I Am the Mission: The Unknown Assassin Book 2

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I Am the Mission: The Unknown Assassin Book 2 Page 6

by Allen Zadoff


  An uncomfortable chuckle passes through the crowd.

  “Sadly,” he says, “that’s not the government we have. We have a government of the money, by the money, and for the money. Big government, big money. Reformers appear from time to time, many of them our friends in the Republican Party, well-meaning folks who try to bring about change from the inside, but the system resists. We end up with bigger government, bigger budgets, higher taxes.”

  He looks at the ground, his head seemingly weighed down with sadness.

  “When you go inside, you become an insider. It’s inevitable. There’s a belief that change can only happen from the inside, but it’s a myth. Your parents know this because they’ve tried it and it hasn’t worked. That’s why they brought you here tonight.”

  He walks forward, standing on the lip of the stage.

  “They brought you to me.”

  He looks across the faces in the crowd.

  “I am the outside. I am the place where change begins.”

  A roar of approval goes up from Moore’s people around the room. They gaze at him with admiration in their eyes. I try to see what they see when they look at him, but I cannot. Not yet, at least.

  “Your parents want you to be a part of that change. They need you to do what they could not do, not with all their money and power. But let me tell you a secret: You can do it.”

  A boy next to me nods in agreement.

  “You may have come here today because you’re afraid for your future. You worry things are only going to get worse, that we adults are making it worse, and you’re the ones who are going to have to live with that.”

  He pauses, letting the idea sink in.

  “You’re right about that. But if that’s not the future you want—you can do something about it.”

  The audience leans forward.

  “Today. Right now. I have some ideas about how we can change things. Together. What do you think?”

  “Yes!” the crowd shouts in unison.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes!”

  “If you trust me and if you’re ready”—Moore looks into my eyes—“I can show you how to change.”

  Something leaps in my chest, a powerful sensation of hope and excitement.

  Then Moore looks away, and the sensation is gone.

  I see the smiles around me in the room, young people glowing, caught up in the same magnetism I felt a moment ago.

  “Who wants to join me at Camp Liberty?” Moore says.

  I look at the kids looking back at him, admiration on their faces. I feel it, too.

  Doubts about my life. My choices up until now. The person I think I am versus the person I want to be someday.

  The person I could be with Moore.

  You know what it feels like to have doubts, Mother said.

  Is this what Mother meant, the reason she sent me on this mission?

  Suddenly I feel a rift opening up inside me. I try to stay in the room, but memories rush up, pulling me with them to another place and time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MY FATHER IS IN FRONT OF ME.

  My real father. He is tied to a chair, drugged, his head sagging, a drop of blood trickling from the corner of his lip.

  I am twelve years old. Mike is next to me. He did this to my father—I know that now. I knew it then, too, in the terrible moment when I came home from my father’s office to find Mike at the house waiting for me.

  I think about what happened after that. Another house.

  The training house for The Program.

  Mike took me there the day he killed my parents. He put me in a room and left me to scream, left me to cry. And then he left me to my silence.

  Only later did a man appear and ask if I was ready.

  Ready for what?

  I did not have the courage to ask the question.

  This man was Father, but I did not know it at the time.

  He gave me a towel and supplies and let me clean myself up. When I was ready, he led me through the house.

  He brought me to the office where I would come to know the woman who I call Mother. She asked me what I wanted. Now that my father was dead. Now that my old life was gone and everything was permanently and irrevocably different.

  She told me I had a choice to make, a choice that would change the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE RIFT CLOSES.

  I am back in the community center, back in the moment with Moore.

  Another time. Another choice.

  Who wants to join me? Moore said.

  I allow myself to get excited. About the greatness Moore sees in us. About the secrets he promises to show us if we follow him.

  Moore continues a slow scan of the room, making marks on his iPad with a stylus as he goes. I now understand the reason for the assigned seats. Moore must have a seating chart on his screen. He’s selecting the kids he wants to meet.

  I wait for his gaze to come across me again. Our eyes lock for the second time.

  I show him what I want him to see, the confusion and excitement I’ve allowed inside my mind just for him. I maintain eye contact, so I do not see whether he makes a mark with the stylus. Instead I make myself unconcerned with the results, focusing instead on the moment.

  And then it passes.

  Moore continues his survey of the room, finishing quickly and walking from the stage in silence. His security team reacts, forming up at his sides. They move him toward the anteroom next to the stage.

  Kids from Camp Liberty are walking around the room now, searching out various recruits, chatting with them briefly before bringing the excited teens to meet Moore.

  I adjust my glasses on my head. I wait.

  A moment later I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IT’S LEE.

  “My father wants to meet you,” he says.

  “Your father?”

  “I’m Lee Moore,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  I note pride in the statement, along with something else. He emphasizes his first name rather than his last, subtly setting himself apart from his father.

  “Daniel Martin,” I say, extending a hand.

  “Daniel. That’s right. I read your application. Your family lives in Manchester, don’t they? I’m surprised you haven’t been here before.”

  “We just moved six months ago from Boston. I’m an Exeter guy now,” I say, reciting my backstory.

  “You’re a prep,” he says with a smirk.

  “Something wrong with that?” I say.

  I’m showing him the Daniel Martin I’ve readied for tonight, a kid from a wealthy family, arrogant on the surface but with serious doubts about himself and his family lurking at his core.

  “Nothing wrong with it,” Lee says, backing off. “I just forgot that part of the story. To be honest, there are a lot of applications. Sometimes I have to skim through the pile when the committee gives them to me.”

  It’s an insult and an admission at the same time. On one hand, he’s letting me know I’m not important enough for a serious read. On the other, he’s admitting he’s fallible, perhaps so I’ll let my guard down.

  “The committee,” I say. “You don’t handle recruiting yourself?”

  “Not my thing. I just consult.”

  “What is your thing?”

  I note a tightening in his jaw. The question irks him. Which tells me he doesn’t know what his thing is yet.

  The expression disappears in a split second, replaced by something else.

  “I’m the son,” he says, his voice certain. “That’s my thing.”

  I take a breath, pulling my energy down to a lower level. Lower energy, lower status.

  “To be honest, I don’t know what my thing is,” I say.

  I see him relax, disarmed by my vulnerability.

  He says, “Your application mentioned your dad was a b
ig deal in the energy sector. You don’t want to follow in his footsteps?”

  I guess he read my application more closely than he admitted.

  I shrug. “It’s true he’s successful, but at what cost? Sometimes I think I’m less of a son and more of a tax write-off. Know what I mean?”

  He looks at me, his interest piqued.

  “I noticed your father didn’t come with you,” he says.

  “He dropped me off, but he couldn’t stay. Just so you know, he wants me here more than anything. It was his idea in the first place.”

  “Not yours?” he says, paying close attention.

  “Not mine,” I say, “but I’m coming around to his point of view.”

  Lee smiles. “It’s tough to admit that your dad is right about something, even when you know he is.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “Anyway, my dad is totally supportive, especially if it means writing a check. That’s one thing he’s very good at.”

  “Nothing to write a check for. You didn’t get in yet,” he says.

  It’s a reminder of my status in the conversation. Lee has a strange way of opening up and then closing down again.

  I decide to let him pull rank for now. Play on his arrogance to try to get him on my side.

  “I’m not in yet,” I say, “but I’m hopeful.”

  I look at him like I need his help. I feel his energy soften.

  “Let’s see what we can do,” he says, looking toward the anteroom. “I’d better bring you over now.”

  He walks me across the back of the room, where we pass a table filled with snacks. It’s split down the middle between healthy and unhealthy, one side packed with vegetables, cheeses, and protein bars, the other with cupcakes, brownies, cookies, and various forms of chocolate. He glances at the table as we pass, then looks back again.

  “Hold up for half a second,” he says.

  He doubles back to the table, looking around the room with great care before turning his attention to the desserts.

  “I’ve got a sweet tooth,” he says.

  He studies a plate of chocolate chip cookies like he’s contemplating the secrets of the universe.

  His hand moves toward the cookies, then over to the brownies, then back to the cookies.

  “I can’t decide,” he says.

  “Why don’t you have both?” I say.

  “I shouldn’t be having any.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father says sugar is bad for the body and soul.”

  “What do you say?”

  He doesn’t respond, just stays focused on the desserts. Eventually he selects a chocolate brownie with great care, then turns his back to the anteroom doorway before starting to eat it.

  “I love chocolate,” he says.

  “Everybody does,” I say. “So why do you have to hide it?”

  Lee lowers his voice. “My father puts this stuff out on the table so he can see who eats it.”

  “He watches?”

  “Everything,” Lee says. “Nothing gets by him. Kids who eat the wrong snacks don’t get the invite. He considers it an indication of weakness.”

  “That’s a little weird,” I say.

  “Never let him hear you say that,” Lee says.

  It tells me a lot about Moore. It tells me how careful I’ll need to be in the next ten minutes.

  “Do you want something from the table?” he says.

  “After what you just said?”

  “It’s between you and me,” he says.

  I look at the snacks on the table. Do I throw myself in with Lee, or do I set myself apart from him?

  I turn my back to the anteroom like Lee did, and I select a chocolate chip cookie.

  When in doubt, emulate. That’s what I’ve learned.

  “Nice,” he says.

  Lee finishes his brownie as I gobble down the cookie. When we’re done, he wipes his chin and checks his shirt for evidence of crumbs.

  “You ready?” he says.

  “Hold up,” I say.

  I brush a couple of crumbs off his sleeve.

  “You’re good to go,” I say, giving him the thumbs-up.

  “Thanks,” he says. “You’re an okay guy, Daniel.”

  “I hope your father thinks so.”

  “Me, too,” he says. “Let’s see what happens.”

  “Let’s,” I say.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A DOZEN KIDS HAVE BEEN SELECTED.

  They form up outside the anteroom, each with a minder from Liberty next to them.

  Lee motions me forward. I reach up to my glasses, refamiliarizing myself with the invisible latch that detaches the temple arm from the frame.

  We move past a woman in her midforties, wild black hair with blond dyed streaks, sweating in the air-conditioned room. She hangs around the side of the room, not in line but not far from it. Something about her energy doesn’t seem right.

  Lee nods to her as we pass by.

  “Who is that woman?” I say.

  “She’s a troublemaker,” Lee says, shaking his head.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “Her daughter is at Liberty, and she subs as an English teacher for us sometimes.”

  “So what’s the trouble?”

  “It’s a long story,” Lee says, unwilling to share more.

  I shrug. “Interesting hairstyle.”

  “You know English teachers,” he says. “They’re creative.”

  To my surprise, Lee bypasses the line of candidates waiting for Moore, taking us right up to the front.

  “No waiting?” I say.

  “You’ve got VIP status because you’re with me,” Lee says.

  “It’s good to be the heir apparent,” I say with a smile.

  “Some days yes, some days no,” Lee says.

  I look through the door into the anteroom. Eugene Moore is sitting behind a table in the back of the room.

  He is not alone.

  Flannel is standing next to him but slightly away from the table, a defensive position that gives him a clear line of sight and movement. Moore’s daughter, Miranda, comes in and sits next to her father. By her side is the wiry bodyguard with the swivel neck.

  Moore, Miranda, Flannel, and Swivel Neck.

  That makes four people in the room. When Lee takes me in, there will be five.

  I’m going to have to create enough of a distraction to allow me to inject Moore without anyone noticing. I project myself through the process. I imagine taking off my glasses, dropping them at Moore’s feet, arming the weapon at the same time. Maybe Moore leans down to help me pick them up, and a forearm is exposed. Or maybe I get them myself, and I press the needle into his calf.

  It will be tricky, but not impossible.

  Twenty feet away now, moving through the last line of security. Lee puts his arm on my shoulders, an indication to all that we’re together. He’s personally bringing me through to meet his father.

  All my senses are firing. I will my body to relax and I steady my breathing.

  I’m ten feet away when Flannel looks up. Our eyes meet.

  His expression changes the instant he sees me.

  Something is wrong.

  Flannel touches Moore’s shoulder. Moore stops what he’s doing and leans toward him.

  Flannel whispers something in Moore’s ear.

  Six feet away now. I slip the glasses from my head, rock them back and forth in my hand, establishing a natural pattern of motion.

  Flannel finishes whispering. Moore nods once, then he looks over at us, first at his son, then at me.

  His look is intense, not at all friendly.

  I counter his energy, allowing my face to slip into an easy smile, relaxing my body posture, placing my shoulders at their lowest, least-threatening position. I tap the glasses against my thigh, my hand moving into position to detach them.

  I take the final few steps toward Moore.

  Lee begins to speak. “Dad, I want to introduce you to Daniel Mart
in—”

  Moore cuts him off, shaking his head in a no gesture.

  Things happen quickly after that.

  Flannel steps in front of Moore, obscuring my view. Swivel Neck joins him, his hand rising in a blocking gesture.

  Lee’s arm slips from around my shoulder and grips my bicep.

  “Hold up,” he says.

  Swivel Neck comes toward us.

  “What’s going on?” I say, tension in my voice.

  “He doesn’t want to meet you,” Lee says.

  “What do you mean? He chose me.”

  “He changed his mind. I’m sorry. It happens sometimes.”

  Lee is pulling me away from Moore now, and Swivel Neck has slipped his arm low around my waist, making sure I keep moving.

  I could get away from both of them in a second, but it would bring more attention toward me.

  “What about camp?” I say.

  “Camp is not an option,” Lee says.

  “Maybe another session? Next summer or something?”

  “When my father says no, the decision is made. I’m sorry you came all the way out here. I didn’t know it would go like this.”

  Additional security people are moving toward us, tightening the circle around me. People around the room are craning their necks to see what’s going on.

  Something off to the side catches my eye. The English teacher with wild hair is moving behind the security people. She’s using my distraction to move closer to Moore.

  She fumbles in her purse, trying to get ahold of something.

  “You’re going to have to leave,” Swivel Neck says, and he clamps down on my arm.

  I look to Lee for help, but he’s moving away, no longer willing to engage with me.

  I resist Swivel Neck, and his grip tightens on my arm. He’s strong, obviously a guy who works out, but he’s not an expert. His grip is too low. Grab higher up on someone’s arm and you lock out the shoulder joint. Even more effective would be to bear-hug me out of the space. That’s how bouncers are trained to deal with drunks. Come up behind and clamp them around the middle, pinning their arms against their bodies.

 

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