woodland camouflage clothing.
Jonathan slung his rucksack over his shoulders, glanced at his GPS to reaffirm his bearings, and then started off on his hike.
As a rule, Jonathan avoided stealing from innocents during missions. Not only did it offend his sense of right and wrong, it also added an unnecessary element of risk. Given all the moving parts in play during an 0300 mission, he didn’t want to risk it all coming apart because a local cop noticed a vehicle from a hot sheet.
Sometimes, though, it couldn’t be avoided.
By massaging her databases and scouring satellite images, and in general working the magic she was famous for, Venice had been able to find them the perfect command post-a dilapidated old house on the grounds of an abandoned mine-but it was way in the boonies. The nearest car listed for sale was fifteen miles away. If they’d had the luxury of time, Venice would have pored through the local classified ads for an appropriate vehicle and worked out a delivery plan using cash and messengers.
Unfortunately, time was the commodity in shortest supply, so that meant thievery.
Jonathan hiked at a brisk pace through the thinning forest, covering the mile and a quarter in a little over a half hour. According to the maps and the imagery, nothing but woods lay between him and this morning’s target, so he could afford to make some noise. As he closed to within a hundred yards or so, he slowed and took the time to survey his surroundings.
A house lay ahead, on the far side of what Jonathan estimated to be six acres of open field. To call it a farm was overstating it, but rows of decaying cornstalks testified to at least a little income from selling produce. Lowering himself to one knee at the edge of the tree line, Jonathan unslung his ruck and pulled binoculars from a side pocket.
A porch light was on, as was a light somewhere in the house, but on the far side. They seemed dim from this distance, making him wonder if the illumination had less to do with someone being up and around than the proverbial light in the window, left on all night to keep the boogeyman at bay.
The target for this mission was the white Dodge crew-cab pickup truck parked in front of the house. He watched the place for a full minute, looking for signs of movement that would make things more difficult. Seeing none, he set off across the field.
Daylight had arrived, though it was still quite dim. Like any Special Forces operative, he hated the daylight. It leveled the playing field too much.
He strolled upright through the dried, sagging cornstalks, making some effort to be stealthy, but not breaking his back over it. He had to assume that whoever lived in the house was awake, and if they looked out the window he wanted to appear to be a wandering hunter with nothing to hide. He figured that he’d be less likely to get shot at this way than if they saw him skulking about.
He covered the distance without incident, walking right up to the pickup, apparently without being seen. From here it would either be easy or get really complicated. He moved to the driver’s door and pulled the latch. It opened. Good start.
Jonathan lifted the Velcro flap from a pouch on his belt and withdrew his Leatherman tool. All he had to do was break the steering-wheel lock, strip the ignition keyway, and then he could be on the road with his stolen vehicle.
His butt had just hit the cushion when a small voice said, “Who are you?”
Startled the crap out of him. He whirled to see a little girl with dark hair standing eight feet away, wrapped in a bulky flannel robe over flannel pajamas and threadbare pink slippers. She had an odd look about her that Jonathan recognized in the dark as the telltale signs of Down syndrome.
“Hi,” he said. He felt his cheeks blushing, partly because he felt embarrassed to have been caught, but also because of the shame he felt for automatically assessing whether or not the girl was armed and posing a threat.
“Are you the repo man?”
“Excuse me?”
“She asked if you are the repo man,” said another voice. This one belonged to a tall young woman dressed similarly to the little girl. She also held a twelve-gauge over-and-under shotgun. It dangled by her side, her finger close to the trigger. “They said they’d be coming for the truck, and Jilly’s been obsessing about it ever since. That’s Jilly, by the way.”
Jonathan forced a smile, his mind spinning at a thousand miles an hour for his next move. Could it really be as simple as telling her that he was here to repossess her vehicle and drive off?
“Well?” the woman pressed. “Answer her. Are you the repo man?”
“Are you going to shoot me if I say yes?”
“No, I’m going to shoot you if you say you’re a burglar. If you say you’re the repo man, I’m going to ask for your ID, and then I’m going to be without a truck, which means that even if I got a job offer and an opportunity to pay back your boss’s precious money, I wouldn’t be able to take it.” Her voice had none of the twang that Jonathan associated with this part of the world. If anything, she sounded like Yankee elite. He thought he saw tears in her eyes.
Jonathan rose from the seat, keeping his. 45 angled away from the woman so she wouldn’t see it and panic. “How long ago did you lose your job?” he asked. It was a stall more than anything else, a way to bide time as he thought of a way out of this.
“Three years,” she said. “I used to work for Appalachian Acoustics until they got their new asshole owner and he put in all his own people.”
“Michael Copley is an asshole,” Jilly said.
“That’s enough out of you,” the woman scolded.
“Sorry, Mama.”
“So, are you or aren’t you?” the woman pushed.
“What are the chances that I can convince you to put that weapon down?” Jonathan asked.
She scowled. “My weapon? What are you, a cop?”
“If I say yes, are you going to shoot me?”
“Seems to be your fixation,” she said.
“I get that way with armed people.”
“Most people say gun,” she said. “You said weapon. My husband’s in the Army, and the only people I know who talk that way are his buddies and cops.”
Suddenly, Jonathan found himself caring more. “Is he on deployment?” he asked. “Your husband, I mean.”
“ Again,” she said, leaning heavily on the word. “To Iraq. Again . I thought this new guy in Washington was supposed to get us out by now.”
“Wars are complicated things,” Jonathan said. “When is he due back?”
“What’s it to you?”
Jonathan shrugged with one shoulder. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for active-duty personnel.”
“There it is again,” the woman said. “You all sound alike. Who are you?”
“Well, I’m not the repo man. How’s that for a start?”
She lifted the gun to hold it in both hands, but with the barrel still pointed harmlessly. “Not so good,” she said. “Jilly, come over here by me.”
The little girl looked confused.
“Now, Jilly.”
Suddenly frightened, Jilly scampered over to her mom.
“Suppose you tell me why you’re in my truck, if you’re not the repo man.”
Over the years, Jonathan had honed an ice-melting smile that by itself had defused many a volatile situation. He used that now. “I came here to steal it,” he said.
The double barrels pivoted closer.
“The weapon is not necessary, ma’am. I swear to you. You don’t want your daughter to see you kill a man anyway. Not over a car. Besides, I’m not going to steal it anymore.”
The woman gave a wry chuckle as she jiggled the shotgun a little. “I could have told you that.”
“Fair enough. Fact is I’m going to help you.”
She hardened her stance. “I don’t need your help.”
