Free Gundown by Ray Rhamey Page B

Feeling much better, she went back to her office.
    The grin on her face slid away, though, when she pulled up the Huffington Post Crime page and there was Jason’s photo with the headline “Assassin or Victim?” She clicked on the article and sure enough, her picture was there, too. Christ, she’d like to put a bullet in Jason—although she might have felt differently if he’d succeeded. Jason’s bullet hadn’t had Noah Stone’s name on it, but someday one would.
    Martha laughed. Why not now? She went into her gun room and pulled out a .44 Magnum deer rifle cartridge. Her grin came back when she rustled up a Sharpie and printed “Noah Stone” on the brass casing. From there it was a simple matter to snap a picture of it with her phone, email it to herself, and then put the image on her website. No way of knowing if Stone would ever see it, but there were plenty of folks who would get the message. She could only hope that they would do whatever they did smarter than Jason had.

    Pistol-Packin’ Mama
    Chloe had been complaining about being hot and tired, so Jewel was glad when her daughter stood on the bus seat as they came into Portland and peppered her with Why this? and Why that? Jewel held Chloe close, fascinated by the pretty city with wooded hills at its back and a river at its feet. Maybe it was only the pure light of early morning, but Portland seemed fresh and clean.
    She wished they didn’t have one more leg to go in their journey. Why did Noah Stone have to hang out in the state’s bottom instead of this nice city at the top? At least they had an hour break before it was time to leave for Ashland. And they’d be on a different bus—the smell from the john in the back of this one was pretty rank.
    She gazed at Chloe’s downy face with a rush of adoration, ran a fingertip along a rounded cheek, and provoked a giggle and a quick kiss. Oh, if only this place would be good to her child. She wondered again if she’d done the right thing.
    A freeze-frame of those punks gunning down that kid in the courtyard popped into her mind. How could this be worse?
    Brakes squealing the way they had at every stop for two days and two thousand miles, the bus stopped at last. The driver announced, “Welcome to Portland, folks. Since this is a port of entry, you will be checked for lethal firearms. Thanks for traveling with Greyhound.”
    Wondering what that was all about, Jewel led Chloe out to the parking lot. The air reeked of exhaust fumes and the black smell of sunbaked asphalt, but the sky was pure blue with puffy white clouds. A breeze sighed through the lot and took the fumes with it, replacing them with a piney scent. Jewel took a deep breath, gathered her bags, and shepherded Chloe into the bus station.
    Inside, passengers formed lines leading to inspection stations like in airports, schools, and government buildings—X-ray tunnels for luggage and bags, and electromagnetic sensor gates for people to pass through. Food smells drifted her way from a mini-mall on the far side of the building.
    A big sign above the inspection area declared, “ Possession of a lethal firearm in Oregon is an automatic felony conviction. ” Wow. They were serious about this.
    She joined a line. Three people ahead, a passenger set a small three-barreled pistol in a basket. The security guard glanced at it and passed it through to be collected on the other side by its owner.
    In the line next to hers, a scruffy young guy who’d gotten on the bus in Montana stepped through the sensor gate. It beeped, and a guard told him to empty his pockets. The man dropped a large folding knife into the basket, his eyes darting as if he expected to be busted. The guard examined it, then handed the basket around the gate. This time the alarm kept its peace when the young man went through. As he collected his knife, the guard said, “You be careful with that, son.”
    The next person in Jewel’s line to undergo inspection, a white-bearded old dude,