John Gilstrap - Threat warning

“Except outside of the community, nobody knows you have a perfect record. When Daddy Lottabucks’s kid gets snatched from spring break, all he knows is that you’ll get the job done without the police ever knowing a thing. I bet he’s expecting you to take the fall quietly if things go wrong.”

“Daddy Lottabucks is paying for the privilege,” Boxers said.

“We’ve got money,” Rollins said. “A bunch of the guys pooled our resources, and we were able to pull together sixty thousand. I know that’s not what-”

Jonathan held up his hand for silence. “Boomer’s a friend,” he said. “I don’t want your money.” His teammates froze at his words. It was a gang poker face.

Rollins smiled, genuinely relieved. “Digger, I appreciate this. I’ll inform-”

Jonathan cut him off again. “This meeting never happened, Colonel. We’ll do what we do, but we will not keep you in the loop, and we will not accept any help that we don’t ask for. If, on the other hand, we ask for help, I expect to get it immediately, and without question.”

“But the team was expecting-”

“Nothing,” Jonathan interrupted. “Your team should expect nothing because this meeting never happened. I will not answer to you, I will not cover for you, I will not run interference for you.”

The colonel leaned back in his chair. He seemed to know there was more coming.

“More than anything,” Jonathan went on, “know this. If you cross me, I will hurt you. Badly.” He shifted his eyes to Venice. “Please escort the colonel to the door.”

Michael Copley stood on the mezzanine overlooking the shop floor, marveling at the quality of the work his people produced. Thanks to their dedication to him and his mission, they had together raised Appalachian Acoustics to be the source for some of the most sought-after orchestral and choral tools in the world. Lightweight, less expensive than the competition, and easy to assemble by even a single person, his patented acoustic reflectors had become the gold standard.

These one hundred eighty employees were the ones who made it happen every day. Their continuing dedication to him, the company, and their mission stirred emotions that might have been called love if the context were different. They meant that much to him. And he was confident that he meant that much to them.

He heard the approach of his visitor before he saw him. “Hello, Kendig,” he said without looking.

Kendig Neen was the sheriff of Maddox County, West Virginia, and out here that still meant something. Tall and stout, with a waxed handlebar mustache and a speaking voice that was made for radio, Kendig was the law out here. With the nearest state police barracks nearly fifty miles away, backup was hard to come by, and that meant a freedom to occasionally craft new laws on the fly.

“Morning, Michael,” he said. “Have you got a moment?”

“Isn’t that an inspiring sight?” Michael said.

“Smells like airplane glue,” Kendig said.

Michael gave him a hard look. “You might show some respect. Those people are the reason you have a job, and I’m the reason they have a job.”

“Will your boardroom work for you?” Kendig pressed. “We really need to talk.”

Michael led the way from the mezzanine to the shop floor, and out to the executive wing, as he called it. He realized it didn’t look like much, with its Formica tabletop and metal chairs, but it was the best he could afford. For now. If visitors gave the boardroom only a cursory look, they would have seen only the knotty pine paneling and the linoleum floors and assumed it to be cheaply built. You’d have to be an expert, knowing exactly what you were looking for to see that it was a high-tech, soundproofed room.

Kendig started in as soon as the heavy door found its latch. “What were you thinking, putting that mother and her son up on the Internet for everyone to see?”

Michael took his time pulling out a chair and lowering himself into it. It was a common trait of brutes not to be able to see the complexity of the proverbial big picture. “I was thinking about the mission,” he said. His voice bore the exaggerated patience of a teacher speaking to a slow child. “We are at war now, Brother Kendig.”

“And war requires caution. You put faces on their battle against us. What you did steeled the resolve of every law-enforcement agency in the country. In the world. Have you been watching television? Have you heard the kind of resources they’re marshalling against us?”

Michael scowled, pretending to be confused. “I’ve glanced at the television, but I haven’t seen anything about us. Are you sure?”

“For God’s sake, Michael.”

“I’ve heard some ranting about ‘terrorists,’ but I haven’t heard a word about us. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, if you were to ask any of the new media who ‘we’ are”-he used finger quotes-“I bet they’d tell you that we were Arabs. Central Asian, maybe; but certainly Islamists. I don’t think you’d hear a word about devout patriots from West Virginia.”

“But they didn’t have to know anything!” Kendig insisted.

Michael leaned back and placed his heels on the table. “Now who’s being silly?” he said. “Of course they had to know. Knowing is part of the greater ruse. While the authorities are all looking for who we are not, we will attack them with who we are. It’s a classic feint.”

Kendig sat heavily in the seat adjacent to Michael. “Was it necessary to beat the boy?”

Michael laughed. “Oh, so that’s your moral compass? The killing is okay, but you draw the line at a few slaps and punches?”

“I draw the line at cruelty. I draw the line at increased incentive to find us. His hands were bound, for heaven’s sake.”

Michael waved it away as irrelevant. “Brother Stephen told me that the boy was a threat, a troublemaker. Now he’s a frightened boy again. A neutralized threat. No permanent harm was done.”

“Brother Stephen is a liability,” Kendig said. “I don’t like the way he is with the prisoners, and I don’t like his attitude around the other soldiers. I think you empower him too much by allowing his shenanigans.”

“He is a fine and loyal soldier,” Michael said. “He and Sister Colleen will both be honored for their service at the bridge in Washington. That was simply brilliant.”

“So why risk the victory with the broadcast? Videos like that can be traced directly back to you.”

Michael shook his head. “Impossible.”

“It’s not impossible, Michael. It’s inevitable. The feds have uncanny resources to track down Internet broadcasts. Crazy resources that we can’t possibly match.”

“I have it covered,” Michael said. He made a point of keeping his voice modulated and under control. He would not honor shouting with shouting of his own. “Brother Kirkland is quite the computer whiz. He assures me that everything about our transmission will trace back to a computer in Flint, Michigan. When we broadcast again, the signature will trace to Islamabad. We will have to let enough time pass for them to believe we took the family to Pakistan, which will fit perfectly with what they want to believe. That will leave us free to operate even less encumbered by the authorities than we already are.”

Kendig stood again. “Do you hear the hubris in your words? You think you’re invincible, and that’s the kind of attitude that will bring us all down.”

Michael sighed. This was all such a waste of time. “I apologize, Brother Kendig, if I have sprung too big a surprise. I should have been clearer in my communication. But right now, what’s done is done. The mission is progressing.”

“Is it?” Kendig pressed. “Is it really? Is my mission progressing, or is it only yours? Is it possible that you’re having too good a time playing with people’s minds?”