by P A Duncan
“I can go for a couple hours before I have some more of those contributors’ meetings like today. I appreciate the help, though.”
“Sure. Glad to help out.”
“It’s good to meet genuine people like you. These contributors I deal with, there’s a falseness to them. They want to give money to the country of their ancestors, but when it comes to the tools we need, they get scruples.”
Carroll smiled at her. “That’s in the book, too. They talk a good game, but they don’t want to be tainted by the reality.”
“That’s it, exactly, but we always find ways to spend the money.”
“Oh, yeah. You, uh, want another round?”
“No, thanks. It would be a bit embarrassing to get stopped by the law. Drunk and no license.”
He frowned at her. “How did you get a rental car?”
“One of the contributors rented it for me. Driving on the right side of the road is a bit daunting.”
“I, uh, I can get you a driver’s license that’ll stand up to scrutiny. Any state.”
“Why, Jay Carroll, you’re a man of many talents, you are.”
This blush was deeper than the others. “I know how to get things done.”
The self-deprecation seemed genuine, and that surprised her.
“Order another drink for yourself, if you want. On me,” Mai said. “I’ll take a Diet Coke. I’ve got to use the loo.”
His dismay made her think she’d embarrassed him with a reference to the toilet.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You bought lunch yesterday. It doesn’t seem right you buy the drinks, too, after driving and all.”
Mai smiled. “It’s a rare gentleman you are. By all means, Mr. Carroll, and thank you for buying the drinks. I’ll be right back.”
Jay gave the waitress their order and waited for Siobhan to return.
What a woman. She carried a gun. He gave some thought to where. She was lean, but she wore that oversized jacket. On a hip, or at the small of her back. She was obviously accustomed to carrying and had done so for a long time to be that inconspicuous. And to carry while in the country illegally? That took guts.
If the gun-carrying weren’t stimulating enough, she also understood the struggle for freedom. His sex-starved body betrayed him again, and he shifted in the booth. Thinking with my dick, he wondered.
No. He wasn’t. He did want her, and he didn’t understand why he hadn’t pushed to fuck yet. Maybe he was ready for something more? Emotional maturity, he supposed, made you look at women as potential life partners and not for a quick bounce and go.
The waitress returned with their drinks and a bowl of popcorn. Jay picked at that until Siobhan slid back into her seat.
“So, Jay Carroll,” she said, after sipping at her cola, “tell me more about yourself, then. What’s your family like?”
Great. He didn’t want to talk about that, but on a date small talk it was. “My dad lives in New York state. My mother lives here in Florida.”
“Are you visiting her, then?”
Heat rose in his face, and he looked away, thumbs drumming on the table. “Nope. She said she was too busy with work.”
“You said you had sisters, right?”
“Two. One older, one younger.”
“The only son,” she said, smiling. “Were you spoiled, then?”
“Oh, no. That’s my baby sister, Maryann. She and I are tight.”
“Good for you, lad. My family can’t speak to me.”
“Why?”
“Puts them under suspicion, and they can’t earn a living. They prefer to forget we’re related.”
“That’s too bad.” His father didn’t talk much with him because he was emotionally incapable, but at least he was there. To be completely cut off… “My dad’s reserved,” Carroll said. “We don’t relate well sometimes, but he always sends me money on my birthday. A fifty-dollar money order every year.” The memory brought up a smile.
“Your da got you interested in the Army, then, and shooting?”
“Not really. He was in the Army, in Vietnam, but he wasn’t keen on my joining, especially when Desert Storm came up. His father, my granddad Connor, got me interested guns. Gave me a .22 rifle on my ninth birthday. Taught me shooting and safety. We used to go camping. He’s a great guy.”
“Do you see your family often?”
“I was home over the holidays…”
No, he couldn’t think about that. He felt too good, too happy right now.
“My granddad’s getting up there, though. I should check on him more often.”
They talked for almost an hour about innocuous things, things he supposed couples discussed, things to get to know each other. He told her about the land he once owned near his hometown. No matter what he said, she seemed interested. Not once did she act bored, something he wasn’t accustomed to in his dealings with women.
Maybe that was because she was older. Maybe it was time to stop bothering with girls his age who focused on how good you looked or how much money you made.
As they talked, he relaxed, his wittiness emerging. She laughed at his jokes and puns. No giggling. He liked her full-throated laughter as much as her accent. He wanted the evening to go on, but when they finished their last round of drinks, he knew it was time to get back to the gun show.
On the walk to her car, she asked, “Do you want me to drop you off at the convention center or your hotel?”
“The convention center is fine. L.D. and I are, kinda, well, sleeping in the car.” He studied her reaction and was pleased to see concern.
“Lord, lad, isn’t that dangerous?” she asked.
“Like you said, I’m covered in that area. It’s not too bad, except L.D. snores.”
They stopped by the car, and he looked into her eyes, saw her interest in what he had to say next. That felt damned good.
“Sometimes, when I’m on the road between shows,” he said, “I stop for the night and lay my bedroll out on the side of the road. Sleeping under the stars, like when Granddad and I went camping.”
When she smiled at him, he felt as if he’d known her all his life.
Siobhan turned to him and said, “Now, I feel badly about taking that book without paying, if it meant you could have gotten a hotel room.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m saving my money. That’s all.”
“I’m flush with contributions. I’ll pay you for tomorrow.”
“No, no. I’m fine. Thanks for the offer.”
They drove in silence until she pulled into the convention center’s parking lot. He directed her to where his car sat. He saw L.D. had put the seat back as far as it would go and lay snoozing. Damn. No one was at the booth, and people were headed inside.
“I feel badly you have to sleep in your car,” Siobhan said.
“I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine. I’ve slept in worse places in the Army.”
She smiled at that. He leaned toward her. She didn’t move away. He wanted to kiss her. She was so close, all he’d have to do was… No. There’d be another, better time for that.
“Good night,” he murmured. “Oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she said.
He held her eyes a long time and tried to communicate something; he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps he was glad simply to be with her. Before he could screw something up, he exited and watched her car disappear into traffic.
Propped up on all the pillows from the bed, Alexei channel-surfed among the television selections. A moment after he’d checked his watch, Mai let herself into the hotel room. She sat on the bed beside him, and he straightened, noting the coyness of her smile. He leaned forward and kissed her.
“Miss me?” she asked.
“Were you gone?”
With a thumb, she rubbed her lip gloss from his lips. “Do you want to hear about my evening with John Carroll or be a clown?”
“Debrief, and we’ll clown around.”
After an eye roll, she related the salient points of her conversation and answered his questions. When she finished, she peered into his eyes. “What do you think?” she asked.
“He’s a nut case.”
She shifted away from him. “He may be completely harmless. At the least, salvageable.”
Alexei arched his scarred eyebrow at her. “Don’t go there. I’d think the setback with Scott Wilder would dissuade you from crusades of redemption.”
“If the time comes, I’ll turn him.” Her chin came up, so she looked down her aristocratic, English nose at him.
“Don’t be overconfident,” Alexei said, “and accept the fact he may be a lost cause. If he’s planning something to avenge Killeen, he may be a sociopath and difficult to turn.”
“There’s no harm in trying.”
“None to him, but if you try and fail, think about the consequences.”
“I won’t let it go that far. If he’s up to something and can’t be turned, I’ll…”
“What?” he prompted, after her silence.
“I’ll stop him whenever and however I need to.”
“I needed for you to hear yourself say it.”
“Satisfied?”
“Never. Don’t get in the business of saving lost souls. The failures are numerous and the successes rare.”
She said nothing.
“So, you dropped him off in the parking lot. What happened there?” he asked.
“He’s an incredibly good kisser.”
Ah, she was getting back at him for telling her to do her job. “So am I.”
“He didn’t kiss me. He wanted to, but he’s the one who pulled back. Besides, I don’t use sex on a mission.”
“You know that, I know that, but does Mr. Carroll know that?”
“Worried, are you?”
“About my ability to keep you interested? No.”
She shifted on the bed to sit astride his thighs, and he rested his hands on her hips, below her waist, his fingers brushing the holster there.
“Certain of your charms?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
“The sunshine has proved stimulating for you. Perhaps we should move here.”
“I don’t think I could sustain this on a daily basis for long.”
She pushed him down on the bed and loomed over him. “An interesting way to go off to your reward.”
As she kissed him, he took the holster from her waist and laid it aside.
3
Arbitrary and Capricious
Dressed in crisp jeans and a light blue, long-sleeved shirt, tucked in, John Carroll lounged against his car. Mai turned into the parking lot of the Pensacola Gun Club and Coffee Bar and spotted a black handgun case on his car’s bonnet. A couple of city police cars sat in a far corner of the lot. Good thing she’d stowed her Beretta in a lockable case.
Carroll waved at her and smiled when she cruised past his car and parked two spaces away. By the time she cut off the engine, he was at the door, opening it for her. Mai took her gun case and stepped from the car.
“Good morning,” she said.
“I thought the Irish say ‘top o’ the morning,’” he replied, smiling.
“There’s too many Bing Crosby movies you’ve watched. We never say that. In fact, we find it a bit insulting,” Mai said.
Carroll blinked at her tone and seemed uneasy. “Uh, sorry. I was kinda joking.”
“No worries. This looks like a nice club,” Mai said.
She and Carroll headed for the front door, and Carroll explained, “It’s decent. Because I was an NRA Life Member, I can get in.”
“Was?”
“I quit because they knuckled under to the anti-gun people, but I held onto my membership card. Nobody checks. The first half-hour’s free, and there’s a discount on any time longer than that. I figure we’ll plan on a couple of hours.”
He hustled ahead to open the door for her, and while he took care of particulars with the woman behind the front desk, Mai looked around. She tuned, however, into the negotiations between the woman and Carroll. Using some boyish charm and an extensive use of “ma’am,” he talked the woman into giving them more of a discount.
The indoor firing range’s layout was typical: the check-in counter, a small shop with shooting supplies, but this one had a coffee shop to one side of the entrance. The older man there was the same age as the woman at the counter. A mom-and-pop gun range? The man must be a retired policeman, Mai thought, given the pictures of him in uniform on the wall behind the fancy coffee machines. Two Pensacola policemen, likely the drivers of the cruisers in the parking lot, leaned on the coffee bar and talked to the proprietor, cups of coffee in hand.
The proprietor looked her over like a cop but smiled and nodded. She returned the smile. The two cops gave her the kind of scrutiny that made the guilty run. She smiled at them, too.
“They require ear protection here,” Carroll called to her. “You have any?”
“No.”
Carroll turned back to the woman, talked some more, and the woman handed him a pair of noise-suppressing ear muffs in a plastic bag. With a smile, the matronly woman said, “On the house for your girl.”
Carroll’s neck and ears flushed red.
The woman buzzed them through the locked door leading to the shooting alleys. They were all empty at this hour, and Carroll went to the center lane. He set his case on the ledge, opened it, and extracted his hearing protection. He closed his case and put it to one side.
He handed her the wrapped ear muffs and said, “How do you get your gun through airport security? I mean, if you’re here…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Illegally.”
“No security if you travel in private aircraft. My sponsors, let’s call them, make the arrangements. I carry the gun in a case to make it less obvious.”
Carroll nodded to himself, and Mai thought it a good question to ask on Carroll’s part, showed his caution—though Alexei would call it paranoia and suspicion. Carroll took her case, put it on the ledge, and waited for her to open it. Mai unwrapped the ear muffs and opened her case. Carroll pointed to the Beretta and said, “May I?” She nodded.
He took up the Beretta with the ease and comfort of someone who considered a pistol an extension of his hand. He made sure it was unloaded and operated the slide several times.
“Good, smooth action,” he said. “You know how to take care of it.”
“It’s hard to get replacements, so you learn to take care of what you’ve got.”
He lowered his voice again. “You brought this into the country?”
“No, it was a gift, you might say, when I got here, but I’ll find a way to take it home.”
Carroll picked up one of the spare magazines and thumbed a few rounds into his palm. “Pretty generic,” he said. “Is this what you carry loaded?”
Mai nodded and wondered what he was after.
“I’ve got something in my car. A better load for you, but these are good for practice.” He handed the gun back to her, butt first. “All right, show me how you load.”
With quick, practiced movements, she loaded the magazine and operated the action, all with the business end pointed downrange. She’d done it all eyes locked with Carroll’s. She laid the gun on the ledge.
“Confident movements,” Carroll said, eyes assessing. “Good job.” He pressed some controls in the booth, and a silhouette target rolled down from the ceiling. “Let’s try twenty-five feet first.”
Mai almost responded with resentment. He thought she couldn’t hit the broad side of a lorry.
He moved the target closer and stopped it. “You know what a Weaver stance is?” he asked.
Mai bit back a retort and said, “Yes. A combat crouch.”
“Okay, good. From a Weaver stance, give me six shots as close as you can to the silhouette’s center of mass.”
Show him up or not? She’d said she needed some practice, so she’d show him how quickly she could impr
ove. Hearing protection on, she picked up the gun, gauntleted it in her left hand, and sighted the target from a combat crouch. The first round struck to the right, barely in the white around the silhouette. She scattered the next two near the heart symbol on the target. Her final three she grouped dead center. She returned the gun to the ledge, and Carroll brought the target closer.
“Excellent,” he said, after studying it. “You found your range quickly. How long since you fired?”
“A few months.”
“Really?” His voice lifted in surprise. He removed the target, loaded another one, and sent it to the seventy-five-foot mark. “Same stance, empty the magazine, heart target,” he said.
This time her grouping obliterated the red heart.
“Wow,” Carroll said, “I wish I had a rifle with me. I’d like to see how you’d do.”
“Better.”
“And you know that how?”
She locked eyes with him again. “Shall we say, long-range shots were my specialty.”
He edged closer, his pupils dilated. “Who taught you how to shoot?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.
“Taught myself mostly.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“You see, bombers have a tendency to blow themselves up, so I opted for shooter. I had to be better than the men because they expected me not to be. I learned quickly so I didn’t waste ammunition. I batted my eyelashes at a couple of British snipers for some pointers and proved myself. Have I proved myself to you, then?”
“Did you think you had to?”
“Setting the target at twenty-five feet was…a bit patronizing, shall we say?”
Carroll blushed again and gave a quick smile. “Most of the girls, uh, women I know aren’t even interested in guns much less a good shooter. Sorry.”
“Not too many American women have to defend themselves against an invading army.”
That intense expression appeared, his eyes hardening. “It may come to that someday here,” he said. “Show me how you do one-handed.”
Over the rest of the half-hour, she expended her ammunition but showed him some flaws to elicit his comments and coaching. Then, it was his turn.