Allen Zadoff - Boy Nobody

I let the pen slide into my hand. I turn the cap to weaponize it.

A text chimes on my phone.

I glance at it.

It’s Howard with another 911.

I hesitate.

“Do you need a moment?” the mayor says.

I stare at the 911 message.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Do what you need to do, and then I want to talk about how we can help Sam.”

I walk to the other side of the room, through the path of the cameras. Twice now through the path.

I keep eyes on the mayor as I dial Howard. He answers, his voice high and tense.

“Another photo just went up on the mayor’s blog,” Howard says.

“That’s impossible,” I say.

“Thirty seconds ago.”

I cover my mouth and whisper into the phone.

“I’m with the mayor. He couldn’t have posted anything.”

“It’s not a document this time. There’s a picture embedded in the photo.”

“A picture of what, Howard?”

“Of you. On the street at night.”

The picture Sam took of me.

I turn to the mayor.

“Who posts to your blog?” I say.

“That’s a strange question,” he says.

“It’s important, sir.”

“I write the posts. But Sam’s in charge of the blog. She takes care of everything for me.”

The leaked documents on the blog. They’re not coming from the mayor.

They’re coming from Sam.

I turn my back and press the phone to my lips. “Close everything down, Howard. Cover your tracks.”

I shut off the phone, return the pen to safe mode.

“We have to find Sam,” I say to the mayor. “It’s an emergency.”

Suddenly an explosion rumbles through the mansion, shaking the floor under our feet. The power goes out, accompanied by shouts from the ballroom.

The doors burst open, and the mayor’s security detail rushes in with guns drawn.

“Freeze!” It’s the Pro from the mayor’s apartment. He’s looking straight at me.

The other security people run at the mayor, surrounding him.

“What’s happening?” the mayor says.

“There’s an emergency. We have to go. Now,” one of them says.

They start to hustle the mayor out of the room. The Pro’s got a Glock trained on my chest. The big one, forty-five cal. Thirteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber.

I may not use guns, but I respect them. Especially when they’re pointed at me.

I don’t move.

“Get the mayor out of here,” the Pro says to the security team.

He keeps the gun on me.

The mayor stops in midstride. He’s nearly knocked over by his own security men.

“That’s Ben!” he shouts over the urgings of his security men. “He’s with me.”

The Pro blinks twice, deciding what to do.

I project surprise. I project fear.

Anything that might keep him from pulling the trigger.

The Pro makes his choice. He lowers his pistol.

Then he rushes toward me, grabs me by the arm, and groups me with the mayor, bringing me inside the safety of the security cordon.

“Let’s move!” the Pro shouts, and his team hustles us out of the room.

THE SCENT OF EXPLOSIVES FILLS THE HALLWAY.

The emergency lights flicker red as we move in a group through the smoke-filled halls of Gracie. There is confusion all around us, various security teams struggling to bring order to chaos as they evacuate the guests.

“Where is my daughter?” the mayor says.

“Working on finding her, sir,” the Pro says. “In the meantime we’re taking you and the prime minister to the safe room.”

He shouts at the security detail, and they lead us deeper into the mansion, down a passageway to a secure staircase. The Pro types in a code, the door opens, and he guides us down the stairs and into a basement hallway.

I’m moving with the security team, letting them carry me along, but I’m thinking about the mayor’s blog and the emergency-response protocols that were revealed there. Somebody knows every move we’re making. Not just us. The prime minister as well.

Two key players. But which one is the target?

Loud voices speaking Hebrew in front of us.

We turn the corner and two Israeli agents are shouting into radios. They are down at the end of the hall, barely distinguishable in the red haze.

“Friendlies!” the Pro shouts. “We have the mayor with us.”

The Israelis wave to us, signaling that the hallway is clear.

The mayor and I are shepherded forward, surrounded by the security team.

“Where is the prime minister?” an Israeli asks the Pro.

“I haven’t seen him,” the Pro says.

“Be careful,” the Israeli says. “We don’t know what’s happening here.”

The men nod to one another, and the Pro urges our group forward.

We head down the hall until we approach another corner. There’s a subtle shift in the lighting, a momentary shadow caused by someone passing in front of a distant light source.

The security people don’t see it, but I do.

They rush forward, and I pretend to stumble. There’s a domino effect as our group slows down around me. The Pro quickly scoops me up and gets me back on my feet.

It doesn’t take more than a second. Just enough to slow our forward momentum so we don’t run around the corner.

Into what’s waiting.

Two men with ski masks wearing new nylon jackets like the Gap guys on the subway.

But the ski masks have pistols.

They turn toward us. The mayor is in front of me, blocking the shot. The masked men take aim, but they don’t fire.

They don’t want to hit the mayor.

I shift to the left, and their weapons follow me.

Our security guys do not hesitate. They open fire, instantly mowing the two men down.

The Pro glances at me. He senses something is off, but he’s not sure what it is.

I can see he wants to ask me, but how is he going to interrogate a frightened kid in the middle of a firefight?

“Keep moving!” he says to the group.

“Stay close, Ben,” the mayor says.

Suddenly a secondary explosion rocks the building. The sound is distant and muffled, originating somewhere below us.

The explosions are coming from the basement. That’s where I need to be.

The hall goes black as the explosion knocks out the red emergency lighting. The Pro leads our group forward, the pace slowed to a crawl because of the smoke and darkness.

I use the confusion to slip away from the mayor. He’s in good hands with the Pro, and he’ll be safer without me around.

I double back down the hallway to the bodies of the masked men sprawled on the ground.

I check the first one. He’s dead.

The second one groans. He’s all but gone, bleeding from half a dozen critical wounds.

I roll him over, pull up his mask.

He coughs blood, his eyes distant. His lips are moving.

I lean down and put my ear near his face.

He’s praying. In Hebrew.

These are Israelis—that’s what I think now. But they are not the Israeli security team with the prime minister. They are a different team, men who are working with the Presence.

I’m starting to put this together. It’s the Presence who has been reading the blog, the Presence who needed the security plans to Gracie. It’s he and his men who have been following me.

I have a good idea who he is. And where I might find him.

I follow the thickening smoke toward the basement.

EMPTY DUFFEL BAGS ARE STREWN AROUND A UTILITY ROOM IN THE BASEMENT.

I’ve found the staging area for the attack, but there are no people here. I check surrounding doors, looking for the point of entry into Gracie, but I don’t find anything.