File Zero

by Jack Mars

  A pedestrian checkpoint. The officers held metal-detecting wands and waved them in the air as they tried to assuage the crowd. Zero knew they would not be able to simply waltz through; on his person he had two EMP grenades, a pistol, and a knife. No way would he get past the cops with all of that.

  “We need to ditch the gear,” he told Maria quietly as he adjusted the black ball cap on his head.

  “We can’t go in empty-handed,” she replied. “Just follow my lead.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll improvise. Just get through as soon as you’re able.”

  They reached the back of the crowd and Maria began to shoulder her way through them, pushing toward the front as angry people shouted at the cops.

  “People, please!” one of the officers shouted. “The event is at capacity and has already begun. We are not letting anyone else through. Let’s all back it up!”

  “Excuse me!” Maria said loudly as she shoved her way up to the officer. “This is unacceptable! We have every right to be there!”

  “Ma’am, I just told you we’re not letting anyone else through, all right? If you leave now, you can see the event on TV—”

  Maria scoffed. “I’ll have you know that my brother was killed in that attack! And you’re going to tell me you can’t let me through?”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” the officer told her, “but I cannot let you—”

  “My husband was down there!” another woman in the crowd shouted.

  “My cousin!” someone else yelled.

  “This is outrageous!” Maria shouted in the cop’s face. Zero stood at a short distance from her, bewildered at what she was trying to pull.

  The officer put one hand up, to indicate that she should stay back, while his other hand reached for the shoulder-mounted radio. “This is Booker, we’re going to need some riot control up on the bridge—”

  “Riot control?!” Maria poked him in the chest. “Is that what you want, a riot?”

  “Ma’am, you need to keep your hands to yourself, or you will be arrested!” the officer shouted in her face.

  “Go ahead then! Arrest me! I’ll sue your ass, your whole department, and then I’ll… I’ll…” She took a step back and staggered, frowning deeply.

  Zero was so caught up in the act that he reached out instinctively and grabbed her elbow. “Are you okay?”

  “Ma’am?” said the cop, taking a step forward.

  “Just a little dizzy…” Maria’s legs suddenly gave out from under her and she collapsed onto the bridge. Several onlookers in the crowd gasped and jumped back as she fell. A woman shrieked.

  “Give her space!” the officer shouted, waving the people back. “Move back, people! Move!”

  Zero’s throat ran dry as Maria’s entire body began quivering. Her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, and a small amount of spittle bubbled from her lips.

  It was so convincing that for a moment Zero forgot himself and his mission as Maria went into a full-on mock seizure.

  “This is Booker! I need EMS up here, now!”

  “Someone help her!” Zero shouted, taking two quick steps back.

  The cop waved the other officers over and shouted orders. “Get something between her teeth! Elevate her legs! You, call EMS again!”

  As the assembled security detail crowded around Maria, Zero understood what she was doing. She knew that they both wouldn’t make it onto the bridge; she had created a diversion for him, much like he had done for her and Sanders on the banks of the Potomac.

  He edged his way sideways between the orange pylons as the tight crowd of spectators closed in around the officers. Then he turned and strode purposefully down the bridge toward the commemoration. He didn’t bother looking back for fear of looking suspicious.

  A few members of the crowd saw him slip through and followed suit, nearly a dozen people in all. He blended in with them as they hurried along down the bridge.

  Thanks, Maria.

  With the clamor of the crowd behind him, Zero could hear the amplified commencement coming from up ahead. About a hundred and fifty yards further up the bridge was a sizeable crowd, between eight hundred and a thousand people by his best estimate. He walked briskly past a black SWAT van that did not appear to have anyone in the cab, and a stalwart but similarly empty NYFD truck.

  Security was noticeably lax. By design, I imagine.

  Beyond the crowd was a small elevated stage, likely on wheels and brought in by flatbed, spanning one of the two lanes on the right side of the bridge’s concrete center barrier. Upon the stage was a podium, and behind it was the mayor of New York, Richard Feinerman. He was a short man in person, mostly bald but with sharp eyes and a strong speaking voice, made all the stronger by the microphone and his trademark hand gestures, which he used to punctuate each statement.

  “New York does not just survive,” the mayor’s voice boomed over the crowd, “we thrive. We do not just endure; we persevere. Once again we find ourselves at the heart of conflict, and while we may forgive, we will never forget.”

  It sounded as if the mayor was nearing the end of his address. His words became background noise as Zero maneuvered his way through the crowd, daring to edge closer to the front. There was a ton of media present, a wide semicircle of news cameras and photographers surrounding the temporary stage in a semicircle that cordoned the spectators from getting too close.

  Zero pulled the brim of his black ball cap lower over his eyes as he drew ever nearer. To the left of the stage were a half-dozen men in black suits—Secret Service, he knew. He looked from one face to another but did not see the man he had mentally identified as Raulsen.

  To the right of the stage were a handful of NYPD officers, a few firefighters, some EMS. The first-responders to the Midtown Tunnel disaster, no doubt. And several yards behind the mayor and the podium was a black town car, its windows tinted dark and two small American flags fluttering from the roof.

  He noticed a few White House staffers lingering behind the Secret Service agents, but he did not see any of the major players—even the chief of staff, Holmes, and the press secretary, Christine Cleary, were absent. Because they know what’s going to happen. They’re staying out of the line of fire.

  Zero held his position about ten yards back from the front of crowd and waited, his injured right hand obscured in his jacket pocket. It ached terribly, but he didn’t let his expression show it. Under the gauze and bandages was the LC9, carefully wrapped with his ring finger secured inside the trigger guard.

  How is this going to go down? he wondered. He glanced upward briefly at the tall tower saddles overhead, the high points from which the suspensions and trellises were built. There can’t be a shooter up there; there wouldn’t be a clear vantage point. Too much in the way. And the NYPD was thoroughly sweeping cars on the lower level. It would have to be done by someone there on the upper level.

  Suddenly Carver’s suggestion of the Secret Service did not seem so farfetched. All they would need is a single person with a gun to fire off a round or two and all hell would break loose.

  Zero was jarred from his thoughts as the crowd around him broke into applause for the mayor’s address. “Thank you.” The mayor paused a moment, waiting for the noise to die down, before continuing. “And now it is my genuine pleasure to introduce a very esteemed guest to our city today. Ladies and gentlemen, President of the United States Eli Pierson.”

  The crowd downright erupted at the announcement. Though many of the spectators might have already guessed it by the car and the presence of the Secret Service, the appearance of the president resulted in raucous cheers and thunderous applause.

  A Secret Service agent opened the back door of the town car behind the stage and Pierson stepped out. He made his way around the side of the stage and the three steps that led up its side, waving to the crowd as he did. He shook the mayor’s hand heartily, and then stepped up to the podium.

  Pierson
stood there for what felt like a long moment, smiling as he scanned the faces before him and waiting for the attention of those cheering for him.

  “My fellow Americans,” he began. “It was with a heavy heart that we once again saw New York bear the brunt of a brutal attack on its people.”

  Zero scanned the stage and the surrounding area quickly, left and right and back again, growing more desperate by the second. He was running out of time; the president’s address would not last long, and he had little doubt that the staged assassination attempt would happen during it, on the world’s stage in front of thirty news cameras.

  But who? From where? How could they avoid being seen or filmed?

  He couldn’t very well just stand there and wait for someone to make a move. By the time they did, it might be too late for him to act.

  “Yet I refuse to use the term ‘victim’ in reference to this attack on our nation,” Pierson continued. “For me, to say ‘victim’ implies a level of helplessness, but this city, and this country, are far from helpless.”

  Zero saw movement behind the president. One of the Secret Service agents lifted a finger to his ear, and then murmured a few silent words into the nearly transparent earpiece. It was a seemingly innocuous motion for an agent, but to him it could have very well been a signal.

  “This attack was about more than just a loss of life; it was an attempt to break our spirit. It was an attempt by a small group of terrorists to assert that our way of life is an affront to them. But I stand here today and say, no. Our way of life is a threat to them. And they should feel threatened.”

  He had to make a move. He took a step forward, trying to push his way further into the crowd, when a voice spoke firmly and quietly from behind him.

  “Hello, Zero.”

  He froze, his heartbeat quickening.

  “We will not back down to their whims,” Pierson said forcefully, his voice rising an octave. A cheer went up from the crowd. “We will not be intimidated.”

  Someone stepped forward to stand beside Zero. He wore a flat gray suit and stood about three inches taller. His shoulders were thick and his hands clasped in front of him.

  “Raulsen,” Zero noted dourly.

  “Hands out of your pockets,” the Secret Service agent ordered, just loud enough for him to hear.

  “We will not be goaded into confrontation,” Pierson boomed to more applause. “The United States will show the world that we can rise above it.”

  Zero slowly pulled his injured right hand from his jacket pocket, and then his left, doing his best to hide the disc-shaped object in his palm. “You’ve been watching me. You saw me coming, didn’t you?”

  Raulsen nodded once. “Try something.” He unclasped his thick hands and turned his left over, giving Zero just a brief glimpse of what he had there. The device was as oblong and black, as small as a Bic lighter, with a single trigger on one end.

  But he had seen a device like it before. It was a remote detonator.

  There’s a bomb, he realized in horror.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  “Now we find ourselves facing yet another threat to our freedoms,” Pierson said into the microphone as his gaze swept over the crowd. “But we will not bend to their will. We will not be threatened. We will rise above it…”

  Zero’s head swam, barely hearing the president’s words as he realized the gravity of the situation. They had planted a bomb somewhere. Under the platform, perhaps, or in the podium. Maybe even inside the president’s car. Before the event, the Secret Service would have insisted on doing their own protective sweep even after the NYPD. It would have been easy to plant.

  But what is he waiting for? As much as Zero didn’t want to see the president incinerated on international television, he couldn’t help but wonder why Raulsen didn’t press the button.

  “Move forward slowly,” Raulsen commanded, his voice low and close to Zero’s ear. “We want you front row for this. Refuse, and I’ll blow it. Make a wrong move, and I’ll blow it.”

  An epiphany struck Zero as hard as a punch to the gut.

  They’re not pinning this on Iranians. They’re going to pin it on me.

  Raulsen had a finger on the trigger, the president on the podium, and a scapegoat right there beside him. This had all been planned. They knew he would come. They knew he would try to stop it. Not only would he be discredited, but so would his family and anyone affiliated with him. They would be arrested swiftly, and no one would ever believe what they knew to be true.

  Zero took an even breath and a small step forward. His left hand palmed the EMP grenade, a small round device of Bixby’s design about the size of a double-wide poker chip. To activate it, he needed to twist the two halves and wait five seconds.

  But he couldn’t do that with only one hand.

  He needed a distraction, but one that wouldn’t prompt Raulsen to detonate prematurely. He took another step forward, the Secret Service agent on his heels as he shouldered through the crowd.

  “You’re really going to do this, Raulsen?” he murmured behind him. “You’re really going to betray him like this? What are they paying you?”

  “Shut up,” Raulsen hissed. “Keep moving.”

  “I’ve seen some of the account statements.” Zero edged between two people, getting closer to the semicircle of media surrounding the platform. “I know what those oil execs paid Holmes for his participation. What was your payday, Raulsen? Roland Kemmerer got eight million, and that was just a down pay—oomph!”

  Zero’s foot caught on someone’s ankle—rather, he caught his foot on someone’s ankle—and he sprawled forward, putting his elbows out. He knocked into several people as he fell. Don’t blow it. Don’t blow it… As his elbows hit the concrete surface of the bridge, he stuck the EMP grenade between his teeth and twisted with his left hand.

  One… Two…

  Raulsen’s strong grip wrapped around Zero’s arm and hauled him to his feet. As he did, Zero tossed the EMP disc in a gentle arc over his head. It vanished just beyond the sea of cameramen.

  The Secret Service agent’s jaw went slack. “You dumb son of a bitch.”

  Then he pressed the trigger button.

  Zero held his breath.

  “Now more than ever,” Pierson was saying into the microphone, we must stand together as Americans—” His voice cut out suddenly, though his mouth kept moving. The president frowned and tapped a finger twice against the mic.

  Cameramen looked down at their equipment, puzzled. Phone screens in the air, recording the president’s address, suddenly went black.

  The EMP grenade hadn’t made a sound, but it had knocked out everything electronic in a twenty-five-yard radius. Every phone, radio, camera, microphone, and remote-detonated bomb lost power in a blink.

  Raulsen, confused, pressed the trigger twice more, but to no avail. Murmurs began to rise from the crowd, people looking at each other in bewilderment. Secret Service agents pressed their fingers to their ears, trying to get someone on the line and failing with their inert radios.

  “It seems like we’re having some technical difficulties,” Pierson said loudly without the aid of the microphone. “Please just bear with us a moment, everyone…”

  Zero breathed a small sigh of relief. But it was short-lived.

  Raulsen dropped the useless detonator as he glared at Zero. “You think that was it? You think you’ve won?” He reached for the shoulder holster in his suit jacket as he bellowed, “It’s Zero! Zero is here!”

  Zero didn’t wait around to see the Sig Sauer, let alone let it be pointed his way. He plunged into the crowd, shoving people aside and elbowing past.

  “Gun!” someone in the crowd shouted frantically. The cry was carried out like a ripple of a lake, from the front to the rear, as people began hurrying in every direction, or trying to. There was nowhere for the front of the crowd to go. Spectators shoved each other violently, trying to push backward, toppling some and trampling over others.

  I have t
o get to Pierson. The crowd was moments from anarchy; there was still opportunity for the assassination to happen. He doubled back, fighting against the current of the throng to make his way back to the stage. A man bumped roughly into his injured hand and he sucked in a pained breath.

  In the half-second he took to wince, the air was driven from his lungs as a shoulder rammed powerfully into his midsection. Raulsen tackled him like a linebacker, driving Zero’s feet right off the ground and taking at least four others down with them. His back and head hit concrete with two hundred and thirty pounds of Secret Service atop him and he saw stars for a moment.

  A thick fist came flying at his face. Zero twisted his head and shoulders as quickly as he could, feeling his spine pop with the sudden movement. Raulsen struck concrete and screamed out.

  Now we’ve both got broken hands. Zero struck him in the throat with two knuckles and bucked his hips, throwing the agent aside. The ball cap had fallen from his head, but he left it where it lay as he scrambled to his feet. He was halfway up when a fleeing spectator knocked into him full-force, driving him back down.

  Raulsen rolled over, holding his broken hand close to his body and reaching for the gun he’d dropped. Zero clambered on his hands and knees and kicked him in the face. Then he snatched up the gun.

  He glanced quickly up at the platform, and between the people rushing around him, he locked eyes with President Pierson. Two Secret Service agents had him flanked, guns drawn, while a third tugged on the president’s arm, imploring him to move.

  But Pierson stared back at Zero, and he could only imagine how it looked: fighting off his head of security, holding a gun.

  Then the Secret Service pulled him away, down the steps of the podium while they stood in front of him as human shields. Zero needed to get there. He couldn’t assume that Raulsen was the only one who had been compromised.

  But first I need to clear this area. He held the Sig Sauer straight up in the air and fired off two crisp, deafening shots.