Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(32)

He took the highway, headed deeper into Virginia. She turned off with him at the Odenton exit, tailed him through local streets, watched him park in the lot attached to the Long Range, a local firing range, and enter the building. Five minutes later she followed him through the front door.

The big guy behind the counter in a red SHOOT FIRST T-shirt looked at her askance until she waved her ID in his face. Then he was all smiles and what-can-I-do-for-yous. She paid for an hour, chose her weapon, and was rung up.

She was given a 9mm Glock, ammunition, and a set of sound-dampening headphones. She entered the range itself, trolled through the row of shooters, looking for Goode.

The lanes to either side of him were occupied. She was on the verge of taking a free lane down from where Goode was firing, but the shooter to his left stopped firing, pressed a button on the partition, and watched as his target headed back to him. Striking it down, he took it and his handgun, and brushed past her as he left. Morgana stepped up into his spot, clipped a new target to the wire, sent it hurtling to the far end of the range. Then she loaded the Glock, took her stance, aimed and squeezed off six shots in rapid succession. She pressed the recall button, but she already knew what she would see: six holes dead center. Having been trained by her father when she was still in her early teens, she had developed into a crack shot.

She was staring at the target when Goode tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, the look of surprise blossoming perfectly, and smiled.

“Hey,” she said, taking off her earphones. “Lieutenant Goode, right?”

He nodded, clearly pleased that she remembered his name. “Ms. Roy!”

“Morgana, remember?”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

He had a horsey kind of laugh, which meshed perfectly with his corn-fed looks. She wondered whether he’d say “Aw, shucks” if she complimented him. That’d be a hoot and a half.

“What are you doing here, Ms.…er, Morgana?”

“Working the Glock, same as you.”

“Now there’s a coincidence.”

“A happy coincidence, I hope.”

Here comes the “Aw, shucks.”

“Gosh, well, it is for me.”

Good enough, she thought with an interior grin.

His gaze slid reluctantly from her face to the target she was holding. “Hello! That’s some nifty shooting.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

He blushed and grinned, but for the moment seemed to have run out of compliments to give her.

“Well…” She picked up the Glock she had set down when he tapped her. “Nice running into you. Gotta get back to my routine.”

She started to move away, thinking, Is he going to bite, or not?

“Uh, Morgana.”

There’s my good boy!

His voice trailed after her. She took two more steps, then paused, turning back. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

He came after her, just like a puppy dog. “If you don’t…”

She stood her ground, waiting for him to come to her.

Obedient to her will, he took another couple of steps toward her. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you almost finished?—with work, I mean.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Sadly, I’m only about halfway through.” She cocked her head. “Why d’you ask?”

“Oh, well.” His face fell; it was so pathetic. “I only meant, it’s getting to be dinnertime. Mine, anyway. I have early mornings.”

Oh, goody, Goode. Her smile brightened. “So do I.”

“Well, d’you think you could…you know?”

“Could what?” Such sweet torture for him.

His cheeks were flaming. “Make an exception and come have dinner with me.”

She looked around as if trying to decide. “I don’t know. I…”

He was right in front of her, eager and terrified. “Please say yes.”

“I did skip lunch today, so I am kind of hungry.” She nodded. “And I guess I can catch up tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t hesitate at all. “Really? That’s super.”

—



“Frankie. I wish you’d call me Frankie,” he said. “All my friends do.”

“I like the sound of that,” Morgana said. “Frankie.” She watched his cheeks color again. He was so transparent, like all men when you engaged their reptile brains.

They were ensconced in a back booth of a jam-packed steak house not far from the shooting range. The restaurant, clearly one of his local haunts, smelled of charcoaled meat and beer. At the bubbling, full-up bar an early season baseball game was playing on a TV screen. The oversaturated colors made her retinas throb. It was odd and vaguely disturbing, she thought, how the screen drew your eye no matter where in the room you sat.

They were drinking beers. Their server set plasticized menus in front of them, then slipped away without a word.

“So, Frankie, how d’you like working at Dreadnaught?”

“Are you involved?”

She smiled. “Not married. No boyfriends.”

He laughed, relaxing, as she had hoped. “No, no. I meant involved with Dreadnaught. I mean, you call the general Mac.”

“Oh, that.” She shrugged, keeping her voice offhanded. “I run an off-site enterprise for him. Deep data analytics.”