John Gilstrap - Threat warning

Jonathan sighed noisily-a growl, really. “Look, Officer…” He waited for the guy to fill in the blank.

“ Agent,” the man corrected. “Special Agent Clark, United States Secret Service.”

“Special Agent Clark, then. United States Secret Service. If you got on your radio right now, you might be able to stop a mass murderer before she gets away.”

“Why be greedy?” the agent quipped. “I’ve already got one member of the team in custody. You’ll give me the rest in time.”

Jonathan bowed his head. Surely the man was being deliberately obtuse. Did he really imagine, even for a moment, that the destruction here could have been wrought by a man with a. 45? Jonathan didn’t have a lot of respect for cops in general, but he had a particular hard-on for federal agents whose bravado outstripped their abilities. It happened a lot. He resigned himself to losing this battle.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” a voice boomed from Jonathan’s blind spot. It was Dom D’Angelo.

“Stand away, Father,” Clark commanded, clearly noting Dom’s collar. “This is none of your concern”

“It absolutely is my concern,” Dom insisted. “Not only is that man my friend, he is also my driver for the evening.”

“One step closer,” Clark warned, “and I’ll arrest you, too.”

Jonathan stared out into the cold night, blinking his eyes against the wind. There was a killer out there somewhere, getting away while they dicked around with Agent Clark.

It was going to be a very long night.

Christyne Nasbe enjoyed the cold weather. Having grown up in southern California, she found the four seasons here in Virginia to be invigorating. This year’s autumn had been particularly breathtaking, and as Thanksgiving approached next week, the record-breaking cold that was a source of so much griping among her neighbors was a source of unbridled excitement for her.

Not so much for her son, though. At sixteen, Ryan was doing his best to cope with the trials of tenth grade, while trying to abide by his father’s instructions to be the man of the house while Dylan-Dad-was deployed. Christyne could tell that Ryan was hurting. Even now, as she glanced across at him in the front passenger seat of the minivan, he had an angry set to his eyes as he listened to his music through the ever-present earbuds. At one level, it was probably hormonal, but she suspected that he mostly missed his dad.

Three years ago, while they were still living on post at Fort Bragg, Dylan decided that Ryan needed to know the true nature of his job in the Army. Christyne hadn’t been so sure at the time, and now she felt almost certain that they’d made a mistake. Did a boy really need to know, just a few years after he’d discovered the truth behind Santa Claus, that his father was among the first to get shot at in every violent conflict?

Maybe so. It was getting more and more difficult to explain the lack of uniforms and the presence of long hair and a beard. For all Christyne knew, maybe Ryan had already figured it out for himself-surely boys talked among themselves at school-but Dylan had been disappointed that the proud excitement that he’d expected from his son had never materialized. Ryan had just listened and said nothing. That had always been his way. A born poker player.

In Christyne’s mind, breaking the news to their son had marked the dividing line between Happy Ryan and Dark Ryan. Dylan insisted that the link did not exist-in fact, Dylan insisted that Ryan was just being a teenager-but Dylan wasn’t around, was he? He didn’t see the way Ryan was pulling away from his friends, or how he walked out of the room every time a news report spoke of casualties in Afghanistan or Iraq.

“You’re watching me again,” Ryan said without looking-a little too loudly because of the earbuds.

“I’m just admiring what a handsome young man you are.”

He cleared one ear. “What?”

She repeated what she’d said. It was true, too. He’d inherited his father’s natural athleticism and his green eyes. To see Ryan was to think of Dylan, and vice versa.

“You’re being weird again, Mom,” he said.

She smiled. Deep down inside, what child doesn’t want to know that he looks good?

Despite the fact that it was only November, many of the merchants in Old Town Alexandria had already put up their Christmas decorations, and the effect was breathtaking. Fayetteville in general, and Fort Bragg in particular, had none of this kind of culture, and the lack of it was a primary motivator for this yearlong sojourn to stay with her sister and her family in Mount Vernon.

Christyne understood that Dylan’s job required his full-time commitment. He’d achieved his life’s dream-assignment to the First Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, the best of the best: Delta Force-and that made him one of the nation’s go-to guys whenever something bad happened in the world. He loved his job, and she loved him, and when he needed her to be someplace, nothing would be able to keep her away.

When Dylan was on deployment, though, and she knew that he would be gone for months or years at a time, the closeness of the Fort Bragg community became stifling. Every day, there was a funeral somewhere, or a deployment somewhere else. Every second of every day bore a shroud, a constant reminder that one day Dylan might come home in a body bag. When he was there, it was different-he was her happiness; but when he was at war, all she wanted to do some nights was cry.

She’d moved here in late August, specifically so that Ryan would get an entire year in his new school, and so far it seemed he was adapting well. Her son had turned out to be something of a track star, earning a drawerful of ribbons in sprinting and hurdling. In fact, they were on their way home from such a meet right now, Ryan having finished first in the two-hundred-meter hurdles with a lead of five seconds over his nearest competitor.

“What’s with that guy?” Ryan asked, pulling out his earbuds and pointing ahead through the windshield.

She followed his finger to the street corner ahead and saw a teenager in a flowing black coat waving in a frantic effort to flag them down. Them. Their car.

“Do you recognize him?” she asked. He was older than Ryan, but he could have been a senior in his high school, she supposed.

“I think it’s a her,” Ryan grunted. “But no.”

By golly, he was right. It was a girl, and she appeared to be in distress. Christyne nudged her blinker and pulled to the curb.

“What are you doing?” Ryan protested.

“Look at her, sweetie. Something’s wrong. She needs help.” The stranger’s face was a mask of angst.

“Do you know her?” Ryan was clearly upset by the prospect of picking up a stranger.

The frantic young woman hurried to the van’s sliding door and pulled on the handle. When it wouldn’t open, she knocked on the window. Three rapid taps on the glass.

“Drive off, Mom,” Ryan said. “We don’t-”

Christyne pushed the rocker button to unlock the door. She was a child, for God’s sake. How could she not offer a hand?

The teenager pulled open the door and peeked in. “I need a ride,” she said. “There’s a guy up there shooting everybody. Please. We need to get out of here.”

Christyne gasped. “ Shooting? Where?”

“On the bridge, right up there.” She pointed toward Maryland. “Please.”

“Oh, my God,” Christyne said. She beckoned the girl inside. “Yes. Get in.”

“Mom!” The way Ryan said it, the word had two syllables.

“Hush,” she commanded, drilling him with her maternal death glare. She watched, her pulse pounding, as the newcomer climbed inside and planted herself into the backseat.