Threat Warning (3 page)

Authors: John Gilstrap

Tags: #Fiction, #General

BOOK: Threat Warning

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Jonathan assessed it as a bluff. If this guy hadn’t already pulled the trigger, he wasn’t going to now that Jonathan was clearly not a threat. That’s what he told himself, anyway. The next five seconds proved him to be correct. He gently placed his weapon on the ground and raised his arms again. On the opposite span, panic had begun in earnest. People screamed as realization washed over them.

And the shooter was getting away.

“Get on your face!” the officer yelled. His voice cracked from the strain. “Arms out to the side!”

With his arms still raised, Jonathan pointed the forefingers of both hands toward the opposite span. “The shooter’s over there!” he said.

“Now!”

Moron.
The cop was so invested in Jonathan as the bad guy that there’d be no reasoning with him. Jonathan did as he was told and lowered his belly to the pavement. Partly to streamline the process, but mostly to steal the officer’s thunder, he went ahead and placed his hands behind his back, cuff-ready.

“Don’t you move,” the officer warned as he approached. “If you so much as blink, I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

Jonathan listened as the footsteps halted on his right side, near his hips, he figured. This would be the time—at this range—when Jonathan could take the guy out if he’d wanted to; but the officer would be aware of that, too, making it that much more important for Jonathan to be on his best behavior. Most of the friendly-fire incidents that Jonathan had witnessed over his years in the military had been tied one way or another to a bad case of the nerves.

“I see you’ve done this before,” the cop said as he placed his knee in Jonathan’s back and gripped his thumbs for control. From the way he fumbled with the cuffs, the guy gave himself away as one who did not do this very often in the field.

“Actually, no,” Jonathan grunted through the pressure on his back. “But I’ve done it enough to others to know the drill.”

The cop hesitated. “What, you’re going to tell me you’re a cop?”

“I’m a lot of things,” Jonathan said. “For tonight, though, I’m a private investigator who was seconds away from killing the son of a bitch who shot up the bridge.”

“Right,” the officer scoffed. “That’s not what I saw.” He ratcheted the cuffs tighter than they needed to be, then climbed off Jonathan’s back and pulled on his wrists to bring him up to his knees. He continued to grasp the chain of the cuffs while he reached into his prisoner’s back pocket for his wallet.

Jonathan sighed noisily—a growl, really. “Look, Officer . . .” He waited for the guy to fill in the blank.

“
Agent
,” the man corrected. “Special Agent Clark, United States Secret Service.”

“Special Agent Clark, then. United States Secret Service. If you got on your radio right now, you might be able to stop a mass murderer before she gets away.”

“Why be greedy?” the agent quipped. “I’ve already got one member of the team in custody. You’ll give me the rest in time.”

Jonathan bowed his head. Surely the man was being deliberately obtuse. Did he really imagine, even for a moment, that the destruction here could have been wrought by a man with a .45? Jonathan didn’t have a lot of respect for cops in general, but he had a particular hard-on for federal agents whose bravado outstripped their abilities. It happened a lot. He resigned himself to losing this battle.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” a voice boomed from Jonathan’s blind spot. It was Dom D’Angelo.

“Stand away, Father,” Clark commanded, clearly noting Dom’s collar. “This is none of your concern”

“It absolutely is my concern,” Dom insisted. “Not only is that man my friend, he is also my driver for the evening.”

“One step closer,” Clark warned, “and I’ll arrest you, too.”

Jonathan stared out into the cold night, blinking his eyes against the wind. There was a killer out there somewhere, getting away while they dicked around with Agent Clark.

It was going to be a very long night.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Christyne Nasbe enjoyed the cold weather. Having grown up in southern California, she found the four seasons here in Virginia to be invigorating. This year’s autumn had been particularly breathtaking, and as Thanksgiving approached next week, the record-breaking cold that was a source of so much griping among her neighbors was a source of unbridled excitement for her.

Not so much for her son, though. At sixteen, Ryan was doing his best to cope with the trials of tenth grade, while trying to abide by his father’s instructions to be the man of the house while Dylan—Dad—was deployed. Christyne could tell that Ryan was hurting. Even now, as she glanced across at him in the front passenger seat of the minivan, he had an angry set to his eyes as he listened to his music through the ever-present earbuds. At one level, it was probably hormonal, but she suspected that he mostly missed his dad.

Three years ago, while they were still living on post at Fort Bragg, Dylan decided that Ryan needed to know the true nature of his job in the Army. Christyne hadn’t been so sure at the time, and now she felt almost certain that they’d made a mistake. Did a boy really need to know, just a few years after he’d discovered the truth behind Santa Claus, that his father was among the first to get shot at in every violent conflict?

Maybe so. It was getting more and more difficult to explain the lack of uniforms and the presence of long hair and a beard. For all Christyne knew, maybe Ryan had already figured it out for himself—surely boys talked among themselves at school—but Dylan had been disappointed that the proud excitement that he’d expected from his son had never materialized. Ryan had just listened and said nothing. That had always been his way. A born poker player.

In Christyne’s mind, breaking the news to their son had marked the dividing line between Happy Ryan and Dark Ryan. Dylan insisted that the link did not exist—in fact, Dylan insisted that Ryan was just being a teenager—but Dylan wasn’t around, was he? He didn’t see the way Ryan was pulling away from his friends, or how he walked out of the room every time a news report spoke of casualties in Afghanistan or Iraq.

“You’re watching me again,” Ryan said without looking—a little too loudly because of the earbuds.

“I’m just admiring what a handsome young man you are.”

He cleared one ear. “What?”

She repeated what she’d said. It was true, too. He’d inherited his father’s natural athleticism and his green eyes. To see Ryan was to think of Dylan, and vice versa.

“You’re being weird again, Mom,” he said.

She smiled. Deep down inside, what child doesn’t want to know that he looks good?

Despite the fact that it was only November, many of the merchants in Old Town Alexandria had already put up their Christmas decorations, and the effect was breathtaking. Fayetteville in general, and Fort Bragg in particular, had none of this kind of culture, and the lack of it was a primary motivator for this yearlong sojourn to stay with her sister and her family in Mount Vernon.

Christyne understood that Dylan’s job required his full-time commitment. He’d achieved his life’s dream—assignment to the First Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, the best of the best: Delta Force—and that made him one of the nation’s go-to guys whenever something bad happened in the world. He loved his job, and she loved him, and when he needed her to be someplace, nothing would be able to keep her away.

When Dylan was on deployment, though, and she knew that he would be gone for months or years at a time, the closeness of the Fort Bragg community became stifling. Every day, there was a funeral somewhere, or a deployment somewhere else. Every second of every day bore a shroud, a constant reminder that one day Dylan might come home in a body bag. When he was there, it was different—he was her happiness; but when he was at war, all she wanted to do some nights was cry.

She’d moved here in late August, specifically so that Ryan would get an entire year in his new school, and so far it seemed he was adapting well. Her son had turned out to be something of a track star, earning a drawerful of ribbons in sprinting and hurdling. In fact, they were on their way home from such a meet right now, Ryan having finished first in the two-hundred-meter hurdles with a lead of five seconds over his nearest competitor.

“What’s with that guy?” Ryan asked, pulling out his earbuds and pointing ahead through the windshield.

She followed his finger to the street corner ahead and saw a teenager in a flowing black coat waving in a frantic effort to flag them down. Them. Their car.

“Do you recognize him?” she asked. He was older than Ryan, but he could have been a senior in his high school, she supposed.

“I think it’s a her,” Ryan grunted. “But no.”

By golly, he was right. It
was
a girl, and she appeared to be in distress. Christyne nudged her blinker and pulled to the curb.

“What are you doing?” Ryan protested.

“Look at her, sweetie. Something’s wrong. She needs help.” The stranger’s face was a mask of angst.

“Do
you
know her?” Ryan was clearly upset by the prospect of picking up a stranger.

The frantic young woman hurried to the van’s sliding door and pulled on the handle. When it wouldn’t open, she knocked on the window. Three rapid taps on the glass.

“Drive off, Mom,” Ryan said. “We don’t—”

Christyne pushed the rocker button to unlock the door. She was a child, for God’s sake. How could she not offer a hand?

The teenager pulled open the door and peeked in. “I need a ride,” she said. “There’s a guy up there shooting everybody. Please. We need to get out of here.”

Christyne gasped. “
Shooting
? Where?”

“On the bridge, right up there.” She pointed toward Maryland. “Please.”

“Oh, my God,” Christyne said. She beckoned the girl inside. “Yes. Get in.”

“Mom!” The way Ryan said it, the word had two syllables.

“Hush,” she commanded, drilling him with her maternal death glare. She watched, her pulse pounding, as the newcomer climbed inside and planted herself into the backseat.

“How do we even know that she’s telling the truth?” Ryan tried again. “I didn’t hear any shooting.”

The teenager slammed the door shut, and an instant later, they were moving. “Oh, I’m telling the truth,” Colleen Devlin said. She drew a pistol from under her coat and pointed it at Ryan’s head. “And if you don’t want the shooting to start up again, you’ll keep driving and do exactly as I say.”

“What’s your name?” Colleen asked the terrified youngster in the front seat.

The kid stared straight ahead, his eyes wet and red.

“Don’t let the gun scare you,” Colleen said. “I won’t use it unless you or your mom make me. Now, what’s your name?”

Mom said, “His name is Ryan. I’m Christyne. Please don’t hurt us.”

“Hurt or not hurt, that’s up to you,” Colleen explained. “But I didn’t ask you what his name was. I asked him.” She touched the muzzle of her weapon to the base of Ryan’s skull. “Let’s try again. What’s your name?”

He continued to stare straight ahead. “Ryan,” he mumbled.

Colleen smiled. “Nice to meet you, Ryan.” Brother Michael had trained the Army on intimidation techniques, so Colleen knew how important it was to maintain control of every conversation. Compliance with every command or question was mandatory.

“Why are you doing this?” Christyne asked.

“Because I just shot a bunch of people and I need to get away.” At this point, the truth served her better than any lie.

“Where are you taking us?”

“Just keep going straight and follow directions,” Colleen said. “Ryan, you’re being really quiet.”

He turned his head and shot a nervous glance at her pistol. His eyes showed fear, but something else was there, too. Not defiance, exactly, but close to it.

“It’s a Glock,” Colleen explained, answering what she figured to be the unasked question. “Forty caliber. Devastator hollow points, and in case you don’t know, that means there’s no fixing the holes it makes in people.” Brother Michael had demonstrated the Devastator last summer at the Farm, using a dummy human torso made of ballistic gelatin.

She went on, “And the thing about the Glock is it’s got a really sensitive trigger. Nobody here wants me nervous, okay? I say that to you, Ryan, because you know why?”

The boy continued to stare.

“Because you look like you’re thinking about being a hero. Even though you probably don’t like your mom all the time—what teenager does?—I’m sure you don’t want me to blow her brains out.”

Christyne gasped at the words and nearly drove off the road.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Colleen said. “Stay in your lane, Christyne. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. An obvious lie.

“Good. I need you to be okay, and I need you to listen carefully, because this is the kind of thing that could get everybody killed.” Colleen paused to make sure she had their attention. “If I were in your position—driving a car with your child at risk—I might think about driving crazy just to attract a cop’s attention. Ryan, if I were you, looking at a bad situation and wondering how to fix it, I might think about opening the door and just diving out into traffic. You were thinking about that, weren’t you?”

Mother and son looked at each other.

“I thought so,” Colleen said. “It’s only natural, but you need to know that it would be a huge mistake. See, I just killed a dozen people—maybe more, maybe less, but a
lot
of people. I don’t want to kill you, too, but don’t think that I wouldn’t. I’m even prepared to kill myself if it comes to that.”

“You sound desperate,” Christyne said.

“Committed,” Colleen corrected. “To a cause that’s way bigger than any of us. If you do as I say, you’ll see tomorrow. I can’t guarantee the day after, but you’ll be here tomorrow. That’s worth not being stupid, isn’t it?”

Mother and son conferred with their eyes, and then Christyne spoke for them both. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Colleen said. “Do you know how to get to Sixty-Six West?” She was referring to the primary east–west highway across Virginia and beyond.

“Yes.”

“Good. So do I. For the time being, that’s where we’re going.”

“What happens after that?” Ryan asked.

Colleen gave him a hard look. “After that is tomorrow. I think you need to look at that as a gift.”