John Gilstrap - Threat Warning

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing books can be a lonely pursuit. I spend long hours playing with my imaginary friends, and when things are going well, the reality of the story in my head can be more vivid than the reality of my chair and desk. (They call it psychosis if you do anything else for a living.) Were it not for the love and support of family and friends, and the diversions of a life outside of writing, I think the whole thing could become sort of overwhelming.

My wife, Joy, is the single best thing that has ever happened to me. I adore her, and she continues to love me even during the times when I can be not particularly loveable.

The best thing that Joy and I ever did together was make our son, Chris. Hes fun and funny and handsome and smarter than anyone else in the family. Hes also a great cook.

Im honored beyond words that Christyne Nasbe made such a generous contribution to the American Heart Association to lend her name to a character in Threat Warning . Here it is for the record: I borrowed only her name. Whatever characteristics the real-life Christyne shares with my fictional creation is purely coincidental.

Writing books is a part-time endeavor for me. My real job at the Institute of Scrap Recycling Industries Inc.my Big Boy Job, according to my wifegrants me the opportunity to work with a cadre of consummate professionals, and I want to express my gratitude for their friendship and counsel. I cant list every name here, but Id be remiss if I didnt shine the spotlight on a few: Anne Marie Horvath, Tom Herod, Joe Bateman, Robin Wiener, Bob Garino, Kent Kiser, Chuck Carr, Tom Crane, Ed Szrom, Jerry Sjogren, Rick Hare, Cap Grossman, John Sacco, and Kendig Kneen.

Speaking of Kendig Kneen, rest assured that he is a far, far nicer man than the character to whom I lent his name in Threat Warning . And, Kendig, sorry about changing the spelling of your last name for the book. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Id put my publishing team at Kensington up against any other in the business. Ive worked with a number of houses over the years, and Ive never seen a more dedicated group of professionals. Michaela Hamilton is hands down the best editor Ive ever worked with. She understands what Im trying to say, sometimes better than I do. Publisher Laurie Parkin demonstrates the kind of excitement about the book business that you dont see anymore in todays world of product placement and profit and loss statements. At the very top of the pyramid sits Steve Zacharius, who exudes a love of the business. Thank you all for all you do.

Of course, nothing happens in a publishing career without the tireless efforts of a great agent. I have the best in the business in Anne Hawkins of John Hawkins and Associates. That shes also a dear friend makes it even better.

Also by John Gilstrap

FICTION

Hostage Zero

No Mercy

Scott Free

Even Steven

At All Costs

Nathans Run

NONFICTION

Six Minutes to Freedom (with Kurt Muse)

COLLABORATIONS

Watchlist: A Serial Thriller

C HAPTER O NE

Colleen Devlin tried her best to blend in with the commuting crowd, hoping that the long black coat and the stocking cap pulled tight around her ears wouldnt provoke some cop or citizen do-gooder to intervene. After all the training and all the talking, it was finally time to pull the trigger. Literally.

The frigid wind off the Potomac River braced her for what lay ahead, as if by chilling her skin she could likewise chill her nerves. It wasnt that she was afraid of dyingif it came to that, shed do what she had to dobut rather that she was afraid of failure. Brother Michael had prepared them for the variables of battle, the thousand complications that render the most careful planning useless once the violence begins. If that happened when that happenedshe prayed that she would have the resolve and the resourcefulness to adapt. It was about keeping her head.

The Army of God was counting on her. Theyd blessed her with their faith, their trust in her abilities. There could be no greater sin than to let them down.

She moved as she imagined a commuter would, her eyes ahead and her stride purposeful, a lone pedestrian on this cold November evening, strolling on the sidewalk, separated from the sea of oncoming headlights by a waist-high Jersey barrier. If it were two hours from now, or two hours ago, the traffic here on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, one of only two crossings on the Capital Beltway that linked Virginia and Maryland, would have been breezing along at sixty miles an hour, creating a windstorm of its own. Here at six-fifteen, however, the rush-hour traffic moved at barely a crawl, a walkers pace, as the money worshippers left their resource-guzzling offices via their resource-guzzling automobiles to eat dinner with their families in their resource-guzzling homes. Colleens eyes watered from the cold, distorting the approaching train of headlights into as many shimmering stars, an endless serpent of greed. They were all Users. And they were in for one heck of a surprise.

Colleens Bushmaster 5.56-millimeter assault rifle felt like raw power, slung muzzle down from her right armpit. She affected a limp to keep it from poking out through the vent of her coat. Loaded with a thirty-round magazine to which a second thirty-round mag was taped for quick reloading, her most devastating damage would be inflicted in the first fifteen seconds. The first mag would be spent in three-round bursts aimed at the drivers half of the windshields, followed immediately by the second mag, which would be expended in a spray-and-slay raking motion. These shots would be unaimed and random, with the muzzle always a tick or two below horizontal to increase the likelihood of scoring hits.

The remaining two mags in the pockets of her well-concealed ballistic vest would be used only in support of her escape. If that didnt go wellif capture seemed imminentshed... well, she wouldnt need more than one bullet for that, would she?

This is what God must feel like, Colleen thought, and then she was instantly sorry for the blasphemy. But it was true. People would live or die at her whim. The ultimate power lay in her hands.

Her Bluetooth earpiece buzzed, startling her. She pressed the CONNECT button. Yes, she said.

Are you in position? It was Brother Stephen. The fact of his call meant that he had taken up position on the opposite end of the bridge, the Maryland end.

Colleen felt her heart rate double. I am, she said. Its beautiful.

Ill see you at the Farm when its over.

The line went dead. It was time.

Colleen threw open her coat and brought the weapon to her shoulder.

Man, you should have seen the look on the first drivers face.

Jonathan Grave shifted his B MW M 6 into neutral to give his clutch leg a rest. Next time I say yes to tickets, he said, remind me that I hate traffic.

Next to him, Father Dom DAngelo shrugged. I offered to drive.

You drive a piece of shit. He flashed a smile. No offense.

Dom laughed. The diocese looks askance at priests who drive sports cars.

Surely God wants his representatives in better wheels than a Kia, Jonathan said. I think I read somewhere that Satan drives a Kia. The car in front moved six feet, and Jonathan eased forward to keep up. Isnt rush hour supposed to go the other way?