For a long moment, no one dared move.
The sharp knock on the door seemed to echo through the room, though it had not been repeated.
“Who is it?” Fahd hissed. “Check it out!”
Andy, the tallest, crept silently to the door. He stood up straight and cautiously put his eye to the peep-hole.
He turned, smiling. “It’s Sarah and Sam.”
Fahd, who had already cut the connection and was in the process of turning off his computer, lifted his hand off the keys and relaxed. “Let them in,” he said.
Sarah and Sam burst into the room, filling it with new energy.
“Smells like a hockey dressing room in here,” Sam said. “Whatya been sweatin’ over, Rolex Boy?” She poked Nish in the gut. He buckled over, pretending she’d winded him.
“What’s going on?” Sarah asked. “Nish headed into the Guinness Book of World Records or what?”
“We’re in,” Fahd said. “He’s almost there.”
“The entire world’s gonna hurl!” Sam shouted.
“Very funny,” muttered Nish. “Very, very funny.”
“I want to know how you’re going to do it,” Sarah said to Data and Fahd.
They were delighted to explain. They walked Sarah and Sam through all the technical details and described, with due credit to Nish, how they’d cracked the password that took them straight into the computer controls of the broadcast truck.
“Nish’s butt is just a double click away from being seen around the world,” said Data. “He’s going to make history.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Sam. “I don’t even believe he mooned for you guys.”
“Did so!” Nish all but shouted.
“Prove it!” Sam challenged.
She had Nish in the palm of her hand. Less than a year on the Screech Owls and Sam could work Nish better than anyone, playing him like a puppet on a string.
“Show them!” Nish commanded Data and Fahd.
“What?” Fahd asked. “The file?”
“My butt,” corrected Nish.
“Show us,” Sam said. “You’re going to show everybody later, anyway. Surely you can give two young women a sneak preview of the Eighth Wonder of the World!”
“C’mon,” said Sarah. “Give us a look so we’ll know what it is when it comes up on the screen.”
“Okay,” Data said.
Fahd went into the directory until he found the file marked “Moonshot,” then double-clicked on it. The machine whirred and hummed, stopped and started, whirred and hummed some more.
“It’s a big file,” Data explained.
“It’s a big butt,” Sam replied.
The screen flashed, then filled with a man’s face.
He was wearing a ski mask, pulled down tight over his face.
“What the hell?” Nish shouted.
“Wrong file,” Fahd said to Data.
“No,” Data said. “It’s the right file. Something’s wrong.”
The camera pulled out from the man in the ski mask. He was flanked by two other men, each dressed the same: long dark coat, gloves, ski mask over the face exposing only the eyes.
Each man was carrying an automatic rifle pointed directly at the camera.
The man in the middle began to speak. It was rough – computer data becoming sound – but it was clear and to the point.
“BE PREPARED TO DIE, NEW YORKERS!” the voice shouted slowly and deliberately. “AT MIDNIGHT WE KILL ANYONE STILL ON THE STREETS!”
The man turned his weapon and shot several rounds to the side of the camera. The shots sounded tinny over the small speakers of Data’s laptop, but to Travis they sounded like exploding bombs.
“BE PREPARED TO DIE!”
Travis felt a deep, sickening chill down his spine. They were terrorists. Terrorists threatening to gun down anyone attending the New Year’s Eve celebrations in Times Square.
“Who are they?” Sam asked, giggling slightly as if hoping it might be some elaborate practical joke.
Travis figured he knew. He had recognized the voice.