In ten seconds I will be in range of their lenses. Everything I do from that moment on will be recorded.
I do not hesitate. I walk right up to the gate, where a black call box is embedded in a stone column.
I press the call button. It takes less than a minute for a gruff voice to come on the line.
“Speak.”
“The mayor is expecting me,” I say.
A moment later the gate buzzes open.
It’s a long walk down a driveway that’s practically its own road. A sprawling nineteenth-century estate house comes into view. There’s a big man in a dark, well-tailored suit waiting for me. I recognize him as one of the mayor’s longtime security detail, a man I last saw at Gracie Mansion. I call him the Pro.
“I’m going to pat you down,” he says.
“Just like old times,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m feeling very sentimental right now.”
“I thought that was a tear in your eye.”
“Arms up and spread your legs,” he says.
He steps forward to search me.
“If we’re going to have a problem, tell me now,” he says.
“Is witty banter a problem?”
“If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t be in such a good mood.”
“I’m in a terrible mood. Joking makes it a little easier.”
He nods. “I feel you on that one, brother.”
He searches me, professional but not overly aggressive. At least until he feels the weight in my jacket pocket. He grasps the back of my neck with one hand while he reaches in and pulls out two cell phones, both powered off. One is my Program phone, the other I took off the SWAT commander.
“Two phones?” he says.
“My mom’s a worrier.”
He nods, a half smile on his lips.
“Okay, superstar. Let’s bring you to the boss.”
He pauses at the door.
“Our past relationship notwithstanding, if you make any kind of move that concerns me, I will take you down. No questions asked.”
“I appreciate the warning.”
“One per customer,” he says. “That’s all you get.”
He gestures for me to walk through the door in front of him.
I open a massive set of double doors and step into a grand foyer that smells of antique wood and history.
“Nice place,” I say.
“Do me a favor—don’t burn it down like you did the last one.”
A moment later I hear footsteps approaching the foyer, and Mayor Goldberg appears. The Pro tenses next to me, ready for anything. The mayor looks tired, and he seems to have aged in the short time since we last saw each other.
“Benjamin?” he says.
“It’s me, sir.”
“They’re calling you Daniel Martin on the news.”
“That’s not my real name. Neither is Benjamin.”
“I thought that might be the case,” he says.
“Thank you for taking my call, sir. And for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Aiding and abetting a suspected terrorist. I think they call that political suicide. But you risked your life for me at Gracie Mansion. More importantly, you risked your life for Samara.”
Technically true. I risked my life to save her, then I risked my mission to try to redeem her. When neither of those succeeded, I did my job and I killed her.
The mayor doesn’t know this, and he never will.
“I agreed to meet with you because I owe you one,” the mayor says. “And I always repay my debts.”
“I appreciate that,” I say.
“Welcome to my home,” he says. “Now come in and tell me why your face is on every television screen in the world.”