Inside Threat (12 page)

“Okay, Larry, talk to me. Tell me what I need to hear,” he said skeptically one day when they were sitting at a table in the common area. The television was so loud that all the other prisoners were talking even louder just to be heard. Allen leaned in so he could hear.

“I don't know who you're thinking Jesus is,” Larry began. “I don't know if you think He's just waiting for you to screw up again so that He can come down on you. I don't know if you think you're beyond His reach because of how you've messed up your life. But John 1:17 says, ‘For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.' Jesus isn't about the rules. You get right with Him, and the rules take care of themselves. He's about grace. Do you know what grace means?”

“I know it's ‘amazing,'” Allen said with an uncomfortable chuckle.

“It is that. Grace just means getting what you don't deserve. Like winning the lottery without ever having bought a ticket. Through Jesus, everyone has won a ticket-free lottery. But not for money—for something better, something bigger. Money's going to get spent or stolen or absorbed into the bottomless pit of the IRS. But the prize we've won never fades or is lost. And it's one of the few things the government can't put its hands on—eternal life.”

“You know, Larry, that's great for when I die. Great to know that I don't just fade into oblivion. But look where I'm at! I've got nothing! I need a here-and-now Jesus, not just a Jesus who's waiting at the finish line.”

Larry's trademark smile crept back onto his face. “That's just the thing, buddy! He's full of grace
and
truth. It's the truth that keeps us going here. He has all the right answers. A life following Him is a life following the path that your Creator created you for. So no matter how bad your life gets, no matter what problems come your way, you can still have peace, joy, contentment. How? Because you're following the Truth. So you know you're not alone. You know you're doing the right thing.”

Twenty minutes later, in the noise of that common area, Allen was praying for the first time in his life. It was a prayer asking for forgiveness from God. It was a prayer that confessed his belief that Jesus Christ had died and rose again for him. It was a prayer committing himself to trying with everything he had to live the way the Lord wanted him to.

Allen took a sip of his coffee and looked around the donut shop.
I wish I could say things have been rosy since then. But at least I'm making progress. And I know God loves me, and that gives me a peace like nothing I've ever felt before.

The front door pinged, and Allen looked over, expecting to see Marty. It was just two stoner teens looking like they wanted to feed a craving. Checking his watch, he saw that it was five after.
Strange, Marty's never late.

Upon Allen's release, Chaplain Soady had connected him with a church that had an Alcoholics Anonymous–like program. The twelve steps were pretty much the same, but they put the name Jesus down as their Higher Power. Marty, sober for eighteen years, had become Allen's sponsor. Now, even when the temptation to drink again was at its worst, through prayer and picturing Marty sitting across from him in this donut shop, he was able to fight through it.

The door pinged again and Allen looked up, again expecting to see Marty. Instead, it was a young man with olive skin and jet-black hair. He was carrying something, and when Allen looked to see what it was, his whole world suddenly shifted into slow motion.

The man shouted something unintelligible as he turned his back to Allen. The automatic weapon in his hands began firing at the table with the police. Officer Marden's throat burst open, and more rounds shook the three other officers to the ground.

For an instant, Allen wondered if this was just someone who had it in for the police. But he had seen the news reports of the other attacks, and when the gunman continued firing at the other tables, he knew this wasn't revenge—it was jihad.

I can't let this happen! Three steps and I'm on him! Lord, give me strength!

As he launched up and took the first step, the faces of his beautiful daughters and precious little son flashed in his mind.
Lord, protect them. Keep them. They're yours.

In his second step, he saw his wife.
Forgive me, sweetheart. I pray you find the Jesus I have, then pass Him on to the kids.

As he took his third step and reached his arms out to grab the gunman, something slammed into his back. He pitched forward and fell onto the shooter's legs. Two more shots sounded from behind him as Allen hit the ground, and the young gunman collapsed on top of him.

The pain in his chest was unbearable, and he was feeling incredibly cold. The other body was pulled off him, and someone was talking to him. Although he knew that man was speaking English, none of the words were making sense to him.

And they seem to be getting smaller . . . shrinking, drifting, fading . . . fading. Pain's fading. Oh, Jesus . . . fading. I'm fading. . . . I'm fading. . . .

Monday, September 12, 1:00 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“Widen it out a bit,” Evie Cline commanded a grumpy Gooey.

Gooey always loved an audience, particularly when he was about to do something really cool. But he didn't appreciate—or desire, or need—any help from the peanut gallery.

A brilliant analyst with satellite and surveillance, he was the oddest of the odd ducks that worked in the RoU (Room of Understanding—a name Evie had determined was less confrontational than War Room) of the counterterrorism division's Special Operations Group Bravo. Crowded around his desk chair were the other analysts of SOG Bravo: Evie Cline, Joey Williamson, and Virgil Hernandez.

“A little bit more,” Evie continued, reaching her hand for his mouse. “Come on, just a little bit—”

“Would you shut up?” Gooey said, blocking her with his shoulder. “It's not like this is my first rodeo.”

“Bzzzz,”
Hernandez called out, giving Gooey two slugs in the arm. “Pay up!”

Recently, the team had put out a tired cliché jar, labeled with the phrase “Oh No You Di'int,” right next to their curse jar, which bore the label “You Kiss Your Mama with That Mouth?” The sanction for minor infractions like “keeping it real” and “staying on the cutting edge” was one dollar. However, if you stooped to uttering especially heinous phrases such as “noodling it out,” “don't go there,” and “What up?” (particularly if combined with the word
dog
), the price started at two dollars and went up from there. So far the highest fine was four dollars paid by Scott Ross when he gratuitously added a delayed “Not!” to the end of a sentence.

“Dude, I'm busy,” Gooey said. He nodded toward a corner of his desk where sat a Velcro flip wallet that was possibly once yellow but was now some other sort of noncolor. “Just take it out.”

“I'm not touching that,” Hernandez countered as he poked at it with a pencil. “I don't want my fingers smelling like gravy or pork rinds or some other rancid food item for the rest of the day.”

“Then shut up and let me work.”

Evie, Hernandez, and Williamson all shared a look.

“
Tsk, tsk, tsk
. Sounds like somebody got up on the wrong side of the sty today,” Evie said disapprovingly.

Gooey spun around. “Listen, guys, I'm trying to get something done, something you three apparently aren't capable of since you're spending all this time over here! So if you're going to hang out over my shoulder, breathing down my neck, I'd appreciate it if you'd maybe shut up so that I can get some work done! What do you think? Would that be okay with you?”

The three analysts stared at him—shock and anger on their faces. Gooey could certainly be temperamental at times. But very rarely did he stoop to this kind of disrespectful outburst.

Then Gooey's face broke into a wide grin. “Aughhhh, I got you! What a bunch of suckers, making it that easy! Go on, pay up!”

Voicing their respect, the trio walked over to the last of the three jars—the gullible jar. On its label stood Bugs Bunny holding a carrot like a cigar. A voice bubble above his head read, “What a maroon!” They each dropped in a five-dollar bill. These infractions cost the most; being gullible was thought by the analysts to be the worst of all crimes.

Swiveling back around, Gooey seized the mouse and continued his work. The gang crowded around him.

“Okay, there he is,” Gooey said, zeroing the screen in. “He looks like he's alone.”

“All the better to minimize the collateral damage. Don't want more people mad at you than is necessary,” Williamson pointed out.

“Wor—exactly,” Gooey agreed, catching himself before he was out another two bucks.

“What are you using to take him out?” Evie asked. She was leaning in so she could better see their target.

“Come on, you know me. I'm going to drop the hammer on him.”

“The big hammer?”

“Is there another?” Gooey took a big breath, laced his fingers, popped his knuckles, and exhaled. “Okay, guys, here goes!”

From the right of the screen, an avatar that looked somewhat like Gooey—except he was thin, sported a neon green mohawk and warpaint, and was dressed only in a loincloth—dropped to the forest ground. In his right hand he held a war hammer that was twice his own size. Before the other avatar on the screen had a chance to react, the hammer came down with a deep
thump
, flattening it. A message came up:
kissmedownunder has been destroyed by epluribusgoonum
.

Cheers went up all around Gooey, as he muttered, “Take that, you Australian wallaby lover. I hope a dingo eats your baby.”

A chant of “USA, USA, USA” echoed through the small room.

Scott, hearing the celebration, came walking out of his office. “Who was it this time?”

“Kissmedownunder,” Gooey answered proudly.

Scott stopped. A look of appreciation spread across his face. “You've been after him for weeks. Congratulations, Gooster. Now, how about you all join me around the table. Break time's over.”

Sounding an obligatory “Awwww,” they all quickly obeyed. Even though they looked and acted like a bunch of National Mall buskers, they were still some of the best counterterrorism analysts in the country. They loved to mess around, but they took their jobs seriously. The knowledge that their successes and failures meant the saving or losing of people's lives constantly weighed on them. Thus the hard work and long hours to get the job done and the regular bouts of obnoxious stupidity to keep themselves sane.

Scott looked around the table at his team and wondered where to begin. This was his first time back into the office since the shooting on Saturday. His desk was piled with paperwork that needed to be filled out and reports that needed to be filed regarding the incident. However, even with all the muckety-mucks wanting fast answers, he still had managed to buy himself a day at home with a quick call to Secretary Porter.

But now he was back. It was game time again.

“Anything I need to know before we begin?” Scott asked, as he titled a yellow legal pad sheet
Staff Meeting: September 12—SR, EC, JW, VH, G
.

“Just that we're glad you're okay,” Evie said, getting up and opening her arms to give Scott a hug.

Okay, this is a little weird,
Scott, who had never been much of a hugger, thought,
but how do you say, “No, please don't hug me”?
He put his pen down, stood up, and put his arms out for Evie. But just before they connected, she leaned back and punched him hard on his chest, right on top of the bruise.

“Evie! Holy mother of St. Lucius!” he cried out, doubling over, then falling back into his chair. Times were tight for the Ross family now that James had been born and Tara wasn't working. Every dollar of fine he paid was a dollar of food snatched from his baby's mouth, a fact Scott tried to keep in mind even as he rode the tide of pain that flowed through his body. “Ohhhh, tie me kangaroo down, sport! Crap biscuit, crap biscuit, crap biscuit!”

Evie showed no pity while she watched Scott try to ease back to normalcy. Meanwhile, the other three guys were in a debate as to whether
crap biscuit
, though not an actual swear word, was still worth fifty cents in the jar per usage.

“What was that for?” Scott finally croaked out.

“For getting yourself shot, Señor Stupido,” Evie said, the rest of the gang drawn back in now. “What's the matter with you? You've got Tara to think of now. And even more than that, you've got James. I'm not going to let my godson go through life without his dad!”

“You're not his godmother,” Scott pointed out.

“Yeah, whatever—maybe not in your eyes.”

“Whose else's eyes count?”