Soft Targets by John Gilstrap Page B

had just transpired. Irene had made a mental note that if she, Irene, enjoyed anything close to a happy ending through all of this, she was going to pull every string she could find to make sure that the OPR report would not scuttle Amanda’s career.
    She’d left Jonathan and Boxers in a 7-Eleven parking lot just a half block from Amanda’s house, and as she unloaded the details of her conversations with both Amanda and Paul Boersky, they grew progressively more excited.
    “Congratulations,” Jonathan said. “You’ve got a data point on your daughters. That’s a place to start, but the real question is where does he plan to finish?”
    “I’m ahead of you,” Irene said. “Clearly, he’s headed south, and something is drawing him there. I don’t think he had time to plan anything elaborate, but he had to plan something , which to me means that he has some connection to that part of the country. Paul is doing some research for me on the QT to see what if any connection Tony might have to the Carolinas or any of the Southern states. Even Texas and Mexico. There has to be something. There has to be a reason for him to be in North Carolina.”
    Jonathan thought on that for just a few seconds. “I agree,” he said. “Let’s head south.”
    A little more than an hour later, they were walking across the tarmac of a little regional airport outside of Fredericksburg, Virginia, on their way toward a Gulfstream corporate jet. Between the three of them, they carried enough weapons and ammunition to conquer Spain.
    “Okay,” Irene said, “I know you won’t give me a straight answer, but I have to ask. Where does all of this stuff come from? Where does all the money come from? Surely Uncle Sam doesn’t foot the bill.”
    Jonathan coughed out a laugh. “God, I wish. No, this is all on me.”
    Irene stopped. “What do you mean?”
    Jonathan stopped, too, and he smiled. God, what a smile. “You’ve seen the house. Look up ‘rich’ in the dictionary. My picture is there.”
    Irene wasn’t buying. There had to be something bigger than that. “No,” she said. “Really.”
    Jonathan shrugged and nodded. “No, really,” he said.
    “So, if you’re that rich, why would you risk your life in battle if you had enough money not to?”
    Jonathan stopped short and turned on her. “You disappoint me, Wolverine,” he said. “If you have to ask that question, then I could never in a million years explain my answer.”
    He turned and started walking again.
    Irene felt stung. And embarrassed. She knew from her own experience that the truest heroes did what they did from a most solid place in their hearts. In the case of the elite military units in particular, theirs was a calling of service, and she had been wrong to malign that in any way. She hoped that Jonathan would figure out on his own that her comment had been born of the sheer magnitude of the dollars involved, not out of any doubt toward his conviction. In fact, she sensed that he did understand. Either way, there was no way to undo whatever impression she had made without sounding whiny.
    They’d just reached the base of the Gulfstream’s stairway when Irene’s pager beeped again. It was Paul Boersky. “I need a phone,” she said, and she turned toward the little building that served as a terminal.
    “Wait,” Jonathan said. “I have one here.” From the pocket of his rucksack, he produced a portable phone, barely larger than a checkbook. “It’s a cellular phone,” he said.
    She’d heard of them, of course, and the Bureau had installed them in all of the official vehicles, but this was her first experience with a truly portable version of the technology.
    “One, area code, and number,” Jonathan explained. “Just like any other telephone.”
    The pace of technology was amazing, Irene thought. She dialed the number, and Boersky answered on the second ring. “What’s up?” she asked.
    “I think I have something,” Boersky said. “There’s a