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.”
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?”
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Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.01.2012
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