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-SIX
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 what he might do today. A boy who is desperate to impress but who feels the need to be impressive at the same time. A sixteen-year-old boy confused about who he is and what he is here to do.
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-SEVEN
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 posttraumatic 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 in the light or dark.
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 head, the one Moore trusted to talk with the parents.
The range master calls for a ceasefire on the shooting line, and the teens fire off their remaining rounds, pop the magazines, and wait with breeches open. 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 did you know I played the game?” 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?”