John Gilstrap - Threat warning

On the far wall, Fox News was running with coverage of the jihadist attacks that threatened to “paralyze America.” Some outfit that called itself the Army of Allah had released a video of a mother and her half-naked teenage son cowering at the feet of black-clad gunmen. The mother recited a prepared text-a rant about godless heathens and the inevitability of Islam’s rule, blah, blah, blah. While they spoke, an Arab translation crawled along the bottom of the screen.

The Army of Allah took responsibility for both the mall and bridge shooting incidents, plus the school bombing this morning. They promised that more violence was on the way. The shootings would continue, in fact, until the United States withdrew from virtually every geopolitical stance it had taken in the last seven decades.

Jonathan knew that the hostages were destined to die, if in fact they hadn’t already been killed. In his experience, impossible demands translated to a simple desire to kill. They were photo ops, really, designed to create iconic images of violence that would raise the stakes on terror, and the Army of Allah was doing a hell of a job so far. For the Wilson Bridge Massacre-that seemed to be the sensational moniker with the most legs-that image was the photograph of two ravaged and bloody child seats side by side in the back of a family sedan.

Between the various tableaus of carnage, the talking-head shows ran a loop of experts who seemed united in the belief that Islamist sleeper cells had been activated, and that their existence was evidence that our decade-plus of war had failed to protect us.

One day, Jonathan thought, he’d like to become a talking head so he could go on television and tell all those assholes to shut up.

In fact, he made them do exactly that with the mute button. He had paperwork to do, after all.

His intercom beeped. “Digger, I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s something in the lobby you need to attend to.” It was Venice Alexander.

“What brand of something?” he asked. Not that it mattered. He’d help polish the furniture if it would rescue him from this tedium.

“A visitor. An Army colonel named Rollins.” She spelled it. “He says it’s an urgent matter.”

Spelling the name was hardly necessary. There were few people drawing breath whom he loathed more than Roleplay Rollins. “What does he want?”

“He won’t say.” She softened her voice. “But he seems very agitated.”

Jonathan thought about telling him to pound sand and disappear, but his curiosity was piqued. “Bring him back to the office, please.”

“Into the cave?” Venice gasped. It was the corporate term for their highly secure executive suites, and no one from outside the company was ever invited back here. Precious few from inside the company were ever invited back here.

“Escort him every step and make sure that Rick searches him for weapons. Be sure he finds the one on his ankle.”

Three minutes later, Venice knocked on the door and opened it without waiting. At five-four, with chocolate-brown skin and a flawless complexion, Venice Alexander looked nothing like the computer genius she was. Her face showed utter confusion as she ushered in a graying man in jeans and a polo shirt, whose hair hung nearly to his shoulders, and whose beard made him look like a street panhandler. To those who knew what to look for, he looked exactly like the Delta Force operator that he was.

“Hello, Roleplay,” Jonathan said, leaning his butt against the front of his massive desk. Part of the reason for bringing the son of a bitch back here was to let him see just how little his Machiavellian games had affected Jonathan in the long term. JoeDog’s tail stopped wagging when she heard the tone in her master’s voice.

The visitor shuffled his feet. He clearly knew he was not welcome, and would rather be anywhere else in the world. “Not many call me that anymore,” he said.

“Not many people know your true nature anymore,” Jonathan countered. Rollins’s real first name was Stanley, but in the Unit, everybody got a nickname. The colonel preferred Iceman, and that stuck for a while until he advanced through the ranks and started to put his own career in front of the men he commanded. That was when Jonathan hit on the alliterative Roleplay Rollins, and it stuck like Krazy Glue.

“Are you going to invite me to sit down?” the colonel asked.

“Only if you promise to leave soon.”

Venice got squirmy. “I’m going to leave you two alone.”

Jonathan stepped forward, beckoning her closer. “No, no, no. I want you here. When you’re dealing with Roleplay, witnesses are never a bad thing.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Rollins groaned.

“Say what’s on your mind,” Jonathan said. “Then get the hell out of here.”

“Fine,” Rollins said. “Boomer Nasbe’s family has been kidnapped by terrorists, and we need help getting them home.”

Rollins’s delivery had the feel of something he’d rehearsed, and it landed with all the force he’d no doubt intended. Boomer had been a rookie member of the Unit at the time Jonathan was leaving, and part of a different squadron, but the organization was small enough that everyone knew everyone else. Jonathan’s recollection of the kid was that of a hungry go-getter who could run forever and bench-press nearly three times his body weight. He’d heard through the grapevine that Boomer had pulled off some impressive heroics in Afghanistan.

Jonathan gestured for the sofas and chair over near the fireplace. “Have a seat,” he said. “You, too, Venice.” Answering Rollins’s unasked question, he added, “Think of her as my Miss Annabelle.” He referred to the still-sharp, still-impressive eighty-year-old who had been the commander’s secretary since the days when the Unit was first formed.

The colonel looked impressed. Miss Annabelle’s were tough shoes to fill.

Jonathan left the leather people-eaters to his guests while he took the wooden William and Mary rocker for himself. Years of parachute jumps, bullet wounds, and general abuse had made it difficult for him to get comfortable in soft furniture. Before sitting, he asked if anybody wanted something to drink, but no one did. JoeDog took up the patch of carpet next to the rocker.

“What happened?” Jonathan asked, crossing his legs.

“We don’t know, exactly,” Rollins said. “Have you been watching the news? They’re the family at the feet of the terrorists in the new video.”

Jonathan shot a look to Venice, who recognized her cue and stood immediately. “I’ll have it set up in the War Room in five minutes,” she said, walking toward the door in the office wall that led directly to their high-tech conference room.

“Bring Gail in, too,” Jonathan said.

“What about Boxers?”

Jonathan looked at Rollins, and then back. “Make sure he knows the colonel is here, and what the purpose of the meeting is. Leave it to him.”

Venice acknowledged the gravity of his tone with a twitch of her eyebrows, and then left them alone.

Without the buffer of a witness, Jonathan felt his hatred returning, and his ears turned hot.

“You can’t hold a grudge forever, Dig,” Rollins said.

Jonathan raised a forefinger in warning. “You don’t want to open that door. Not in here. Not on my turf.”

Rollins made a show of looking around. “It’s not as if it ruined your life. You seem to be doing okay.”

“I was rich the day I was born,” Jonathan said. “I give most of it away and I’d still never be able to spend it all. Not in ten lifetimes. It was never about making a living. It was about honor, and you proved you had none.”

Rollins did not rise to the bait. “We all have jobs to do. Not all of them are enjoyable. If you had done yours, you’d still be in the Unit.”