The Zero Game

“You don’t strike me as a fanatic, Janos – so how’d they get you to sign up? Something against the United States, or was it purely a financial decision?”

There’s a sharp skritch as he pivots and backtracks. The sound’s coming from behind him. He’s definitely lost.

“C’mon, Janos – I mean, even for a guy like you, there’s gotta be some limits. Just because a man has to eat, doesn’t mean you lick every piece of gum off the sidewalk.”

The footsteps get louder, then softer as he second-guesses. Now he’s annoyed.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I continue, stooping underneath a section of air vents and hiding behind one of the oval water heaters. “I understand life is about picking sides, but these guys… Not to stereotype, but I’ve seen you, Janos. You’re not exactly from their nest. They may want us dead now, but you’re not too far down the list.”

The footsteps get slower.

“You think I’m wrong? They’ll not only put a knife in your spine, they’ll know exactly which two vertebrae to stick it between to make sure you feel every single inch of the blade. C’mon, Janos, think of who we’re talking about… This is Yemen -”

The footsteps stop.

I lift my head, staring back across the room. Unreal. “They didn’t tell you, did they?” I ask. “You had no idea.”

Again, silence.

“What, you think I’m making it up? It’s Yemen, Janos. You’re working for Yemen!” I sneak out from behind the water heater and curve back in Janos’s direction, still crouching low. With a light tap, I hit another machine with the pliers. The more I keep moving, the harder it is to trace me. “How’d they hide it from you, anyway? Let me guess: they hired some CEO-type to make it look like an American company; then that guy goes out and hires you. How’m I doing? Hot? Cold? Feet on fire?”

He still won’t answer. For once, he’s actually off balance.

“Didn’t you ever see The Godfather? The hired guns don’t ever get to meet the real boss.”

The last part’s just to get him raging. I don’t hear a footstep anywhere. He’s either taking it in or trying to follow the sound of my voice. Either way, there’s not a chance he’s thinking straight.

Hunched over and staying completely silent, I weave behind a ten-foot-tall blower fan that’s encased in the dustiest metal grille I’ve ever seen. Connected to the grille is a long aluminum duct that runs a good twenty feet across the room, back toward the door. In front of me, the blades of the fan spin slowly, so when I time it just right, I can see through the length of the duct, out the other side. I take a peek, and almost swallow my tongue when I see the back of a familiar salt-and-pepper crewcut.

Dropping down low, I squat beneath the grille of the fan. From where I’m crouched, I have a clear view that runs along the underside of the long duct. There’s no mistaking the Ferragamo shoes on the other end. Janos is dead ahead, and from the way he’s standing there, frozen in frustration, he has no idea I’m behind him.

Gripping the needle-nose pliers in my sweaty fist, I keep to my squat and get ready to move forward. Within three seconds, I talk myself out of it. I’ve seen enough Friday the 13th sequels to know how this one ends. The man’s a killer. All I have to do is stay hidden – anything else is a bad-horror-flick risk. The thing is, the longer I sit here, the better the odds of him turning around and staring straight at me. At least this way, I’ve got surprise on my side. And after what he did to Matthew, and Pasternak, and Lowell… some things are worth the risk.

Crouched down and steeling myself with one last deep breath, I slowly chicken-walk forward. One hand skates lightly against the side of the metal vent; the other holds tight to the needle-nose pliers. I duck down even lower to check underneath the length of the vent. Janos is still at the far end, struggling to pinpoint my location. From this section of the room, the rumble of the machines makes it harder than ever. Still, I take it as slow as possible, being cautious with every step.

I’m about ten feet away. From my current angle, Janos’s upper body is blocked by the length of the vent. I can see the tip of his right shoulder. Moving in a bit closer, I get the back of his head and the rest of his arm. Less than five feet to go. He’s looking around – definitely lost. In his right hand is the black box, which looks like an old Walkman. In his left is the Senator’s nine iron. If I’m right, those are the only weapons he’s got. Anything else – a knife or a gun – he’d never get through the metal detector.

He’s just a few feet away. I grit my teeth and raise the pliers. The wind whips through the tunnel, almost like it’s picking up speed. Below my feet, there’s a slight crackle. A stray piece of plaster snaps in half. I freeze. Janos doesn’t move.

He didn’t hear it. Everything’s okay. Counting to myself, I shift my weight, ready to pounce.