“Trying to save your lives,” Joel2 said. “I need to get in there. Can you open this for me?”
“Joel, whatever you think you’re doing, don’t do it,” Pema urged him from her seat beside Ifrit. “That grenade is a prototype for a reason. The operating range is too close for safety; it’s just as risky for the wielder as it is for the target. There’s no Escrow, either. If the mechanism fails at any point, you could kill yourself.”
“But you were willing to risk Moti’s life?” he asked.
“Nobody does anything without Moti saying,” Zaki said impassively. “You want your little toy, go ask him for it.”
Joel2 banged against the console cover in frustration and ran outside to find Moti. Fortunately, he was directing his team only a few steps away.
“Continue to strafe until you find a clear nonlethal shot,” Moti directed his team. “You kill him, I kill you.”
“We need to turn the power off!” Joel2 yelled from behind him. “He’s going to clear everyone here!”
Moti turned around. “What are you talking about?”
Joel2 tried to keep his voice calm. “Taraval expanded the crane’s ecophagy cage. He’s going to clear everyone! All of us”—he pointed at the island to the east of them—“all of Manhattan, maybe. Eight million people. Who knows how far those fucking nanos will go before they run out of juice? We need to kill the power to this whole fucking place right fucking now!”
“Shit,” Moti said. “No wonder it was so easy to find him. Pull back!” he ordered his team. “Back with me in the van right now!”
“I need you to give me the grenade,” Joel2 told him.
“What? Forget about it. It’s a suicide mission.”
“Give me. The grenade,” Joel2 insisted. His resolve was complete, confident. Despite Sylvia’s deceptions and lies, despite his own self-doubt, despite his existential crisis, Joel2 still loved our wife. Maybe more than he loved himself. And like me, he was ready to prove it. Love makes you do crazy shit.
Moti studied the determined look on Joel2’s face as rain pattered slightly on their tac vests. I’d like to tell you that what he saw in my doppelg?nger’s eyes somehow moved the Levantine spy, making him particularly sensitive to our cause. That would have been nice. But to be honest, I believe what happened next was merely Moti’s pragmatic approach to ensuring his team walked away from this thing alive.
“Let’s go,” he told Joel2, and started walking back toward the van. Inside, he walked to the front section where Pema and Ifrit sat. He put his hand around Pema’s neck. Joel2 was afraid he might snap it, but Moti just held her by her throat and coolly stated, “Contact Corina Shafer and tell her that if she cuts the power to the Chelsea Piers TC right now, then she has a deal. Understand?”
Pema nodded. “Understood.”
Moti released her. “Zaki! Why is everyone not back here yet? Go out there and get them here right now!”
The big man was already out of the van and sprinting toward the freight yard.
Moti then walked back over to the locked compartment. It opened at his touch. He gently removed the grenade, examining it. Contemplating the consequences.
“Tell me, Joel, do you know what a shofar is? Once, outside Jericho—”
“I don’t care,” Joel2 said, impatiently grabbing the grenade from his hand. “How do you work this thing?” he asked Pema.
THE LASKER TRAP
THE GRENADE was significantly heavier than it looked. This made it rather awkward for Joel2 to run with—especially given the grave reminders Pema had etched into his mind about what might happen if he dropped the thing. Its titanium trisulfide coating was smooth, almost gelatinous to the touch—in other words, dangerously slippery. The rain wasn’t helping matters.
He was careful to stay behind containers, duck around trucks, and crawl under conveyors. Anything that would give him cover. His path was wisely indirect, moving around rather than toward me. Finally he arrived behind Taraval’s crane. Thanks to me, the mad scientist was still expounding upon religious philosophy and historical precedent and justifications of things that “must be done.” It was all hogwash, but I made sure to maintain eye contact. Keep talking, crazyhead.
As Taraval continued his stupid soliloquy, Joel2 climbed one-handed up the ladder leading to the conductor’s cabin. Considering the metal rungs were slick with raindrops and he was carrying an untested weapon of mass destruction (though I did not realize it in that moment), it wasn’t just difficult—it was terrifying. Worse, I had to keep my eyes on Taraval, who was well into his rant now.
“If only people adhered to the fundamental tenets of human progress rather than the dogmatic commandments of the so-called arbiters of justice, the world would be a better place. But alas, pivotal deviations from standard operating procedure that pioneers such as Corina Shafer have cultivated are nowadays handled by fat-cat legislators and litigators. Innovation has been distilled to its least common revenue-generating denominator. Our generation has lost its spirit, and I have lost my patience, Mr. Byram.” Taraval turned back to the conductor’s console, tapping a few icons. “Sylvia, my dear, you’re up.” He raised the crane’s magnet then turned it off, hauling her body into the conductor’s booth. The magnet lowered again, until it was about halfway between me and the booth.
Lifting my wife by the chin, Taraval held Sylvia’s head to the console’s biometric sensor. Thankfully, nothing happened. “Open your eyes!” he yelled at her.
No more words. Time for action.
With his attention off me, I jumped up toward the dangling crane magnet. It took a few tries, but I managed to snag it, my fingers barely gripping the slick metal edge of the nearly two-meter-wide disc. As I pulled myself up, my biceps straining, I could see Joel2 was nearly at the conductor’s booth. I clambered on top of the heavy round magnet, thinking I could swing it closer to the console and grab Sylvia. It was the only plan I could think of. At the same time, Joel2 reached the top of the ladder. I nodded to him, hoping to convey that Taraval was preoccupied. And then I saw it.
The grenade.