Allen Zadoff - The Lost Mission

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 convenience for protection.

There is a guard at the service entrance, but he’s 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 into the building.

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. It is loaded in the back of the van between spools of wire and electrical supplies. To the casual observer, it might pass for a utility van carrying needed equipment for a new building and a big event.

But I know it’s carrying something else.

Explosives.

I look at the vans interspersed through the garage. I log the locations, the way more vans are parked toward one corner of the structure, the potential consequences of a coordinated explosion on the structure 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 other 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, what he wants, what motivates him. Does he see himself far away, watching the explosion and chaos from across town?

I don’t think 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. I am 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. A cell phone.

He holds it out so I can see it.

The power is on. The screen glows.

There’s no mistaking what this is.

A detonator.

The only question is how I’m going to get it from him without allowing him to use it.

Ten feet away. I could cover that space in less than two seconds. 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 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?”