by Allen Zadoff
Now I can see smoke plumes rising from different corners of the skyline.
I don’t know which direction I should go, which buildings are being targeted.
And then, suddenly, the street goes black.
It happens in a wave, lights blinking out from far away to near, moving up Cambridge Street and continuing past me. Cars screech to a stop as streetlights go out. I hear fender benders and horn blasts on nearby streets.
Then the buildings start going out one by one as the main power grid fails.
The vans at Liberty. They all said NORTHEAST ELECTRIC.
I imagine them parked at substations around the Boston area. Even one failing substation can cast a substantial part of the city into darkness. And several of them?
I look around and see all of downtown blacked out.
Almost all.
Because the federal building is brightly lit. It stands out from the darkness, rising like a beacon in the Boston night.
The federal building would have its own independent generators, and they’d be in operation for a big event like the one that’s happening tonight.
Lee’s plan takes shape in my mind.
Cast an entire city in darkness except for one building, the building that is a symbol of the government and its power.
That is the beginning, but it’s not the end. Not by a long shot.
I race through the dark streets toward the federal building.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
SECURITY IS BREAKING DOWN IN THE PLAZA.
The ceremony that was going on in the building has been interrupted by the explosions. Police officers in their dress uniforms rush from the area, called to their ready stations to deal with the mounting crisis. FBI agents in suits are forming around the front of the building, talking on cell phones as they look at the plumes of smoke in the sky around them.
As I approach the side door, I see a service driveway that leads under the building.
After 9/11, many new buildings moved delivery and loading areas out to satellite locations away from the main structure. Others got rid of basements altogether and even first floors, raising buildings up on reinforced pylons to increase survivability in a terrorist attack. But more security means more hassle, time delays, inconvenience. Buildings don’t want to give up prime first-floor retail space and the revenue it generates, and executives don’t want to wait hours while urgent packages are delayed for screening. In the ensuing years since 9/11, builders have gotten lax, trading safety for convenience.
I look toward the service entrance, where a guard is surrounded by people asking questions as they stream from the building.
It’s easy enough to get by without his seeing me.
“The building is being evacuated,” he’s saying to someone as I pass by, pushing through a group of people and sneaking inside.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
I FOLLOW THE SERVICE CORRIDOR TO THE SUBBASEMENT.
A loading dock area.
There are more than a half-dozen white vans down here. They are too heavy, their suspensions low to the ground. I look through the back window of one, and I see the same kind of barrels I saw in the Camp Liberty workshop. They are loaded into the back of the van, interspersed with spools of wire and electrical supplies. To the casual observer, this might pass for a utility van carrying needed equipment for a big event.
But I know it’s carrying something else.
Explosives.
I log the locations of vans through the garage. I see the way more vans are parked toward one corner of the structure and the potential consequences of a coordinated explosion on the building above me.
This is Lee’s plan. Black out the entire city, then take out the building that best represents the government. If the government can’t protect itself, how can it protect its citizens?
I examine the other vans, finding no wires or hard connections between them, which means one of two things. They are on timers, or there is a detonator. If it’s a detonator, it could be triggered from far away via cell phone, or it could be a device that requires the bomber to be close at hand.
I think as Lee might think. Does he see himself far away, watching the explosion and chaos from across town?
I don’t believe so. My instinct tells me he’s here. He’s going to make this happen with his own hand, and he wants to be close enough to see it.
Now where will I find him?
I think about Lee in high-pressure situations. I remember him reaching for a brownie during the recruiting event that first night, then for a chocolate bar during The Hunt.
What would Lee do now before the biggest mission of his life?
He might eat some chocolate.
I don’t see him in the subbasement, so on a hunch I ask a maintenance man where I can locate the vending machines. He looks at me like I’m crazy.
“You have to get out of here,” he says.
“My brother. I need to find him,” I say.
He points me toward the staircase.
“One story up on the basement level. Be quick.”
I thank him and race up the stairs. I’m running down the hall toward the vending machines when I see Lee coming toward me. My hunch was right. He’s biting into a chocolate snack cake, the plastic pulled back halfway to keep his fingers from getting dirty.
He stops when he sees me coming. It takes a moment for him to understand what he’s seeing. I was trapped at Camp Liberty and now I am free. I am here and likely a danger to him.
His moment of confusion should be enough for me to get to him, but he recovers more quickly than I expect, dropping the cake, spinning in a 180-degree arc, and darting into the stairwell without a word.
I give chase.
The stairs lead in two directions: up to the lobby or down to the subbasement. I pause and hear footsteps echoing below me. I follow them down.
He has ten meters on me. He is fast from the physical training at the camp, but I am faster, and I make up the distance quickly. He pushes through the door into the subbasement, and I catch it a second later, right on his heels. I calculate the trajectory of a leap and tackle, but before I can accomplish it, he turns and holds his hands up in front of him.
Something glints in the light.
He holds it out so I can see it. He wants me to see it.
A cell phone. The power is on. The screen glows.
This is more than just a cell phone.
It’s his detonator.
The only question is how I’m going to get it from him before he can use it.
Ten feet away. It will take me at least two seconds to get to him, plenty of time for him to press a number and complete the call that triggers the explosives.
“How did you escape from camp?” he says.
“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 Liberty. I assumed you showed me for a reason.”
He nods, concedin
g 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 what it is.
Who it is.
Miranda.
She’s been watching the whole time.
She turns suddenly 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 catch her. But not yet. First I must finish here.
I lay Lee’s body on the concrete floor. I check for a 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 my mission.
The other half just ran out the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
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 that is below them this very moment. But I need them out of the building.
“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 of 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 floor 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.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
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, its 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 stairs, the 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 blacked-out 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.”
“I liked you,” she says. “That’s why I did those things.”
“Liked? Past tense?”
“Uh, things have gotten a little complicated, wouldn’t you say, Daniel? Or whatever your real name is.”
My real name.
I haven’t said my real name to anyone in years.
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.”