Threat warning

by John Gilstrap

  Something dissolved in Ryan’s gut, and tears rushed to his eyes.

  “Might as well tell me now, son,” Neen said.

  Panic shot like electricity up Ryan’s spine as he scoured his universe for options that did not exist. If he tried to fight the sheriff, he’d never have a chance. The guy was huge. If he tried to run, they’d just shoot him down. If he “Ryan Nasbe,” Neen said, “I’m afraid that your bad day is about to get a lot worse.”

  Please, God, protect Ryan. Let him find safety. Let him send help. Please.

  Christyne wasn’t much into prayer. With a husband who made his living in perpetual harm’s way, prayer grew exhausting after a while. And having watched far too many flag-draped caskets being wept over by wives and children who no doubt prayed for their loved ones’ safe returns, she’d grown a kind of fatalistic outer shell about God and His plans for people. If He wanted them to live, they’d live; if He wanted otherwise, otherwise would happen.

  She never admitted her fatalism aloud, of course-especially not among the other Unit wives, who often were fiercely religious-but it brought her an odd sense of peace to entrust all of it to God without her presumptuous interference. Who was Christyne Nasbe to presume that she could know more about the Grand Plan than the divine architect Himself? By placing the fate of her family in His hands, she freed herself to live her life in the present, prepared to accept the good or bad that the future might hold for her while embracing her powerlessness to influence any of it.

  When it came to Ryan, though-her frustrating, attitude-filled, beautiful, flawless Ryan-none of that rationalization meant anything.

  She needed God’s intervention, and she needed it now.

  It felt as if he’d been gone for hours. Surely there had been enough time for him to find help. Enough time for him to find safety. It had to be true simply because the alternative was unthinkable.

  Here in the dark and the cold, surrounded by the pall of death, Christyne told herself again that it had been right to let Ryan go for help. She told herself that she wouldn’t have been able to stop him no matter what she did.

  How would she ever know whether she’d made the right decision? How can anyone plan for something like this? Later, when all this was over and either they were free or their bodies were discovered somewhere, people would judge for themselves whether she’d been a good mom or a bad one.

  She could almost hear the questions she’d be asked by the morning television hosts: Why didn’t you stay at Fort Bragg, where you have friends to support you and your child? Do you think it was wise to let a sixteen-year-old wander out into the night by himself? Wouldn’t it have been better for the two of you to stay together? How does it feel to have killed a man so young, one who was barely older than your own son?

  She could hear the questions because they were always the questions that were asked after the fact. In today’s news media, everything bad that happened to children was always the fault of the parent. That her husband was in the military would only cause them to question that more closely.

  Boomer, where are you?

  This was never the way it was supposed to have been. Christyne was never supposed to have been the crisis decision maker. She’d married a warrior, for God’s sake. One of the most elite in the world. He was supposed to protect her. That’s what she’d thought when they first married, but that was before the reality hit her. In military families, the trained protector was forever protecting someone else. On the home front, crisis control rested squarely on the shoulders of the spouses, everything from broken bones to broken hearts, leaking water heaters to car repair.

  Why, then, shouldn’t it fall to her to deal with carjackings and kidnappings? One day, when all of this Something moved outside the door to her cell.

  The door burst open, and people flooded into the tiny space. At first they were invisible in the darkness, but then the darkness erupted in white as brilliant flashlights found her eyes and gouged her retinas.

  “Take her,” someone said.

  Something hit her hard on her cheek. It ignited a flash of purple.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As the whisper-quiet Agusta Westland helicopter flared to land, Jonathan looked at his watch. Six-fifty-eight. From the ground, darkness still ruled, but on their approach, he noted the redness of the horizon, a harbinger of a beautiful day that would arrive far too soon.

  He rode in the back of the chopper, with Gail on his right, and as Boxers went through the shutdown procedures, she shot him a look.

  “He really is good, isn’t he?” It was her first time on an op with them, and she seemed genuinely surprised by the professionalism.

  Jonathan took the comment more seriously than he probably should have. “Do yourself a favor,” he said. “Never doubt the Big Guy.” His words came out sharply, almost angrily. He’d come to think of it as Boxers’ curse: Big Guy’s size and abrasive manner projected oafishness to some people, a general lack of intelligence. They could not have been more wrong. In Jonathan’s experience his good friend was a brilliant technician and tactician who happened to be larger than most monuments. Fearless and intensely loyal, Boxers had pulled Jonathan’s ass out of the fire-both literally and figuratively-too many times to count.

  “I need to go get us some wheels,” Jonathan said when it was quiet enough to be heard.

  Boxers gave a splayed five-finger bye-bye wave over his shoulder, like something an infant might do. “Go,” he said. “Gunslinger and I can take care of things here until you get back.” Gunslinger had become Gail’s radio moniker after she shot down a helicopter a few months ago using only a rifle. She had rejected two previous handles that Boxers had tried to inflict on her: G-Girl and Triple-A, for anti-aircraft artillery.

  “It shouldn’t take me too long,” Jonathan said. Like his colleagues, he wore woodland camouflage clothing, in part for its utilitarian use in blending with the surroundings, but also to blend in socially. This was deer-hunting season, and as in any rural community, half of the people they encountered today were likely to be wearing woodland camouflage clothing.

  Jonathan slung his rucksack over his shoulders, glanced at his GPS to reaffirm his bearings, and then started off on his hike.

  As a rule, Jonathan avoided stealing from innocents during missions. Not only did it offend his sense of right and wrong, it also added an unnecessary element of risk. Given all the moving parts in play during an 0300 mission, he didn’t want to risk it all coming apart because a local cop noticed a vehicle from a hot sheet.

  Sometimes, though, it couldn’t be avoided.

  By massaging her databases and scouring satellite images, and in general working the magic she was famous for, Venice had been able to find them the perfect command post-a dilapidated old house on the grounds of an abandoned mine-but it was way in the boonies. The nearest car listed for sale was fifteen miles away. If they’d had the luxury of time, Venice would have pored through the local classified ads for an appropriate vehicle and worked out a delivery plan using cash and messengers.

  Unfortunately, time was the commodity in shortest supply, so that meant thievery.

  Jonathan hiked at a brisk pace through the thinning forest, covering the mile and a quarter in a little over a half hour. According to the maps and the imagery, nothing but woods lay between him and this morning’s target, so he could afford to make some noise. As he closed to within a hundred yards or so, he slowed and took the time to survey his surroundings.

  A house lay ahead, on the far side of what Jonathan estimated to be six acres of open field. To call it a farm was overstating it, but rows of decaying cornstalks testified to at least a little income from selling produce. Lowering himself to one knee at the edge of the tree line, Jonathan unslung his ruck and pulled binoculars from a side pocket.

  A porch light was on, as was a light somewhere in the house, but on the far side. They seemed dim from this distance, making him wonder if the illumination had less to do with someone being up an
d around than the proverbial light in the window, left on all night to keep the boogeyman at bay.

  The target for this mission was the white Dodge crew-cab pickup truck parked in front of the house. He watched the place for a full minute, looking for signs of movement that would make things more difficult. Seeing none, he set off across the field.

  Daylight had arrived, though it was still quite dim. Like any Special Forces operative, he hated the daylight. It leveled the playing field too much.

  He strolled upright through the dried, sagging cornstalks, making some effort to be stealthy, but not breaking his back over it. He had to assume that whoever lived in the house was awake, and if they looked out the window he wanted to appear to be a wandering hunter with nothing to hide. He figured that he’d be less likely to get shot at this way than if they saw him skulking about.

  He covered the distance without incident, walking right up to the pickup, apparently without being seen. From here it would either be easy or get really complicated. He moved to the driver’s door and pulled the latch. It opened. Good start.

  Jonathan lifted the Velcro flap from a pouch on his belt and withdrew his Leatherman tool. All he had to do was break the steering-wheel lock, strip the ignition keyway, and then he could be on the road with his stolen vehicle.

  His butt had just hit the cushion when a small voice said, “Who are you?”

  Startled the crap out of him. He whirled to see a little girl with dark hair standing eight feet away, wrapped in a bulky flannel robe over flannel pajamas and threadbare pink slippers. She had an odd look about her that Jonathan recognized in the dark as the telltale signs of Down syndrome.

  “Hi,” he said. He felt his cheeks blushing, partly because he felt embarrassed to have been caught, but also because of the shame he felt for automatically assessing whether or not the girl was armed and posing a threat.

  “Are you the repo man?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She asked if you are the repo man,” said another voice. This one belonged to a tall young woman dressed similarly to the little girl. She also held a twelve-gauge over-and-under shotgun. It dangled by her side, her finger close to the trigger. “They said they’d be coming for the truck, and Jilly’s been obsessing about it ever since. That’s Jilly, by the way.”

  Jonathan forced a smile, his mind spinning at a thousand miles an hour for his next move. Could it really be as simple as telling her that he was here to repossess her vehicle and drive off?

  “Well?” the woman pressed. “Answer her. Are you the repo man?”

  “Are you going to shoot me if I say yes?”

  “No, I’m going to shoot you if you say you’re a burglar. If you say you’re the repo man, I’m going to ask for your ID, and then I’m going to be without a truck, which means that even if I got a job offer and an opportunity to pay back your boss’s precious money, I wouldn’t be able to take it.” Her voice had none of the twang that Jonathan associated with this part of the world. If anything, she sounded like Yankee elite. He thought he saw tears in her eyes.

  Jonathan rose from the seat, keeping his. 45 angled away from the woman so she wouldn’t see it and panic. “How long ago did you lose your job?” he asked. It was a stall more than anything else, a way to bide time as he thought of a way out of this.

  “Three years,” she said. “I used to work for Appalachian Acoustics until they got their new asshole owner and he put in all his own people.”

  “Michael Copley is an asshole,” Jilly said.

  “That’s enough out of you,” the woman scolded.

  “Sorry, Mama.”

  “So, are you or aren’t you?” the woman pushed.

  “What are the chances that I can convince you to put that weapon down?” Jonathan asked.

  She scowled. “My weapon? What are you, a cop?”

  “If I say yes, are you going to shoot me?”

  “Seems to be your fixation,” she said.

  “I get that way with armed people.”

  “Most people say gun,” she said. “You said weapon. My husband’s in the Army, and the only people I know who talk that way are his buddies and cops.”

  Suddenly, Jonathan found himself caring more. “Is he on deployment?” he asked. “Your husband, I mean.”

  “ Again,” she said, leaning heavily on the word. “To Iraq. Again . I thought this new guy in Washington was supposed to get us out by now.”

  “Wars are complicated things,” Jonathan said. “When is he due back?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Jonathan shrugged with one shoulder. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for active-duty personnel.”

  “There it is again,” the woman said. “You all sound alike. Who are you?”

  “Well, I’m not the repo man. How’s that for a start?”

  She lifted the gun to hold it in both hands, but with the barrel still pointed harmlessly. “Not so good,” she said. “Jilly, come over here by me.”

  The little girl looked confused.

  “Now, Jilly.”

  Suddenly frightened, Jilly scampered over to her mom.

  “Suppose you tell me why you’re in my truck, if you’re not the repo man.”

  Over the years, Jonathan had honed an ice-melting smile that by itself had defused many a volatile situation. He used that now. “I came here to steal it,” he said.

  The double barrels pivoted closer.

  “The weapon is not necessary, ma’am. I swear to you. You don’t want your daughter to see you kill a man anyway. Not over a car. Besides, I’m not going to steal it anymore.”

  The woman gave a wry chuckle as she jiggled the shotgun a little. “I could have told you that.”

  “Fair enough. Fact is I’m going to help you.”

  She hardened her stance. “I don’t need your help.”

  Jonathan held her gaze. “I think you do. How much do you owe on the truck?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “In a different circumstance, I’d agree, but let’s be honest here. It’s a cold morning, and you were worried enough about having your truck repossessed that you stayed up all night with a shotgun. All things considered, I’d argue that privacy is not your first priority. Come on, tell me. How much do you owe?”

  She snorted a derisive laugh. “What, are you going to buy it?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan said.

  Her face went blank. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’m going to buy your truck.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  Jonathan just stood, giving her time to hear the ridiculousness of her own words.

  “If I let you buy it, what am I supposed to do? I’ll be stranded out here.”

  Jonathan cocked his head. “What was your plan when you thought I was the repo man?”

  “I didn’t have one. That’s why I was going to try and talk him out of it.”

  “With a shotgun? Who did you plan to have take care of Jilly while you were in prison?”

  She threw an uncomfortable glance at her daughter, but said nothing.

  Jonathan took the opportunity to further drive his point home. “Wouldn’t it be better to greet the repo man with a wad of cash than a twelve gauge?”

  The woman clearly didn’t know what to do. “So, what, you expect me just to take a check from you? Even if it was good, without the truck-”

  “I said cash,” Jonathan interrupted. “You know, folding money.”

  Her shoulders sagged in disbelief. “You just happen to have twenty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars on you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Then why not just buy a car of your own?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he said. He was being deliberately obtuse now.

  “I mean-”

  “I know what you mean. Thing is, there are no dealerships out here.”

  The woman scowled as a thought crossed her mind. “Where ar
e you from? How did you get here?”

  This was why it was better to work at night-why it was always a bad idea to engage in chitchat.

  Jilly sneezed and hugged herself tightly. “Mommy, I’m cold.”

  “Me, too, honey.”

  “Let’s go inside, then,” Jonathan suggested.

  The woman coughed out another laugh. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s warm inside,” he said.

  “You really expect me to invite a strange man into my house?”

  Jonathan polished his smile. “There’s a lot going on right now that I didn’t expect, but it’s happening anyway. What are your choices?” He counted the options on his fingers. “One, you can shoot me, but for the sake of argument, let’s stipulate that you’re not going to do that. Two, you can just take my money and let me drive off in your truck, but it doesn’t look like that’s happening, either. Three, you can go inside and just leave me out here, in which case I’ll just take the truck. Four, we can all continue to stand out here together and freeze, but that’s just plain stupid. That leaves the most logical choice, which would have us all go in together. You have the shotgun, after all.”

  Again, she stared as she tried to wade through it all. In the east, the sun had fully bloomed.

  “Look,” Jonathan said. “I know we met awkwardly, but I really am one of the good guys. Either take my money for the truck and let me drive off, or let’s all go inside. It makes no sense for Jilly to be shivering like that.”

  “So, I’m just supposed to trust you. The stranger who was about to steal my car.”

  “I’ll introduce myself, then. I’m Leon Harris.” He considered reaching out to offer his hand, but worried that it might come off as aggressive. “Look. I’m going to step away from the truck now, and when I do, you’re going to see a holstered pistol on my thigh. Don’t freak out.”

  She didn’t freak out, exactly, but the business end of the shotgun lined up closer to his chest. She’d still miss if she fired, but Jonathan didn’t think she knew that.

  “Put it on the floor,” she commanded.

  He pushed the truck’s door closed. “I can’t do that,” he said. “First of all, it’s an expensive weapon, and second, it’s modified to have really sensitive parts. It’s not a weapon that other people should handle.”