Soft Targets

by John Gilstrap

This wasn’t right. At so many levels, it wasn’t right. “I don’t want to leave you with all the legwork. I can do—”

  Jonathan cut her off. “Irene. I don’t want you to see the details of what’s coming next. When you see those details, you’ll understand exactly why I don’t want you to see where they came from.”

  There it was. She stood. “Okay, then. See you in an hour.”

  As Jonathan walked her to the door, she was again taken by the sheer majesty of the place. Where did anybody get this much money? And once born into this much money, who in their right mind would walk away from it in favor of a fifty-thousand-dollar paycheck from Uncle Sam?

  “I’m sorry for the mysteriosity,” Jonathan said as he opened the door. A flash in his eyes told her that the made-up word was a joke.

  “I understand,” Irene said. “Trust is a journey. We’re just on the first step.” And of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s fully exposed, she didn’t say.

  “Tell Jimmy that Digger sent you,” Jonathan said. “That’ll either get you a few dollars off the bill or get you thrown through the window.” Again, his eyes sold the humor. In a rugged nonglamorous way, Jonathan Digger Grave may well have been the most handsome man she’d ever met. Good Lord, those eyes!

  As she navigated Jonathan’s directions to the sidewalk and then down the hill toward the Potomac River, Irene marveled at the charm of Fisherman’s Cove—a place she’d never heard of before Dom had announced that he would be moving there. It appeared that the 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 this as a hobby?”

  “You’re asking as a curious citizen, right? Not as an FBI agent.”

  “Oh, I gave up the high ground as an FBI agent about ten minutes after we met.”

  “I’m in the business of right versus wrong,” Jonathan said. “We live in the greatest nation on Earth—and I’ve offered up my life for her on countless occasions—but we let too many bad guys turn the Constitution into a cynical weapon to wield against innocent people. I’ve decided to dedicate my life to leveling the playing field.”

  “So your answer is to be a vigilante?”

  “You can use a pejorative word if you want,” Jonathan said. She detected a note of agitation. “In my mind, justice is a better one. But the fact remains that you don’t want to have fingerprints, fibers, or DNA associated with any of it.”

  Irene waited for the rest.

  “We’ll get you coveralls,” Jonathan continued. “At some point, Jennings may recognize you. If that happens, your only route to survival is to lie through your teeth. He’s going to say that you were there in the room when his Constitutional rights were violated, and when you look him in the eye, you’ll need one-hundred-percent credibility when you deny everything.”

  Something about the premise excited Irene. She understood that she should have been appalled, but in context, it was damn near exciting. “When do we get started?” she asked.

  “We’re waiting for a friend of mine,” Jonathan said. “When he gets here, we can start into the serious planning.”

  The friend turned out to be a giant of a man named Brian. The last name was Dutch and she couldn’t begin to pronounce it. Van de Something. He preferred to go by the name of Boxers, whatever that meant. At six-foot-huge, he literally filled the doorway as he entered the library. Unlike a lot of big men, Boxers fit his size and was handsome in his own way. Like Digger, he wore his hair too long, and his beard would have made a Mississippi biker proud. When he spoke, his deep bass voice rumbled the walls.

  “This is Irene Rivers,” Jonathan said by way of introduction.

  “You’re the FBI lady,” Boxers said. As he shook her hand, his grip, like Jonathan’s before, was surprisingly gentle. “I’m sorry to hear about your little girls. We’ll get them back for you soon.”

  “Box is a fellow noncom with the Unit. I’ve known him for years and I trust him with my life.”

  “That’s because I’ve saved it so many times,” Boxers said.

  “Truer words,” Jonathan said. “She’s coming with us.”

  Boxers’ face fell.

  “She’s had HRT training,” Jonathan added.

  “Have you ever sho
t anyone?” Boxers asked.

  “Please don’t show me the length of your penis,” Irene said. “I can’t possibly compare.”

  Laughter burst from Jonathan, even as Boxers turned red. One sentence, issue closed.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Boxers asked when Jonathan could breathe normally again.

  “Funny you should ask,” Jonathan said. “That’s why I invited you to the party.”

  The plan came together quickly, and no plan had ever been simpler at its heart: Snatch and interrogate. Of course there were about a thousand moving parts in the middle, any one of which could derail everything, but Irene chose to stay focused on the goal: seeing Ashley and Kelly smiling back at her, alive and thriving.

  Alive.

  The alternative to that one word was too terrible to think about.

  Jennings lived alone in a small row house in a seedy part of Baltimore, very urban, very working class. The snatch would be the hardest part. To pull that off without alerting the neighbors could be a huge feat on its own. If it went wrong, and someone called the police, her FBI credentials would be of no help. In fact, they might even prove to be a burden. For the plan to work—for it to get past the first step—stealth would be the key. That meant no shots fired, which was easier said than done when you were invading a private residence with guns drawn and safeties off.

  It was just a little after midnight when Irene and her two team members glided their blacked-out black van into position in front of Jennings’s row house.

  “How sure are you that this is the address?” Jonathan asked.

  Irene had spent at least thirty hours of her life combing through this place during the Harrelson case and its aftermath. “One hundred percent,” she said.

  “Can you go a little higher?” Boxers asked from the driver’s seat. Jonathan was riding shotgun while Irene occupied the only row of seats behind the front buckets.

  “The more pertinent question is whether he’s home,” Irene offered. “On that I have no idea.”

  “I can help there,” Jonathan said. He pointed through the windshield. “See that phone booth?” he asked.

  It took her a few seconds, but then she got it. It wasn’t a booth so much as it was a platform connected to the side of a building. “Yes.”

  “You still have his number?” It was part of the planning research.

  “I do.” Irene was already sliding the side door open. Could it really be this simple?

  Even at this late hour, the air felt heavy with humidity as Irene walked to the phone. She did her best to ignore the weight and additional heat of her body armor, focusing her mind on the protection it would provide if this turned into a shooting war. When she arrived at the phone, she lifted the receiver and slipped a quarter into the slot. She dialed the 410 area code and number. At this hour, if the line were answered at all, she expected that it would be picked up after at least three or four rings. She was startled, then, when she heard the click after the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  She’d recognize that voice out of a crowd of ten thousand people.

  “Can I speak to Pamela?” She’d dropped her voice a quarter octave and feigned a Southern accent.

  A pause.

  Oh, shit, he suspects something!

  “Who?”

  “Pamela,” Irene repeated.

  “Who is this?”

  She heard suspicion in his voice, maybe a note of panic. “Is this four one oh . . .” She repeated the phone number she’d called with a middle digit transposed.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Jennings snapped. “You’ve got a wrong number.”

  Click.

  Irene closed her eyes and released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Thank God. She’d gotten away with it. As she walked back to the van, she gestured with two thumbs up, and the doors opened right away.

  “He’s there,” Irene said as she came within earshot. She pulled a stocking cap out of her pocket, fiddled with it till she found the front, and pulled it onto the top of her head.

  Neither man said a word, but their body language showed that they were ready for whatever lay ahead. As he slid the door to the van closed, Jonathan handed Irene a Heckler and Koch MP-5 machine pistol. “You’ve used one of these, right?” he asked.

  The nine-millimeter mini-assault rifle was a standard armament for the Hostage Rescue Team, but she’d never been particularly enamored of it. Chambered in nine millimeter, the weapon presented a rapid rate of fire, but the small round had a bad record for knock-down capability.

  “I’ve used them, yes,” Irene said. She slipped the combat sling over her shoulder.

  “If it comes down to a shoot-out,” Jonathan said, “just keep your front sight on the center of mass. If you cut out the core, the rest of the bad guy will fall with it.”

  Irene felt a swell of indignant anger. She neither needed nor appreciated marksmanship lessons from an Army grunt.

  Irene noted that Jonathan carried a Colt 1911 .45 on his hip, cocked and locked, and that Boxers carried what looked like a derringer against his size, but that she in fact knew to be a standard military-issue Beretta nine-millimeter. They’d given her a choice of sidearm, and she’d chosen a nine-millimeter SIG-Sauer P228 just like the one she trained with every week on the FBI range. Familiarity was key when it came to shooting straight, but she was grateful not to have to worry about ballistics tracing back to her own weapon if someone ended up getting shot.

  As she approached the front door to the row house, Irene noted that Jennings had replaced the locks that had been busted up in the original raid, but that otherwise, the façade looked just as worn and weathered as it always had.

  “We’re all good on the plan, right?” Jonathan whispered. He pulled the front of his own stocking cap to unfurl the mask that would cover everything except his eyes and his mouth. “There’s nothing subtle about it. We crash in, we snatch the son of a bitch, bag him and bind him, and get the hell out. Time inside shouldn’t be more than a minute.” He looked at Irene. “Big Guy and I have worked a lot together in the past, so we’re going to handle the rough stuff, okay? Rattler, you provide eyes and cover. Yes?”

  Irene nodded and pulled her own face mask into place. If a car had been cruising by, the driver would no doubt have been terrified by what he saw. “Yes,” she said. Because of the need for anonymity, Jonathan had given her the code name Rattler. His own was Scorpion, and Boxers’ was Big Guy.

  “Good. Let’s go.” He turned to his big friend. “Your turn,” he said.

  Irene hadn’t noticed the three-foot thirty-five-pound cylindrical steel battering ram that Boxers carried in his other hand, or that he had likewise blanked out his face. Jonathan stepped aside to leave room while the big man gripped the handles at the front and rear of the ram, squared off perpendicular to the door, and then like a human Da Vinci’s Cradle, swung the plug of steel in a giant underhand arc that contacted the door right at the sweet spot, shattering those shiny new locks and propelling what was left of the splintered door inward on its hinges till it slammed against the wall.

  Jonathan squirted through the opening first, followed by Boxers, and together, they streamed up the stairs to the bedroom level, leaving Irene to push the door closed and monitor the first floor, which, in the dim light that streamed in from the street, looked like it might have been burgled. Stuff was strewn everywhere, on the floor, draped over what little furniture there was. When she noticed that the detritus included multiple pizza boxes, complete with leftover pizza still inside, she knew that it was just Jennings being true to form.

  Jonathan had been right when he’d warned that there would be nothing subtle about the approach. They sounded like a wrecking crew on the second floor, their heavy footsteps combining with crashing furniture and doors to create a cacophony that rattled the whole structure. Surely, given the age of these homes and the thinness of the walls, they were awakening the neighbors.

  But where was the s
houting to get down and show hands? Where were the protests from Jennings to be left alone?

  He’s down here.

  The thought arrived fully formed and devoid of doubt. He’d answered the phone quickly, hadn’t he? That meant he wasn’t yet asleep. It made perfect sense, then, that he would be on the first floor, not on the second. Or maybe the basement.

  Shit.

  She reached first for the MP5, but then let it go and drew her SIG. She’d fired thousands of rounds through the carbine, but tens of thousands of rounds through the pistol. She assumed a modified Weaver stance, a two-handed grip on the weapon that turned her left side to whatever threat lay out there, and she pivoted her whole body as she scanned the shadows for Jennings. She kept her finger out of the trigger guard even more consciously than usual, knowing that to kill this animal would be to lose track of her daughters.

  Ashley and Kelly. Ashley and Kelly.

  He wasn’t in the living room and he wasn’t in the center hall. That left either the dining room on the right or the kitchen that lay behind it. The kitchen where all the knives rested in the drawers. The kitchen where—

  “Scorpion! The back door!” Irene yelled. “He’s bolting!” Again, no doubt. Irene took off at as close to a run as she could manage through the cluttered dining room, pushing furniture aside and vaulting over even more crap on the floor, as she made her way to the swinging saloon doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen.

  She’d spent so much time in this place during the investigation that she felt as if she’d grown up here. She didn’t need additional light to know that the appliances were all an awful shade of brown, or that the wallpaper was an even more awful shade of orange.

  Her eyes went right to the back door, which lay wide open. Past the sound of her own labored breathing, she could hear footsteps outside, nearly lost in the thunder of footsteps pounding back down the interior stairs as Scorpion and Big Guy hurried to catch up.

  Irene slid to a stop before exposing herself to the outside through the exterior kitchen door, just in case Jennings had found himself a weapon and was lying in wait. Leading with her SIG, she pivoted out onto the stoop and was relieved to find that the Jennings’s head start was not as large as she had feared. She was doubly relieved to find that he’d made a huge mistake.