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(Between Seattle and Jehovah’s Valley, Wednesday evening, Oct. 1, 2013)
Adam drove calmly out of Seattle. He was a little tense getting out of the University District onto the Floating Bridge, from there to 405, and south. When he picked up I-90 and headed east, he could relax a bit. But only a bit. Seattle was one of those cities where rush hour traffic extended into the early evening and went both directions. He couldn’t figure that out. If people lived in the cheaper suburbs and commuted into work that made sense. But if an equal number were living downtown and commuting out? Why didn’t they either switch houses or jobs?
People wanted what they didn’t have, he supposed.
He took a calming breath, let it out slowly, forced his hands to unclench around the steering wheel. It was six hours to Jehovah’s Valley. He’d get there well after midnight. A long drive after a long day. A tough day.
He hadn’t expected to be making it alone either. It helped a lot to be able to switch off drivers. But Matthew was in custody. Their local guide had faded off as he was supposed to once he’d guided them to their second target. And then, it had all gone to hell.
He considered the word, decided it was justified. He smiled grimly at his continued attention to language. It anchored him to be concerned with the details of language.
The first target had gone as planned. They watched as the clinic staff closed up. Then, they drove up into the back-parking lot. Matthew had fired a flare into the fire line they’d laid the night before. The local—what had been his name? —had been sitting in the back seat of the extended cab. He’d grunted in surprise as the line caught fire.
“Works,” Matthew had said with satisfaction.
“I see it does,” the man had stammered. He’d been silent after that except to give them directions out to the clinic in the U District as they called it. Adam wasn’t sure what to make of his reaction. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know enough to hurt them, even if he went to the police. No names. Bare descriptions. No indication of their origins. Police would be skeptical, would probably arrest him for his role in the bombings. So, no worries.
They’d driven by the University clinic; no one was there watching. So that much had gone to plan. Their contact at the police station had assured them he would be monitoring everything, and would reassign any officers who were stationed in places Army of God needed to be. So no one would be watching. He’d driven back out to the main street of the district, and their local contact had hopped out and walked away without looking back at them.
Matthew had gotten back into the pickup. They watched him go to the nearest bus stop. “Problem?” Matthew asked.
Adam shook his head. “I don’t think so. We’ll be out of town within an hour.”
He turned around, drove back to the clinic and to the back-parking lot. They all had them, these back lots. How else could they escort the sinners in without the scrutiny of those who watched out front? The women seeking the clinic’s services knew what they were doing was wrong or they wouldn’t sneak around like that. That they did so only confirmed that their cause was just.
But now the lots served their purposes for going unseen. Matthew jumped out of the pickup, walking toward the clinic to get a good shot at the fire line. The flares did a good job, but they could be difficult to aim. Adam got out to cover him.
“Hey! Who are you? Get out of here!” Matthew had said to someone.
Adam frowned.
“Just taking a leak,” a man’s voice said, slurring.
A homeless man? Out here?
“Matthew?” Adam said quietly. He had another flare gun, but he couldn’t fire it if Matthew was close to the fire line. He had his weapon, but he’d have to put down the flare to use it. Indecisive about how to proceed, he kept ahold of the flare gun, his weapon tucked into the back of his jeans. He moved toward where he’d last seen Matthew.
“You got any cigarettes? A man could use one on a night like this,” the homeless man said.
“Cigarettes are bad for you,” Matthew said impatiently. “Go on, now, get out of here.”
“Jesus,” Matthew exclaimed. “Where’d he go?”
The old homeless man had managed to throw a knife and slice Matthew’s neck. Adam had moved out of the shadows to look at the wound. It was bleeding, but not pulsing as it would have if the knife had hit an artery. He’d given Matthew his handkerchief.
He turned toward the clinic with the flare gun, intending to set it off.
“You shouldn’t use that,” another voice had said.
Matthew had faded into the shadows of the fence away from the clinic, while Adam pulled out his flashlight and shined it in the direction of the voice. He’d gotten just a glimpse of the man before he flattened against the house. Enough to see the weapon he had in his hand. Enough to recognize him. That reporter Mark Ryan was so incensed about. Worked for the editor whose house they’d fire-bombed last night. Which reminded him of that whole complication.
He'd been surprised to learn the reporter had served in Afghanistan. Didn’t fit with his image of wussy liberal reporters. Surprised when Matthew didn’t respond to his name. Surprised that the reporter would fire at him as he retreated to the truck. Didn’t hit him. He didn’t think he’d hit the truck, but once he was out of town, he’d find a gas station, check it over, fill up the tank. North Bend was a good place for that.
Adam reviewed the whole episode in his head one more time. He’d been right to abandon Matthew, he decided. Bad enough Matthew was in police custody; it would be a disaster if the police got a hold of him. He knew too much. Army of God could be ruthless when those who knew too much got scooped up by law enforcement.
Having the events firmly in place, he called his supervisor. Put him on speaker phone.
The man listened silently to Adam’s report.
“You handled it correctly,” he said at last.
Adam closed his eyes briefly in relief.
“We’ll get an attorney there within the hour. Shouldn’t be difficult to get him out—they aren’t going to have much evidence. We can even claim he is the victim of a crime. Do you know who the homeless man was?”
“No, and given the reporter showing up, he probably wasn’t even really homeless. But he was good, really good with a throwing knife.”
“Yes. Have you gotten any other reports from your teams?”
“They’re supposed to get free of the city before they call me. I wanted them to set clinics on fire and be out of town as quickly as possible. Is there anything in the media?”
“Not yet. Let me know when they report in.”
“Yes, sir.”
He disconnected and sighed with relief. Army of God took a dim view of failure. He’d failed to set the clinic on fire. He’d lost one of his men to the police—at least he assumed that’s what the reporter would do with him. But no plan went as planned.
He stopped in North Bend for gasoline. The pickup looked fine, no marks. He was glad. Hard to explain bullet holes if he got stopped for something. Hard to explain in Jehovah’s Valley. He got coffee from a Starbucks drive-through, overpriced for a basic cup of coffee but he was unlikely to find Folgers anywhere here. Even the gas station was serving espresso and mochas. He rolled his eyes. More sugar than caffeine.
He was listening to Eric the Red, when Eric interrupted his guest. “Stand by, we have some breaking news,” he said. “The Examiner is reporting that Planned Parenthood Clinics have been bombed. I repeat, at least five clinics have been bombed. Two people are arrested, and....” There was a pause as if Eric was scrolling down and reading as he went; then he continued, “One person has died. A firefighter at one of the sites. Three people have been treated for injuries at a local hospital. No word yet on the amount of property damage.”
Adam felt a moment of grief for the dead firefighter. He had been doing his job. Wasn’t his fault that he was called to the fire of the righteous.
“We have Mark Ryan, director of Emergency Care Center, with us over the phone. Welcome Mark.”
“Thank you,” said Mark’s familiar voice.
“What can you tell us about tonight’s bombs?”
“Very little,” Mark lied smoothly. “However, the articles that ran in the Examiner have upset a great number of people in our Christian community. It is no surprise that some misguided but well-intentioned soul would lash out at the murderers the articles protected.”
“You think this was the work of one person?” Eric asked. “It looks like five or six clinics were bombed at the same time. Pretty much all of them. I don’t see how one person could do that.”
“No,” Mark conceded. “I’m reading the same story you are, Eric. It does look well-coordinated, doesn’t it? It is possible Planned Parenthood did this to themselves, you know. They have in the past.”
“You’re saying Planned Parenthood bombed their own clinics? Why would they do that?”
“I’m not saying that’s what happened,” Mark responded. “But there have been cases in the past where they have.”
That wasn’t true, Adam knew. No clinic had ever bombed itself, but the rumor persisted. And it was people like Mark Ryan who kept it alive. Army of God were happy to claim their bombings. In fact, that should be happening soon.
Adam looked at his watch, 8 p.m. and he was clear of the city. His phone rang. “Yes,” he said.
“Adam, it’s Timothy. Mark is with me, and we’re on I-90 headed east. We’re OK. Got both set off no problems. But the fire department got there really fast. I’m not sure we did as much damage as we hoped.”
Adam visualized his map. They’d been at Northgate Mall and Bellevue.
“Uh Adam?”
“Yes.”
“We were spotted at Northgate. This guy came out of nowhere. He had a gun, I fired at him, got him I think, and then Mark fired the line. Some other guy came from around front, grabbed him, and they ran. We hightailed it out of there. But they must have called the firefighters before we even got it lit, because they were there as we were leaving the parking lot.”
Same two, Adam thought. But one of them was wounded by his encounter with them. He chewed his lip. They’d seen some action before then. Hadn’t been their first firefight.
“That’s OK. You’re in the clear and running. Did anyone show up at the Bellevue clinic?”
“No. It was burning good when we left.”
“Good job,” he said. “I’ll see you two at the Valley.”
He took the call that was holding. “Adam.”
“It’s Paul,” a tired voice said.
Paul and Luke had been out in West Seattle and on Capitol Hill.
“Yes? Luke with you?”
“Yes, but he’s hurt badly. I’m thinking I should drop him off at a hospital in Issaquah or somewhere.”
“Luke? Do you think you can hold on until Jehovah’s Valley? It’s six hours.”
“I dunno,” a slurred voice said. “Burns, hurt like...,” He trailed off, remembering who he was talking to.
“Yes, they do,” Adam said sympathetically. “It’s a problem. If we drop you off, you’ll likely be arrested. Do you think you can remain silent if police question you? Matthew is already locked up. We’re getting him an attorney right now. But it might be awhile before you get home to your family.”
He let Luke think it over.
“Adam, he just passed out. I think he’s got to go to a hospital.”
Adam tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “OK, there’s a big hospital right where 405 merges with I-90. I’m way past it, so I can’t help with this. You’ll have to do it.”
He told him to call 911, say he found a guy staggering along the road. He’d picked him up, and realized he was hurt. Looks like burns, and now he was passed out. He’d be pulling into the emergency area, and he needed help. Then as soon as the EMTs got him, he needed to return to his pickup and leave. No hesitation, no speeding, just drive away.
“Yes, sir,” Paul said soberly, and Adam was reminded how young some of these men were.
“You did good tonight, and you’ll handle this just fine,” Adam reassured him.
“I’ve got this,” Paul said with a bit more confidence. “I’ll see you at the Valley.”
Adam hoped that was true. He took the call from his third team. They’d been down south and out in West Seattle, so they were the last team heading out of town. They hadn’t had any problems, but firefighters had gotten there quickly.
“I thought I saw an unmarked, but nothing happened,” John reported.
So, the cops had known something was going down, but for whatever reason lacked the resources to stop it, Adam concluded. Mark Ryan’s source at the PD had kept his word. And Mark had assured them that a strong contingent of the PD would be supportive. He was skeptical of the last, but he’d heard that white supremacist militias were common out here. Army of God stayed away from them, but a lot of people were sympathetic to both causes. He hadn’t asked questions.
The call he was waiting for came in—the Capitol Hill team. “We did it,” Saul said. “But there were cops all over. They had some RV command center there, but those flare guns are sweet. Setting up the fire lines the night before made it really fast. Even with them expecting us, we were gone before they knew what was happening.”
Adam smiled at the adrenaline high he could hear in the other man’s voice. “Both of you are OK?”
Assured that they were, and that they too were on I-90, Adam called into Eric the Red’s show.
“This is Eric the Red. Do you have something you’d like to say about the bombings tonight?”
It wasn’t Eric, but his assistant. Adam had prepared for that.
“This is Army of God,” he said. “I will only speak to Eric directly.”
He heard the man suck in air. “We can put you through, sir, but you will be on a 10-second delay. FCC rules.”
That wasn’t quite true, but Eric had gotten so many FCC violations that the fines had become prohibitive. So, true enough.
“That’s OK,” Adam said, keeping his voice controlled and pleasant.
“This is Eric the Red. I’m told you know something about tonight’s bombings.”
“Hello, Eric,” he said, smiling as he talked. A radio reporter told him once that was the best way to come across as pleasant over the air—smile while you speak. It seemed to work. This wasn’t his first call-in show. “I’m Army of God. Tonight, we closed down the murder clinics of Planned Parenthood in Seattle.”
“Murder clinics,” Eric repeated. “What is your name? What do I call you?”
“Adam.”
“Adam. Can you tell me more about Army of God?”
“We are devout Christians who serve the Lord and we do His will,” he said.
Adam had written a script, and had it approved the day before. And he’d role-played it with Paul for practice, but also in case Paul had to make the call because he couldn’t. Because he was in jail. Or dead. And that scenario had come closer to fruition than he liked tonight. He had no doubt that that reporter would have shot him—killed him—and gone home to dinner and a good night’s sleep.
“Why Seattle?” Eric asked.
“Why? Seattle needs to come before God and accept His will and His forgiveness. This is a godless and unchurched city. And your acceptance of Planned Parenthood’s clinics shows it. Some whole states have fewer murder clinics than your one city does. Seven!”
He was truly appalled at that. Some states were down to one clinic providing abortions for the whole state. He’d cheer the day they were able to make a state abortion-free.
“Did the controversy over the pregnancy counseling centers story have anything to do with your presence here?”
Adam hesitated. That wasn’t a question he’d expected, but he didn’t see a problem answering it. “It was brought to our attention that those who were seeking to counsel women about their pregnancies were under attack,” he said. “So, we looked into Seattle further. God is not to be mocked!”
“Do you know Mark Ryan, director of Emergency Pregnancy Center?”
Adam frowned. “No.” A lie. But God would understand the need, he was sure.
“So was Army of God responsible for the firebombing of Janet Andrews’ home last night?”
“She has mocked God’s work and His will,” Adam said firmly, back on track. This question he’d expected. “It was just that she pay the price.”
“Where is she? Cops say they’re sure she didn’t die in that fire.”
Adam saw no way out of that question, and he hung up.
He turned up the radio to catch the tail end of that sentence from the delay, and Eric’s wrap-up. Satisfied, he turned the radio to a Christian music station and drove steadily into the night.