Read Online Threat Warning by John Gilstrap - Free Book Online Page B

said. At least she thought she did. “Aafia Janwari.”
    The man said, “Oh, shit,” and then he went away. Aafia went away, too.

C HAPTER S EVEN
     
    Jonathan met FBI Director Irene Rivers for breakfast at the Maple Inn in Vienna, Virginia. A dive by most standards, it was a favorite hangout for the spooky community that had grown up around CIA headquarters, which sat just six miles north on Route 123—or, as it was called within the incorporated limits of the Town of Vienna, Maple Avenue. Jonathan had lost track of the number of clandestine meetings in the open he’d had here over the years, but combined, his didn’t account for one tenth of one percent of the cumulative secrets heard by the restaurant’s walls.
    Because the food was good and inexpensive, and the beer was cold and plentiful, the Maple Inn’s clientele attracted the widest possible demographic, from soccer moms with kids to working folks of every color collar. Most important to Jonathan and the people he met with, the waitstaff knew when to take an order and when to stay away.
    After their eggs, sausage, and toast had been delivered, and the pleasantries were out of the way, Jonathan got down to business.
    “Thanks for coming to my rescue last night.”
    She shrugged it off. “The Secret Service has an arrogant streak that pisses me off,” she said. “It feels good to put a thumb in their eye from time to time.”
    “Will you be able to keep my name out of the press?”
    Irene dipped a corner of her toast in the runny yolk of her egg and took a tiny bite. “The Prince George’s County Police arrested and released a fellow named Chuck Carr last night,” she said. “He was suspected of being one of the bridge shooters.”
    “And Agent Clark?” Jonathan had already finished his eggs, and had shifted his concentration to making a sandwich with his sausage patty.
    “He was never there,” Irene said, her face showing disappointment. “That was part of the deal with Ramsey Miller.” He was Irene’s counterpart at the Secret Service. “Letting the shooter run away was a big enough screw-up that he didn’t want the embarrassment.”
    “So who arrested me? I mean who arrested Chuck Carr?”
    “Does that really matter?”
    Jonathan thought about that. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
    Irene smiled. “Good. So, tell me who you saw on the bridge.”
    He started from the beginning and went through it all. When he was done, he had Irene’s full attention.
    “A girl, huh?” she said. “That’s a twist. You sure it wasn’t a long-haired boy?”
    “A long-haired boy with boobs, maybe. My powers of observation are really pretty well-honed. Why?”
    She shrugged. “It just runs counter to the profile. These mass-shooting types are always male.”
    “I think I saw her drop her weapon,” Jonathan recalled. “Anything useful from that?”
    “Generic Bushmaster, two-two-three caliber, modified for fully automatic fire. What concerns me is the marksmanship. Both of the gunmen—gun persons —knew what they were doing, and both were firing the same ammo from the same lot.”
    “Do you know where they got it?”
    “Not yet, but I’m not hopeful that we’ll learn a lot from that. Just a gut feeling. These guys feel trained to me.”
    “Any connection to the mall shootings in Kansas last weekend?” Eight people had been murdered in that incident, with over thirty wounded. When the shooters had been cornered, they’d killed themselves rather than being taken into custody.
    “Officially, no. Unofficially, absolutely. They were both invisible teens with jihadist propaganda in their pockets.”
    “Arab?”
    “Not hardly. One of them had red hair. But not all Muslims are Arab.”
    “Are you thinking terrorist cell?”
    Irene’s eyes grew wide as she feigned insult. “Good God, Digger. We don’t use the T-word for this. The president has made it clear that there will be no domestic terrorist attacks on his watch.”
    Jonathan chuckled.