Soft Targets

 

“Powerful and explosive, an unforgettable journey into
the dark side of the human soul. Gilstrap is a master of
action and drama. If you like Vince Flynn and Brad Thor,
you’ll love John Gilstrap.”

—
Gayle Lynds

 

“Rousing ... Readers will anxiously await
the next installment.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“It’s easy to see why John Gilstrap is the go-to
guy among thriller writers, when it comes to
weapons, ammunition, and explosives. His
expertise is uncontested.”

—
John Ramsey Miller

 

“If you haven’t treated yourself to one of John Gilstrap’s
Jonathan Grave thrillers, you need not
deprive yourself any longer.
Damage Control
is
riveting, with enough explosions, death traps, and
intrigue to fill three books.”

—
Joe Hartlaub,
Book Reporter

 

“The best page-turning thriller I’ve grabbed in ages.
Gilstrap is one of the very few writers who can
position a set of characters in a situation, ramp up the
tension, and yes, keep it there, all the way through.
There is no place you can put this book down.”

—
Beth Kanell
, Kingdom Books, Vermont

 

“A page-turning, near-perfect thriller, with engaging
and believable characters ... unputdownable!
Warning—if you must be up early the next morning,
don’t start the book.”

—
Top Mystery Novels

 

“Takes you full force right away and doesn’t let go
until the very last page . . . has enough full-bore
action to take your breath away, barely giving
you time to inhale. The action is nonstop. Gilstrap
knows his technology and weaponry.
Damage
Control
will blow you away.”

—
Suspense Magazine

 

 

 

“If you are a fan of thriller novels, I hope you’ve been
reading John Gilstrap’s Jonathan Grave series.
Threat
Warning
is a character-driven work where the vehicle
has four on the floor and horsepower to burn. From
beginning to end, it is dripping with excitement.”

 

“If you like Vince Flynn–style action, with a
strong, incorruptible hero, this series deserves to
be in your reading diet.
Threat Warning
reconfirms
Gilstrap as a master of jaw-dropping action and
heart-squeezing suspense.”

 

 

 

“Jonathan Grave, my favorite freelance peacemaker,
problem-solver, and tough-guy hero, is back—and in
particularly fine form.
Hostage Zero
is classic Gilstrap:
the people are utterly real, the action’s foot to the floor,
and the writing’s fluid as a well-oiled machine gun.
A tour de force!”

—
Jeffery Deaver

 

“This addictively readable thriller marries a
breakneck pace to a complex, multilayered plot....
A roller-coaster ride of adrenaline-inducing plot
twists leads to a riveting and highly satisfying
conclusion. Exceptional characterization and an
intricate, flawlessly crafted storyline make this
an absolute must-read for thriller fans.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

 

 

 

“
No Mercy
grabs hold of you on page one and
doesn’t let go. Gilstrap’s new series is terrific. It
will leave you breathless. I can’t wait to see what Jonathan
Grave is up to next.”

 

“The release of a new John Gilstrap novel is always worth
celebrating, because he’s one of the finest thriller writers on
the planet.
No Mercy
showcases
his work at its finest—taut, action-packed, and
impossible to put down!”

 

“A great hero, a pulse-pounding story—and the launch of a
really exciting series.”

 

“An entertaining, fast-paced tale of
violence and revenge.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“No other writer is better able to combine in a
single novel both rocket-paced suspense and heartfelt looks
at family and the human spirit. And what a
pleasure to meet Jonathan Grave, a hero for our
time . . . and for all time.”

—
Jeffery Deaver

 

 

 

“Riveting . . . combines a great plot and realistic,
likable characters with look-over-your-shoulder
tension. A page-turner.”

—
The Kansas City Star

 

“Gilstrap builds tension . . . until the last page, a
hallmark of great thriller writers. I almost called the
paramedics before I finished
At All Costs.
”

—
Tulsa World

 

“Gilstrap has ingeniously twisted his simple premise
six ways from Sunday.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

 

“Not-to-be-missed.”

—
Rocky Mountain News

 

 

 

“Gilstrap pushes every thriller button . . . a nail-biting
denouement and strong characters.”

—
San Francisco Chronicle

 

“Gilstrap has a shot at being the next John
Grisham . . . one of the best books of the year.”

 

“Emotionally charged . . . one of the year’s best.”

—
Chicago Tribune

 

“Brilliantly calculated . . . With the skill of a veteran pulp
master, Gilstrap weaves a yarn that demands to be read in
one sitting.”

 

“Like a roller coaster, the story races along on
well-oiled wheels to an undeniably
pulse-pounding conclusion.”

—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

A
LSO BY
J
OHN
G
ILSTRAP

Fiction

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nonfiction

 

 

Six Minutes to Freedom
(with Kurt Muse)

 

 

 

Collaborations

 

 

J
OHN
G
ILSTRAP

PINNACLE E-BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

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,” she said.

At the sound of Irene’s words, color drained from around Amanda’s mouth, even as Tony sat a little taller. “How bad?” Tony asked. His Latin heritage clearly reflected in his coloring, Tony Mayo had a chiseled, athletic look about him. If he hadn’t chosen the FBI, he could have chosen to model clothes.

Irene sighed. She’d learned that the most merciful way to deliver awful news was to shrug away all the weasel words and drill straight between the eyes. “On the one-to-ten scale of badness, it’s about an eleven,” she said. “The letters going in your file are crippling. They hold you accountable for Barney Jennings being re-inflicted onto the American public.”

Amanda said, “Maybe if Assistant Director Frankel hadn’t made such a big deal out of the arrest—”

“You screwed up,” Irene said, cutting her off. “That’s the bottom line here. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that your role was anything short of causal.”

Tony’s face reddened. “You’re suggesting that we should have just ignored the potential suffering that was going on behind that door?”

Irene felt her cheek twitch. It was her anger tell. One of the major traits that separated new agents from veterans was the ability to embrace one’s role in a Golf Foxtrot—a goat fuck. “You made a call,” she said. “In a perfect world, that would be admirable simply on the basis of the courage it took. Unfortunately, we live in the world created by his royal eminence J. Edgar Hoover, and the anticipation is that everybody will not only have the courage to make the call, but the clairvoyance to know that it is the right one. You missed on the clairvoyance part.”

“With all respect, ma’am, you weren’t there,” Amanda said.

“I didn’t have to be,” Irene snapped. “We have rules, and the rules are based upon the Constitution of the United States. None of us has the authority to circumvent them. That’s why we emphasize them so heavily in the Academy and retrain you on them so frequently. You two broke the rules.”

Mayo screwed his face into a scowl. “Excuse me, Irene, but this is an entirely different tune than the one you sang before you met with the AUSA. Back then, you seemed to understand.”

“Back then I thought I had a valid argument on your behalf,” Irene said. The words tasted like acid. “It turns out that I did not.”

“So we’re your sacrifice to the career gods.”

Irene felt something break inside her gut, taking with it her sympathy for her team. She felt her face redden and she deliberately fought the urge to yell. Rather, she lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “It’s time for you to be quiet, Agent Mayo,” she said.

Mayo’s eyes flashed fear at the sound of her voice. He looked like he might want to apologize, but he wisely chose not to.

“A career in the FBI is a lot like a poker game,” Irene said. “The safest move is to walk away and watch a movie instead. Once you give in to the temptation, though, the game is on and every hand is high stakes. Taking a big chance can bring great reward or it can bring ruin.”

Amanda interrupted with “I don’t think—” but Irene cut her off with a glare. “It’s time for you to shut up, too. Let’s forget about the good intentions and the gut feelings and settle in on the facts of what you did. You entered a targeted home without a warrant, and you beat a suspected felon in order to extract a confession. It’s been some time since I was in the Academy, but wasn’t there a class or two about the evils of invoking Gestapo tactics?”

The reality of their situation hit both of the young agents simultaneously. Mayo’s jaw slackened. “Are we being fired?”

“No,” Irene said. The next part would hurt most. “You’re being encouraged to resign.” She looked away from the tears that rimmed his eyes.

“This is all I’ve wanted to do,” Mayo said. “It’s all I know. It’s all I’ve trained for.”

“And you can stay,” Irene said. “For as long as you can tolerate the worst postings on the planet and a career of scut work.” She looked up at them and sighed as she leaned closer to the edge of her desk, her elbows on her thighs. “You’re fundamentally good agents,” she said. “You’ve developed some solid cases and made some good arrests. No one disputes that. But the Bureau is a political place, and you committed the unpardonable sin: you embarrassed the assistant director. As Peter Frankel himself has said countless times, ‘one oh-shit wipes out a lifetime of atta-boys.’ We can complain that it’s unfair and old school and fundamentally wrong, but that doesn’t change the nature of the Bureau.”

“I’ve got a family,” Amanda said.

“As do we all,” Irene replied. She leaned back and struck a more positive tone. “Come on, people. You’ve both got law degrees from top-ten schools and you’re both young. You can make this a speed bump in your larger career, or you can make it the end. That’s up to you. But the fact remains that with your file burdened with a letter like you received from OPR, your FBI careers are over. You’re the equivalent of a duty officer in the Navy who’s on watch when the ship runs aground. It’s over.”