Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,16

man.”

Alex huffed. “You’re telling me.”

Chapter Three

Tie on straight? Check.

Shoes polished? One could only hope they gleamed like Jameson meant them to.

Teeth brushed and hair cut, not short, high, or tight, just trimmed enough to look professional and befitting this much sought-after job? He ran his fingers over his head, hoping he looked reasonably presentable. Check, check, and double check.

Dark glasses? Oh, yeah. Nearly forgot them.

Hooking his extra-dark, round-framed spectacles over his ears, Jameson Tenney faced the reflection in the bathroom mirror he could no longer see, and imagined he looked good enough. That was what Walker Judge had said when he’d told him to haul ass down to King Street and apply in person. That Alex Stewart didn’t want perfection, just men and women who were good enough. That’s precisely what Jameson was.

Finishing up, he tucked his loaded .44 Magnum into the well-worn leather holster beneath his suit jacket, under his left arm. Circumstances might take a man out of the Navy, but they never took the SEAL out of a man. It just didn’t work that way.

Ready to be all he could be, Jameson clasped his trusty graphite cane in his right hand, and left his comfort zone behind. The cane transformed with the flick of his wrist, from a compact, barely noticeable, umbrella-length nightstick, into five feet of lightweight freedom. It was also a weapon, not that he’d needed to defend himself lately. Or ever would again. Life was different now that he couldn’t see. Not dangerous so much as disadvantageous. Unfortunately—big sigh—his rough and tumble days were behind him. And that was just plain—inconvenient.

He strode down the hallway to the building’s secure entrance, his stick feeling his way forward. There was no guard at the front door, just a smart lock with network connectivity, that allowed Jameson the freedom of unlocking the entry with one click of the remote entry key fob in his suit jacket pocket.

Out of the building and onto the sidewalk he went, confidently stepping into the promise of another bright, sunny morning he couldn’t see, but could surely feel. He lived on the first floor of a small apartment complex in Rosemont, Virginia, a quiet burb west of Alexandria. A quick walk eastward on Braddock Road took him to the nearest metro station. From there, the Blue line, Franconia-Springfield train would take him south, then bring him home again, hopefully with a new job.

The trick now was getting on the right train. But he’d had help for that since he’d first moved to Virginia, after the incident, to be closer to his parents. Metro Agent Jersey Townsend looked out for oddballs like Jameson.

Sure enough. “Yo, Navy!” Jersey bellowed from across the platform, his deep voice a boisterous “glad-to-see-ya!” that Jameson never tired of hearing. “Good luck with your job interview today. Hope you knock ’em dead!”

Probably not the best thing to wish on a former Navy SEAL sniper, but Jersey didn’t know that part of Jameson’s past, and what did it matter? Jameson’s gunslinging days were behind him, but life was still damned good, and he meant to live it.

“Thanks, buddy!” he yelled back, hoping he wasn’t bellowing into some poor stranger’s ear. “How’s Portia this morning?”

“Still waiting for that big old watermelon belly of hers to pop. I’m bringing cigars when it does. You smoke?”

“Hell, yeah. I drink and womanize, too,” he called across the crowded platform. “Am I in the right place to board your train or is it running late again?”

Metro stations were noisy places, especially on game days, during rush hours, or when the trains blew through. But always exciting. Yet Jameson could tell Jersey’s footsteps from everyone else’s when he closed in. At last, his big, warm hand landed on Jameson’s shoulder.

“I don’t know how you do it, but you’re standing right where you should be. I guess you already know that, don’t you, Navy? So why do you always ask?”

Jameson shrugged. “Guess because it gives you something to do. Must get boring sitting on your big old black butt all day long.”

Jersey’s laugh was rich and warm, as friendly as Jameson had come to expect from most everyone he’d met in Alexandria, Virginia. “You got this, boss man. I ain’t worried about you. Maybe you oughta be the one bringing me cigars once you’re rich, pushing pencils, and flirting with all your secretaries.”

Jameson cocked his head, listening as the blue-line approached on time from the northwest. “Keep your fingers crossed that I get this job, and I