I Am the Mission

by Allen Zadoff

  “I woke up after a few hours. I broke the chair and got myself out.”

  He thinks about that.

  “You’re good,” he says. “But I don’t believe you’re that good.”

  “How do you think I got out?”

  “You had help.”

  He looks behind me then around the garage, checking to see if I’ve brought other people with me.

  “If I had help, why would I risk coming here? Why not just call the police?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, still looking around us.

  I watch his hand. His finger stays in position above the button on his cell.

  “Maybe I came because I wanted to be here with you,” I say.

  “You didn’t know where we would be.”

  We.

  That means Miranda is here.

  “I figured it out,” I say. “I played the game.”

  His eyes widen.

  “Attack by Fire,” I say.

  “You’re smart, Daniel. I always thought so. Why would someone so smart come here uninvited?”

  “You’re the one who showed me how to play the game. The first night at the camp. I assumed you showed me for a reason.”

  He nods, conceding the fact.

  “I can see how you might think that,” he says. “But I almost killed you earlier.”

  “Aren’t you glad you didn’t?” I say, with a smile, like all is forgiven.

  I note the tiniest glimmer of doubt in his eye.

  “So you came to be with me?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He motions around the space.

  “Do you know what’s going on here?” he says. “These vans are rigged with explosives, enough to destroy this building. If you played the game, then you know the plan.”

  “I know.”

  He waves his cell phone in the air.

  “And this,” he says, “is the detonator.”

  He steps back, creating more space between us.

  “Do you still want to be here?” he says.

  I tighten my face like I’m struggling with the decision. The most important decision of my life—that’s what I want him to believe.

  He says, “I’ll give you a chance to leave if that’s what you want.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Maybe I owe you one because I shot you with the stun gun.”

  “You shot me twice,” I say.

  “So I owe you two,” he says, and he smiles.

  I see a hint of the Lee I met that first night. A serious kid, but a kid nonetheless.

  “Some of the people up there are going to die,” I say. “Is that what you want?”

  “It’s not what I want,” he says, “but I have the guts to do what I have to do to make a point. Unlike my father.”

  “What about Miranda? She’s up there, too.”

  He looks at his feet. I take the opportunity to step toward him. Now there’s only seven feet between us.

  “I told her not to come,” he says.

  “But she didn’t listen to you, did she?”

  “She wanted to be with me,” he says. “She’s my sister, and she’s loyal. She said we should be together until the end.”

  “After The Hunt, you asked me if I had what it takes to sacrifice myself for a cause. Do you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “I have what it takes,” I say.

  He smiles.

  “So it’s the three of us, then,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  I move toward him a step at a time, covering the remaining distance.

  At first he starts to back up, but I keep coming, raising my arms to the sides so I appear to be no threat to him.

  “It’ll be good to keep each other company,” I say.

  He tries to hide his relief, but his body betrays him. His shoulders lower slightly; the tension in his back releases.

  It’s not easy to die alone in a dark garage, even if it’s for a cause you think is just. I’m offering company in his last moments, and he’s desperate enough to want it.

  I sigh and take off my glasses.

  “When do we do it?” I say.

  I detach the glasses from the right temple arm, and I let the frames fall to the ground.

  “You dropped your glasses,” he says.

  The moment he looks down, I’m on him. My free hand grasps the wrist that is holding the cell phone, while my other arm swings around and presses the weaponized needle into his neck.

  The same needle I used to kill his father.

  The needle contains three doses of poison. I’ve never had to use more than one.

  Until now.

  Lee tries to trigger the phone, but I’m exerting all the pressure I can muster into the nerve ganglion above his wrist, preventing him from closing his hand.

  I need three seconds for the drug to take full effect, maybe a little more because he’s young and has some physical training. He fights me for half that time, trying with all his might to bring his thumb down on the keypad.

  But I press his wrist even harder and torque backward until I feel bones being crushed.

  His strength suddenly ebbs, and he slumps toward me. I grab the cell phone from him.

  He falls into my arms, his face near mine.

  I feel his chest expand and contract, struggling to take a final breath before paralysis makes it impossible.

  His mouth moves. He’s trying to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance.

  I shift my head to one side, feel his face slump against my shoulder, a spot of wet saliva touching my neck above my collar, as intimate as a kiss.

  I don’t look in his eyes.

  I feel them searching for me, but I don’t want to see.

  I wait for the gurgling noises to stop, for the last bit of life to drain from him. I wait for the boy who was Lee to die along with his past and his future.

  I take them both away from him.

  Because it’s my job.

  At least it was.

  I think of the tubule pressed into the tape over my chest, the Program chip contained within it. The betrayal that chip represents.

  That’s when I realize: I didn’t kill Lee because Mike ordered me to.

  I did it because he was dangerous. To himself. To me. To the world at large.

  I did it, not because The Program told me to but because it was the right thing to do.

  Something moves in the shadows over Lee’s shoulder.

  It takes my eyes a moment to adjust before I can see her.

  Miranda.

  She’s watching me.

  And then she turns and disappears into the darkness. I hear the echo of her footsteps and the sound of a door slamming in the stairwell.

  I have to get to her. But not yet. First I must finish here.

  I lay Lee’s body on the concrete floor. I check his pulse.

  He’s gone.

  I make sure the power is off on the cell phone, and then I smash it with my heel, putting this detonator permanently out of commission.

  Lee is dead, his plot thwarted.

  But that is only half of my mission.

  The other half just ran out the door.

  I RACE UP THE STAIRS, THROUGH THE NOW EMPTY KITCHEN, AND DOWN A SERVICE HALL.

  I pass a few remaining servers heading for the exit, and I ask if they’ve seen a girl. They point in the opposite direction, deeper into the building.

  I grab a maintenance jacket from a door hook, keeping my head down as I weave my way through the servers, slowing my pace as I walk up a ramp into the lobby that leads to the main atrium.

  There are a few agents clustered about the room, conferencing intensely about the events outside. They do not know the danger below them this very moment. So I change that.

  “Bomb!” I shout, pointing under our feet.

  That gets them going. They race through the lobby, shouting for people to get out.

  I make my way along the outskirts o
f the room. Suddenly I see a flash of movement from across the atrium. It’s Miranda, running toward the elevator banks.

  I sprint across the lobby, unnoticed amid the evacuation in progress. But by the time I get to the elevators, she is gone.

  I look at the elevator indicators. They’re all at lobby level save one. The car on the end is rising past the twenty-first floor.

  I remember Miranda the night she followed me up the mountain. She’s used to climbing up high, going where she can get some perspective.

  Miranda should have escaped the area, but she did not. She got on an elevator.

  I watch it rising ever higher. I’m guessing Miranda will not stop until she gets to the top of the building.

  That’s where I will go, too.

  THE OBSERVATION PLATFORM.

  I step out to panoramic views of Boston through glass, interrupted by a few neighboring towers of equal or greater height. I do not see Miranda, but her elevator is up here, it’s doors locked open, the alarm ringing continuously.

  I am on the observation deck, but it is possible to go higher.

  The roof.

  I see the entrance to the access stair, its door swinging open on well-greased hinges. I take the stairs two at a time, the elevator alarm fading behind me.

  I open the roof door, and a gust hits me in the face. Warm night air, whipped into a frenzy by the turbulence of high-altitude winds.

  Miranda is standing three-quarters of the way across the roof, steadying herself against the wind, looking away from me. I let the door close loudly behind me, hoping the sound carries.

  She turns.

  I want her to turn. No surprises. Not up here.

  I move slowly toward her across the roof.

  She waits until I’m in earshot, and then she says, “I saw what you did to my brother. He was right. You were sent here to stop us.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “You’re an agent of some kind.”

  I nod. A pained expression crosses her face.

  “I should have let Lee kill you,” she says.

  “Why didn’t you? You knew enough about me to at least be suspicious.”

  She doesn’t answer, only glances toward the street, where the police and military vehicles are pouring into the blocks surrounding the plaza.

  “You were trying to help me from the beginning,” I say. “You warned me not to come to camp, you kept my secret when you found me in the woods, and then you saved my life with your brother.”

  “What does it matter now?” she says, and she steps closer to the roof’s edge.

  “It matters to me.”

  As I look at Miranda, I realize I feel afraid.

  Afraid she will fall. Maybe even afraid of losing her.

  “I told you before,” she says. “I liked you.”

  “Past tense?”

  “Uh, things have gotten a little complicated, wouldn’t you say, Daniel? Or whatever your real name is.”

  My real name.

  “Zach,” I say.

  “What?”

  “My real name. It’s Zach.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  I’ve never said my real name to anyone. Not for years.

  So why now?

  I look at Miranda on the edge of the roof. The wind whips her hair around her shoulders.

  I try to focus on my mission. Two targets, only one of which is down.

  But I cannot think about that now.

  Without the chip inside me, my feelings race around, intense and out of control.

  “Maybe there’s a case to be made,” I say.

  “What kind of case?”

  “A legal argument. You were held against your will at camp. You didn’t plan this bombing. You were forced to go along with it.”

  “They’re still going to find me guilty.”

  “But there are mitigating circumstances. You’ll avoid the death penalty.”

  “So I spend the rest of my life in prison? No, thank you. They’re going to need someone to blame, Daniel. Someone to punish.”

  “There’s still a chance for leniency,” I say. “A few years in prison, and then you can go home.”

  “What home?” she says.

  She’s right.

  Her father and brother are dead. Camp Liberty will be dismantled.

  Her hand slips into her jacket pocket and comes out holding something.

  A cell phone just like her brother’s.

  She looks at me across the expanse of rooftop. I step toward her, and she moves closer to the edge.

  She holds up the cell phone between us like a warning.

  “You know what this is?” she says.

  “A backup detonator,” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  A gust of wind blows hard enough that I have to steady myself, redistributing my weight across both legs.

  I look at the way she’s standing. Her body is tight, resistant. She is desperate, out of options.

  My mission is to kill her. At least according to Mike.

  As I think about it now, I realize I haven’t heard from Father or Mother in days. Mike showed up claiming to be some kind of messenger, but can I be sure why he really came?

  For all I know, The Program has ceased to exist. Mike could be lying to me, sending me here for his own reasons.

  Maybe he was embittered by Francisco’s turning against The Program. His first recruit became a traitor. Now he wants to cover his own tracks, so he invented a mission as payback.

  If there is no mission, I’m out here alone without real purpose.

  “Would you leave with me?” I ask Miranda.

  “And go where?”

  “Somewhere. Anywhere.”

  “You want to take me into custody.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Maybe not, but the street below is filled with them. I agree to go, and you take me down and turn me over to them. Then you walk away.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m talking about us.”

  She lowers the detonator.

  “Us?” Her voice is quiet as she says it.

  I say, “The first night on the mountain, you told me you wanted to know what was happening in the real world. Maybe you can live there for a while, see what it’s like. Maybe we both can.”

  Her face softens for a moment, then her eyes cloud over and her face turns to stone.

  “If I left with you, what would that make me?” Miranda says.

  “It would make you free,” I say.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “It would make me a traitor. Like my mother.”

  My eyes are drawn to the motion in her hand. I look down and see her dialing a number on the cell phone.

  “Don’t do this,” I say.

  “There’s no way out, Daniel.”

  I think about four days ago, standing in a circle of soldiers with their weapons pointed at me. The riddle that Father created for me.

  “That’s not true,” I tell her. “There’s always a way.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and she dials the final number on the cell and hits CALL.

  I brace myself for the explosion—

  A second passes, then two and three.

  Nothing happens.

  She looks at the cell, making sure the number is correct. She presses it again.

  I’m looking at the giant antennas around us.

  “We’re surrounded by high-frequency radio antennas,” I say. “They can block cell signals at this proximity.”

  Her eyes dart around the roof.

  “It’s done, Miranda.”

  She peers over the edge of the roof toward the ground.

  “It’s not done,” she says. “You said so yourself. There’s always a way. I can still get a signal. I just need to be closer to the ground.”

  I suddenly understand her, the insanity of what she is contemplating.

  “
You don’t know if the vans were wired correctly. You don’t know if your cell phone signal can transmit through the walls of the subbasement.”

  “But there’s a chance, isn’t there? If I were closer to the explosives. There’s a chance it would work.”

  I hear sirens down below us, their sound carried up by the wind.

  “The bomb squad may already be down there,” I say. “They may have dismantled everything.”

  “Not everything,” she says. “I don’t think so. Truck bombs with fail-safes and trip wires? It’s going to take them a long time.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  I’m moving steadily toward her now, a step at a time.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she says. “The bombs are still armed. They just need the right signal.”

  “Don’t do it,” I say. “Come away with me.”

  She smiles.

  “You think you’re going to save me, Daniel, but you’re wrong.”

  She looks out across the dark expanse of the city. The wind pulls at her clothing.

  “I don’t need to be saved. I just need to finish what we started.”

  “We?”

  “My family. My legacy,” she says, and she steps off the building.

  I rush to the edge, and I see her falling back into space.

  Few people could do what she’s attempting. A fall like this would cause most people to flail, spinning out of control. They might pass out before they hit the ground or even have a heart attack.

  But Miranda expertly adjusts her body in the air, spreading her arms and legs in the classic arch position of a skydiver. A falling object does not accelerate indefinitely. It reaches a terminal velocity and cannot fall any faster. By taking the arch position, she controls her descent, creating wind resistance and increasing the time it takes for her to reach terminal velocity.

  There is no way that she will survive, but she’s not trying to survive.

  She’s trying to complete her mission.

  In the last seconds I see her pull her arms together above her head, the cell phone still clutched tightly in one hand, the other reaching to press the keys.

  I turn away before she hits the ground.

  A second later I feel the deep rumble of explosives detonating far below me.

  The vibration travels up the steel of the building like a great shiver, and then the roof suddenly tilts to one side as a critical support lets loose in the structure far below. The angle steepens as another support gives way.