Final Target by John Gilstrap

Author:John Gilstrap [Gilstrap, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B01LZ18PKI
Publisher: Pinnacle
Published: 2017-06-27T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

The GPS told Gail that she’d arrived, but you’d never be able to tell from the front. To call the access street a secondary roadway seemed awfully generous, but she didn’t know if there was such a thing as a tertiary highway. Quaternary? She settled on “rustic.” A plaque next to the mailbox carried the right lot number, and a much larger sign next to the open front gate identified the place as Resters’ Roost. How . . . alliterative.

Gail paused for the better part of a minute at the mouth of the gate, deciding what her next step should be. Not only was what lay ahead unknown, it was invisible from the road. Her inner but dormant law enforcement officer was screaming at her to call for backup, but who would she call?

Um, hi. This is Gail Bonneville. You know that homicide you’re working up in New Baltimore? Before he died, Randy Goodman told me about this place in Middleburg.. . .

No, that would not work. She was on her own.

She completed the turn off of the roadway and threaded her way between the gate supports and headed up a long, gradual hill. After fifty yards or so, the trees gave way to a long, largely untended field at the end of which sat the house. She saw no activity, but she did see a big red Ford pickup truck parked out front. It looked like a street vehicle, not a farm vehicle. It had been recently polished, and its chrome wheel rims gleamed.

She approached cautiously, waffling between the two options of a noisy approach, which would prevent the occupant from being startled, and a stealthy approach, which would give her the upper hand. In the end, she decided just to drive normally.

She was still a good two hundred feet away when the front door opened and a young man in blue jeans and a denim shirt stepped out and walked down the steps to the edge of the driveway. Early thirties, healthy-looking, and Hispanic. It was not at all a stretch for Gail to conclude that this man was Hector Nuñez, the son of the man she’d come here to talk to.

The fact of the cocked and locked pistol in a holster on his belt sealed the deal for her. He looked like a cop.

She pulled to a stop a respectful distance away, and as she opened her door and stepped out, she called, “Hector Nuñez?”

He appeared startled that he was recognized. “Who’s asking?”

Gail decided to go for broke. “I’m Catherine Carson,” she said. “FBI.” She pulled her once and occasionally real creds wallet out of her jacket pocket and badged him. She returned it to her pocket before he could examine it too closely. The name would match if he checked it, but there was always a chance that some security stripe or something had changed in the years since she’d used it.

“Am I in trouble?” the young man asked.

“I don’t think so,” Gail said as she cleared her car and walked closer.

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