John Gilstrap - Threat warning

“I’ve got that part,” Boxers said.

Jonathan picked up the thread. “If you really want to keep the pressure on-if you really want people to get mad at the wrong bad guys, you put a family in front of a camera and make impossible demands.”

“I’ve got it,” Venice chimed in. “As the deadline approaches, public anger gets more intense, and the public appetite for alternatives other than violence dries up.”

“It’ll get like a frenzy,” Boxers said, finally getting it. “So, what happens when the deadline expires?”

Gail’s face fell. “They’ll have to follow through with their threat,” she said. “They’ll have to kill someone. They could even stretch it out. Kill one of them next week, and the other a week later.”

“And they can always grab more,” Venice added.

Jonathan didn’t verbalize his thought that that might be a good thing. The more frequently a criminal committed a crime, the more likely he was to make a critical error.

“So, what’s their end game?” Boxers asked.

Jonathan shrugged. “Terror. Does it need to be more than that?”

“I think so,” Gail said. “I mean, it’s all well and good to make people think the bad guys are someone other than who they really are, and I suppose it scratches somebody’s itch to foment hatred, but don’t we have to assume that it’s all being done for a reason?”

“Where’ve you been living the last decade?” Boxers scoffed. “The bombing bastards got no greater goal than killing people.”

“I disagree,” Gail said. “The jihadists think that they’re serving God.”

Jonathan waved her off. “I think that’s bullshit.”

“How else do you get a thirteen-year-old to strap explosives to his chest?”

“Well, okay,” Jonathan said with a hesitation. “But that’s what the soldiers think. Their leaders-the ones that we have to blow up-are cynical assholes.”

“Who have the end game of political power,” Venice said, throwing her lot to the female camp.

“Okay, so give me a theory,” Jonathan said. “What’s the Army of Allah’s real end game?”

That question brought silence.

Brother Michael Copley asked, “Are you ready?”

Sister Colleen’s heart skipped in her chest and her stomach tumbled. “Yes” was such a simple word, yet somehow she couldn’t get her mouth to say it. She settled for a nod.

Brother Michael smiled, a dazzling display of perfectly aligned white teeth framed by perfect dimples. Colleen thought he was the most stunning man she had ever seen. From his green eyes to his spiked blond hair to his muscled physique, he was as fine as any movie star.

“Relax,” Brother Michael said. “You are here to be honored, not punished.” He turned to Brother Stephen. “What about you?”

Brother Stephen snapped to attention, his deep-set dark eyes locked on a spot on the opposite wall. With his broad, muscled shoulders and his narrow waist, he seemed to Sister Colleen to be the perfect image of a soldier.

“Couldn’t be readier, sir,” he said.

Brother Michael patted him on the arm. “You can settle down a little, too.”

Beyond the white paneled door that separated her from her destiny, the congregation had been assembling for the last ten minutes. Colleen couldn’t yet see them, but she knew who they were. She could see their faces in her mind, and even knew where each of them would sit. They were a young crowd-average age well under thirty-more male than female, but not by a lot.

They numbered around one hundred souls now, and one way or another, they all worked for the church, whether as factory workers, groundskeepers, doctors, or teachers in the school. They all would be dressed plainly, in blacks or whites or blues, because the compound store only stocked plain cloth. Together, they were the Army of God, servants to the Greater Good, united in their opposition to the evil spawned by the Users.

Until last night, Colleen had never witnessed the evil with her own eyes. She’d had no idea that the lights of vehicles could be so bright, or that the very air could smell rancid from the pollutants they pumped into Mother Nature’s lungs. It was as sickening as it was exhilarating.

Even now, eighteen hours after the assault had ended, it was difficult to believe that she had been a part in such a momentous victory. But for her efforts-and those of her brothers and sisters throughout the Army of God-the Users would continue their assaults without end. Her mission at the Woodrow Wilson Bridge-a span named for a warmonger and a money worshipper-combined with the brave efforts of her brothers and sisters in Kansas City and Detroit had made clear to the world that being a User meant being at war with the righteous. Within days, in a dozen other cities across the United States, the lesson would be taught again and again.

Those who had died at her hands had perished at the altar of the future, martyrs to a cause they did not yet understand, but would when they found their eternal rest. They died in service to the greater good.

She had not yet shared with anyone that horrible moment when the User on the parallel span of the bridge shot at her. She thanked God that Brother Michael had had the presence of mind to order them to wear body armor. Without that, Colleen was certain that she would have died.

“It’s time,” Brother Michael said. There was that smile again. “When you hear me introduce you by name, that will be your cue to enter onto the stage.” He looked each of them in the eye and offer them a kind smile. “Be sure to enjoy your moment, children. You have achieved greatness in the Army of God. No one can ever take that from you. Drink in the adulation. You may never feel so special again, so enjoy it for what it is.”

Brother Michael disappeared through the doors. The instant he was visible from the other side, all noise among the congregation stopped.

“Good afternoon, brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice booming along the twenty-foot-high rafters.

In perfect unison, the congregation replied, “Good afternoon, Brother Michael.”

Brother Stephen opened the door a crack to see what was happening.

Colleen pulled on his sleeve and hissed, “Brother Michael said to wait.”

Brother Stephen pulled his arm away. “He also said to drink in the adulation. I don’t like drinking what I can’t see.”

His words were rebellious, and therefore sinful, but Colleen was pleased to see him doing what she had been so tempted to do. She pressed in behind him.

Brother Michael stood at the edge of the stage, squarely in the beam of light that flowed from the tall windows above the double doors in the front. He held his hands out in a welcoming motion to all, and they similarly reached their hands out to receive his projected energy.

“I am pleased to say that we have achieved our second milestone in our quest to reeducate the Users,” he said.

The congregation erupted in applause and cheers.

Brother Michael gestured for silence, and the congregation quieted. “And I bring sadness from Kansas City. While the mission to the Users’ shopping mall was unquestionably successful, Brother Thomas Ezekiel and Sister Elizabeth Marie were both martyred to the cause.”

Colleen and Brother Stephen exchanged their silent shock. Neither had heard a word of this. A ripple of distress rumbled through the congregation.

“We will miss them both,” Brother Michael went on, “but while we mourn, we must also celebrate. I have heard reports this morning, via the Users’ television broadcasts, that our martyred saints killed ten people and wounded many more before their escape became blocked by the police. Brother Thomas Ezekiel and Sister Elizabeth Marie each fulfilled their destiny, and took their own lives.”