Soft Targets

by John Gilstrap

  Dom’s expression remained rock hard. “I’m asking you a question. How far are you willing to go to get them back?”

  “Whatever it took,” Irene said. “I’d move heaven and earth.”

  Dom leaned in closer. “Would you violate the very laws that you swore to uphold?”

  “Father, I’m not comfortable—”

  “Answer the question,” Dom snapped. “Would you be willing to break the law and risk prison yourself if it meant your children being set free?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Dom, what are you talking—”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They’re my children, Dom.” Irene didn’t get why he was being so strained, so weird in this discussion. How could he think otherwise? And what was he implying in the first place?

  “I need to know, Irene. I have an idea, but I need to know how far you are willing to go.”

  Irene scoffed, “What, do you, like, know a hit man or something?”

  Dom’s expression remained stone.

  The realization hit her like a slap. “Oh, my God, Dom, what are you suggesting?”

  He pulled back. “I’m suggesting nothing,” he said. “I’m waiting to hear a request from you.”

  “Are you suggesting that you know someone who could . . . address this problem for me?”

  Dom reached out and grasped her hand. “Ask me for what you want.”

  This was a side of the priest that she had never seen—a side that she was fairly certain no one had ever seen. “I want to find someone who can help me get my daughters back,” Irene said. “And who can punish the son of a bitch who took them.” That last part was important, too.

  Dom’s eyes bored into her for a long time, presumably assessing her seriousness. After maybe thirty seconds, he said, “Hang tight for a few minutes. I need to make a phone call.”

  Chapter 4

  Irene sat alone in the rectory’s living room for the better part of a half hour. She heard Dom on the telephone in the kitchen, and while she couldn’t make out the words, she clearly heard the urgency in his tone. She heard her name mentioned once, and she heard what sounded like a defense of her status as an FBI agent. Finally, she heard the receiver being set into its cradle, and then . . . nothing. She’d expected Dom to return with a status report on whatever he’d been negotiating, but instead, she got only an extended stay in the empty living room.

  What was he doing, anyway? The mysterious questions, followed by the long silence, were unnerving. If Dom had a solution, she wanted to hear it. If he didn’t, then she wanted to hear that, too.

  When the doorbell finally rang, she jumped. It was the standard ding-dong sound, but it was so out of context that she nearly drew down on it. Apparently, that sound was the cue Dom had been waiting for, because he appeared in a heartbeat, nearly running from the kitchen through the foyer to answer it.

  As he pulled the door open, Dom said, “Hi, Dig. Thanks for coming over.”

  Dom stepped to the side and ushered in a man who looked like he might have been pulled out of a homeless shelter—a shelter with a very nice weight room. At five-ten, maybe a hundred eighty pounds, the man had wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and arms that threatened to rip the fabric of his T-shirt at the arm holes. Wild brown hair consumed his head and morphed seamlessly into an unkempt beard that seemed to stretch from just under his eyes into the neck of his shirt. His eyes were a shade of blue that she’d never seen before, more befitting a swimming pool than an iris. The eyes were hard, though, and as such matched perfectly the set of his mouth as he stepped into the living room.

  “Irene Rivers,” Dom said, “this is my longtime friend Digger. Digger, this is my longtime friend Irene.”

  He held out his hand, and Irene grasped it. They felt rough, the hands of a worker. She anticipated a crushing handshake but was pleased when his grasp proved to be gentle. “I’m pleased to meet you,” Irene said.

  “Dom tells me you’re with the FBI.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And he tells me that your children are in danger. That they’ve been taken.” As he spoke, Digger’s eyes never left hers. From someone else, it would have felt intimidating, but coming from him, it felt as if he were trying to read her mind.

  Irene nodded, suddenly not trusting her voice.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Digger said. “Really, I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  Dom gestured to the furniture with open arms. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”

  Nothing about this felt right to Irene. As she resumed her seat on the sofa, she asked, “Forgive me, Dom, but why is Digger here?”

  “I think he might be able to help you,” the priest replied.

  “Help me how?”

  Dom pointed with his forehead to the new arrival, who’d helped himself to a bentwood rocker.

  “Before we get to that,” Digger said, “I need you to tell me that you want this resolved badly enough that you’re willing to break the laws that you’re sworn to protect.”

  “What are, you, some kind of hit man?”

  His face remained like stone. “Would it matter if I were?”

  She turned to Dom. “What is going on here? Do you two rehearse your lines together?”

  He shrugged. “Under the circumstances, I think he asks a legitimate question.”

  Irene scoured her mind for a way to answer. “I guess it depends on what laws we’re talking about.”

  Digger leaned forward far enough to brace his forearms on his knees. “They’re your daughters, Irene. Which laws are out of bounds?”

  “Who are you?” Irene demanded. Her bullshit reservoir just filled to overflowing. “And what the hell kind of name is Digger?”

  Digger looked across to Dom, who held up a hand in a silent request for patience.

  “Irene,” Dom said, “if you just go along with the questions, the rest will play itself out.”

  Could she actually say aloud the answer she was contemplating? Dare she confess such a thing out loud, even if it was painfully obvious to everyone in the room? They both waited for her answer.

  “As you say,” she said, “they are my daughters. I would do anything for them.”

  “Would you kill for them?”

  She hated this line of questioning, and she found herself hating Digger for exploring it. Her feelings for Dom were only slightly more charitable.

  “Yes,” she said. That was the answer they were waiting for, wasn’t it? Yes, she would kill for her daughters. “If circumstances warranted it.”

  Digger’s eye twitched as he half-scowled, half smiled. “A man kidnaps two little girls on the heels of kidnapping two boys after murdering the two boys’ parents. How many more circumstances do you need?”

  Irene sensed that she was speaking with a monster. “If you’re asking me if I will commit cold-blooded murder, then the answer is no.” She was surprised when Digger seemed satisfied by her response.

  “Good,” he said, “because I am in fact not a hit man, and I don’t care to associate with those who are.” A beat. “Besides, murder wouldn’t serve your purpose. Once somebody’s dead, their intel value drops to zero.”

  Irene sensed she was on a roller coaster. Whoever this Digger was, he was expert at keeping people on edge.

  He read her confusion and said, “The first part of this mission—the only really important part—is to find your daughters. What are their names?”

  “Ashley and Kelly.”

  “We need to find Ashley and Kelly. Then we need to liberate them if we can. This Jennings punk is only as valuable as the information he can deliver. Beyond that, he’s a piece of meat that consumes oxygen. I couldn’t care less if he lives or dies.”

  “But how are you going to convince him to give you the information?”

  “Us, Irene. How are we going to convince him to give us the information?” Digger smiled and winked. “That’s when we begin to br
eak those laws.”

  Irene gaped, waiting for this to make sense.

  Digger extended his hand. “My real name is Jonathan,” he said. “Jonathan Grave. I’m in the Army, attached to a unit that specializes in hostage rescues.”

  If that was supposed to clear things up, it missed the mark by a long shot. “You’re suggesting turning this into a military operation? You look awfully young to have stars on your shoulders.”

  Jonathan smiled. He seemed to be enjoying the confusion. “Nope, no stars. No eagles, oak leaves or bars, either. Just a lot of stripes. And no, I’m not proposing to turn this into a military operation. In fact, I’m proposing to turn this into a freelance operation. I figure that between our mutual skill sets, we could pull off something impressive.”

  “What about posse comitatus?” The laws were very explicit that the United States military was forbidden to conduct combat operations on American soil.

  “You’re really having a hard time wrapping your mind around this breaking-the-law thing, aren’t you?”

  Yes, she was. “I guess I’m just not seeing the larger plan.”

  “Think of it as an HRT op without the warrants and due process. Exactly what we do all the time overseas.”

  Irene recognized HRT as the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. “Who’s we?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “My colleagues and I. Your colleagues, too.”

  Irene’s response to that was near reflexive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then you haven’t been paying attention. I even got to play with some of your folks down in Colombia. Ringing bells yet?”

  With that statement, Irene understood much more. While she had no official knowledge of the drug war activities in Colombia, news outlets had been buzzing about it for weeks, and she’d heard her share of rumors in the halls of the Hoover Building. If she guessed right, this Jonathan Grave fellow was a part of one of the most elite and secret military units in the world.

  “The plan,” he continued, “is as simple as it gets. We pay your friend Jennings a visit and we scare the living shit out of him. He tells us what we want to know, or we’ll make his situation extraordinarily uncomfortable.”

  Irene felt a rush of dread. “You’re talking about torture.”

  “No,” Jonathan said. “I’m talking about persuasion.”

  “How is that different from torture?”

  He shrugged with one shoulder. “Torture is what the bad guys do.”

  “A rose by a different name, then.”

  He inhaled deeply, as if to bolster lagging patience. “Look, this guy is not a soldier, okay? He’s not going to be inclined to take one for the team. He’s a coward who preys on children. The only strength he has is that which he is granted through the legal system that you seem so hesitant to rattle. Once he knows that those avenues are no longer available to him, he’ll sing long and loud. My experience with guys like him is that you never actually have to hurt them. You just have to make them think you will.”

  It all sounded so reasonable and rational when it was presented in such calm tones. All she had to do was violate every oath she’d ever sworn, and turn her back on a lifetime of principles.

  Jonathan continued with his sales pitch. “You want this to be more complicated than it is,” he said. “If your children were taken across the border to Mexico or across the sea to some East African shithole, this is exactly the mission I would be dispatched to carry out with the full authority of the United States government. They’re your daughters. It’s your call.”

  “No torture,” Irene said. Was it possible she was on the brink of agreeing to this madness?

  “No,” Jonathan snapped. “No rules up front. We’ll do what is necessary to accomplish the mission. I’m not going to make a promise that I’m not one-hundred-percent sure I can keep. I’ll ask the same thing of you. We play with a full deck or we don’t play at all.”

  Irene found herself breathing too deeply as she sifted through all that was being asked, and through the resulting ramifications. She looked to Dom, whose handsome face was set in a blank mask.

  “If I do this, Dom, and I seek forgiveness, could it possibly come?”

  Dom’s eyes turned kind. “I can grant absolution,” he said, “but it’s up to the Big Boss to decide on forgiveness.”

  Something dissolved inside of Irene.

  “I’ll step out of bounds, though,” Dom continued. “I cannot believe that the Good Lord would prefer to watch a scumbag game the system rather than have two lovely young ladies reunited with their mother.”

  Tears welled, blurring her view as she switched her gaze to Jonathan. “Let’s do it,” she said.

  Chapter 5

  Irene had never seen such a mansion. Situated next door to the rectory, it was the massive structure she’d noticed on the way into town.

  Jonathan ushered her through the front door and she was nearly overwhelmed by the opulence of the place. Everything from the sprawling oriental carpets to the mahogany stair rails were of the highest quality. The chandelier in the towering thirty-foot foyer glistened with millions of crystal baubles. She figured it weighed more than her car.

  “So you say you’re an enlisted man in the Army,” she commented as she took it all in.

  “Actually, I’m a noncommissioned officer. An E-8. First sergeant.”

  “They must pay you very well.”

  “I’m very good at what I do.” He led the way down the hall to a room on the right. This had to be called the library, just because of the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. He helped himself to a comfortable forest-green leather chair and, with a sweeping motion of his upturned palm, he invited Irene to sit wherever she liked. She selected a silk-fabric love seat directly across from the fireplace.

  “My real home is on post at Fort Bragg,” Jonathan went on. “This is just the place where I grew up.”

  Irene felt her eyebrows scale her forehead. Richie Rich has nothing on this guy.

  “Jonny, is that you?” a voice called from somewhere outside of the room.

  Jonathan actually blushed. “Yes, Mama, it’s me.”

  He lives with his mother? That didn’t fit Irene’s view of this guy at all.

  Jonathan stood and walked to the door, where he met a round black woman as she crossed the jamb. Her eyes widened as she noticed Irene. “I didn’t know you had company,” she said in a Southern drawl as smooth as honey. Her words dripped disapproval.

  “Mama, it’s not what you think,” he said.

  Irene tried to help out, rising from her seat and offering her hand in greeting. “I’m Irene Rivers,” she said. “Special agent with the FBI.”

  The woman hesitated before accepting the gesture of kindness. “I’m Mama,” she said. “Mama Alexander, if you’d prefer.”

  Irene hesitated, not sure if she understood.

  “Mama is a mainstay here in Fisherman’s Cove,” Jonathan explained. “Lived here her whole life. Tell anyone in town that Mama is your friend, and every door will open for you.”

  Irene harbored no doubt that the converse of that statement was equally true. “A genuine pleasure to meet you,” she said.

  “I’m helping Irene out with a problem she’s having,” Jonathan explained. To Irene’s ear, he sounded oddly like a teenager covering his tracks.

  “Uh-huh,” Mama said. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, too.” She turned her gaze back to Jonathan. “Will you be wanting dinner tonight?”

  “Don’t go to any trouble,” Jonathan said.

  “And should I set an extra place at the table?” Her glare heated the room another twenty degrees.

  “Not for me,” Irene said. “I won’t be staying. Thank you though.”

  Mama’s face remained locked in a scowl. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Well, drive carefully on your way home.” To Jonathan: “You remember to be a gentleman, young man.” As she walked away, Jonathan closed the door behind her.

  Returning to his chair, t
he redness in Jonathan’s cheeks hadn’t dimmed completely. “Mama was our housekeeper when I was growing up. My mom died when I was little, so Mama pretty much raised me.” He gestured with open arms. “This is her house now.”

  Whoa, that’s not what Irene had been expecting. “Excuse me?”

  Jonathan dipped his head as he clarified. “Well, it actually belongs to St. Kate’s now, but on the condition that Mama and her daughter get to live here in perpetuity.”

  “What does a church want with a mansion?” Irene asked.

  “They’re going to turn it into a school,” Jonathan explained, “exclusively for the children of incarcerated parents. We’re going to call it Resurrection House. Care to guess who the chief psychologist is going to be?”

  “Dom.” Just from the way he’d stated the question there could only be one answer.

  “Bingo.” Jonathan cleared his throat and crossed his legs. “To the business at hand,” he said, changing the subject. “I think we need to rock Jennings’s world. Knock him completely off balance. That will give us the edge when it comes time to questioning him.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Irene said. In fact, she had stopped understanding the narrative of her life about thirty minutes ago.

  “You will,” he said. “You must be hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

  Good Lord, this guy could whipsaw a conversation. She started to answer, but stopped when she realized the truth of it. “I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

  Jonathan stood. “Go get some food,” he said. “Go to the end of the walk, turn left and walk to the bottom of the hill, to the river. You’ll see Jimmy’s Tavern. They’ve got better food than you think they will, and an excellent selection of single malts. Go with the Tavern Burger. Enough protein in that to keep you going for the rest of the day.”

  “I shouldn’t,” Irene said. “If I’m going to be a part of this, I want to be part of the planning.”

  “And you will be,” Jonathan said. “I promise. I just want to put together a little show-and-tell is all. Give me an hour. Even forty-five minutes will do.”