On the piece of paper is a number: 578.
I look at the house nearest me. It’s number 62.
An ambulance in a residential neighborhood invites attention, so I’m guessing they dropped me off a ways from my location.
I start walking. I make my posture casual like that of a kid in the neighborhood coming home late from school on a Friday night.
After several blocks, the houses become sparse and the road dead-ends in a cul-de-sac with only a few homes, each hidden behind tall bushes. The mailbox identifies the house at the very end as number 578.
I walk down a pathway and come to a white-and-yellow house set back from the road with a silver Ford Escape in the driveway. I try the front door and find it unlocked. I go inside.
“How was school?” Father calls from the kitchen as if we’ve shared this moment together a thousand times.
“Great,” I say as if I’m not surprised to find Father here, and I shut the door behind me.
I hear an unusual sound from the door, something like an air lock being sealed.
“We can talk for real now,” Father says, his head popping through the door of the kitchen before disappearing again.
I look around the living room. On the surface, this appears to be like any other suburban house. Small details of family life are everywhere, from portraits on the mantel above the fireplace to a green blanket thrown casually across the back of the sofa.
I hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. I walk in to find the table is filled with good food: chicken, burgers, salad, fresh bread. Father is pouring a glass of juice.
“It’s a surprise to see you in the field,” I say.
Father never comes on assignment with me. He’s always nearby, monitoring the situation from afar, sending in cleaning teams or accessing digital resources on my behalf.
“We’ve got a different setup this time out,” Father says. “For expediency’s sake, I’m driving you in and picking you up after.”
Father on an assignment with me. I think about what that might mean. It could represent a lack of trust, a belief that I need to be monitored more closely. It could be the opposite, a sense that I am trustworthy, so much so that Father is willing to put his life in my hands.
Or perhaps there’s a simpler explanation. I am a valuable asset that needs protecting.
I look at the table covered with food. “You’re so involved on this mission you made me dinner?”
“Are you kidding? Whole Foods.”
He puts down an empty plate.
“Sit and eat,” he says. He glances at his watch. “We have three hours before we go mission ready. There’s a lot to do before then.”
CHAPTER TEN
I CONSUME ENOUGH CALORIES FOR TWELVE HOURS OF HIGH-ENERGY WORK.
I won’t need more than that.
When I’m done eating, I meet Father in the living room. I note a slight color deviation in the light coming through the windows. I suspect it’s caused by a security laminate, a nearly invisible film that covers the inside of the window, allowing us to see out but preventing people from seeing in, as well as blocking laser microphones and other surveillance devices.
It’s also renders the glass bullet proof, at least up the level of .50-caliber rounds.
“This is a safe house,” I say.
“A temporary one,” he says.
“The Program owns this house?”
He shakes his head. “The family is out of town for a few days. We’re here for now, and we’ll be gone before anyone knows the difference.
“In the unlikely event we cannot rendezvous immediately after the event tonight, you will make your way back here and await instructions.”
Father takes out a manila envelope and passes it to me.
I open it and a new iPhone slides out.
I swipe with a finger gesture. I check SETTINGS:GENERAL:ABOUT and find the phone set as:
Father says, “You’ll find your background profile on Facebook. You’ll have time to study it, and then it will be erased. We’ll also go over plans for the community center and our protocols for ingress and egress. But now I want you to spend some time with this.”
He reaches into his pocket and removes a small eyeglass case.
“Did Dr. Acosta say I had vision problems?”
Father takes out the glasses and looks through the lenses. “Your vision’s fine. There’s a very minor correction for reading in your nondominant eye. Enough to pass as an actual prescription if anyone examines them, but not enough to inhibit your vision in any significant way.”
“Why do you want me to wear glasses?”
“The right temple arm. It’s detachable.”
He hands the glasses to me.
They’re light gray, an average brand but a nice design. They’re the kind of glasses a stylish kid might buy from a mall in the Northeast. I play with the right temple arm, the part that goes above the ear. I twist counterclockwise, and it detaches from the hinge.
“Careful,” Father says.
I note a spring action down one end. I press it once and watch a weaponized injector needle slide out from the opposite end.
This needle is filled with nerve toxin, a poison I have used many times before. Tap a victim and they are three to seven breaths away from a quiet death.
The toxin is familiar, but the tool is new to me. I must master it.
“Can you visualize the scenario?” Father says.
I’ve been taught to visualize, to project myself forward in time and space and see the successful conclusion of my mission.
I do that now, even without knowing the agenda for tonight or the layout, without knowing much of anything except the tool I will use and the target I will attain.
I imagine myself at the event meeting Eugene Moore. Maybe it happens in a private room where he interviews candidates. We will be sitting across the table from one another, and I will reach across and tap his arm with the needle.
Or maybe it will happen in public, and I will use the confusion of bodies and handshakes to remove my glasses, touch Moore with the needle, and step away. He will fall a few seconds later as if from a stroke or heart attack. I imagine myself slipping through the crush of panicked people to safety.
It’s a high-risk gambit, but it is achievable.
I look up to find Father watching me.
“You can see it,” he says.
“In general terms. Yes.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“No. But that doesn’t worry me.”
He reaches toward me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes gently. It’s a gesture a father might make.
A concerned father.
I step away from his touch. “I’ve got a lot of work to do to prepare,” I say.
“Of course you do,” he says. “I want to show you one more thing, and then I’ll leave you alone to study.”
He guides me to the back door and I follow him outside to a backyard surrounded by high fencing. There is a small metal toolshed set back from the house. We walk to it, and I see a padlock on the door. Father presses the center of the lock, and the top of the padlock opens up to reveal a digital thumbprint reader below.
“Your thumb only,” Father says.
He indicates that I should put my thumb on the digi-reader in the lock.
I press my thumb inside, and the lock opens with a hiss of hydraulics.
Father swings open the door. The shed is empty except for two things:
The first is a glossy black rectangle about the size of a shoe box.
The second is an S-59 high-tech recoilless rifle mounted on the wall.
Father says, “The black rectangle is a secure digital communications pack. It’s here if you need to call home.”
“What’s the rifle for?” I say.
“Emergencies,” Father says.