Threat warning

CHAPTER THIRTY – SEVEN

“I’ve got nothing,” Venice said, opening the telephone call at 06:01. “Of the three potential bad guys in the apartment buildings, all three have already been contacted by the Secret Service, according to ICIS, and all three are under intense observation. My guess is they’re each going to spend their mornings somewhere else, or with their drapes closed. Here’s the really bad news among the merely bad news: Michael Copley has nothing to do with anything.”

“What about the office buildings?” Jonathan asked.

“A lot of security,” Venice explained. She spent the better part of ten minutes delivering the minutiae of the various security systems, which, at the end of the day, were mostly dependent on the security guard in the lobby.

“I almost hesitate to tell you this,” Venice said toward the end of her prepared presentation. “I know you, and I know how you obsess over coincidence; but the General Services Administration has an office at 1101 Coolidge.”

Jonathan perked up. “This would be the same GSA that provides the Model 9000 Symphonic Reflector to the Secret Service?”

“Yes,” Venice hedged, “but it’s also the same GSA that provides toilet paper to the Department of Commerce. It’s a big agency.”

Jonathan wasn’t interested in the qualifiers. “That’s the address,” he said.

“Just like that?” Gail said.

“It’s a place to start,” Jonathan replied. The chill between them lowered the temperature in the room by ten degrees.

“Suppose it’s the wrong place to start?” Boxers asked.

“What difference will it make? We can sit here and twiddle our thumbs, or we can go there and pretend that we’re right. We will be or we won’t be, but at least we’ll be doing something.”

Boxers gave him a funny look, then shrugged. “You’re the boss, Boss. Load my gun, and I’ll follow you anywhere.” He gave him an air kiss from across the room.

Yep, it was official now. Everybody needed a good night’s sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, they had a plan, and all the players had bought into it.

“You know,” Boxers said, “we’re gonna feel pretty stupid if Michael Copley just steps out of a crowd and blows him away at point-blank range.”

“At least we’ll have tried,” Jonathan said. He rose from the desk chair. “Let’s get going.”

“I’m staying,” Gail announced.

Boxers recoiled a step.

Jonathan said, “Fine. Suit yourself.” Then he led the way to the door, and they left Gail alone in the hotel room.

“Say what’s on your mind,” Jonathan said after an awkwardly silent three minutes in the Batmobile.

“Do I really have to?” Boxers replied.

Actually, no, Jonathan thought.

Boxers let him off the hook. “I’m guessing she’s still wrapped around the axle about the killing and the lawbreaking. Tell you the truth, I’m not surprised. So, how are you doing?”

“I’m mission capable,” Jonathan said.

Boxers scoffed, “You’d be mission capable with two broken arms and your liver hanging out. I asked how you’re doing. You and her were pretty tight.”

“I’m fine,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want anybody doing anything they don’t want to do. Not with the stakes this high.” The answer didn’t address the real question, but Jonathan wasn’t in the mood to whine.

“Yeah, okay,” Boxers said, and then he remained silent until they found a parking place-again on the street, but this time only six blocks from their target.

Jonathan checked his watch. Eight-thirty-five. “What are you carrying?” he asked the Big Guy.

“Not much,” he replied. “I’ve got my Beretta on my hip, plus three spare mags. I got a Glock 23 in my shoulder rig plus another three spare mags, and I’ve got my backup three-eighty on my ankle.”

Jonathan smiled. Boxers truly believed in the power of firepower. “Only a hundred rounds and change,” he teased. “You must feel positively naked.”

“I miss my tactical gear,” Big Guy confirmed. “What about you?”

He had his Colt on his hip, along with four spare mags, and then his backup. 38 on his ankle. “We’re bringing a lot of firepower against one guy.”

“That one guy has enough firepower for five. If he gets that Barrett turned around on us, the day will turn very, very bad.”

Actually, very, very bad didn’t touch it.

With the crowded sidewalks and the ridiculously long traffic lights on the crosswalks, it was almost nine before they made it to the entrance to 1101 Coolidge. They stopped a block short and Jonathan called Venice.

“We’re in place,” he said.

“Okey-dokey. Stand by one. Good luck.”

Michael Copley sat casually in his La-Z-Boy, feet up, coffee mug in hand, scanning his five television screens for an image that would spark interest. He was shocked that the news was not filled with images of the attack on the Army of God compound and offended that the execution video was being so readily written off as the work of pranksters.

He recognized this as the tyrannical hand of the government. They were so anxious to portray themselves as the victors in any conflict that they would willingly twist and manipulate facts to form whatever preconceived conclusions they wanted to, and their media lapdogs would go right along with them.

Well, just wait another hour or so. He still had five active assault teams roving America, wreaking their havoc and shaking that precious sense of safety that Americans valued above all. They thought it was fine to throw principle to the wind and burn the Constitution as a nightlight, as long as Aunt Martha in breadbasket America didn’t feel threatened.

Well, they should feel threatened now, because this was the day when two plus two would stop equaling four. In an hour and a half, within minutes of the time when he and Brother Franklin would tear apart the president in a cross fire, two bombs would detonate in Metro train cars under the Potomac River, causing the Orange Line to run red with the blood of shredded commuters. It was a shame that they couldn’t target the height of the rush hour, but the president was notoriously inattentive to the timing of his own schedule, so there was no telling when he might actually show up for his own execution. Michael couldn’t take the risk of the bomb detonating first, because that would likely cause the president to cancel his attendance altogether.

At eleven o’clock local time, a different bomb, this one placed three days ago, would detonate in the emergency department of Good Samaritan Hospital in Cincinnati, and throughout the day, his teams would exploit targets of opportunities in small towns throughout the Midwest.

And with the president dead-killed in color on live television-the vacuum of leadership would trigger the collapse of everything.

It will be a thing of beauty.

After repeated tries in the initial hours after the assault on the compound, he’d been able to make contact with Brother Coleman at the Farm, and what he’d heard disturbed him. Of the one hundred seventeen adults in residence at the compound, forty-four were dead and twenty-six were seriously wounded and likely to die. Another twenty were missing. Brother Coleman had begged to allow ambulances into the compound or, as an alternative, to transport the more grievously wounded down the mountain to a hospital, but Michael stood firm.

“We’re a nation unto ourselves,” he reminded him. “That means we live and die within our blessings and limitations. The Users have no role in our lives.”

Brother Coleman ultimately came around, but it was a tough sell. He relayed that the members of the Army were scared, deep down to their very cores. Brother Coleman told stories of helicopters appearing out of nowhere to sweep the mother and her son to safety. He told stories of utter carnage.

“I don’t know that there’ll be room enough in the cemetery,” Brother Coleman concluded. “You can’t walk the compound for more than a few minutes without finding body parts. It’s horrible.”

Most concerning for Michael, in addition to the loss of so many fine warriors, was the fact the Brother Kendig had apparently chosen to run away with the deserters. With him gone, and Michael and Franklin both here for this mission of missions, the Army was left without leaders.

“Do your best to keep order,” Michael said. “Stop the desertions at all costs.”

“When will you be returning?”

“Soon,” Michael said, and he clicked off realizing that he had just told a lie.

Having the question asked so directly, and having to form a direct answer, he realized that he had seen the compound and his home and his business for the last time. He couldn’t go back, not now that the secret of their existence had leaked out into the world. Somehow, the FBI and the rest of the jackals who denied liberty to the masses had neglected to raid the compound, but that would come in time. Would the soldiers fight, now that they had been beaten so terribly once before? He imagined no.

He wondered what would happen to those who were taken into custody, but he realized that it wouldn’t matter. Their efforts had already had the desired effect. People were terrified, and soon their terror would be reflected in the collapse of everything. Perhaps he’d been naive and overly ambitious to believe that his little Army could survive the war intact. He knew now that it would not, but he could imagine far worse outcomes. As it was, he was on track to make an indelible mark on history.

But first, he needed another cup of coffee. He kicked the footrest down and stood.

And then yelled out loud when his cozy little office erupted in the earsplitting sound of the fire alarm.

It was hard to believe that a building could hold so many people. Hundreds filed out into the cold as the fire alarm continued to screech. The first fire truck arrived after about a minute and a half, and within a minute after that, half a dozen more arrived.

Jonathan pressed a speed-dial number. “Jesus, Ven, what did you do? Every emergency responder in the world is coming.”

“I’ve never triggered a fire alarm before,” she said, instantly defensive. “I think I might have tricked a few too many smoke detectors.”

At least a few too many, as it turned out. By the time they were able to reset the alarm and let people return, forty-five minutes had passed. Jonathan felt bad for the workers who hadn’t thought to grab a coat on their way out. Then he remembered that this was Rosslyn, where coffee shops grew like clover, and he stopped pitying anyone who was too stupid to seek shelter if they were cold.

“Do you have any candidate offices?” Jonathan asked Venice on a second phone call. “It’s inefficient as hell to go look at every southern-facing office.”

“I’m working on it, Digger.”

“It’s nine-forty.”

“I know that.”

“The president speaks at ten.”

“I’m hanging up.” Then she did exactly that.

Once the all-clear was given, Jonathan and Boxers joined the crowd of returning workers who flowed through the doors like a human river. A phalanx of security guards had formed a gauntlet in the main lobby, and they made a show of checking identification cards. One of them, a short stocky guy who looked like he might be a moonlighting bouncer, zeroed in on Boxers and beckoned him over.

The Big Guy ignored him, but then the security guy pursued him and grabbed his shirtsleeve, adding himself to a very short list of people who had ever done that without spending the next six weeks eating through a straw.

“I need to see your ID,” the guard said.

“I left it in my office,” Boxers replied.

The guard turned to Jonathan.

“Ditto.”

“Neither of you look familiar to me,” the guard said. His name tag identified him as Mr. Farmer.

“So much for saying hello every morning,” Jonathan bluffed. “I’m Dan Banks and this is Marlon Ford. We both work for the Handelsman Group on the third floor.” Anticipating this moment, Venice had searched the rolls for the names of real tenants and employees. They had to roll the dice on the guard not knowing either.

“I need you to step aside while I check,” Mr. Farmer said.

Boxers gave that smile that never led to good things and Jonathan intervened. “Tell you what,” Jonathan said. “I’ve got a conference call that I’m already late for-thanks to your malfunctioning building-and we’re not staying anywhere. You go ahead and make your calls, and if it turns out we’re bogus, you come on up and get us.”

“I’d actually look forward to that,” Boxers menaced.

Without waiting for an answer, they rejoined the crowd and headed for the elevators. Jonathan checked his watch. Nine-forty-three.

When it was finally their turn, Jonathan stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. With no place else to go, and on the off chance that the guard was watching on cameras, he decided that there’d be no harm in paying a visit to the Handelsman Group.