Free Running the Maze by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis

me a rifle and took me out to the range, they discovered that I was a better than average shot. All those hillbillies who grew up hunting couldn’t touch me. In the classroom, all of the equations and formulas and explanations and tables suddenly made sense. I didn’t question why; I just ran with it. Sound familiar?”
    Beth Ledford looked at him steadily, and a tentative, relaxing smile came to her. “At first, I thought I was weird; a little girl who liked guns instead of Barbie dolls. People would come out to the farm just to watch me plink targets. Then a local TV show did a bit about me, and the news media tried to make me a celebrity. Mom and Dad, thankfully, stopped all that in its tracks when they saw what was happening. No more exhibitions, no special appearances, and plain ol’ Beth Ledford who stayed in school, ran track, and was afraid of the popular cheerleaders. My gun work was kept strictly private. Dad worked with me, and eventually hired a coach to see if I was material for the Olympics or a military shooting team. I kept improving, but then Dad died and I lost interest in the fancy stuff. Had no desire to go to college, so I joined the Coast Guard.”
    “Why not the Army or the Marines?”
    “Coast Guard was the only available path for a woman to become a sniper. You guys run a closed shop. I am dying to find out how Colonel Summers did it.”
    “You ever have that strange moment, when you’re shooting, that you actually can see the bullet?”
    “Uh-huh. I can watch the disturbed air behind it.”
    “What about your brother, the doctor?” Kyle saw a gray pickup track pull into the lot, and a medium-sized man in blue coveralls got out and made his way inside. Dark hair, dark complexion, physically fit. Swanson adjusted his pistol beneath the table as the new customer was taken to a booth.
    “Joey was a genius. He always wanted to be a doctor. When we were kids and I’d get a cold, he would write me a prescription for two aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Before we knew it he had a first-class medical education. He told me that he went on the humanitarian missions to balance the guilt he felt for being so blessed. His real love was research.” She leaned toward him. “I think he was going to do great things … What’s happening, Gunny?”
    The big man who had been sitting alone was on his feet, and Kyle slid out of the booth, the big Colt against his leg. They arrived at the new customer’s table at the same time, and Chief Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins jammed in beside the surprised stranger while Kyle eased into position across the table, letting the man get a glimpse of the weapon before it disappeared.
    “What the fuck?” the man stammered.
    “Keep both hands on the table,” Double-Oh ordered. “Try to pull that gun in your overalls and I will break your arm.”
    “Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.
    Kyle tapped the pistol against the bottom of the table. “I’ll ask the questions this morning. We’re a detail assigned to protect Petty Officer Ledford over there. You and your people are following her. Why?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, settling in and growing calm.
    “Look, buddy, your surveillance has been busted for two days now. I saw your helicopter this morning; now you show up. You have a partner outside who is probably listening to this conversation, so invite him in. I’m putting my weapon away now.” Swanson stuck the pistol back under his windbreaker. Within two minutes, another man appeared at the door and ambled over. Jeans, boots, stained blue sweatshirt, and graying hair. He looked at Ledford, then dropped into the booth beside Swanson.
    “My name is Fred Watson, and that’s Hector Holmes.” Watson flipped open a leather folder with a gold badge and a laminated identification card and put it on the table. “Counterterrorism Division of the Diplomatic Security Service, State Department. And you are?”
    “Samuel