed to see that this was still an active commercial fishing village. Hardworking hard men swarmed to offload the day’s catch.
    Jimmy’s Tavern sat exactly where Jonathan had suggested it would, at the bottom of the hill, and just a tad to the right. As she crossed the street, her eye was drawn to an old-school three-story firehouse that appeared to be in the throngs of being demolished. It registered with her only because her uncle on her father’s side had been a volunteer firefighter.
    The much-touted Tavern Burger turned out to be a lethal assortment of butter, fat, and sodium, so Irene opted for the Cobb salad instead. She asked for dressing on the side, but it came pre-slathered anyway, presenting its own lethal combination of fat and sodium. The butter might well have been there, too, but if it was, she couldn’t put her finger on it.
    The hour crawled by like three. When Irene returned to the mansion and rang the bell, the door opened within seconds. Mama Alexander stood in the opening with a look on her face that was significantly less harsh than the one from earlier, but still three clicks shy of welcoming. “Come in, Irene,” she said.
    “Hello, Mama.”
    “Jonny is waiting for you in the library, where he was the last time.” She gestured down the hall with an open palm.
    Irene stepped inside. “Thank you.”
    “You be careful now,” Mama said. “Don’t you go gettin’ him hurt, you understand?”
    The structure of the comment rattled Irene. Did Mama assume that Irene was somehow in charge? Is that what Digger told her? If so, did it make sense to correct the record?
    “I assure you that I don’t want to get hurt, either,” Irene said. It seemed like a good middle ground. Maybe it was an advance apology. What the hell was she thinking?
    She entered the library to find Jonathan standing over an array of weapons splayed out on the plush tea-stained carpet. In addition to the advanced M16 knockoff that she recognized as a CAR-15, she noted an assortment of hand grenades—antipersonnel fragmentation grenades as well as nominally nonlethal flash-bangs—a roll of detonating cord and several electronic gadgets she’d never seen, and whose purpose was unknown to her.
    “I understand you’ve been through the training for HRT,” Jonathan said, “so I figure you know most of what you’re looking at.”
    An invisible hand pulled a string on her spine, launching a chill. How did he know this? She chose to say nothing, but for the first time in a long while, she realized that she and her Bureau were not necessarily on the top of the intel food chain.
    “I see a lot of expensive weaponry,” Irene said. “And I have to tell you up front that if you expect me to pay for all of this, you’ll need to take a payment plan.”
    “I do like my toys,” Jonathan said. “But these are on me.”
    Irene’s bullshit bell clanged. “Please tell me you didn’t raid an arsenal.”
    He smiled. “Hardly. Let’s just say I have means. Here’s the thing, though: You can’t touch any of this with your bare hands.” He handed her two pairs of gloves, one latex and one cotton. “Because of the nature of my day job, I’m invisible. Because of the nature of yours, you might as well walk around with a swarm of paparazzi.”
    “There must be ten thousand dollars’ worth of materiel here. Are you telling me that you just do