Soft Targets

Book 0: Jonathan Grave Thriller

by John Gilstrap

Genres: Action & Adventure; Political Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

An exclusive prequel novella to the New York Times bestselling author's award-winning thriller series.



FBI Special Agent Irene Rivers is horrified to learn that because of mistakes made by agents under her command, a murderer and child molester will walk free. But now her worst nightmare has come true: the monster has abducted Irene's own daughters. With nowhere else to turn, she reaches out to an elite Special Forces operator named Jonathan Grave.



While Rivers has always observed the letter of the law, Grave cares more about results than procedures. Together, they will face a new breed of evil—and pursue a new kind of justice.

Release date: October 1, 2013

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 140

Sample

Special Agent Irene Rivers gaped at the man who sat across the conference table from her. From the wall above his head, President Bill Clinton’s official portrait seemed to be enjoying the conversation. “You can’t be serious,” she said.

“I am,” Stephen Greenberg said. “We’re dropping the charges.”

Irene’s heart raced. This couldn’t be happening. “But he’s a murderer,” she said. “He killed a mother and father in their home and kidnapped their two children.”

“Did he?” Greenberg folded his hands and leaned closer. “I’m not sure what version of the Constitution you read, Special Agent Rivers, but the one on my wall presumes innocence until proven guilty. If I can’t prove my case, then by definition, Barney Jennings is innocent.”

Irene felt anger rising in her cheeks. It was Greenberg’s self-righteous smirk more than anything else. She, too, leaned closer. “What’s with the smile, counselor? Whose side are you on?”

Greenberg threw back his head and launched a guffaw that was too big by half. “Oh, is that your strategy? You’re going to mask your own incompetence by impugning my priorities? That’s very smart. Very quick.” He winked. “It’s no wonder that you’re Assistant Director Frankel’s favorite rising star. You’ve got the politics thing down pat.”

She became all too aware of the pistol on her hip, and how easy it would be to snuff this asshole.

“You screwed up, Irene.” Greenberg used his fingers to count off the transgressions. “You didn’t have a warrant to enter Jennings’s house, and you didn’t Mirandize him before putting on the cuffs, and you beat a confession out of him.”

Irene hadn’t done any of those things—she hadn’t even been on the raid—but two of her subordinates had. She didn’t bother to correct the record because she knew where the buck stopped, and her shoulders were plenty broad enough to handle the burden.

Greenberg wasn’t done. “As for the kidnappings, I don’t remember you presenting any napped kids. I’ll stipulate that we haven’t been able to find the Harrelson boys, but in the eyes of the law, there’s a giant step between being missing and being kidnapped.”

“He confessed, Steve.”

“While he was handcuffed and bleeding from the nose. Doesn’t count.”

“They’re still missing,” Irene pressed. “Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

“A lot of things bother me. World hunger bothers me. The fact that the Menendez brothers needed a second trial bothers me. But I try to save myself for the stuff I can control.”

“If we continue to lean on Jennings, we can squeeze him to reveal the location of the kids.”

Greenberg retreated from the table and cocked his head to the side. “Come on, Irene. Let’s be adults here. We all know that those boys are in a shallow grave somewhere. Found or not found, dead is dead.”

Right there, in clear relief, lay the difference between Irene’s brand of justice-seeking and Greenberg’s brand of career protection. “I’m not sure what version of justice you subscribe to, Counselor Greenberg, but in my world, we continue to operate on the assumption that people are alive until they are proven to be dead.”

“That was clever,” Greenberg taunted. “The way you used my sentence structure against me. That was very Harvard-like.”

Her face went hot.

“Come off it, Irene. Be honest. In your years with the Bureau, how many live, thriving victims have you found after, say, forty-eight hours?”

“It happens,” Irene said. “And as long as it’s possible—”

“You’ll battle the Loch Ness Monster and Satan himself to deliver the darlings from their danger. I get that. I even admire that. It’s just a damn shame that your folks broke all the rules.”

“But you could try,” Irene said. “Even if you think you’re looking at a mistrial down the road, if you filed the charges, we could at least make Jennings sweat.”

Greenberg held his hands out to the side, a gesture of helplessness. Of surrender. “Do you know what Judge O’Brian would do to me if I brought this dog to him in open court? He’d eat me alive. He’d chew on the tender parts for a while, and then he’d feed on my guts. I’m not walking into that propeller, Irene. You can call me all the names you want, and stick a hundred pins into your Steve Greenberg doll, but I’m not burning up my reputation on a ridiculous roll of the dice.”

Greenberg checked his watch. “In three hours, maybe less, Barney Jennings will be a free man.” When he looked up and made eye contact, his demeanor softened. “I know this is tough for you, Irene. I wish it could be otherwise.” He stood, pushing his wooden chair away from the table with the back of his knees. “This is going to sound patronizing as hell, but consider it a learning moment. We have rules for a reason, Agent Rivers.”

Irene kept her head down, her eyes focused on a pale water ring that had bleached the dark surface of the cheap table. When she heard the door latch, and she knew she was alone, she considered succumbing to the pressure that built behind her eyes, but she pushed the emotion away.

This was just another case. You win some and you lose some, and if you let cases get inside the wall that was integral to every emergency responder’s survival, you vastly increased the chances of ending your life with a pistol in your mouth. Irene was an expert at building and maintaining protective walls, but something about the Jennings case had cracked her foundations. Maybe it was the volume of blood on the walls, or the forensics that showed the obvious pleasure Jennings had taken from the slow torture of Julian and Samantha Harrelson. If he was willing to do that on-site with adults, she shuddered to think what he would be capable of with the boys, Adam and Clay.

She understood the passion that drove the investigating agents to act spontaneously. They had been tracking this monster for more than two months, and at the time they’d crashed the door without a warrant, they’d had reason to believe that the Harrelson boys were still inside Jennings’s squalid little house. One fewer moment of torment had to be worth a lecture from your supervisor, right? Especially when kids were involved.

Except the boys weren’t there. The investigating agents tore through the house, turning the place upside down looking for any evidence that would support what they already knew. They threw Jennings on the floor, ratcheted him into handcuffs tightly enough to draw blood, and they kicked him until he confessed to having watched the Harrelson boys walking to and from school, and of harboring sexual desires for them. Later, after Jennings had been hauled off to jail, investigators found a pair of boy’s underpants that matched the size and the style of name-brand underwear that they’d found in the Harrelson home. The underpants had been crammed into a drawer in Jennings’s bedroom that also held a variety of sadomasochistic sex toys.

Yet that haul of evidence had been deemed by the office of the United States attorney to be fruit from the poisonous tree, and inadmissible in court. All because two well-meaning, hardworking public servants had failed to knock on a murderer’s door.

Irene felt numb as she walked out of the federal courthouse onto Washington Street in Alexandria, Virginia, on as beautiful a day as the Washington, D.C., suburb could conjure in early April. The bright sun took the edge off the chilly air, and as she walked down the sidewalk to rescue her car from the lot, she cast an impatient glance at the towering statue of the Confederate soldier that blocked the intersection with Prince Street, the soldier’s back perpetually turned on the north. “You freaking lost,” she mumbled under her breath. “Get over it.”

Irene’s anguish wouldn’t go away. Her boss made sure of that.

Barney Jennings held a press conference on the day he was released of all charges, lambasting the FBI for what he called their “overreach” in persecuting the innocent instead of prosecuting the guilty.

Later that same day, Irene’s boss, Peter Frankel, publicly chastised her and her staff for unprofessional behavior, and Judge O’Brian sent a letter for her jacket that expressed his personal displeasure over the way she’d conducted herself in the Jennings investigation. “Justice and bullying are not the same things,” he wrote. “They are not in the same spectrum. As an officer of this court, your first responsibility—your primary responsibility—must always be to protect the rights of the innocent.”

As if she needed a lecture on justice.

And then there was the final humiliation. She summoned the two agents involved—Tony Mayo and Amanda Whitney—into her office to deliver the verdict from the Office of Professional Responsibility, the FBI’s version of the police department’s Internal Affairs Division.

Though they were both in their mid-thirties, they looked somehow much younger as they walked in step into the nondescript bland space that doubled for Irene’s office. They stood at attention, their hands at their sides, by all measures prepared to take their medicine.

“Have a seat,” Irene said.

They hesitated.

“Both of you.” She used the tone that people wisely interpreted as leaving no room for negotiation.

They sat. In unison.

Irene wanted to tell them to relax, that this really was just a bit of posturing that would quickly blow over, but this was no time to lie. “It’s bad,” s. . .