Inside Threat

by Jason Elam; Steve Yohn

  Monday, September 12, 6:50 a.m. CDT

  Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  Allen Barr turned his dusty, dimpled grey Ford Taurus left off of NW 39th Street into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. He circled around to the back of the store because at this time of day the front parking was always taken. He was ten minutes early for his meeting, but past experience told him that it could take that long to find an open table.

  After finding a spot, he turned the key and pulled it out. The car answered by rumbling for a few seconds. Then it knocked a little before finally settling into a long series of clicks.

  That can’t be good, Allen thought. Then again, what can you do? Unless the car fairies come down in the middle of the night to fix it, it’s just going to have to keep complaining every time I shut it down.

  Since his divorce three years ago, money was extremely tight. Alimony and child support took a significant portion of his paycheck each month. But he didn’t begrudge it. He was still madly in love with his wife, and he knew that he was the reason they weren’t together.

  And his kids—they were the light of his life. Two girls and a boy, all under ten. He was striving to rebuild a relationship with them, and so far it seemed to be working.

  No, Allen didn’t care how much of his check they took or how hard he would have to work. The entire blame for his current life’s situation fell on his own shoulders. He had made his bed . . .

  Two men in flannel jackets and gimme caps walked out the front doors of the donut shop, the second one holding the door for Allen, who nodded his thanks and stepped in.

  There are few things like the smell of a donut shop, he thought as he deeply inhaled the thick, doughy sweetness. Quickly scanning the restaurant, he saw two tables open with only one customer in front of him. This just might work out!

  When it was his turn, he ordered an iced chocolate bismark, a strawberry cheese Danish, and two coffees. After paying, he said, “Thanks, Lenny,” not expecting any response. In return, he received just what he hadn’t expected. In fact, it was the same response he received every day from the store manager.

  Lenny is not a man who is happy in his work, Allen mused. Lord, bring some happiness into his life. Bring somebody or something. Lenny needs a little boost of love.

  A two-seater was open, and Allen took the seat facing the door. He set the Danish and a coffee on the table in front of the other chair. Marty would complain that he paid again, but Allen felt it was only right. After all, Allen was the reason they were here. He was the one with the problem. He was the one who had blown his life. He was the one who had destroyed his family. Having Marty there to hold him accountable during the rebuilding process was certainly worth a Danish and a cup of coffee a day.

  About five tables away was a four-top. A member of Oklahoma City’s finest was seated in each chair. Allen watched until one of them caught his eye. Almost imperceptibly, Allen nodded and gave a thumbs-up. The officer nodded in response and turned back to the conversation.

  The first time he had seen Officer Donny Marden in the donut shop, he had almost turned and walked back out. But then he thought, That’s what the old Allen would do. Man up! So he had instead walked straight up to the man and introduced himself. Marden vaguely remembered him and seemed a little suspicious of the interruption. But after Allen described his journey and the changes he had made, the policeman had actually stood up, shaken his hand, and wished him luck.

  That was huge for Allen, because Officer Marden had technically been the one who had pulled the pin on the grenade that blew up his life—although Allen knew that when it came down to it, it was all his own fault. It was Officer Marden who had pulled him over that night on I-44. It was he who had given Allen the field sobriety test. It was Officer Marden who had put the cuffs on him. But it was Allen himself who had fifteen minutes earlier gotten in the car knowing full well that he already had two DUIs behind him.

  That arrest had cost him his license and ninety days in jail. It was also the final shove that sent his job and his marriage plunging into the abyss. In the weeks that followed his arrest, he spun so far down into depression that alcoholic homelessness or suicide seemed his only options. Not that there was much difference—one just being a slower way to reach the same end.

  One day, as he sat in that county cell wallowing in self-pity over what he had made of his life, he heard a voice from the other side of the bars.

  “Allen? Allen Barr?”

  Without answering, he looked to his left and saw a man with a gentle face and biceps the size of his own thighs.

  “Hey, Allen, I’m Larry Soady—one of the chaplains here. Sorry it took me a few days to get over to you. How’re you holding up?”

  Allen looked around his small cell, then back at the chaplain. “Now that’s a stupid question.”

  Chaplain Soady smiled. “Yeah, I guess life looks a little brighter from this side of the bars. Anyway, I just came by to see if there was anything I could do for you?”

  “Get me my family back. Get me my job back. Get me out of this place.”

  The smile stayed on Soady’s face. “Well, my friend, I can’t help you with those things, but maybe I know someone who can.”

  Allen’s anger flared. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard it all before. ‘Jesus loves me, this I know’; ‘There’s no sin too great’; ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ Yada, yada, yada. Just stow it! You can keep your Jesus and all your happy little promises that go along with him. My philosophy is God helps those who help themselves.”

  Soady tapped his wedding ring on the bars and said, “Maybe it’s time to start thinking about a new philosophy. Listen, anytime you want to talk, shoot me a kite and I’ll be here.”

  Over the next two weeks, Chaplain Soady came by every couple days—always with a smile on his face, always unfazed by Allen’s attitude. Finally, either by sheer determination or maybe pure stubbornness, he wore down Allen’s defenses.

  “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 th
ough 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!”