John Gilstrap - Damage Control

“Harriett,” she said.

Jonathan scowled as he scoured his memory.

“I don’t understand,” Jonathan said.

This time, Gail didn’t waste energy on her eyelid. “How is Harriett?”

Dom whispered, “Gail was trying to save her. She didn’t make it.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Jonathan said, stroking her hand with his thumb as his fingers gripped a little tighter. “You worry about getting well.”

“She was my responsibility,” Gail said. “Did she get out?” As she spoke, the rhythm of the blips on her heart monitor increased.

There were some things about which Jonathan could not allow himself to lie. “No,” he said. “She was killed.”

Gail’s chest heaved as she took a huge breath. “My fault,” she said.

Jonathan wanted to correct her, but didn’t. If Gail had not gone to the Crystal Palace, lots of people would still be alive. The fact that most of them deserved killing didn’t remove the burden of the one who didn’t.

“Digger?” Gail said.

“Right here.”

“Kiss me,” she said.

He leaned across the bed rail and did just that, pressing his lips gently against hers. She did her best to kiss him back.

As he pulled away, he stroked her hair. “I love you,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever spoken the words aloud to Gail.

Gail winced. “I wanted to quit,” she said. “You talked me out of it.”

“That’s because you’re too good at what you do,” he said. They’d had this conversation a thousand times.

“This time for real,” Gail said. “I quit. I can’t hurt anyone else.”

“This time, I won’t say a word. You do what you need to do.”

Gail nodded slightly, but even that tiny movement seemed to hurt. “More,” she said. “I need you to quit, too.”

Jonathan didn’t care all that much about the details of what became of the Crystal Palace Cathedral, but from what he’d gathered from the news, Jackie Mitchell and her executive committee would spend the rest of their lives in prison if they didn’t end up on the wrong end of a needle in the death chamber.

The government’s case against Felix Hernandez- and, by extension, their case against Trevor Munro-died with Maria Elizondo.

And without a case against him, Munro still remained poised to advance within the Agency. It was the nature of their business in Langley to cross ethical lines. Convincing people to betray their own country to provide intelligence data was a dirty business-certainly no dirtier than abetting a drug trade in return for special favors. Besides, Uncle Sam had the ATF and the DEA to take care of drugs and weapons. And occasionally the Army.

The levels of cynicism and general dysfunction within the U.S. government had sickened Jonathan for years. Over time, he’d learned to look away, wrapping himself in his own cloak of cynicism. It’s the way of politicians and bureaucrats to feed on the blood of others in order to advance their careers. He’d learned to live with it.

Until now. Until Trevor Munro. He was a peculiar brand of mass murderer who killed randomly and efficiently without ever pulling a trigger or throwing a bomb. He did it with full deniability.

His bosses in Langley had the power to stop him, but instead chose to promote him. Soon he would be the third-highest-ranking spook in the CIA, with a bloated paycheck that was financed by honest Americans. It wasn’t right.

Jonathan had never done well at managing anger. Some injustices were so out of proportion that he couldn’t live with the imbalance.

Over the years, Jonathan had seen too many of his Special Ops pals slide the slippery moral slope toward hired killer, and he’d vowed to himself and to God and to everything holy that he would never become an assassin. It would just be too easy a line to cross, and once crossed, there could be no return.

These thoughts-this rage-tormented him as he sat in Trevor Munro’s rigorously neat living room with its clean lines and right angles, awaiting the man’s arrival home from work. He told himself that justice and assassination were two different things.

Tonight would be all about justice, meted out by the subsonic rounds he’d loaded into the suppressed. 22-caliber pistol in his lap.

The living room wall hummed as the garage door opened.

Jonathan waited until the overhead door rumbled closed again, and then he stood. He didn’t make his move, though, until he heard the interior garage door open and close and the sound of mail slapping down on the table.

Jonathan stepped into the foyer, and from there straight into the kitchen.

Munro actually made a yipping sound as he sensed Jonathan’s presence, and he whirled to face his attacker.

The man Munro saw was dressed all in black, and his face was covered by a black mask.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” Jonathan said. He smiled at the sight of the spreading stain in Munro’s trousers. “Well, here I am.”