I Am the Mission

by Allen Zadoff

  “You’re wrong,” Moore says. “I think you’re one of those things.”

  I sense Flannel moving closer just outside my view. I crane my neck like a kid who is scared and trying to see what’s going on around him. I use the gesture to map the profiles of bodies just outside the headlights. It’s possible I’m going to have to defend myself in this situation, and if I do, I want to know what I’m up against.

  Moore’s intensity grows as he stares at me.

  “Which are you?” Moore says. “A hero or a villain?”

  He waits for me to respond.

  I exhale slowly. I’m trying to get a line on Moore so I know the right thing to say, but it’s nearly impossible. His energy fluctuates in a way that makes it hard to follow him.

  Still, I have to respond. He’s on the cusp of deciding something about me.

  Suddenly, I have an intuition about him. He’s a gruff ex-military man. I should appeal to that energy in a way he will recognize.

  “I didn’t come here for this shit,” I say, and I wrench my shoulder hard enough to surprise him and break his grip.

  Bodies leap toward us from outside the light, but Moore puts up a hand to stop them.

  “I thought you were a great man,” I say, talking fast. “At least that’s what my father said, and I wanted to see if it was true. But I didn’t come here to get shot or to be interrogated afterward. Seriously, fuck this.”

  I stiffen my back and raise my face to him, challenging his power.

  “You’re not being interrogated,” Moore says, momentarily on the defensive.

  “I risked my neck to protect you from some crazy person. And you don’t even thank me. You accuse me of—I don’t even know what. I just know I’m out of here.”

  I slump my shoulders and look at the ground, spent from my outburst.

  “You misunderstand,” Moore says. “We’re simply having a dialogue.”

  “I want to go home and take a shower and forget I came here.”

  Then I do something Moore probably hasn’t seen in a long time.

  I turn my back to him and start to walk away.

  “Just a minute,” he says forcefully.

  I stop, but I don’t around.

  “Maybe I was wrong about you,” he says.

  Moore comes forward, breaking the two-foot rule.

  He is close. Close enough for me to finish my mission.

  My assignment is always to assassinate in a way that will appear to be from natural causes. I must complete the assignment without revealing myself or threatening The Program.

  In a situation like this with a high likelihood of being detected, protocol dictates that I back away until another opportunity presents itself. But on every other mission, I’ve had the time to properly acquire my target, and multiple opportunities to act. My job is simply to set the stage and choose one.

  It’s never been like tonight.

  One event. One shot. One moment with Moore.

  I may not get another.

  “Can I trust you, Daniel?” Moore asks.

  “I guess my saving your life wasn’t enough to earn your trust?”

  Moore looks toward the sky, subtly craning his neck. Crickets sing in the tall grass around us.

  “You’re a wiseass,” Moore says.

  “A little bit,” I say.

  Moore smiles.

  “You remind me of myself,” he says.

  He nods once, and then he’s gone, backing away from me quickly and disappearing into the night.

  I stand alone, pinned in the headlights.

  I’ve lost the mission.

  I think about Father waiting for me half a mile away. I imagine going to him and telling him what happened here tonight.

  The mission was lost once before. What will it mean that I can’t complete it now? This on top of the concerns The Program already has about me, my disappearing to Vermont, the issues with my last assignment—

  Brakes squeal behind me. I turn to find Moore standing next to an SUV, leaning in and whispering to Lee. A moment later Moore climbs into the SUV and it immediately peels out, one truck in front and one behind in a motorcade formation.

  Moore is gone, and with him, my mission.

  Lee comes over to me, an expression of surprise on his face.

  “Unbelievable,” he says.

  “What?”

  “My father invited you to tour Liberty.”

  “Really?” I say.

  This is the moment I’ve been trained for, the junction of fate and opportunity that separates the experienced operative from the amateur. The amateur hesitates, while the experienced soldier acts.

  The problem is Camp Liberty. I’ve been forbidden to go there.

  “What do you think?” Lee says.

  “A tour? That’s great news,” I tell him.

  I can go back to Father now, not with a lost mission, but with an alternative. I will go into Camp Liberty and get Moore. It’s not the mission I prepped for—it’s more complex and difficult—but it can be planned, mapped out, then executed.

  I will finish my mission. I’ll just have to persuade Father to let me do it from the inside.

  “When can I come for the tour?” I ask Lee.

  “Right now,” he says.

  “That’s not possible,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s late,” I say, struggling for a viable excuse that will keep me out of the camp.

  I can’t go in now. I’ve got no backup and no contingency plan. Father doesn’t have any information about what’s gone on tonight.

  “You can stay over tonight,” Lee says. “There’s plenty of room. We’ll show you around in the morning.”

  We can’t have you in the encampment. That’s what Father said.

  “My dad is coming to pick me up in a bit,” I say.

  “You can call him from the road,” Lee says.

  A black truck pulls up next to us, the engine idling. Flannel is in the driver’s seat looking straight ahead.

  “We have to go now,” Lee says. “If you’re coming with us, that is.”

  Lee opens the back door.

  I glance at my iPhone. The signal is still blocked from the digital jamming vehicle in front of the community center.

  I imagine Father out on the utility road waiting for me. I can be there in ten minutes, safe and warm in the front seat, discussing what went wrong tonight and what we might do about it.

  But if I don’t go now, what chance do I have of getting to Moore again? What chance do I have for completing my mission?

  I search my mind for alternatives, but I can’t find any. The probability of success declines to nearly zero the moment I walk away from Lee.

  I can’t lose this mission, not when I’ve been sent to complete it.

  If I go in now, Father and Mother might be angry with me. But if I finish the job quickly, how can they be anything but impressed?

  The stronger soldier succeeds where the weaker soldier failed.

  I will show The Program that I am the stronger soldier.

  I look at Lee standing with one hand on the open truck door.

  Later I’ll think back on this moment and wonder if the soldier before me stood in front of a truck like this and made a decision about whether to go into camp.

  But that will be much later. Right now, it is just me.

  I glance at Flannel behind the wheel, waiting. I look back at Lee.

  “Are you coming?” Lee asks.

  “I’m coming,” I say, and I climb into the truck.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING HERE?” A GIRL SAYS.

  She’s in the backseat of the truck, her face obscured in shadow.

  “He’s coming with,” Lee says. “Dad invited him.”

  “And the night just gets weirder,” she says and looks out the window.

  I slide in next to her, Lee following behind.

  “Have you met my sister, Miranda?” he says.

  “I haven’t had the p
leasure,” I say.

  Miranda doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “And I guess I won’t now,” I say.

  I expect that to earn me some reaction, but I get nothing. The atmosphere in the truck is tense.

  “I kind of thought I saved the day,” I say. “Why’s everyone in a bad mood?”

  “You may find an assassination attempt funny,” Flannel says, “But it’s not funny to us. Not by a long shot.”

  I let shame bleed into my voice.

  “You’re right. Sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.”

  Someone knocks on the front window, a signal to Flannel. He grunts and puts the truck in gear. He pauses briefly at the exit to the driveway, then, with a squeal of tires, he pulls out behind another truck. I note a second truck behind us, filling out the motorcade that will take us to Camp Liberty.

  “Everyone’s a little tense,” Lee says by way of explanation. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I say.

  “You weren’t thinking,” Miranda says under her breath.

  “Not unusual for me,” I say.

  I note her energy soften after I take a dig at myself.

  Flannel drives quickly on the winding road, and I keep bumping into Miranda, our bodies touching in the darkness.

  “Sorry. It’s a little tight back here,” I say.

  “So you’re not trying to feel me up?” she says.

  “I move fast, but not that fast,” I say.

  She doesn’t respond, just shifts her torso and brings her hands into her lap.

  I have to be careful about flirting with Miranda. I want to win her over, but not at the expense of my relationship with Lee.

  This mission is shifting with each moment. What was a direct assassination attempt has become something more like a standard assignment. I need to consider Lee and Miranda as marks that I can use to bring me closer to their father. I will have to study them, quickly assessing how they interact with each other and with their father so I can keep myself safe as I make inroads toward Moore.

  “We’re clear of the signal blocking now,” Lee says. “You can call your dad.”

  “Good idea,” I say.

  I pull out my iPhone. Miranda glances at it.

  “Is that the new one?” she says.

  “Yeah. Are you into tech?”

  “We all are,” she says.

  “We?”

  “At Liberty. It’s part of what we do.”

  “We’re a tech-heavy organization,” Lee says, explaining. “My father believes if you don’t stay on the cutting edge, you fall behind.”

  “I saw that he was using an iPad onstage,” I say.

  “Right. He’s in love with that thing.”

  “It’s cool when old people try to use tech,” I say.

  Miranda laughs. Flannel clears his throat in the front of the truck. A warning?

  “No offense to anyone,” I add quickly.

  “I’m not offended,” Lee says. “But if you say something like that at camp, you won’t be around for long.”

  “Your father doesn’t have much of a sense of humor,” I say.

  “It comes and goes,” Lee says. “But when it goes, it’s really gone.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I say.

  “The camp is organized on a military model,” Lee says. “That means you respect your superiors or you’re out.”

  “Lighten up,” Miranda says. “He’s just coming for a tour.”

  “It’s better he know now,” Lee says.

  Flannel interrupts from the front seat: “Daniel was about to call his dad.”

  Strange that he wants me to make the call.

  “I’ll give him a try right now,” I announce to the truck.

  I look to my iPhone. I can’t risk putting it in secure mode with them watching me, but Father and I have protocols for that. I have a public number I can call, one that will pass the signal through a relay and connect me live to Father on a phone used only for this purpose.

  The truck is silent as the number dials through.

  Three rings, that’s all it takes. I’ve used a public number on two occasions before, once on assignment in Ann Arbor, another during a mission in Austin, both in public circumstances where I was being monitored. Three rings and Father picks up. That’s how it works.

  I wait three rings now, but there is no pickup.

  Four rings with no response.

  Strange.

  Five rings. Then six.

  I let it ring ten times, but Father doesn’t pick up.

  “What’s up?” Lee says.

  “He’s not answering.”

  “Maybe it’s the mountains,” Lee says. “Signals have a way of getting distorted up here.”

  “But it’s ringing,” I say.

  “Maybe he’s ignoring you,” Miranda says, her voice teasing.

  “Yeah, you might have been abandoned,” Lee says, picking up on Miranda’s energy. The image of hyenas comes to mind, the way they can be in competition with each other one minute, then working as a pack the next.

  I’ll need to be cautious about this.

  “Whatever it is, it’s fucking weird,” I say, letting them hear anxiety in my voice.

  I dial again, and again it rings without Father answering.

  “Nothing?” Miranda says.

  I put the phone away.

  “I’ll try him in a few minutes. I have to let him know where I am or he gets pissed. Then you don’t want to live in my world, you know?”

  Suddenly the truck shudders and there’s a loud flapping noise from beneath us.

  “Shit,” Flannel says managing to keep the truck on the road as he brings us to a stop along the side of the road.

  “Sounds like we got a flat,” Lee says.

  “Damn back roads,” Flannel says, but there’s something in his tone that sets me on edge. I replay his sentence in my mind, listening for variations in the speech pattern. That’s when I know what it is:

  He’s not surprised.

  The motorcade trucks stop in front and behind us.

  “Time for triple A,” I say.

  “Time for triple me,” Flannel says.

  “You need a hand?” Lee asks him.

  Flannel looks from Lee back to me.

  “That’s a good idea,” he says.

  Lee slips out of the car, then Flannel pauses.

  “You okay in here?” he says to Miranda.

  “I’ve got my pepper spray,” she says.

  “No doubt,” he says.

  He turns off the truck and takes the keys out of the ignition, slipping them into his pocket as he goes. It’s a smart security measure. You don’t leave a running car in the hands of a stranger, even a car with a flat tire.

  The door closes, and I’m alone with Miranda. I hear voices muffled outside the truck as Flannel and Lee determine the safest way to change a tire on a back road with no breakdown lane. It takes less than a minute for the air in the truck to go from ice-cold to the inside of an oven.

  “Hot as hell,” I say.

  Miranda doesn’t say anything.

  “Are you going to pepper spray me if I unbutton the top button on my shirt?”

  “You seem like a nice enough guy….” she says.

  “Crap, here comes the let’s-be-friends speech. Let me just get my seat belt buckled before I crash and burn.”

  The side of the truck tilts up several degrees as Flannel jacks up the car.

  “Listen to me,” she says. “I don’t know why you want to come to Camp Liberty, but now is not the time.”

  “Why not?” I say.

  I hear the sound of metal on metal as Flannel starts to twist off the wheel lugs. Miranda glances toward the back of the truck, where they’re changing the tire.

  “I can’t explain it to you,” she says. “But trust me when I tell you you’re in over your head.”

  “Maybe I like being in over my head. It’s a challenge.”
r />   “You don’t need this kind of challenge.”

  She reaches toward me suddenly and grasps my arm. Her hand is warm where it makes contact with my bare arm.

  “It’s not safe right now,” she says more urgently. “The camp isn’t safe.”

  Suddenly her door opens. She lets go of me, quickly letting her hand fall out of sight.

  Flannel stands there, sweat soaking through his heavy shirt.

  “Miranda, the other truck is going to take you in,” he says.

  “Finally,” Miranda says, like she’s had enough. Of the truck or me, I can’t be sure.

  She gets out, and I start to slide out after her.

  “Not you,” Flannel says to me. “Just Miranda and Lee.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re waiting,” he says.

  “I’m sweating,” I say with a whine. An annoyed kid used to getting his way.

  “I’m betting you’ll survive,” Flannel says, and he closes the door.

  The truck in front of us backs up until it’s parallel to our own. Miranda glances at me, her eyes drilling into me one last time before she climbs in and disappears behind blacked-out windows.

  I see Lee get in the other side of the truck, and two-thirds of the motorcade pulls away.

  That leaves me alone on the side of the road with Flannel.

  I hear the lug nuts going on one at a time with an electric drill. It doesn’t take more than ninety seconds before I hear Flannel toss the flat tire into the trunk bed.

  My internal alarm goes off.

  If it was only going to take ninety seconds, why transfer Lee and Miranda to a different vehicle?

  I look around the truck, searching out things I might use to defend myself. Loose tools on the floor, maps, even a tightly rolled newspaper is a weapon in the right hands.

  My hands.

  Flannel opens the back door.

  “What’s up?” I say. “Do you need a hand?”

  “All done,” he says. “You ride in the front now.”

  “Why now?”

  “So I can see you.”

  “Girls tell me I’m easy on the eyes,” I say.

  He looks at me, not amused. He holds the door, waiting for me to get out.

  “So much for limo service,” I say, keeping my tone light and arrogant, consistent with the Daniel Martin I’m building on the fly.

  I had one afternoon to prepare this identity. It was only deep enough to get me through a two-hour event at the community center until I could complete my mission. I did not anticipate having to be Daniel Martin in multiple conversations with people of varying agendas, all probing to know more.