Threat Warning (40 page)
When she heard a third report from the Barrett, she took aim at the middle of the closed door and fired five shots through the wood panel, punching a near perfect horizontal line of bullet holes from left to right. Then she fired a sixth shot into the spot where the tongue of the lock met the jamb.
She kicked the door open, and the first thing she saw was the massive rifle poised on the top of the desk, its barrel still smoking. But there was no shooter. Her stomach seized when she realized just how perfect a target she had made of herself, literally framed in the doorway, and she dropped to a deep crouch, her weapon up and ready.
Then she saw the feet on the floor, oddly tangled with each other. She led with her weapon as she traced the feet to their owner, a man who was old enough to know better. He lay on his back with his eyes open, bloody bubbles forming around his nose and mouth.
His right hand moved in a slow, almost lazy motion to draw a little five-shot .38 police special from the waistband of his trousers.
“Put it down!” Gail commanded. “Drop that weapon now!”
He didn’t look at her, but he seemed to hear, because he laid the revolver across his chest.
“Put it on the floor!” she commanded.
Instead, his thumb found the hammer and pulled it all the way back.
“Don’t make me shoot you again!”
Gail didn’t want to kill him. She had killed too much, and she wanted it to stop. But she didn’t want it enough to die for the cause.
Even by police standards, she now had just cause to blow the guy away. But she hesitated. He wasn’t pointing the weapon at her. He wasn’t pointing it at anything in particular, so far as she could tell.
“This doesn’t have to end up with you dead,” she said. “Put the weapon down. Please.”
The man on the floor took a huge breath. It seemed to take all of his energy to say, “We won.” Then in one startling spasm of movement, he brought the revolver up to the soft spot under his jaw and pulled the trigger.
“Oh, my God!” someone yelled from behind Gail.
She whirled, weapon still at the ready, and a young lady in a Polly professional black suit with a white blouse screamed, “No! Please don’t shoot.” She fell on the floor in the hallway and covered her head with her arms.
More office workers were swarming about now, and as the realization crystallized, panic started to spread. And Gail was the focus of it all.
It was time for her to go. Holstering her Glock, she hurried to the emergency stairs and took them all the way down to street level. From there, she tried her best to blend in with the fleeing crowd.
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
HAPTER
F
ORTY
Franklin Demerest had whiffed his shot, pure and simple. Whether it was nerves, or Gail’s noisy sudden entry, they would never know, but that all-important first shot had hit six inches in front of the president’s chest and disintegrated the lectern he was speaking from. The presidential seal medallion was found thirty feet away.
The president had been wounded—not by bullets, but by high-velocity fragments of splintered wood that penetrated both legs. According to the White House physician, the body armor that the president was wearing saved his life, but would have been useless against the size of bullet that was being used.
The investigation was ongoing, as it no doubt would be for many months to come, but the FBI had reportedly discovered a link between the assassination attempt and a West Virginian religious cult that called itself the Army of God. Early reports were indicating that there’d been some kind of rebellion among the ranks of the AOG, as the media was calling it, and the result had been an intense battle that resulted in many deaths and injuries.
In a last feat of unquestioned heroism, a late-morning commuter named Tom Herod had thwarted a suicide bomber on the Metro’s Orange Line by noticing him as he fumbled with the safety pin on the detonator and punching the bomber in the throat. That terrorist likewise was suspected of having ties to the group in West Virginia.
While pundits and talking heads pontificated on the intense dangers of religious cults, domestic terrorism, and the ready availability of firearms, the blogosphere and conspiracy theorists were abuzz with outrageous rumors of assault teams and a helicopter raid. If any of it were true, according to the nutty rumormongers it would mean that the government had overstepped its bounds, and the entire case against the Army of God soldiers would be suspect.
Lounging barefoot and in sweats in his living room, Jonathan watched a recording of Irene Rivers from earlier in the day as she addressed a crowd of reporters. “While we are following every lead, it is simply inappropriate at this time to reveal details of the investigation beyond those that we have already provided.”
Off screen, someone asked something that Jonathan couldn’t hear, and Irene smiled. “You know, after every incident like this, there are going to be kooks who make all kinds of claims. The only two facts that I can state without any hesitation are that the so-called government agents who shot the would-be assassins were not, in fact, a part of any government agency, and that whoever the heroes are who foiled this despicable plot are intent on remaining anonymous, and are very good at doing so.”
Another unintelligible off-screen question.
“Of course I admire them. How can you not admire people who risk their lives to save the lives of others?”
With that, the network cut back to the anchor, and Jonathan got bored with it all. He drained the glass of the Lagavulin he’d been nursing for the last half hour and was considering another when the doorbell rang and JoeDog went nuts. She’d been sleeping under the coffee table, and she damn near tipped it over in her scramble to find her feet.
Jonathan rarely received visitors who rang the bell, and never received them after dark. The dog ran to the door and pretended to be ferocious while Jonathan casually lifted the pistol from the table next to the couch and hid it behind his leg. “Joe, hush,” he commanded and the beast complied. Jonathan opened the door to reveal perhaps the last person he expected to see.
“Boomer,” Jonathan said.
With his long hair and thick beard, the tall, heavily muscled man on the other side looked more like the Afghan he pretended to be than the Unit operator he was. Jonathan stepped aside to make room. “Come on in.”
Boomer Nasbe shook his head. “No, thanks. I can only stay a minute.”
“Then stay a minute and have a drink. When did they let you escape back to the World?”
“Officially, I’m on TDY to Quantico to brief the FBI,” Boomer explained.
“And unofficially?”
Boomer’s eyes reddened. “I know what you did for my family, Dig. I needed to tell you how grateful I am.”
Jonathan blushed a little and smiled. “Officially, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “But unofficially, how are they?”
Boomer gave a half shrug. “Physically, they’re fine. The rest will take time.”
“They seem strong to me,” Jonathan said.
“It’ll take time.”
The moment drew out long enough to become awkward. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
“Listen, Dig,” Boomer said. Jonathan sensed that he’d been preparing himself. “I owe you a debt I can’t repay.”
“You really don’t—”
“Let me finish. I don’t pretend to know all that you do, but I hear the rumors. If you ever need anything—and I mean
anything
—you get in touch with me, and it’ll be there. No limitations, no questions asked. That’s true of anybody in the Unit. They wanted me to tell you that.”
anything
—you get in touch with me, and it’ll be there. No limitations, no questions asked. That’s true of anybody in the Unit. They wanted me to tell you that.”
Jonathan knew that the man was stating fact, and then it was his turn to be speechless. “Thanks, Boomer,” he said. “And you’re welcome. I just wish it had gone easier for Ryan and Christyne.”
“They’re alive and they’re home. The rest doesn’t matter.” Boomer extended his hand, and Jonathan shook it. “You take care,” he said, and then he walked away.
Gail had no idea if she was doing the right thing. She hadn’t had a meaningful chat with Jonathan since the night in the hotel, and with each passing day, the burden of what had happened—and of what might happen if the details were ever leaked—consumed her more.
She’d reached the point where doing anything was better than doing nothing, so here she was, literally about to pass through a door that could change everything. She pressed the doorbell, and fifteen seconds later, there he was.
At this hour, Father Dominic D’Angelo looked less like a priest than a guy who’d been lounging around watching television. His face morphed to mask of concern. “Gail,” he said. “Are you all right?”
The tears came before she was ready for them, flowing freely and embarrassing her. “No,” she choked. “I’m not okay at all. Have you got a minute?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing books can be a lonely pursuit. I spend long hours playing with my imaginary friends, and when things are going well, the reality of the story in my head can be more vivid than the reality of my chair and desk. (They call it psychosis if you do anything else for a living.) Were it not for the love and support of family and friends, and the diversions of a life outside of writing, I think the whole thing could become sort of overwhelming.
My wife, Joy, is the single best thing that has ever happened to me. I adore her, and she continues to love me even during the times when I can be not particularly loveable.
The best thing that Joy and I ever did together was make our son, Chris. He’s fun and funny and handsome and smarter than anyone else in the family. He’s also a great cook.
I’m honored beyond words that Christyne Nasbe made such a generous contribution to the American Heart Association to lend her name to a character in
Threat Warning
. Here it is for the record: I borrowed only her name. Whatever characteristics the real-life Christyne shares with my fictional creation is purely coincidental.
Threat Warning
. Here it is for the record: I borrowed only her name. Whatever characteristics the real-life Christyne shares with my fictional creation is purely coincidental.
Writing books is a part-time endeavor for me. My real job at the Institute of Scrap Recycling Industries Inc.—my Big Boy Job, according to my wife—grants me the opportunity to work with a cadre of consummate professionals, and I want to express my gratitude for their friendship and counsel. I can’t list every name here, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t shine the spotlight on a few: Anne Marie Horvath, Tom Herod, Joe Bateman, Robin Wiener, Bob Garino, Kent Kiser, Chuck Carr, Tom Crane, Ed Szrom, Jerry Sjogren, Rick Hare, Cap Grossman, John Sacco, and Kendig Kneen.
Speaking of Kendig Kneen, rest assured that he is a far, far nicer man than the character to whom I lent his name in
Threat Warning
. And, Kendig, sorry about changing the spelling of your last name for the book. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
Threat Warning
. And, Kendig, sorry about changing the spelling of your last name for the book. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
I’d put my publishing team at Kensington up against any other in the business. I’ve worked with a number of houses over the years, and I’ve never seen a more dedicated group of professionals. Michaela Hamilton is hands down the best editor I’ve ever worked with. She understands what I’m trying to say, sometimes better than I do. Publisher Laurie Parkin demonstrates the kind of excitement about the book business that you don’t see anymore in today’s world of product placement and profit and loss statements. At the very top of the pyramid sits Steve Zacharius, who exudes a love of the business. Thank you all for all you do.
Of course, nothing happens in a publishing career without the tireless efforts of a great agent. I have the best in the business in Anne Hawkins of John Hawkins and Associates. That she’s also a dear friend makes it even better.
Don’t miss John Gilstrap’s next exciting thriller
starring Jonathan Grave . . .
starring Jonathan Grave . . .
DAMAGE CONTROL
Coming from Pinnacle in 2012!
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2011 John Gilstrap, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed“ to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.“
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-2866-5
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