The Naked Edge Read Free

Cavanaugh looked at a row of monitors under a cupboard. Linked to security cameras, the screens showed various areas of the property. Satisfied that everything appeared normal, he turned toward where Mrs. Patterson rolled a pie crust. A sixty-year-old widow whose children and grandchildren lived in Jackson, she had worked for the dude ranch and agreed to stay.
    “What kind of pie are you making?” Jamie asked.
    “Pumpkin.”
    “Maybe I'll skip dinner tonight and just eat the pie.”
    Cavanaugh shook his head in amazement at Jamie's appetite. He opened a cupboard, took out a box of nine-millimeter ammunition and an equipment bag, then headed toward the back door. “It's going to be loud for a while, Mrs. Patterson.”
    The gray-haired woman set down her rolling pin, pulled a Kleenex from her apron, tore it in two, and wadded the halves into her ears.
    The screen door banged shut as Cavanaugh and Jamie walked toward a shooting area next to a barn. Feeling the intense sunlight, they stopped at a weathered wooden table and faced metal targets twenty-five yards away, a mound behind them. Each target had the outline of a human head and torso.
    Cavanaugh opened the case, took out the pistol, and showed Jamie that there wasn't a magazine in it. Then he locked back the slide to reveal that there wasn't a round in the firing chamber.
    “Cold gun?”
    “Cold gun,” she agreed.
    He set the pistol and the gear bag on the table. Then he opened the box of ammunition. With practiced efficiency, he and Jamie loaded ten rounds into three magazines.
    “It always amazes me that you don't break your fingernails,” Cavanaugh said.
    “That's how little attention you pay. Hanging around with you, I'd don't have any fingernails. So tell me about the P-2000.”
    “Even Goldilocks would like it.” Cavanaugh showed Jamie three polymer strips labeled S, L, or XL. A strip on the back of the weapon's grip was labeled M.
    “You're telling me you can size the grip . . . ?”
    “To fit the hand. Try it.”
    Although the pistol was still “cold,” Cavanaugh approved of the way Jamie pointed it down range, as if it were loaded.
    “Not quite comfortable,” she said. “Slightly too big for my hand.”
    “Then we'll reduce the grip.” Cavanaugh pulled a hammer and a punch from the equipment bag. With a few taps, he removed a pin from the strip. He took it off and attached the one marked S. “ Now try it.”
    “Perfect,” Jamie said.
    Cavanaugh was fascinated by the problem of hands fitting grips because his own hand was small in comparison to his six-foot frame. Prior to his Delta Force training, he'd been obligated to use the Army's standard sidearm, Beretta's fifteen-round nine millimeter. For a magazine to hold that many rounds, it needed to have two columns of ammunition. The result was a grip too large for him. He'd managed to compensate and control his aim, but like someone forced to wear tight shoes for a long time, he was now obsessed with proper size and comfort.
    “Put some rounds through it,” he suggested.
    “Ladies first? Gosh.” Jamie shoved a magazine into the grip and pressed a lever on the side. A similar lever was on the opposite side, making the weapon ambidextrous, another rarity. The slide, which had been locked back, rammed home, chambering a round.
    “I need my fashion accessories,” she told him.
    They put on their protective glasses and ear guards, then approached the targets, stopping ten yards away, a standard shooting distance. Most gunfights occurred within half that space.
    Jamie raised the pistol, both arms straight out, both hands solidly on the grip, both thumbs pointed along the side as a further way of aligning the barrel with the target.
    Cavanaugh considered the freedom with which she lifted her arms. No evident discomfort, no stiffness to indicate her bullet wound five months earlier.
    She pulled the trigger.
    6

    Hidden among the trees on the ridge, the spotter frowned toward the back of the