Threat Warning (10 page)

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Authors: John Gilstrap

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BOOK: Threat Warning
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Kendig stood again. “Do you hear the hubris in your words? You think you’re invincible, and that’s the kind of attitude that will bring us all down.”
Michael sighed. This was all such a waste of time. “I apologize, Brother Kendig, if I have sprung too big a surprise. I should have been clearer in my communication. But right now, what’s done is done. The mission is progressing.”
“Is it?” Kendig pressed. “Is it really? Is my mission progressing, or is it only yours? Is it possible that you’re having too good a time playing with people’s minds?”
Suddenly, Michael felt very real concern. “Tell me, Kendig, what exactly is your mission? Maybe we have in fact grown apart.”
“My mission is to set things straight again. To set this country straight again. I’m tired of watching the rich run roughshod over the poor. I’m tired of watching my community swirl down the toilet while places like New York and Washington and Los Angeles thrive in the shade of immorality. My mission is revolution.”
Michael smiled. He felt warm again, comforted by hearing his own words recited back to him. “And the revolution begins with small bands of operatives creating havoc. We have succeeded in Washington and Kansas City and Detroit. A strike team leaves tonight and another tomorrow to deal more blows to the Users, and after they are successful, there will be more. The rage against the Islamists will be—pardon me—biblical in proportion.” He chuckled at his own cleverness.
Kendig seemed frustrated, as if he didn’t feel he was getting his point across effectively. “But the prisoners—”
“Without them, there would be no face,” Michael interrupted. “You were right about that. I am, in fact, putting a face on our mission, and that face—those faces, in this case—will unite America in a desire to bring
Islamic
terrorists to their knees. The government will finally do what they should have been doing all along, and while they are focused on the phantom we have created, we will move in to cut the head off the snake.”
Kendig cocked his head. “What are you talking about? What snake?”
Michael brought his feet down from the table and leaned closer. “
The
snake,” he said. “The only snake that matters. The United States government.”
Kendig cocked his head, intrigued. He lowered himself into a seat again. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Michael smiled. “Ah, but I
am
telling you. We fulfilled the GSA contract today, Kendig. Our panels will be installed in time for the president’s holiday address.”
It was the achievement of a dream.
C
HAPTER
T
EN
 
With Rollins gone, the atmosphere in the room felt less homicidal.
“Why would they take hostages in the first place?” Jonathan asked his assembled team.
Their chorus of confused looks told him that he hadn’t stated his question clearly enough.
He explained, “You’re a terrorist group, okay? You’re against this or for that, and you do your big nasty. You make a big mark. You’ve won. Why do you want hostages?”
“To create more terror,” Boxers said.
“No,” Gail said. “I see his point. They’ve already scored on a big scale. They’ve already ruined hundreds of lives. In the showbiz that terrorism has become, imperiling a single family seems like something of an anticlimax.”
“But they told us what they were looking for,” Venice said. “They told us that their goal is for the United States to abandon its interests in the Middle East and Central Asia.”
Jonathan stood and started his classic problem-solving pace around the room. “Something’s not adding up for me,” he thought aloud. “If we take them at their word, they’ve already killed dozens of people. They said in the video that the killings would continue until they got their way, but they know they’ll never get their way. Even if a complete withdrawal was imminent, a threat like this would cause a delay, just to keep the world from thinking that the U.S. had blinked.”
He paused in his stroll to give a long look to the frozen frame of the Nasbes. He kept his finger pointed at them while he turned to face his troops. “With that many people already dead, how do these two rise to the level of bargaining chips? That doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Maybe you’re thinking too hard,” Boxers said. “They’re terrorists, for God’s sake. Do you really think they’re parsing every word?”
“Does it matter?” Venice asked, cutting to the chase. “Does the reason they were taken really have anything to do with planning their rescue?”
He gave her the short answer: “No.”
Venice turned her attention to her ever-present computer and tapped a dozen keys. “Here’s the easy stuff,” she began. “The transmission site for this Web broadcast is an address in Flint, Michigan.”
“That’s the Muslim capital of the U.S.,” Boxers said.
“Yes, it is,” Venice confirmed.
“The FBI is going to be all over that place,” Gail said.
“Already done,” Venice said. “According to ICIS, they raided the place about twenty minutes ago.” Pronounced
EYE-sis
, the Interstate Crime Information System was a largely unknown outgrowth of the 9-11 attacks, in which data from ongoing investigations were tracked by computer with details made available only to a select few law-enforcement officials with specifically approved federal clearances. And Venice.
“I’m going to guess from the look on your face that they found nothing,” Jonathan said.
“Just a frightened college student with something of a gaming obsession. They’re going to question him, but nobody thinks he’s the guy.”
“Any geek worth the tape on his glasses can set up a false routing for Internet transmissions,” Gail said.
Venice’s eyes flashed. She did not like having her thunder stolen.
Jonathan scowled. “Is the college kid part of the Muslim community?”
Venice tapped some more. “Farouk al-Somebody. You’ll have to figure out the pronunciation on your own.”
Jonathan declined. “No, that’s okay. It’s a Muslim name.” A thought blossomed in his mind, and as it grew, he waved his forefinger at nobody in particular. “So, riddle me this. If you’re a badass terrorist group, and you can reroute your Internet electrons to anyplace in the world you want them to be, why reroute them to the heart of the Muslim community in America?”
“To throw the authorities off the scent,” Boxers said. It was the most obvious thing in the world.
“No,” Jonathan said. “That’s why you reroute the signal in the first place. But if you know for a fact that the feds are going to trace the false location to its source, why wouldn’t you tag the signal to a computer in the heart of the Bible Belt? Or to someplace in France? Why the very heart of American Islam?”
“Because that’s where their friends are,” Boxers pressed. “Dig, you are just thinking way too hard.”
But Gail was intrigued. “Where are you going with this?”
“I’m wondering if these bad guys are really Islamic at all,” Jonathan said. “I’ll tell you for a fact that that kid I eyeballed on the bridge last night was the most Aryan-looking Muslim I’ve ever seen. The video they posted shows nobody’s face, and now they deliberately lead the FBI to the very community you’d think they’d want to protect.”
“So, who are the terrorists really?” Venice asked.
“I guess they could be anybody,” Jonathan said. “Hate groups are a dime a dozen these days.”
Boxers shifted in his chair. Furniture always looked too small for him. “I’m still not following.”
“Think about it,” Gail said, gaining some momentum in her thinking. “Let’s say you’re a terrorist group, and you want to pull this sleight of hand where you convince people that the bad guys they’ve been hunting for the past ten years are still the bad guys. You pull off your shooting sprees and whatever else you’re going to do, but you direct attention away.”
One of the things Jonathan liked most about Gail was the way she could peel back the onion layers of a mystery and quickly get to its core. A couple of years ago, that tenacious streak had nearly cost him his freedom, back when they were on opposite sides. Intelligence is way more attractive when it’s working with you than when it’s working against you.
“I’ve got that part,” Boxers said.
Jonathan picked up the thread. “If you
really
want to keep the pressure on—if you
really
want people to get mad at the wrong bad guys, you put a family in front of a camera and make impossible demands.”
“I’ve got it,” Venice chimed in. “As the deadline approaches, public anger gets more intense, and the public appetite for alternatives other than violence dries up.”
“It’ll get like a frenzy,” Boxers said, finally getting it. “So, what happens when the deadline expires?”
Gail’s face fell. “They’ll have to follow through with their threat,” she said. “They’ll have to kill someone. They could even stretch it out. Kill one of them next week, and the other a week later.”
“And they can always grab more,” Venice added.
Jonathan didn’t verbalize his thought that that might be a good thing. The more frequently a criminal committed a crime, the more likely he was to make a critical error.
“So, what’s their end game?” Boxers asked.
Jonathan shrugged. “Terror. Does it need to be more than that?”
“I think so,” Gail said. “I mean, it’s all well and good to make people think the bad guys are someone other than who they really are, and I suppose it scratches somebody’s itch to foment hatred, but don’t we have to assume that it’s all being done for a reason?”
“Where’ve you been living the last decade?” Boxers scoffed. “The bombing bastards got no greater goal than killing people.”
“I disagree,” Gail said. “The jihadists think that they’re serving God.”
Jonathan waved her off. “I think that’s bullshit.”
“How else do you get a thirteen-year-old to strap explosives to his chest?”
“Well, okay,” Jonathan said with a hesitation. “But that’s what the soldiers think. Their leaders—the ones that
we
have to blow up—are cynical assholes.”
“Who have the end game of political power,” Venice said, throwing her lot to the female camp.
“Okay, so give me a theory,” Jonathan said. “What’s the Army of Allah’s real end game?”
That question brought silence.
C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN
 
Brother Michael Copley asked, “Are you ready?”
Sister Colleen’s heart skipped in her chest and her stomach tumbled. “Yes” was such a simple word, yet somehow she couldn’t get her mouth to say it. She settled for a nod.
Brother Michael smiled, a dazzling display of perfectly aligned white teeth framed by perfect dimples. Colleen thought he was the most stunning man she had ever seen. From his green eyes to his spiked blond hair to his muscled physique, he was as fine as any movie star.
“Relax,” Brother Michael said. “You are here to be honored, not punished.” He turned to Brother Stephen. “What about you?”
Brother Stephen snapped to attention, his deep-set dark eyes locked on a spot on the opposite wall. With his broad, muscled shoulders and his narrow waist, he seemed to Sister Colleen to be the perfect image of a soldier.
“Couldn’t be readier, sir,” he said.
Brother Michael patted him on the arm. “You can settle down a little, too.”
Beyond the white paneled door that separated her from her destiny, the congregation had been assembling for the last ten minutes. Colleen couldn’t yet see them, but she knew who they were. She could see their faces in her mind, and even knew where each of them would sit. They were a young crowd—average age well under thirty—more male than female, but not by a lot.
They numbered around one hundred souls now, and one way or another, they all worked for the church, whether as factory workers, groundskeepers, doctors, or teachers in the school. They all would be dressed plainly, in blacks or whites or blues, because the compound store only stocked plain cloth. Together, they were the Army of God, servants to the Greater Good, united in their opposition to the evil spawned by the Users.
Until last night, Colleen had never witnessed the evil with her own eyes. She’d had no idea that the lights of vehicles could be so bright, or that the very air could smell rancid from the pollutants they pumped into Mother Nature’s lungs. It was as sickening as it was exhilarating.
Even now, eighteen hours after the assault had ended, it was difficult to believe that she had been a part in such a momentous victory. But for her efforts—and those of her brothers and sisters throughout the Army of God—the Users would continue their assaults without end. Her mission at the Woodrow Wilson Bridge—a span named for a warmonger and a money worshipper—combined with the brave efforts of her brothers and sisters in Kansas City and Detroit had made clear to the world that being a User meant being at war with the righteous. Within days, in a dozen other cities across the United States, the lesson would be taught again and again.
Those who had died at her hands had perished at the altar of the future, martyrs to a cause they did not yet understand, but would when they found their eternal rest. They died in service to the greater good.
She had not yet shared with anyone that horrible moment when the User on the parallel span of the bridge shot at her. She thanked God that Brother Michael had had the presence of mind to order them to wear body armor. Without that, Colleen was certain that she would have died.
“It’s time,” Brother Michael said. There was that smile again. “When you hear me introduce you by name, that will be your cue to enter onto the stage.” He looked each of them in the eye and offer them a kind smile. “Be sure to enjoy your moment, children. You have achieved greatness in the Army of God. No one can ever take that from you. Drink in the adulation. You may never feel so special again, so enjoy it for what it is.”
Brother Michael disappeared through the doors. The instant he was visible from the other side, all noise among the congregation stopped.
“Good afternoon, brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice booming along the twenty-foot-high rafters.
In perfect unison, the congregation replied, “Good afternoon, Brother Michael.”
Brother Stephen opened the door a crack to see what was happening.
Colleen pulled on his sleeve and hissed, “Brother Michael said to wait.”
Brother Stephen pulled his arm away. “He also said to drink in the adulation. I don’t like drinking what I can’t see.”
His words were rebellious, and therefore sinful, but Colleen was pleased to see him doing what she had been so tempted to do. She pressed in behind him.
Brother Michael stood at the edge of the stage, squarely in the beam of light that flowed from the tall windows above the double doors in the front. He held his hands out in a welcoming motion to all, and they similarly reached their hands out to receive his projected energy.
“I am pleased to say that we have achieved our second milestone in our quest to reeducate the Users,” he said.
The congregation erupted in applause and cheers.
Brother Michael gestured for silence, and the congregation quieted. “And I bring sadness from Kansas City. While the mission to the Users’ shopping mall was unquestionably successful, Brother Thomas Ezekiel and Sister Elizabeth Marie were both martyred to the cause.”
Colleen and Brother Stephen exchanged their silent shock. Neither had heard a word of this. A ripple of distress rumbled through the congregation.
“We will miss them both,” Brother Michael went on, “but while we mourn, we must also celebrate. I have heard reports this morning, via the Users’ television broadcasts, that our martyred saints killed ten people and wounded many more before their escape became blocked by the police. Brother Thomas Ezekiel and Sister Elizabeth Marie each fulfilled their destiny, and took their own lives.”
This time, the applause was spontaneous, loud, and sustained.
Brother Michael shouted above it. “No User’s hand touched them. They each remained pure to the end. They entered the kingdom of Heaven with full knowledge that their missions had been accomplished.”
More applause.
“Brothers and sisters, this war has finally begun. The age of sin—the age of lust and greed and idolatry and gluttony—will soon end. For many of you in this room, those under twenty-two, this is a moment for which you have trained your entire lives. The time has arrived to disrupt the flow of so-called commerce and to redirect the river of wealth that flows to the Users, and from them into the pockets of heathens and miscreants throughout the world.
“Brothers and sisters, through my eyes and through my soul, the Lord God has laid this awesome and terrible responsibility upon our shoulders. Yours and mine. Together, we will cleanse the world of the blasphemers. We will shake the Users down to their very bone marrow by bleeding them of their precious money. People will be afraid to visit their stores and to travel their roads. In New York City, the second home of the evil whose primary residence is Washington, D.C., the rich will become poor as their precious investments shrink and become worthless.”
The congregation erupted in applause again, sustained and rolling, until Brother Michael raised his hands.
“As in every war, ours will be fought with blood. The blood of our brothers and sisters will doubtless commingle on the field of battle with the filthy blood of the Users we kill, but remember that each of us is here on this earth for this reason, and this reason alone. When the time to fight comes, I know that you will each do your part. You will use your training, and you will shoot straight and you will show no mercy.”
Brother Michael paused as he let those words sink in. He walked all the way to the front end of the altar.
When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper, yet somehow every word resonated. “If it is God’s will that you die in this noble struggle, then so be it. But do not believe for a moment that ours is a suicidal struggle. Your duty, when at all possible, is to return here to the compound, to your home. To the Army of God.”
He paused again. “I care for you,” he said. “Each of you is my brother or my sister, just as you are brothers and sisters to each other. While we lost two of our family in Kansas City, we have two more who have more than fulfilled their mission, and they have returned safely to us. These two heroes, according to Users’ news reports, killed twelve gluttons and idolaters, and wounded many, many more.”
Brother Stephen looked back at Colleen. He was beaming—filled, she imagined with the same bursting pride that bloomed inside her own chest.
“I think he’s about to do it,” Brother Stephen said.
Brother Michael’s voice crescendoed. “Brothers and sisters, I present to you the first two heroes of the war. I present to you Brother Stephen John and Sister Colleen Erin.”
Brother Stephen pushed open the door, and then Colleen found herself somehow on the stage. Surely she had walked, but in the wash of the moment, she couldn’t remember doing it.
She had never heard such applause. To a person, the congregation was on its feet, and many of those feet were stamping against the floor. She heard whistles and cheers, and some of the congregants clapped with their hands over their heads.
The cheering was still shaking the walls when Brother Michael stepped behind them both and placed his hands on their shoulders. He leaned in until his lips were inches from their ears and he said, “Smile, give a big wave, and walk off the stage.”
There was a firmness to his order that Colleen found startling. Still, an order was an order. She smiled and waved, her hand high over her head, and something about the gesture ignited a new eruption of applause. The noise was still peaking when Brother Stephen led the way back out through the door they’d entered.
When they were alone together in the anteroom, Brother Stephen fell to his knees and threw his hands over his head, his fists balled in triumph. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my God, did you
hear
that? We’re
heroes
, Sister Colleen. Future generations will talk about us. We’ll be legendary.”
Colleen held up a cautionary hand. “Be careful. Pride is a sin.”
“This isn’t pride, Sister. This is fact. Here, let me show you something.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out some folded papers. He started to open them, then hesitated.
“What?”
“I committed another sin to get these.”
“What are they?” Colleen knew that it was wrong, but Lord help her, she was intrigued.
“Promise you won’t tell.”
What could it be? Brother Stephen had always been one to skirt the rules, but not Colleen. She was Miss Straight and Narrow. And she had to know. “Okay, I promise.”
Brother Stephen shot a quick glance at the door, then unfolded the pages. “I got these off a computer at the factory.”
Colleen gasped. In the hierarchy of forbidden activities, accessing the computers was up there with fraternizing with Users. The punishment was flogging.
“Do you want to see them or not?” Brother Stephen growled.
Colleen nodded.
He unfolded the pages to reveal pictures of a familiar tableau of bloody mayhem. “The Internet is packed with photos of our work last night,” he explained. “They’re amazing.”
Colleen took the stack—there must have been ten pages, each with three pictures apiece, printed in color.
“Everything with bullet holes in the front of the cars is yours,” Brother Stephen explained. “Everything with the bullets in the back is mine.”
The photos were amazing. “Who took them?” They showed mangled cars, vans, and trucks, riddled with bullets, spattered with blood.
“Everybody,” Brother Stephen said. “Cell phones, cameras, everything. All the Users carry something to take pictures with. They just upload them to the Internet.”
The images were enthralling, unlike anything Colleen had ever seen before. The third page of the sheaf of papers showed the first picture of a corpse. Brother Michael had told them about the damage that would be inflicted by the .223-caliber ammunition they were firing from their Bushmaster carbines, but until she actually saw the lifeless bodies that they leave behind, there had been no way to fully comprehend it. The bullets cut huge trenches through exposed flesh, and dislodged enormous wedges of skull and brain tissue. Brother Michael’s and Brother Kendig’s movies and the diagrams proved to be entirely inadequate to describe the carnage.
To her utter shock, Colleen found herself unnerved by the images. This was the mission she’d just been hailed for accomplishing, yet seeing the victory reflected in torn flesh and spattered blood made it feel more like a travesty than a victory. Brother Michael had lectured about the fog of war, and of the emotional trauma brought by taking a human life, but Colleen now realized that an enormous gap existed between the theory of killing and the actuality of it.
She felt emotion building in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She had asked to see these pictures, after all; Brother Stephen had given her the opportunity to say no, so whatever discomfort she felt was of her own making, and she therefore had no rational reason to object.
Then she turned to the sixth page of the photos, and everything changed. The images there showed two toddlers—they may have been twins—dead in their car seats, torn apart by bullets. Something inside of her caught, the way a fish bone catches in your throat. The bullets had entered from the front of their car.

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