I Am the Mission: The Unknown Assassin Book 2

by Allen Zadoff

  “Funny man,” he says. “Follow me.”

  He turns, and his flashlight beam catches a small flash of red on the ground.

  I follow him, stopping briefly to tie my shoe. I scoop the little piece of red into my hand and close my fist around it.

  “You coming?” he says.

  “Right behind you. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Why do you need to know what my name is?”

  “Relax, guy, I’m trying to fit in here.”

  He points the flashlight in my face again.

  “My name is Aaron,” he says.

  Then he swings the flashlight back around and beckons me to follow him to the building with my sleeping quarters.

  “Breakfast is in the main house at oh seven hundred,” he says, using the military designation for seven AM.

  He blocks the keypad with his body while he dials the code. The lock clicks, and he opens the door and waits for me to go inside.

  “Thanks, Aaron.”

  “How’d you get out in the first place?”

  “It was unlocked.”

  “Lee,” he says, shaking his head. “Sloppy.”

  He closes the door, and I hear the lock click.

  I go back to my room and flip on the light.

  I open my fist to examine what I found on the ground outside.

  It’s a thin red curlicue of rubberized plastic insulation. The shape tells me it’s been stripped from some type of wire. It could be from a car or some other machine, an engine that was being repaired. It could be from electrical wiring in a building.

  It could be anything at all.

  I button it into the side pocket of my camo pants, then strip down and go to bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I DON’T SLEEP.

  For the rest of the night I lie awake, thinking about The Program and why I am unable to communicate with them. I come up with three major hypotheses:

  1. Technical interference, either man-made or spontaneously occurring.

  2. They’ve cut me off on purpose, either because it’s not safe for me to communicate with them or for other reasons I cannot fathom.

  3. They are themselves cut off, in trouble, or otherwise compromised.

  Of the choices, I deem number two to be the most likely. If our communications system has been breached by Moore’s people, the only choice would be to stop communicating with me until a message can be passed safely.

  But if that’s true, what does it mean for my assignment? Do I continue forward until I get to Moore, carrying out the last directive I was given? Or do I default to primary objectives, protecting The Program first and myself second?

  I run through the options again, but I don’t come to any conclusions.

  After a while I get up and sit in a chair. Sleep research has found that after lying in bed for thirty minutes without falling asleep, it is better not to fight sleeplessness. It’s more effective to get up and do something else for a while, change location and tasks, thereby allowing your body to find its own sleep rhythm. You will get tired later and go back to bed without having to force it.

  So I sit in a chair and think about everything I’ve learned about Liberty up until now. I think about Moore, where he might be sleeping, what it would be like to sneak up on him unprotected and complete my assignment.

  And maybe for a second I think about Miranda, the softness of her chest against my arm when I grabbed her in the forest.

  I stay in the chair for the rest of the night.

  I don’t sleep.

  The next thing I know light is creeping between the window blinds, and I hear distant bangs, a sound both distinctive and chilling.

  It is the sound of gunfire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT BEGINS WITH A SINGLE SHOT.

  One becomes two, two becomes cascades of rifle fire, the echoes bouncing around the valley.

  I drop from the chair and crawl away from the window, expecting shattering glass and the sound of rounds hitting the wall above my head. None come.

  The shooting stops. For the briefest of moments I think I dreamt it, and then it begins again, another volley of gunfire.

  This is not an attack. It’s training.

  I walk down the hall and hit the head quickly, pause to look at myself in the mirror.

  I see a boy with bags under his eyes, his face puffy from lack of sleep. I see that my tight haircut is in need of a trim. I note that I lost some weight in the sports camp and on the journey to New Hampshire. This causes my muscles to appear too pronounced. Normally I like to hide my physical abilities behind a couple of extra pounds, just enough to lower expectations.

  I see this too-thin, too-tired boy who has been up most of the night, first on a mission and then on postmission planning, and I transform his energy into that of a boy who had trouble sleeping because he is nervous about the day to come. A sixteen-year-old desperate to impress, yet confused about who he is and what he is here to achieve.

  In short, I make myself into Daniel Martin, the new recruit at camp.

  Finally I stretch out my T-shirt, loosening it up to make myself appear smaller and less athletic.

  When I’m done, I look away from the mirror, draw my attention back to the morning and the moment.

  The sound of shooting continues in the distance.

  I walk to the exit door down the end of the hall.

  Last night it was locked from the outside. Today it is open, an invitation to the game.

  I take the invitation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  LEE IS WAITING FOR ME.

  He is lost in thought, leaning against the wall of my building, his hands jammed deep in his camouflage pants pockets.

  “You’re awake,” he says when he sees me.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long. Dad asked me to let you sleep. He said trauma can exhaust a person emotionally and physically.”

  Trauma. Tackling a crazed woman with a gun and narrowly escaping being shot. Just seeing that would be too much for most people, triggering days of anxiety and post-traumatic stress. And being in the middle of it? That would indeed be traumatic.

  But I am not traumatized. Not by a long shot.

  Another volley of gunfire echoes across the camp. I note a brief lag between the shot and my reaction to it, which doesn’t please me. My response time is dulled from lack of sleep.

  “Is someone being executed?” I say.

  “We only do that on Wednesday,” he says. “Today is Saturday.”

  “It’s nice to have something to look forward to.”

  He smiles and motions for me to follow him.

  “We train every day,” he says as we walk. “You’re going to get a taste of life here.”

  “How about a taste of breakfast first?”

  “Plenty of time to eat afterward,” he says.

  He takes me around the back of the structure and we walk toward the camp perimeter. I’m memorizing details as we go, matching the small, dark wood cabins and larger white buildings to the images from the game last night, creating a mental map of the compound so I can navigate by day or night.

  We walk through what was an active laser fence last night, out past the perimeter, and around to a gun range. It’s set several hundred yards away from the camp facing out toward the mountain. Any stray rounds will continue on for a time until they impact in the forest, where they can do no harm.

  There are about two dozen teens out here, half in shooting positions, half watching from behind, awaiting their chance on the firing line.

  Shooting practice.

  It’s one thing to receive weapons training for self-protection or so one can be a safe and knowledgeable hunter. But that’s not what I see here.

  These teens are on their bellies firing assault rifles from combat positions.

  I recognize the range master from the community center last night. He’s the man in his early forties with a shaved he
ad, the one Moore trusted to talk with the parents.

  The range master calls for a cease-fire on the shooting line, and the teens fire off their remaining rounds, pop the magazines, and check their chambers. These kids know what they’re doing, and they exhibit proper range etiquette. The range master walks the line like a pro, inspecting weapons and correcting where he finds error.

  Then he crosses to us, giving me the once-over.

  “This is the guy I’ve heard so much about?” he says.

  Lee nods. “Daniel, this is Burch,” he says.

  “Sergeant Burch,” the range master says, correcting him.

  “You were at the community center last night,” I say.

  “So were you. And you did a hell of a job, son. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He extends a callused hand to shake. I let him crush me a little with his grip, allowing him to assert dominance right off the bat.

  A true military man.

  “I’d like to give Daniel a chance to fire off a few,” Lee says.

  Sergeant Burch’s face grows troubled.

  “That’s not a good idea,” he says.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” Lee says. “What do you think, Daniel?”

  I’ve been trained to shoot, but I don’t like guns.

  The nature of my work doesn’t call for them. There’s no such thing as anonymity with propulsive weapons, no way to use them quietly, to fully control the damage inflicted, or to obliterate the forensic evidence that remains after the fact.

  For all their power, guns are inefficient for someone like me.

  “It’s not up to me whether I shoot,” I say, deferring to Sergeant Burch.

  “That’s right,” Burch says with an appreciative nod. “Nothing personal, young man, but we don’t allow the new people—”

  “He’s going to shoot,” Lee says, interrupting. “We all shoot here.” Something angry passes across Lee’s face, a dark energy that surfaces seemingly from nowhere and disappears just as quickly. “Besides,” he says, “it’s important to shoot because it improves your player stats in the game. And let’s be honest, you could use some improvement.”

  “How do you know my stats?” I say.

  “Everyone knows,” he says. “The scores are public.”

  Light laughter around me. The group of teens have been listening in, their attention focused on us.

  I say, “Funny for you guys, maybe, but I was locked out of all the buildings. How is that fair?”

  “It’s a realistic simulation,” Lee says. “That’s what would happen if our perimeter were breached now. You’d be out in the open with nobody to protect you.”

  “You wouldn’t let me in the building?”

  “It’s not up to me,” Lee says. “You don’t have security clearance. You know what that makes you?”

  “What?”

  “SOL,” he says. “Shit out of luck.”

  He snaps his fingers rapidly, the edginess returning.

  “Let’s get back to business,” Sergeant Burch says to the group. “B-Group to the shooting line. Load your weapons and await my command.”

  He turns to Lee.

  “Why don’t you take your friend for a walk while we finish training.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father,” Lee says.

  A look passes between them.

  “Burch gets confused sometimes,” Lee says, directing his comments toward me. “He thinks that because he and my father served together, he can give me orders.”

  Sergeant Burch’s face stays passive, but he cranes his neck sideways until it cracks.

  “I want Daniel to shoot,” Lee says.

  “You said yourself that he doesn’t have security clearance.”

  “I’m giving it to him now.”

  “I’m not going to put a weapon in a stranger’s hands,” Sergeant Burch says. “It’s a breach of protocol.”

  “Who says he’s a stranger? He was invited by my father, and he’s my personal responsibility.”

  “You vouch for him?” Burch says.

  “I do,” Lee says.

  “Then by all means, let’s give him a rifle,” Burch says, then shouts, “Clear the line!”

  The teens in firing positions lay their weapons on the ground and retreat to the safety of the observation bench.

  Sergeant Burch selects a rifle from a table and walks it toward me. I recognize the profile of the M4 carbine, a military-issue weapon that has become the successor to the M16 for U.S. combat troops. A true M4 is illegal for private sale or ownership. It’s possible that I’m looking at a legal variant, a civilian knock-off without a fully automatic mode. But I can’t be sure without firing it.

  “Do you know your way around a combat rifle?” Sergeant Burch asks.

  “I learned a few tricks during my three tours in Afghanistan,” I say.

  Sergeant Burch stares at me without so much as cracking a smile.

  “So you’ve never fired a weapon like this,” he says.

  “Nope. I’m only sixteen.”

  “I’ve got thirteen-year-olds who can handle this weapon.”

  “Well, then it sounds like I’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “Fair enough,” Burch says with the calm demeanor of a good instructor. “If we’re going to do it, we’re going to do it properly.”

  With Lee looking on, Burch gives me a one-minute tutorial on loading and firing the weapon and the safety procedures associated with it.

  When he’s done, he passes me the weapon.

  “This is not a toy,” Sergeant Burch says. “I need your entire focus and concentration.”

  “You have it,” I say.

  I take the weapon from him. I press the telescoping stock into my shoulder, aim downrange, and sight down the barrel.

  That’s when Moore comes striding onto the range with Aaron and Francisco following close behind.

  I shift toward Moore, and his eyes widen as he sees the rifle in my hands. Francisco and Aaron react quickly, moving in front of him as Aaron quick-draws a pistol from under his arm.

  Moore puts a hand out to stop Aaron. Then he steps between Aaron and Francisco, exposing his chest as he moves slowly toward me.

  “What’s going on here?” he says quietly.

  “They asked me if I wanted to shoot,” I say.

  “Who asked you?” Moore says.

  I glance at the crowd of teens watching us, moving my eyes but not my body.

  “Lee asked,” I say.

  Moore walks toward me. Francisco and Aaron tense behind him but hold their positions.

  Twenty degrees of rotation. That’s what it would take to bring the shortened barrel of the M4 in line with Moore’s chest. At this distance, the round would impact with devastating effect. A double tap, two bullets to the chest, and it would be over.

  Moore must know this, but it doesn’t deter him. He stays in the open, exposed to danger.

  “The rifle,” Moore says, spreading his arms wide. “Do you know how to use it?”

  “Sergeant Burch showed me,” I say.

  “Lee vouched for him,” Sergeant Burch says.

  “Very well,” Moore says. “Daniel, I want you to aim the rifle at my son.”

  Lee’s eyes widen.

  “I can’t do that,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t aim a weapon at anyone you’re not willing to kill,” I say.

  “I told you to aim, not fire.”

  “They’re the same thing,” I say. “I’ve had shooting lessons. I know to consider them the same.”

  I sense movement behind me. It’s Sergeant Burch. He’s picked up a rifle and trained it on my back. He’s not shy about aiming.

  “What if I command you to aim at my son?” Moore says.

  “I don’t take orders from you,” I say.

  Tension ripples across the faces of the kids watching us.

  Moore nods, considering wha
t I’ve said.

  “Do you take requests?” he says.

  “If they’re reasonable.”

  “Put the weapon down.”

  I make sure the rifle is on safe, and I pull the magazine. I place them both on the ground at my feet.

  I feel Sergeant Burch relax behind me. Aaron and Francisco move back into position next to Moore.

  Suddenly Moore whirls and charges toward his son.

  “You gave a weapon to a newcomer?” he shouts at Lee.

  He glances at the assembled teens, then at Sergeant Burch. Nobody dares speak.

  “I did,” Lee says, putting on a brave face in front of his father.

  “Why?” Moore says.

  “The game,” Lee says. “I wanted to establish a skill level for him—”

  Moore reaches out and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. At first it seems like a benign gesture, but his fingers turn white as he grips, pressing into Lee’s flesh the same way he pressed into mine in the parking lot of the community center last night. I see Lee working hard not to react while Moore bears down, putting intense pressure on his nerve plexus. Sweat breaks out on Lee’s forehead and his face goes pale, but he doesn’t make a sound.

  Moore lowers his voice, leaning in toward Lee.

  “I love you,” he says, “and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. But you have to learn that decisions have consequences. You put yourself in danger with your actions here. Do you see that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lee says, his voice faint.

  “You put all of us in danger.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m not always going to be here to protect you,” Moore says.

  He looks at Lee’s face with great concern, then he releases his grip from Lee’s shoulder.

  Lee inhales sharply. I can see him holding back tears.

  “Very well, then,” Moore says, brushing himself off. “Sergeant Burch, we’ll talk about this later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moore slowly looks across the line of teens, a silent challenge.

  Nobody says a word.

  “Daniel, why don’t we take a walk together,” Moore says. “If you don’t mind.”

  I adjust the glasses on the bridge of my nose.

  “I don’t mind,” I say.