File Zero

by Jack Mars

  “Yeah. Okay.” Rather than turn back to the direction he claimed his house was in, Ethan continued down the gentle hill, picking his way around tall stands of wild grass. “See you around, Sam.”

  “Wait. Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Oh. I’m meeting up with a couple of friends. We have this spot we like to hang out. We just, like, listen to music and talk and stuff.” He thought for a moment. “You wanna, I don’t know, come along?”

  Sara bit her lower lip. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the cabin and saw no signs of movement. It would be at least an hour, maybe more, until Mitch got back. And Maya was sound asleep. They were in the middle of nowhere. Their trackers were gone. Their phones had been left behind.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “I’ll come. For a little bit.”

  *

  Sara followed Ethan as he picked his way down the sloping hill and then back up another. They chatted idly, and Sara was surprised at how easy she found it to make up lies once she had started. Yes, of course she’d heard of Sonic Youth. Yeah, school sucked. And her family was boring too.

  At the crest of the second hill he pointed toward a small ravine worn by what might have once been a river. “Down there,” he told her as he led the way. Below, Sara could see two other kids, talking and laughing about something.

  “Guys,” Ethan announced as they reached the bottom, “this is Sam. She just moved here. Sam, this is Trudy and Mix.”

  “Hi,” Sara said quietly. The girl, Trudy, had a round face and stout cheeks and way too much eye makeup. The boy was gawky and tall with spiky blond hair. “I’m sorry… did you say Mix?”

  “He’s Mike,” Trudy corrected. “He thinks ‘Mix’ sounds cool.”

  “It does sound cool,” the tall boy muttered.

  “Anyway,” Ethan interjected loudly, “Sam is going to hang out with us.”

  Sara looked around the narrow ravine. There were a few upended tree stumps, some candy bar wrappers, and a few crushed beer cans, the labels worn white with weather and time. “What do you guys do down here?”

  “You know,” said Trudy. “Get away from our folks. Hang out. Listen to music.” She turned to Ethan. “Did you bring your Bluetooth speaker?”

  He groaned. “Dammit. I forgot.”

  “Great,” said Trudy as she sat heavily on a stump. “So no music.”

  “Hang on, I got something else.” Mike, or Mix, or whatever his name was, unzipped a backpack at his feet and pulled out two aluminum cans. “Managed to sneak these from my dad’s garage fridge.”

  “Two beers?” Trudy scoffed.

  “It was all I could take without him noticing,” said Mix defensively. “We can each have, like, half.”

  “Oh… uh, I don’t…” Sara stammered. “I don’t drink.”

  All three pairs of eyes were on her. Scrutinizing. Judging, she felt.

  “That’s okay,” said Ethan. “But you gotta take at least one sip.”

  “Right, so that you can’t rat on the rest of us.” Mix popped the top on one of the cans. “Here, you go first. Just one sip. Then we we’ll know you’re not a narc.”

  Just go home. The voice in Sara’s head told her to leave, to get out of there, to hike right back to the cabin and stay there. But their eyes were all on her again. This isn’t what kids normally do. Is it? It felt like it had been a long time since she felt like a normal kid.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she had the can in her hand. She put it to her lips. Just take one sip. It won’t hurt anything. She tipped it back—

  “Sara Jane!” The voice was shrill and commanding and so startling that Sara dropped the can in the dirt, beer pouring out onto the ground.

  “Who the hell is that?” Mix exclaimed.

  Sara already knew who it was. A knot of panic formed in her stomach as Maya marched angrily down into the ravine, her hair still a bedheaded mess and somehow making her look even more imposing than usual. “I’m her sister, that’s who the hell I am.” She bent over and plucked up the mostly empty beer can from the dirt. “What is this?”

  “God, it’s no big deal,” said Trudy.

  Maya shot her a murderous glare. “I wasn’t talking to you. Go home, the three of you.”

  The tall boy, Mix, scoffed at her. “You think you can just come around here and tell us what to do?”

  Maya spun on him in an instant. Even though he was taller than she was, Sara noticed that he wilted visibly under her gaze. “I will kick all three of your asses if you don’t go home right now.”

  The two boys glanced at each other. Sara could read their expression clearly; they seemed to be considering whether or not they were willing to fight a girl, or more importantly, if they were willing to lose a fight to a girl.

  “Fine,” Ethan muttered. “Your sister’s a loser anyway. Come on, guys.” The three of them sulked off from the ravine, picking their way back up the shoe-treaded path without looking back.

  Once they were gone, Maya turned her angry gaze on Sara, and she felt herself shrinking under it just as the tall boy had. “What the hell, Sara? What are you doing out here?”

  “Nothing,” Sara muttered, unable to meet her sister’s glare. “I just…”

  “Just what? We’re supposed to be hiding out. Staying under the radar. And you’re running off into the woods with shady boys? Drinking?” Maya shook the nearly empty can near Sara’s face.

  “No! I didn’t…”

  “But you were going to.”

  “I wasn’t…”

  “I saw you!”

  “I’m sorry!” Sara shouted. She was surprised at the volume of her voice, as much so as her sister, evident by the small step that Maya took back at her outburst. “I just wanted to remember what it felt like to be normal!”

  “But we’re not,” Maya countered. “We’re here hiding in these ridiculous backwoods because our lives actually depend on it.”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” Sara murmured. “I just want things to be the way they were.”

  “I know, Squeak.” Maya corrected herself quickly. “Sara. I want that too. But we both need to face the fact that things are never going back to the way they were. They’re just not.”

  Sara stared at the ground. Dead leaves and crushed beer cans. This was just one more time that she might have cried, in what felt like another life. But no tears came.

  “Come on,” Maya prodded. “Let’s go back.” She turned and led the way toward the sloping side of the ravine. But they hardly got more than a few paces before a voice called down to them.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” They both looked up sharply. The woman standing on the ravine’s edge wore dark trousers and a beige collared shirt. A gold badge was clipped at her breast.

  A cop, Sara realized grimly.

  “Why don’t you come on up here so we can talk,” the female officer called down. She didn’t sound friendly.

  Maya seemed to realize then that she was still holding the beer can, dropping it quickly as it if was on fire. “Oh, dammit,” she muttered.

  *

  Deputy Director Ashleigh Riker was seated at her desk, reviewing the documents that the Division had obtained from Cartwright, when her cell rang.

  “Riker,” she answered hastily, hoping that someone had gotten a lead on Johansson or the other renegades.

  “It’s Bradbury, ma’am.” Bradbury was the new assistant director that Mullen had assigned to take her former position. He was two years her senior, but likeminded in his goal to move up the chain. Once all was said and done, Mullen was set to retire, leaving Riker the reins as director of the CIA and Bradbury to fill her position as deputy director. “We’ve got a bead on Zero’s kids.”

  Riker blinked. That was not at all the news she was expecting, but certainly no less welcome. “From where?”

  “Some kid’s social media account was flagged. A mobile phone in Nebraska posted a very recent photo of a teenage girl on it. Facial recognition against yearbooks is a ninety-
seven percent match to Sara Lawson.”

  “Nebraska,” Riker said thoughtfully. They couldn’t have gotten that far without help; she very much doubted they were alone. “Who owns the phone?”

  “Just some teenager living in the middle of nowhere,” Bradbury told her. “But the kid posted the photo along with a caption about a ‘new girl next door.’ We’re running a check on every address in the vicinity.”

  “Good,” Riker said. “Dispatch a Division team and alert them as soon as you have a location.”

  Bradbury was silent for a moment. “With all due respect,” he said at last, “don’t you think we should just send an agent to pick them up and detain them? They’re just a couple of kids—”

  “Just a couple of kids?” Riker scoffed. “These are Agent Zero’s kids, Bradbury. They may be minors, but they’re connected with four murders in the past twenty-four hours alone. Possibly six. They should be considered armed and dangerous and are probably not alone. Tell the Division to use extreme caution and necessary force. One way or another those ‘kids’ are going to face the music—dead or alive.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Bradbury relented quietly. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  Riker ended the call and sat back, smiling. Soon she would be able to pull the thorn from her side that was the Lawson family—as well as all the other traitors who had aligned themselves with Agent Zero.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Fifteen minutes after leaving a message for the USS Constitution, Zero stood in the Third Street Garage with five others. Strickland had arrived, and he wasn’t alone; Maria and Sanders had managed to escape the clutches of the Division, though not entirely unscathed. Maria had an oblong purple bruise down the side of her face that she didn’t seem keen to discuss. Along with Bixby and Watson, these five were the only people in the world that he felt he could trust with his secrets, his lies, and his life—outside of a trio holed up in rural Nebraska.

  Zero explained as quickly as he could all he knew, from Pierson’s refusal to go to war to the alleged attempt on the president’s life that would occur in short order. Sanders immediately borrowed Bixby’s laptop and logged into her email account. While undercover as a presidential aide, she had installed a back door that could access the White House network remotely. It was risky, since the network was undoubtedly being monitored, but she only needed to be in it long enough to find Pierson’s schedule and see where he would be that day.

  While Sanders worked, Zero gathered his fellow agents to deliver the grim news. “Cartwright is dead,” he told them plainly.

  Maria put one hand over her mouth. Strickland hung his head and sighed. Bixby groped behind him for the edge of the desk and sat upon it, a faraway look in his eye.

  “The Division caught up with us in Georgetown,” Zero continued. “They shot him in a basement and took the documents, which are no doubt in Riker’s hands by now.”

  No one spoke for a long moment, either giving the deputy director a reverential moment of silence or perhaps not knowing quite what to say.

  When someone finally did speak, it was Watson, still seated stoically behind the desk. “Where did you get the information about the assassination?”

  Zero blinked. “Did you hear what I said? Cartwright—”

  “I heard you. And there’s nothing we can do about that right now. I’m more concerned about the reliability of your source.”

  “It’s reliable,” Zero said quickly. He did not want to tell them that the intel had come from Carver; they would immediately distrust it.

  Luckily, he didn’t have to.

  “Got it,” Sanders announced from behind the laptop. “A flight manifest to New York was just scheduled for Marine One, departing in less than an hour and bearing eight people.”

  Zero frowned. “What’s in New York? A visit to the UN?”

  “There’s a commemoration today,” Strickland said, “on the Queensboro Bridge for the people that died in the Midtown Tunnel bombing. You think Pierson is going to make a surprise visit?”

  “I’d say it’s a good bet,” Zero agreed. “What time is it going down?”

  “One p.m.,” Sanders told him from behind the computer. “That’s less than three hours.”

  “Less than three hours to get to New York,” he muttered. “I’d need either a very fast car or a very inconspicuous helicopter.” He turned to Watson. “I don’t suppose our mutual friend left anything behind for me, did he?”

  “He might have.” Watson rounded the desk, pulled open a drawer, and then tossed Zero a key.

  He caught it easily. The key was small and brass, attached to a keychain that bore an oblong orange float. “Is this a boat key?”

  “It’s a very fast boat key. I’ll show you where to find it.”

  “Thanks.” Zero turned to Strickland. “If anything happens to me I need someone to make sure the girls are safe. Right now they’re in a Nebraska safe house with a man named Mitch. I trust him…” His gaze flitted quickly to Watson, but the passive agent was expressionless. If Watson knew that Zero had divined Alan’s identity, he didn’t show it. “But he’s a stranger to the girls. They’ll need someone they know.”

  “Yeah,” Strickland murmured. “Of course, Zero.” He handed over another set of keys. “Take my car. There’s some gear in the trunk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Maria declared. “It’s not up for debate.”

  He smiled at her. “I thought you might say that.” But the smile faded quickly. “Maria, you got into this mess for a reason. Your father is not a part of this. But if they’re willing to kill a president, we have to assume they’ll be willing to take out anyone who disagrees or gets in their way. You need to go to him, and get him somewhere safe.”

  Maria thought for a long moment, and then shook her head. “I won’t trade one life for another, or many. I’m coming with you to stop this thing. If we pull it off, I won’t worry about keeping him safe.” Her slate-gray eyes met his. “I’m coming with you.”

  “What can I do?” Sanders asked.

  Zero was a little surprised at the offer. But he knew that she had just as much to lose from the conspiracy as any of them. “I want you to make a couple of calls for me. Get in touch with Mossad Agent Talia Mendel and Interpol Agent Vicente Baraf.” Talia Mendel had helped them stop the Brotherhood’s attack on New York; Baraf was a department head at Interpol with whom Zero had worked on more than one occasion, going back to the attempted bombing at Davos. “I’ll give you the numbers. Make them aware of what’s going on in the Baltic and with Russia. Interpol needs to know. Mendel can alert the UN. You need to hold up your end of the bargain with the Ukrainians. Make this thing internationally known.”

  “I will,” Sanders promised.

  “Thank you.” Zero glanced around the dim office at the faces that he might be seeing for the last time. “All right, everyone.” We don’t say goodbye. Not ever. That was what he and his team had established years earlier, before every op. It was never goodbye. “See you later.”

  He headed out the door toward the waiting car, with Watson and Maria behind him.

  “Zero, hold up!” He paused as Bixby trotted out after him, carrying what appeared to be a small black backpack. “Take this.”

  Zero frowned. The pack was dense and weighed several pounds, but looked small enough to conceal under his light jacket. “What is it?”

  “A prototype,” Bixby said vaguely. “You’re going to a bridge, right? If you need to make a quick getaway, pull this cord here right after you jump—”

  “Jump?” Zero repeated blankly.

  “Just in case.”

  Zero frowned. “Is it a parachute?”

  “Um… not quite. More like a sailcloth over an aluminum composite frame…”

  A hang glider? Zero took it, though he very much doubted—and very much hoped—that he wouldn’t need it. “Thanks, Bixby.”

  “Of course. Take care, Zero. Good luck.”


  The three of them hurried to the car. Before he slid behind the wheel, Zero looked back to see that Strickland and Sanders had joined Bixby outside, watching them go.

  He could only hope it wasn’t the last time he’d see them.

  *

  Under Watson’s instruction, Zero took 495 to Donovan’s Pier, about thirty-five miles due east from Alexandria. He did his best to avoid scrutiny but still found himself pushing the car faster, doing about eighty-five on the highway while staying vigilant for state troopers.

  Watson directed him to a small, private marina a little more than half a mile from the pier. Zero parked the car hastily, popped the trunk, and grabbed the bag that Strickland had told him would be there.

  Watson and Maria were already making their way down toward the marina. Zero lingered behind the open trunk, deliberating. Then he pulled out his burner and called the number he’d been given.

  “Carver.”

  “It’s Zero,” he replied. “I know where it’s going to happen and I’m heading there now. You got anything for me?”

  “Yeah, I think I do,” Carver told him. “But only if you tell me where you’re going.”

  Zero hesitated. “Why?”

  “Listen.” Carver sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you need some backup, I’m overdue for a good deed. Just tell me where you’re going and I’ll get there. You shouldn’t do this alone.”

  “I’m not alone.” Still, he knew he could use the extra hands if need be. “Queensboro Bridge. Pierson is going to make an appearance there today, in just a couple of hours. We’ll rendezvous at Roosevelt Island. Now, what do you have for me?”

  “I have reason to believe the trigger man is going to be Secret Service,” Carver said candidly.

  Goose bumps rose on Zero’s arms. He had been so busy investigating joint chiefs and upper administration that he hadn’t gotten around to looking into the Secret Service. The very idea that the people behind the plot might have gotten to members of the highest law enforcement agency in the country—the world, even—was a harrowing notion.