Targeted. Lori L. Harris

Frankie grabbed a form from the pile next to the cash register. “Even if you’re not shooting, you’ll need to sign the waiver.”

      He pointed to the signature line beneath several paragraphs of small print. His blue-tinged nail bed suggested the beginning stages of lead poisoning, a fairly common problem for people who owned and ran indoor ranges.

      “You can read it if you want, but it just says you won’t hold it against me if they cart you out of here on a gurney. Or in a body bag.”

      “Sounds reasonable.” Alec took the pen.

      “And you’ll need eyes and ears.” Frankie retrieved shooting glasses and earmuffs from a box on the floor behind him and laid them on the counter.

      After putting on both, Alec opened the heavy door separating the store from the range, and the noise escalated. Since leaving the FBI nearly a year ago, he hadn’t had a reason to visit an indoor facility, but the scent of cordite was still familiar, as was the strong percussion of a forty-five caliber round ripping through paper before flattening against the back wall.

      The first bays were empty, the lights off, and the target hanger waiting for paper. The third contained a well-dressed business-type woman working with an instructor. From the look of it, it wasn’t the first lesson for the good-looking, twentysomething blonde.

      His brother was at the end and in the process of emptying his weapon in rapid fire. When the chamber locked open, Jack ejected the empty magazine from the Colt and, after lowering the gun to the weapon rest, reloaded one of the three magazines in front of him. The blue-gray haze of spent gunpowder lingered in the dimly lit space.

      He wasn’t as tall as Alec, only six foot to Alec’s six-two, and there was little in facial features or coloring to suggest shared DNA. Jack was blond, blue-eyed to Alec’s darker coloring.

      There was more than six years between them, enough so that they hadn’t been close growing up. Alec’s fault, of course, since he was the older sibling. Even the death of their parents four years ago hadn’t narrowed the gap. He regretted the distance, as he regretted so many things these days. Part of the reason he’d relocated to Cougar County was to mend their relationship. That, and he’d had nowhere else to go after he’d buried his wife.

      Jack looked up and saw Alec. “Been there long?”

      “Just got here.”

      Jack thumbed the last round into the magazine, and then pressed the button to recall the target.

      “Planning to shoot a few?”

      “No. I went by the office, and your dispatcher said you usually stopped by here on Wednesday nights.”

      “Wanda did?” Jack loaded the second magazine. “Suppose I’ll have to change my schedule, then.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I like some degree of privacy.” Jack replaced the paper target, sent it out to the fifteen-yard mark. “And I’m sure you’re very aware by now that, in a town the size of Deep Water, it’s hard to come by.”

      Soon after he’d relocated to Deep Water, with its brick streets and quaint shops, Alec had learned that Southern towns were not the place to go if you wanted privacy. At one time Deep Water had been Cougar County’s seat, a destination for wealthy Northerners looking for a place to winter. Today it was a town that had been forced to find ways to reinvent itself after an interstate highway had suddenly put it off the beaten path.

      Alec took the target his brother passed to him. “Not bad.” There was a nice grouping in the chest region. He pointed to the head shots. “You’re pushing these.”

      “You think you can do better?”

      Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, Alec took a step back. Even if he’d had the time, he wasn’t about to get into a pissing contest with his brother. That was part of the problem in their relationship. Too much of the wrong kind of competitiveness in recent years.

      “Didn’t think so.” Jack closed up the box of ammo he’d been loading from and placed it in the bag at his feet before jumping to the question of why Alec was there. “Did the postcard come?”

      Alec shoved his hands into his pockets. “No.” It wasn’t a subject that he wanted to pursue.

      Once a month, for the past eleven months, starting the day after the murder of Jill Blade, a postcard had arrived from the UNSUB—the unknown subject—with one word typed on it: REMEMBER. The postcard was always the cheap variety that could be purchased almost anywhere, but the typewriter that had been used and the postmark changed each time.

      Jack seemed to gauge Alec’s reaction to this change in pattern.

      “Do you think the fact you didn’t get one means something?” Jack asked.

      “Sure. The post office screwed up. The UNSUB’s in prison. Or he’s dead. Or he lost track of time.”

      “Or maybe he’s grown tired of the game,” Jack said quietly.

      Alec chose to ignore the observation. Perhaps because he couldn’t bear to contemplate the possibility. Though it was painful to get them, if the cards stopped coming, what then? With viable leads drying up, the cards were the only tie he had with Jill’s killer. And perhaps his only hope of seeing him behind bars.

      And capturing his wife’s killer, seeing him brought to justice, was the reason he’d left the Bureau and the reason he got up most mornings.

      Jack placed a second pistol case on the shooting bench. A SIG-Sauer. Even as a kid, Jack had collected toys.

      “So why were you looking for me?”

      The door between the range and the store opened briefly as the woman and instructor left.

      “I got a phone call about an hour ago,” Alec said. “I’m heading out of town.”

      “A consulting job?”

      After leaving the Bureau, he’d opened a company that dealt with post 9/11 security. He’d expected to generate enough business to pay the bills while he hunted Jill’s killer, but because of his expertise and his security clearance, he’d had more business than he could handle alone.

      “No. Not a consulting job. The detective on Jill’s case is interviewing a suspect they’re holding in connection with a rape and he wants me to sit in tomorrow morning.”

      Jack frowned. “Does he look good for Jill’s murder?”

      “No. But he claims to have information. Probably just looking to cut a deal.” Alec suspected it was another dead end, but he couldn’t afford to ignore a lead.

      Jack wiped his hands on a towel. “So you just came by to tell me you were leaving town?”

      “Yeah.” Alec had never bothered in the past, which made it awkward as hell now. He’d spent so much of his life coming and going, never filling in anyone—including his wife—on his actions.

      Early in their marriage, when Jill had pressed him to talk about his work, he’d made the mistake of giving in to her demands and telling her too much about a case. For several weeks afterward, though she’d tried to pretend it hadn’t changed things between them, he knew it had. She’d seemed almost reluctant to let him touch her. And he’d desperately needed that connection to keep him human.

      After that, he’d been more careful with what he shared. He’d talk about investigations and cases and court trials, but never about the atrocities, nor about decayed bodies, nor about mutilated women or murdered children.

      Jack slid a magazine into the SIG-Sauer, chambered the first round. He shifted his right foot forward and brought the weapon up into the Weaver position, his index finger resting lightly alongside the trigger guard.

      “Are you sure I can’t talk you into a little head-to-head brotherly competition? I win, I get the details of your date tonight. Nothing personal.