by Tarah Benner
Once we disembark the plane, the first person we meet is Sergeant Mudge. Mudge is a muscular fast-talking officer who seems unwilling to divulge too much. He answers my questions in rapid fire with the sort of responses that leave me unsatisfied.
The second time he answers with “It’s all in your packet,” I pretty much give up on gaining any new information. Mudge is one of those guys who does everything by the book. He reminds me of First Lieutenant Greaves.
They usher us into a black SUV with government plates and tinted windows. The driver is a marine. He has ebony skin and watchful eyes. He’s the type of man who doesn’t relax.
I help Ping get situated in the back and climb into the middle seat. I smile to myself when Alex climbs in the front. No one in his right mind would let Alex ride shotgun. You can’t sit with her for more than five minutes without getting a full interrogation.
“Where are you dropping us off?” Alex asks the second her seatbelt clicks.
“I’ve been instructed to take you to a drop point within the city,” says the marine. “You will wait there until you receive a phone call at the venue for Kimberly Wells. That call is the signal that the safe house is clear.”
Alex nods as if this is routine and not some super weird cloak-and-dagger shit. “So you have eyes on the safe house?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says the marine. “We have been monitoring the area since you departed Peterson.”
“Are we in danger?”
“We are taking every precaution to ensure that you and Ms. Blum arrive safely,” he replies. His voice exudes calmness and precision. It makes me feel more at ease.
“So we are in danger.”
The marine looks annoyed by Alex’s questions. “We can’t know for sure, ma’am. I just have my orders. I’ll deliver you to the drop point, and you’ll wait for the all-clear. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Alex turns around in her seat and waggles her eyebrows. There’s a small part of her that’s loving this, but my insides are simmering with dread.
I doubt that any amount of precautions taken by the US armed forces could possibly keep Mordecai at bay. He has the resources of an entire company at his disposal, as well as an army of bots. And with the technology he gained control of during the Silicon Valley attacks, he could be able to access surveillance cameras or even secret government data.
About twenty minutes outside the city, the marine’s radio lets out a muted garble.
“This is Shelby,” says our driver, instantly on high alert.
“We have a possible ten eighty,” says the man over the radio. “Stand by for further instructions. Over.”
“What’s a ten eighty?” Alex asks. She’s like a dog with a bone.
“It means there’s been an explosion,” says Shelby.
My stomach drops. “What? Where?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t know yet.”
A dark cloud settles over the vehicle, and the weight in my stomach seems to grow. What the hell is going on with the world? It feels as though we’re trapped in a nightmare.
Not a week goes by that Topfold doesn’t report on some sort of attack: a self-driving car hack, a digital heist, a small economic collapse. But attacks like the ones on Silicon Valley? Those are the horrors of the past. Those are the things that used to happen — before the age of mass surveillance. Wars were fought with guns and bombs — not behind a desktop with zeros and ones.
Of course, now that Mordecai has gained control of the bots, there is no normal anymore. The world we lived in is a world of the past. We are living in chaos now.
A few minutes later, Shelby’s radio blares. He picks it up. The other man’s voice is garbled, indiscernible. But I catch the words “Washington Square Park,” and all my blood runs cold.
Washington Square Park is just over a mile from where I used to live. It’s right in the thick of things along Kiran’s delivery routes. Some of my college friends live nearby.
“Change of plans,” says the driver, sliding into the right lane.
“We’re not going to the drop site?”
“We’re going to a different one . . . one that’s closer to the safe house.”
Alex reaches out to turn on the car radio, and Shelby doesn’t stop her. I’m sure he’s just as anxious as we are to learn what’s happening. He probably has friends in the city.
— getting reports that a bomb was detonated in Washington Square Park earlier this morning. Witnesses say they never saw a suspicious package or anything out of the ordinary. Apparently, a woman was sitting near the fountain when her briefcase exploded. No word yet on this woman’s identity or how many bystanders may have been injured . . .
I look back at Ping, whose face is grave. He must be thinking what I’m thinking.
— all public transportation has been shut down, leaving millions stranded all over the city. It is absolute chaos down here right now, but we’ll keep you updated as the situation develops.
The program switches back to the anchor in the newsroom, and a surge of bile rises up in my throat. A woman’s bag exploding in the park sounds like Mordecai. The woman in question had to be a bot carrying an IED.
As we get closer to the city, we hit a bottleneck of traffic. People are honking and jamming in closer, trying to get across the bridge.
My heart beats faster as the SUV creeps forward. I can hear sirens in the distance. I imagine fire trucks and first responders rushing to the scene, and I’m reminded of Mountain View. We haven’t seen the last of this.
Then a breaking-news alert comes over the radio, and my chest tightens with panic.
— attack outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Eyewitnesses say this explosion came from a woman carrying a violin case. She was wearing a black dress and looked like a member of Orchestra Synchronicity, which was scheduled to perform all this week. At least nine people are seriously injured. We have two confirmed casualties so far.
A sickening panic erupts in my stomach and quickly morphs into rage. If there’s been another attack, it may not be the last. Both came bearing Mordecai’s signature, and it can’t be a coincidence.
He didn’t choose Washington Square or the Met at random. Mordecai’s actions are never random. The answer is too horrible to consider, but it’s staring me in the face: If Mordecai is terrorizing New York City, then he must know we’re here.
28
Maggie
I grip the door handle and try not to be sick. Mordecai is sending a message. He knows we’re here. He knows we have Ziva. He’s trying to flush us out.
I’m feeling trapped and claustrophobic. The SUV is locked in traffic. There’s water on my right and cars on my left. There’s nowhere for us to go.
Finally we catch a break in the gridlock, and our vehicle starts to move. We hit several roadblocks on our way, probably tripling our travel time. I expect the police are trying to funnel traffic away from the attack sites. They want to keep people away so they can evacuate the injured, question witnesses, and secure the area.
I can’t believe I don’t have my Optix. All I want to do is scroll through the news and dissect every detail, but right now our only lifeline is the radio broadcast.
I’m not the only one climbing the walls. Alex keeps tapping her foot, looking anxiously out the window. Ping looks uncharacteristically grave, and Ziva’s face is the picture of tragedy. She has to know her brother is responsible. She must know he’s sending her a message.
As the mounting fear constricts my heart, I find myself looking for Jonah. My throat aches with uncontrollable sadness, but I dig my nails into my knees.
I can’t think about Jonah — not for a second. Jonah isn’t here, and he isn’t coming back. No one is coming to save us.
I barely notice where we’re going until I see a run-down Chinese restaurant with a yellow dragon on the sign. Across the street is a payday loans place, an ATM, and a drug store. Golden Dragon is a spot I used to frequent with Kiran until he f
ound a bug in his food.
I get a rush of homesickness when I see the restaurant, and I have an overwhelming urge to be with my friend.
I know this neighborhood. This was close to where I worked after I first moved to New York. The memory of those heady days fills me with nostalgia. It’s comfort food for my tired eyes, and I just want to be with someone who knows me.
“This is where I have to leave you,” says Shelby, pulling into an alley. The sky is overcast, cloudy and gray, and I have a bad feeling in my gut.
Suddenly I hear a deafening boom, and I look around for the source of the noise.
“Here?” snaps Alex, sounding alarmed.
“This is as close as I can get you.”
Just then, a piercing scream rattles my nerves, and my heart skips a beat. There’s been another attack. I just know it. New York is no longer safe.
“Are we still supposed to wait for a signal?” asks Ping, glancing up and down the street.
“If I were you, I would get to the safe house just as quick as you can. Don’t leave unless you have to. Somebody will be in touch.”
None of us needs telling twice. We pile out of the SUV, and Shelby goes around the back to get a wheelchair for Ping. I help him balance as he climbs out of the vehicle and situates himself in the chair.
Despite being back in my old stomping grounds, I feel like a stranger to my city. There’s a nervous charge in the air. People are afraid.
The second we’re all standing in the alley, Shelby takes off down the street. I get a sinking feeling in my gut and fumble for the address.
This is it. We’re on our own. Colonel Sipps can’t help us. Somehow Mordecai knows we’re here, and he’s trying to make us surrender.
The safe house is less than half a mile away, but it feels much, much farther. Ziva is pushing Ping in a wheelchair, and Alex is moving with her head on a swivel.
I’m still not sure where the explosion originated. I can hear distant screams. The street we’re on is completely deserted, just as the forest goes quiet before the storm.
Two minutes later, I realize I’m leading — and that I took a wrong turn. The streets are familiar, but my brain feels jumbled. I’m walking in a circle.
“We have to go that way,” I say in a wavering voice.
“What?” snaps Alex.
I’m losing my bearings. I’m losing my shit. The buildings around me seem to be swaying, but I know that it’s just me.
Looking around, I realize that we’re the only people standing out in the street. All the shops and restaurants seem to be closed, but I can sense people watching from windows.
I hear the rumbling of an engine behind us as a white news van speeds down the street. Sirens shriek in the distance, and the dread in my gut intensifies.
My head is spinning. I have to sit down. I stop and sink down on the curb, holding my head in my hands.
“Maggie!” snaps Alex, tugging my arm.
It feels as though the world is closing in.
I know I need to get it together, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being hunted.
Mordecai will find us. He’ll track us down. He won’t stop until the world is at his mercy.
Alex is still chattering in my ear, but I keep my eyes on the ground. I crush my temples between my hands, too dizzy to get to my feet.
“I think she’s having a panic attack,” says Ping. His voice sounds far away. “Take some deep breaths.”
“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m the farthest thing from fine.
I sense that Alex has disappeared — to buy me a bottle of water. She reappears with a paper cup from the deli, and I taste watered-down iced tea.
I take a drink and try to breathe. We’re not far from the safe house.
Finally I get to my feet, and we keep walking for another two blocks. It occurs to me that I’m the only one who really knows where we are. Alex may have lived in New York, but she’s not familiar with this neighborhood.
I’m still unnerved by the lack of pedestrians. It’s as though everyone has taken cover.
We stumble onto East Third Street, where a newscast is playing on a large corner screen. A small group of bystanders has begun to gather. Store owners are standing in their doorways.
A man in a reflective yellow vest is staring up, transfixed. He looks as though he has nowhere to be. He is frozen in time.
A woman I recognize from one of the local news stations is reporting on the third attack. It happened half a mile from where we’re standing. The attacks are getting closer.
“He knows,” I whisper, giving voice to my fears.
“What?” says Alex, her voice strained with fear. Long black hairs have come out of her bun, falling in front of her face.
“Mordecai,” I whisper. “He knows we’re here.”
“No,” says Ping — the voice of reason. “He can’t. How could he? The air force said . . .”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, my voice shaking slightly. “I’m not sure how, but Mordecai knows. He’s trying to send a message.”
Ping takes a deep breath. I sense Alex’s wariness. Either I’m paranoid, or I’m right and the four of us are in danger.
“It’s for me,” says Ziva, her voice loud and clear. I don’t remember the last time she spoke.
She’s standing on the edge of the sidewalk wearing a buff dress and a black blazer that clash spectacularly with her titanium legs.
She’s always looked so sad and elegant — the quiet genius with the psycho brother. There are traces of fuchsia lipstick around the edges of her mouth, and her bob of limp curls frames a delicate face.
“Mordecai is trying to reach me. I’m the reason for the attacks.”
I don’t say anything. I think she’s right. But I don’t know what to do.
If the attacks are a message for Ziva, Mordecai won’t stop till he gets what he wants. He knows that Ziva has gone into hiding and that she alone can stop the bots. He’s angry that she managed to escape, but I have a feeling there’s more. His own sister abandoned him. For Mordecai, it’s personal.
“He isn’t going to stop,” says Ziva in a voice of despair.
I look at Alex. Her face says it all. Ziva is what he wants.
“I’m sorry,” says Ziva, managing a smile. Her eyes are swimming with tears.
“It’s not your fault,” says Ping.
But in a way it is, and Ziva knows it. She nods, tears dropping, and I realize how stoic she’s been. As the head of robotics, she’s come under harsh scrutiny. She’s been called a visionary, a terrorist, and a traitor. She’s had to watch her employees die. She was held hostage by her own brother.
I hear more sirens in the distance, but I can’t tell where they’re coming from. They could be part of the newscast, or they could be the sounds of our world. The story of the attacks and the real present danger all blend together in a clamor of terror.
A city fire truck is blazing down the street, and I stick my fingers in my ears. I can feel the sirens rattling my bones — shaking the entire street.
Ziva looks over and her lips move, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She isn’t covering her ears at all. It’s as if she can’t hear a thing. I feel the rumble of the vehicle speeding down the street, and my knees wobble from the vibrations.
A gentle breeze lifts Ziva’s short hair, and she totters off the sidewalk. It happens almost accidentally — as though she caught her heel in a grate. My mouth falls open, and the world slows down as her buff-colored shoes touch down.
There’s a flash of red as the firetruck passes, followed by a sickening thud.
A vacuum of air seems to steal my breath, and my heart shatters in a million pieces. There’s a deafening screech as the truck tries to brake, but it’s already too late.
Alex screams, and Ping’s face contorts. His wheelchair thuds off the curb.
By now the fire truck has come to a halt, and the driver is climbing out. I can smell burned rubber and exhaust fumes. My
vision narrows to a tunnel.
Everything in my periphery is a blur of light and sound as a man jumps out of the truck. He moves in slow motion as the siren lights flash, bathing the street in a blood-red glow.
Somehow, I get to my feet and stagger blindly across the road. Ziva is lying on the pavement — her pink prosthetic legs splayed at awkward angles. Her chic dress is covered in blood, and more is pooling beneath her. It’s thick and dark and coming too fast, but all that’s irrelevant when I see her eyes.
Ziva is staring up at the sky, her eyes like two glassy black pools.
A pair of strong hands is pushing me back, trying to keep me away from the body. It’s one of the firemen who’d been in that truck. His face is slack with shock.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. There are no words to describe it.
Ziva was here, and now she’s gone — another casualty of war.
I glance at Alex, who looks as shocked as I feel. Her face is ghostly white.
With Ziva gone, so is our last hope — our best chance of defeating her brother. Without her, there’s no stopping the bots. There’s no end to Mordecai’s war.
29
Jonah
A light beeping sound is the first thing I hear. It pulls me back from my sleep. I come out of a fog and into a room that is cold and bright and sterile.
I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to wake, but the dryness in my mouth is unbearable. I swallow in an effort to produce some saliva, but there’s no moisture left in my mouth.
Slowly, painfully, I open my eyes. The crust holding my eyelids closed keeps my lashes stuck together, but I can see the blurred outline of a room.
Everything around me is a light grayish brown. I think Maggie calls it “greige.” The walls are sort of a pebble gray, and the tile is flecked with brown. There’s some heavy equipment to my right and a steel-plated door in the corner.
I have a plastic tube sticking out of my nose that winds all the way around my face. The air coming in is icy cold — oxygen, I guess. Another tube is trailing from a tender spot on my arm, and there’s a needle held down by tape. The beeping I heard is coming from the machine. Maybe it’s measuring my heart rate.